Pierre
Robert Kaplan, a member of Parliament who later became Canada’s solicitor general, was an acquaintance of my parents. Hearing I had played at a private seminar for the renegade psychiatrist R.D. Laing, it occurred to him that my guitar music might please the ears of our country’s leader, Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau. He suggested that if I was ever in Ottawa, he would introduce me.
In June 1975, after a concert of Boccherini with the Orford String Quartet at the National Arts Centre, I casually placed a call to Bob Kaplan, skeptical that anything would ensue. To my surprise, within minutes he had organized a visit with the prime minister and his wife at their country residence at Harrington Lake. It was one of those serene summer Sundays when Ottawa families picnicked on the parkland beside the Rideau Canal or headed off to their favourite haunts in the Gatineau Hills. During the forty-five-minute drive, perhaps sensing my apprehension, Kaplan urged me not to be intimidated by the fact that his friend was our prime minister. I took a deep breath and watched the wooded scenery speed past. On arrival at the gatehouse, we gave our names to a security Mountie, who peered curiously at me before allowing us to pass.
Pierre and Margaret Trudeau were enjoying an intimate afternoon with their two young children, Justin and Sacha. They extended a friendly welcome, inviting us to join them for a swim in the lake, which sparkled in shades of sapphire, just a stone’s throw from the house. Having anticipated only Boccherini and not a bathing party, I accepted Margaret’s magnanimous loan of her gold lamé bikini. Six months pregnant, Margaret appeared radiantly healthy and happy. “I read the story about your trip to Nashville in the Canadian magazine,” she volunteered enthusiastically. “I think Pierre glanced at it, too.”
The Trudeau children splashed around like playful puppies or availed themselves of their athletic father’s piggybacks. I slipped into the cool, glassy water, hoping the skimpy bikini and I would not part company, and began a leisurely breaststroke toward the wooden raft supporting our handsome head of state. Years later, I read how Margaret had first met Pierre while swimming out to a raft at Tahiti’s Club Med. Bob Kaplan and Margaret reclined in deck chairs on shore while I dangled my legs in the lake water, watching Pierre amuse his young sons, who shrieked with delight at their father’s backward somersaults. His offer to teach me the technique was politely declined, as I realized that my upcoming guitar performance would be aesthetically jeopardized by stringy wet hair and streaked mascara. Already my fingertips and nails were being softened. At times, the restrictions of playing guitar can be a royal pain!
Later, when the hot summer sun had lost its bite, everyone sat in the living room sipping iced fruit drinks while I tuned my strings. Bob and Pierre relaxed into armchairs; Sacha, Justin, and Margaret propped themselves against cushions on the floor. Thankful for the fine acoustics, and made to feel at ease by their casual attitude, I played a selection of short numbers. Before “El Colibri” by Julio Sagreras, Pierre told his attentive boys to visualize the hummingbird they often saw skimming around their garden, and encouraged them to ask questions about the guitar.
Both Pierre and Margaret rhapsodized over my music, wishing me continued success. Before leaving, I autographed a copy of the Boot record album and Bob Kaplan snapped a quick photo of us all by the front steps. How amazing that I had been able to maintain my calm in the company of our famous prime minister and his “first lady”! “See, I told you they’d love your music and appreciate the company,” Bob enthused on the return drive. Back at the hotel, I immediately called my mother to relive for her my exciting hours at the lake. A few days later, to my delight, I received a personal thank-you note from Pierre Trudeau, but never did I expect to be face to face with him again.
One snowy afternoon, on February 13, 1976, in Kamloops, British Columbia, while engrossed in Rodrigo’s guitar concerto, I heard a timid knock on the door of my hotel room. “Hello, I’m staying in the room adjoining yours,” a well-dressed gentleman said, beaming. “I was so enjoying the music I had to find out who was responsible.” I explained that he had been overhearing my rehearsal for an upcoming symphony engagement. “Malcolm Turnbull’s the name, editor of the Vancouver Province” he continued. “I’m in town covering tonight’s Liberal fundraising dinner at which Prime Minister Trudeau will be speaking.” Feeling a dishevelled mess, standing in the doorway with no makeup and hair that needed a wash, I was anxious to return to my practice and not become involved in conversation. I declined his invitation for a drink, but mentioned that he might convey my greetings to the prime minister. Four hours later, while I was fingering through the final movement of Fantasía para un gentilhombre, my neighbour called in an excited voice. “Miss Boyd, could you come over to the Stockmen’s Hotel, where Mr. Trudeau and his staff are staying? The dinner and speeches are wrapping up now. When I gave your greetings to the prime minister, he suggested you join him, as he is in the mood for some music. Please bring your guitar.”
