I left her in the hall. I went to the Catalpa, where about a hundred students were already gathered. We had visitors. A cop from the City of Montreal had introduced himself to Pelvisius that morning and asked for permission to address the Gentlemen’s students. Re: the terrorists. A year ago he would have come for something else, probably drugs. He’s come to curb the nationalist outbursts of the most ardent among us, to remind us that violence is not the way to achieve one’s goals in a democratic society. I suspect he’s there on the initiative of Pelvisius himself, who felt powerless in the face of last Friday’s walkout and didn’t want to see it repeated.
He’s got the look of a bona fide cop. Short hair, stout and fortyish, fluid speech but laborious syntax and humour. Mounted on the little platform that’s used as a dance floor when the Catalpa turns into a disco, he answers questions with a policeman’s amiability after stammering through a bit of a yawner on the importance of defending one’s convictions within the framework prescribed by society. The audience is polite, that’s all. Not that the flock is very keen on confronting the constabulary, but still, a cop is a cop, and a cop does not practise a profession worthy of any real interest or admiration. What’s more, this cop isn’t even an officer. Imagine! Sending us some nobody.
There were actually two or three people who tried to have some fun with him by pointing out the contradictions in his pretty speech, but it fell flat because he didn’t understand that they wanted to take him for a ride. It all would have ended without a snag if that big turd Allie Buy hadn’t gotten a notion to jump to the defence of law and order by suggesting to this poor cop, who would have settled for much less, to establish vigilance committees in the colleges. A mere trifle! The cop, who like everyone else was doing his job because you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do, seemed rather put out. In the end he said it might not be such a good idea, because to each his own, after all.
Yet Allie Buy wouldn’t let it go. He thought he’d had a brilliant idea, and, since this didn’t happen to him too often, he stuck with it.
“It’s not very complicated,” he insisted. “All that’s needed is to set up a small committee of three or four trustworthy people with whom we could discreetly share our suspicions, if we have any, and who would then take the appropriate steps for the good of society…”
I was fuming and I wasn’t the only one. To the point where several ovines of the flock, who were vaguely principled, felt obliged to grumble. Even La Marquise and her disciples didn’t come to the rescue of this lost sheep. In fact La Marquise grumbled loudly enough to be heard: “I can hear the hobnailed boots a mile away - it’s appalling!”
But Allie Buy just turned a deaf ear. He didn’t even pick up on Oscar Naval’s suggestion that his committee be known as “The Black Shirts.”
“Those who are interested, come see me at the end of the meeting. We really ought to do our share to prevent Quebec from sinking into anarchy!”
People began to leave the shade of the Catalpa, and the cop took the opportunity to thank the audience and slip away.
Me, I thought I was doing the right thing by submitting my name to Allie Buy. He gave me an unpleasant look before replying that he would get back to me once he had the names of all the volunteers.
It was my turn to leave, and, as agreed, I went to catch up with Oscar, Anna Purna, and Rickets. The afternoon was winding down, and we were to eat together at the fast-food restaurant down the hill before going back up again for the Catalpa inauguration party. We were looking for a way to have fun during the evening, so we agreed to regale the flock with the great game of friendship and reconciliation. Just for laughs, you know. There’s no harm in having a laugh.
1. “Maudit ostensoir beurré de marde!”
2. Flee if you do not wish to perish. (Saint Augustine, Enarrationes in psalmos, 57)
Chapter Five
Dong Ha, 66-67
Live like a dog, work like an ass, fuck like a mink, die like a rat.
Inscription on a Zippo lighter,
Unknown G.I.
I didn’t know how to go about it, but I had to talk to Anna. You see, she was tormenting me, the female. I needed to tell her I couldn’t sleep anymore because I couldn’t keep from moping whenever I thought of her, and I thought of her all the time, night and day. Like when I was seven years old and drooled over the woman next door. Even though she was a good twenty years older than me. It didn’t matter. I ached so much to touch her I didn’t dare come near her or even leave the house for fear that I would go straightaway and jump her. How sad! I’d have been better off in a windowless room so as not to spend my whole life trying to spy on her. I’d have been better off emigrating to Japan or Papua New Guinea, but my parents turned a deaf ear: moving there was out of the question.
“Papua New Guinea? Really, Larry, what an idea! Ah, kids today, I ask you…”
Of course, eventually she stopped haunting me, the woman next door. I can’t recall by what miracle. All I remember is, one day, she’d become fat and her hair had changed colour. I didn’t think it would be that easy with Anna Purna. I couldn’t see myself asking her to dye her hair black or to put on weight. In any case, I’m not sure it would have made much of a difference. You’re less demanding at eighteen than at seven. Go figure that one out.
Finally, I made up my mind. I took advantage of the fact we were near one of those immense windows that look out over the trees and are always inundated with sun or clouds, depending on the weather, alone in the dining hall, munching on our daily sandwiches, and I said to her in the simplest possible way, “Anna, don’t you think you would be pretty with black hair and a few dozen extra kilos?”
She gave me a peculiar look.
“You don’t like me like this?”
“Just the opposite. I see you in my cereal every morning, as naked as you can get, your beautiful ass delicately dipped in the sweet milk. You turn your back to me and look at me over your shoulder, pretending to cover your buns with a flake of oats. I see you at night, too, even when my eyelids are shut. It’s a strain. Something’s got to be done about it.”
“Such as?” she asks me, with two or three epicurean creases at the corner of her mischievous eye. Signs of aging, already.
“I dunno. What if we went somewhere, just the two of us? We could play at making each other shiver. You could strip while I watch you dip your magnificent ass in a big bowl of milk. Then, I could lick you and do all kinds of disgusting things to you. Unless you felt like something else.”
She didn’t hesitate.
“OK for the disgusting stuff. So long as it doesn’t become a habit. You know how much I cherish my freedom.”
“Hey, me too! Long live freedom!”
This wasn’t sarcasm. Not even humour. Perhaps just a touch of over-enthusiasm. I felt happy, high on happiness. For once, freedom wasn’t teamed up with solitude. Which didn’t stop me from already imagining the time I’d be deprived of her presence, of that moment when, having taken barely two steps away from her after a final kiss, I’d feel as far from the shore as a shipwrecked sailor hanging onto his lifesaver in the middle of the ocean. Alone in the middle of nowhere, free as the air, and as empty.
We took her car and sped to her apartment. My place was too far away. We didn’t have much time. It was noon and she didn’t want to skip the three o’clock philosophy class. It was perfect, as perfect as Anna Purna.
Her apartment was small, but warm and pleasant. There were only two rooms, so it wasn’t hard for me to guess where the bedroom was. I led her there once she’d taken off her coat, and very