driverâs daughter, now a cabinet minister, for her to die
of it.
She drank far too much and cried just as much, in the dim light of a
little man who didnât even hold her hand. He was content to become the bespectacled
senator again, who, to help Gabrielle regain her composure around midnight, the hour
when she should go back to the Château Laurier if she wanted to arrive at the
conference centre a little fresh, inquired about her new life in the other capital,
amused at the similarities between the vanities of the two parliaments, told her
that a few days earlier heâd overheard a conversation over Sauternes and foie gras
at Café Burger in Hull, between the Montreal president of a major bank and the
federal finance minister; theyâd been assessing the effect on separatist feelings of
a threat to move the head office of the institution that had been established in
Quebec at the turn of the twentieth century. âTheir minds may be twisted,â the
senator agreed, âbut they have a better hand than you do.â While she waited for an
Ottawa taxi, a rarity at night in this well-behaved little town, Gabrielle caught
herself debating with some brio.
The federalâprovincial conference had as usual left no perceptible
public trace except some awkwardness between Gabrielle Perron and Ãtienne
Champfleur. They saw one another now and then, on the neutral ground of restaurants,
and they stuck to parliamentary gossip. The senator was useful to Gabrielle all the
same, with what he gleaned from remarks in the federal capital, which had been
throbbing with nerves since the separatists had come to power. Some said they were
in the service of a foreign power, it was known through the Canadian mistresses of
French diplomats, others claimed to be taking part in highly intelligent meetings to
prepare for infiltrating enemy ranks in the very heart of the Quebec capital. Rue
dâAuteuil would soon be bristling with microphones, the senator said, amused. She
repeated little of this nonsense to her colleagues, who wouldnât have appreciated
her relationship with a man who belonged to money and Canada.
Their last meeting took place in Quebec City in the fall, at the
Closerie des Lilas, which was to the Upper Town what the Mas des Oliviers was to the
centre of Montreal, with the addition of some senior government officials. Thin,
emaciated almost, Champfleur alluded to the doctor heâd come to consult, one of the
leading Canadian specialists in prostate disorders. It was no longer fitting to
smile at it, to imagine that in another life, before the Cadillac, the little man
could have been a charming, lanky lover, one of those who can hold back their
pleasure for hours, probe a girl so thoroughly and gently that she is only a sex,
afterwards taking his in her mouth, grateful. He was the father of three sons, all
in business and scattered to other provinces, he rarely had anything to say about
them, or about their mother who early on had flown off to New York with someone
richer and less intelligent than he was.
At the Closerie he drank only water, and that had limited confidences.
She asked Jean-Charles to drive him to the airport, she was in a hurry, sheâd go
back to the ministry by taxi, to prepare for the public hearings that had finally
been called to study her cultural policy. The worst of the winds made her take her
leave very quickly, she had on thin shoes and the sidewalk was icy.
Two months later she heard of his death on the radio and though she
was in Montreal on the day of the funeral, she didnât put in an appearance at the
Saint-Jean-Baptiste church, the false cathedral of Plateau-Mont-Royal, where he had
been born, son of a storekeeper. From the death notice in
Le Devoir
she
learned that heâd also had a daughter, Gabrielle, a teacher and poet, dead at
thirty. But she hadnât had time to go and greet an entourage now indifferent, the
man had been such a loner. The
of it.
She drank far too much and cried just as much, in the dim light of a
little man who didnât even hold her hand. He was content to become the bespectacled
senator again, who, to help Gabrielle regain her composure around midnight, the hour
when she should go back to the Château Laurier if she wanted to arrive at the
conference centre a little fresh, inquired about her new life in the other capital,
amused at the similarities between the vanities of the two parliaments, told her
that a few days earlier heâd overheard a conversation over Sauternes and foie gras
at Café Burger in Hull, between the Montreal president of a major bank and the
federal finance minister; theyâd been assessing the effect on separatist feelings of
a threat to move the head office of the institution that had been established in
Quebec at the turn of the twentieth century. âTheir minds may be twisted,â the
senator agreed, âbut they have a better hand than you do.â While she waited for an
Ottawa taxi, a rarity at night in this well-behaved little town, Gabrielle caught
herself debating with some brio.
The federalâprovincial conference had as usual left no perceptible
public trace except some awkwardness between Gabrielle Perron and Ãtienne
Champfleur. They saw one another now and then, on the neutral ground of restaurants,
and they stuck to parliamentary gossip. The senator was useful to Gabrielle all the
same, with what he gleaned from remarks in the federal capital, which had been
throbbing with nerves since the separatists had come to power. Some said they were
in the service of a foreign power, it was known through the Canadian mistresses of
French diplomats, others claimed to be taking part in highly intelligent meetings to
prepare for infiltrating enemy ranks in the very heart of the Quebec capital. Rue
dâAuteuil would soon be bristling with microphones, the senator said, amused. She
repeated little of this nonsense to her colleagues, who wouldnât have appreciated
her relationship with a man who belonged to money and Canada.
Their last meeting took place in Quebec City in the fall, at the
Closerie des Lilas, which was to the Upper Town what the Mas des Oliviers was to the
centre of Montreal, with the addition of some senior government officials. Thin,
emaciated almost, Champfleur alluded to the doctor heâd come to consult, one of the
leading Canadian specialists in prostate disorders. It was no longer fitting to
smile at it, to imagine that in another life, before the Cadillac, the little man
could have been a charming, lanky lover, one of those who can hold back their
pleasure for hours, probe a girl so thoroughly and gently that she is only a sex,
afterwards taking his in her mouth, grateful. He was the father of three sons, all
in business and scattered to other provinces, he rarely had anything to say about
them, or about their mother who early on had flown off to New York with someone
richer and less intelligent than he was.
At the Closerie he drank only water, and that had limited confidences.
She asked Jean-Charles to drive him to the airport, she was in a hurry, sheâd go
back to the ministry by taxi, to prepare for the public hearings that had finally
been called to study her cultural policy. The worst of the winds made her take her
leave very quickly, she had on thin shoes and the sidewalk was icy.
Two months later she heard of his death on the radio and though she
was in Montreal on the day of the funeral, she didnât put in an appearance at the
Saint-Jean-Baptiste church, the false cathedral of Plateau-Mont-Royal, where he had
been born, son of a storekeeper. From the death notice in
Le Devoir
she
learned that heâd also had a daughter, Gabrielle, a teacher and poet, dead at
thirty. But she hadnât had time to go and greet an entourage now indifferent, the
man had been such a loner. The
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