With so little time to get ready, I flew into a panic, leaping into the bathtub to wash my hair. Why did such an important invitation have to materialize at the last minute? As if whipped by a whirlwind, my Rodrigo score lay scattered on the bed along with the remains of the last room-service meal. Only one dress in my suitcase seemed worthy of a prime ministerial command performance: the long, burgundy concert gown sewn by my mother. After hastily zipping myself up and using the blow-dryer, I dialed the front desk for a taxi.
In the lobby of the hotel, the prime minister’s aide, Bob Murdoch, grabbed my guitar case and escorted me to Trudeau’s suite. Numerous RCMP officers stationed in the corridors were keeping vigil in the open-doored adjacent rooms. Was I imagining it, or were they giving me curious looks? Should they not have checked my bulky black guitar case, which in other times or places might have aroused suspicion? The prime minister appeared in good spirits after the dinner and speech to his party faithful. He carefully hung up my coat, murmured appreciatively over the burgundy dress, and poured two glasses of white wine. “Margaret and I often play your record, and the boys enjoy listening to it. Could you play for me tonight?” he requested. For half an hour, Besard’s Renaissance dances, Gaspar Sagreras’s “Una Lágrima,” and Lauro’s Venezuelan waltzes elicited gestures of approval and conversation about my student days in Paris, which led him to recount stories of his adventurous treks through Europe and North Africa as a young man.
Pierre Trudeau was a dashing and charismatic man. His voice had a gentle resonance, with just the slightest French lilt to the phrasing; he sported his characteristic red rose in the buttonhole of his stylish, dark-grey suit. I had to pinch myself to believe that here I was — flyaway, uncurled hair, in my mother’s homemade gown — serenading the leader of our country in his private hotel room. As he poured a little more wine and brushed his lips across my hands that had just finished their music-making, I noticed a softer, more romantic look in his eyes than his television image had ever revealed. “Please let me know if you are coming to Ottawa soon for any reason. Merci for such beautiful music, Liona.” Pierre pronounced my name slowly, stressing the last syllable. Helping me on with my winter coat, he lifted my hair in a touching gesture. As my hands reached for the handle of my guitar case, he said, “Just a little moment, then I’ll walk you to the elevators.” His arms wrapped around me, his hands stroked my hair, and he kissed me very gently. My head spun in circles like a gyroscope. Blindly, I stumbled past the RCMP officers, my heart racing in disbelief that Canada’s world-renowned political giant had just put his lips against mine and briefly held me in his arms. Never had I anticipated this type of response to my playing. Back in my hotel at 1:00 a.m., I realized that it was now Valentine’s Day. Cupid had caught me completely by surprise.
Concert bookings at Carleton University and Camp Fortune steered me east to Ottawa, where I kept my promise to call him. “I would be so pleased if you could join me for a nightcap after your performance,” he said. “I’ll send my driver over to collect you.” Once again, I was peered at by the two Mounties stationed at the gatehouse. He ushered me into a spacious living room carpeted in plush beige and adorned with decorative bowls of flowers. “Tell me more about yourself, Liona,” he suggested, pouring the drinks. Then he interjected, “Would you like some nuts? I think the maids keep them in the pantry.” He disappeared, leaving me to survey the room. Framed photos of world leaders were arranged on the grand piano: portraits of Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip autographed to the Trudeaus, Pierre and Margaret standing beside Valéry Giscard d’Estaing, and pictures of the two boys, Justin and Sacha. Why had Pierre invited me to his house? There had been the odd rumours of marital problems, but after all, he was still married; surely the leader of Canada could not afford to be flirtatious with a single woman, I reasoned. Perhaps he was dazzled by my music and needed some artistic stimulation that was lacking in his politically charged days.
“Here, I found some macadamias and salted almonds,” Pierre said. “The staff have left, so I had trouble locating them in the kitchen.” He tipped the treats into a crystal bowl and eased himself onto the couch. Munching on macadamias, I told Pierre about my parents, their initial apprehensions about settling in Canada, and our family travels, including the year we spent in Mexico. Seeming to be interested in my life, he questioned me about Vivien and Damien. Whenever he mentioned his sons, Pierre’s face lit up, but I noticed that any allusion to Margaret elicited the opposite response. I had no idea then that the Trudeaus’ marriage had fallen apart. Later I learned how poor Margaret, desperately unhappy with political life, had been struggling to “find herself” by becoming part of the New York jet set and its intrinsic drug scene. Canada’s “first lady” had been placed on medication by a psychiatrist trying to balance her emotional ups and downs; cocaine, marijuana, and amphetamines were also taking their toll. The prime minister was having to assume responsibility for the children and carry on a hectic political life while his marital relationship was in a shambles.
“Would you like to see the house?” he volunteered. As we tiptoed around the dining area and sun room and along the “tunnel” that led to the pool and sauna, he pointed out the art: Inuit carvings, oil paintings, and bronze sculptures. His guided tour included the enormous kitchens, with refrigerators that we raided for ice cream and fresh blueberries. I hoped my teeth would not turn navy blue! If they did, Pierre did not seem to care; he kissed me tenderly in the darkened hallway out of sight of his driver, who had been patiently standing by to take me back to the Château Laurier hotel. “I must see you again, ma belle princesse,” Trudeau whispered. “Let’s try to find a way.” Still very much in awe of the man, I found it mind-boggling that the prime minister was interested in more than my guitar music.
Several weeks later, I received a request from the government to fly to Ottawa to perform at a banquet in honour of James Callaghan, the new British prime minister. It was pretty easy to guess who had initiated the invitation. As this would be my first time playing before a head of state at an official function, I was simultaneously excited and terrified. What if I was nervous, forgot my notes, and embarrassed the Canadian government? It was a major responsibility.
I selected a group of appealing pieces to play at Rideau Hall, the official residence of the governor general. Seated directly ahead of my small podium, positioned a few feet away from the head table, was a smiling Pierre Trudeau, who stood up to introduce me to the distinguished crowd of Canadian and English politicians and diplomats. After my recital, there was a proud and happy look on our prime minister’s face as he presented me to James Callaghan and several of the cabinet ministers. “Liona, you look so lovely tonight,” he whispered in my ear before the evening was over. “I’ll have my driver bring you over to the house for a glass of wine.”
When Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip visited Canada in October 1977, I was invited to perform after a dinner hosted by Trudeau at the National Arts Centre. Only a few yards from the head table, I serenaded the royals with Tárrega, Bach, and Dowland. A smiling Pierre had given me an introduction — explaining my British origins and praising my “talent and artistry.” I tried to imagine that I was playing for him alone, but could not ignore the fact that a very regal and elegantly dressed head of the Commonwealth was seated at his side. Knowing what a great thrill it was for me to play before them, Pierre made a point of bringing me to the table for personal introductions. The Queen smiled approvingly. “Mm … lovely playing.” How incredible to feel the attention and appreciation of the royal couple whose portrait had gazed down on me from classroom walls on both sides of the Atlantic.
When Pierre hosted a farewell banquet for retiring Governor General Jules Léger, I was booked to perform in the Confederation Room of Parliament’s West Block, and when the president of Mexico, José López Portillo, came to Canada, I was again booked to perform at Rideau Hall. Usually, state dinners are decorous affairs with lengthy speeches and a polite, hushed atmosphere. Mexicans, however, will always be Mexicans. As I made my entrance in a white, lacy gown, the Latino delegation let out appreciative wolf-whistles and loud calls of “guapa,” “rubia,” “que linda.” I was instantly back at that embarrassing San Miguel fashion show! What a different crowd from the subdued James Callaghan banquet! Addressing the audience, Portillo waxed poetic. “Tonight I have heard, not the hands of a guitarist, but the wings of an angel. When I think of Canada, I will always remember the angel who played for me in Ottawa.” Several Canadian politicians told me that on a subsequent visit to Mexico City, they were met by President Portillo, who was still talking about the impact of my playing. Ah, the romantic soul of Mexico! Pierre was absolutely delighted that I had scored so highly with his visitors. Back at Sussex we cuddled in front of the fireplace, chuckling about their undignified whoops and whistles.
Pierre Trudeau’s marriage to Margaret was over. She was spending more time in New York with her friend Yasmin, the daughter of Rita Hayworth and Aly Khan, than she was in Ottawa. Pierre and his staff assumed responsibility for Justin, Sacha, and their new brother, Michel, with whom Margaret had been pregnant during my visit to Harrington Lake. Pierre began to call me frequently, charming my mother by asking for “Miss Liona.” As I grew accustomed to our secret relationship, I started to spend time in Ottawa whenever my schedule permitted. Usually, Pierre’s driver, Jack Deschambault, would meet me at the airport; if he was otherwise occupied, a couple of RCMP officers would escort me to the residence.
Because the prime minister was a swimming devotee, our dates invariably included a dip in the frigid waters of his beloved pool. Easing myself down the steps, I splashed around, trying to keep warm while he dived in like a pelican to start his forty laps. Sometimes, after playing a concert at the National Arts Centre, a midnight swim was the last thing I desired, but putting on a brave face, I feigned enthusiasm; fireside back rubs and embraces always warmed me up afterwards. Pierre would often carry me on his strong shoulders, as he did with his boys, and playfully piggyback me up and down the pool. After this workout, we would float on our backs or tread water while sharing many a giggle over the humorous incidents in our separate, and very different, careers. Like any proud parent, Pierre recounted anecdotes about his boys and their school experiences, as well as their differing personalities and their relationships with the nannies, who seemed to come and go quite frequently. In his political life, he was having to tackle such issues as inflation, separatist threats from Quebec, and the drawn-out air traffic controllers’ strike over bilingualism, which resulted in the resignation of one of his key ministers, Jean Marchand. Perhaps my friendship provided a lightness that was in contrast to his weighty marital and political imbroglios. As the leader of the country, Pierre must have been burdened by many pressures, but he always seemed in good spirits during the times we shared.
I met few of Pierre’s friends. Since he was still legally married, our romance had to be kept extremely private at the beginning, even though, by early 1977, Pierre and Margaret had officially separated and he had taken custody of the boys. After concerts and official functions, however, he introduced me to his sister, Suzette, and several of his ministers and staff. Cécile Viau, his cheerful personal secretary, was usually instrumental in coordinating our meetings, arranging phone calls and plane schedules. One evening, I joined Pierre at Jim Coutts’s for a dinner party, where we danced with Don Harron and his wife, the singer Catherine McKinnon. Fortunately, there were no press to reveal our friendship.
On another occasion, Pierre and I were invited to the Ottawa house of Michael Pitfield for dinner. A December blackout compelled us to use candlelight, and Michael’s wife, Nancy, had to cook our dinner in the flickering flames of the fireplace, lending a perfect romantic touch to the evening. Our relationship, however, presented some difficult moments for Pierre. Margaret, for the sake of her children, decided at one point to return to Ottawa for Easter dinner. No sooner had the boys seated themselves at the table than they apparently began an animated account of my activities with them and their father at Harrington Lake during the preceding days. Easter supper at Sussex Drive must have had a few awkward silences. Another evening, when Margaret suddenly arrived back at Sussex, Pierre had to whisk me out of the house and arrange for me to stay at the Château Laurier. A society function was being held in the hotel, and the lobby was swarming with press. Fortunately, Bob Murdoch discovered the fire escape, enabling Pierre to slip in without being spotted.
We skinny-dipped in a hot tub at his friend Delano Boily’s home in Ottawa and attended a Rosedale pool party where everyone nonchalantly disrobed. Although the prime minister had no reservations about walking around naked in front of strangers, I tried to stay covered until I was submerged in the water. At least it felt warmer than the pool at Sussex! Pierre made efforts to attend as many of my concerts as possible, even bringing his boys along to performances at the National Arts Centre. If he was in town, I stayed with him at Sussex Drive or Harrington Lake. My road manager’s jaw fell open once when Pierre and the RCMP showed up to collect me backstage. After giving a fundraising concert for abused women, I was driven by the organizers to “my friend who lives at Harrington Lake.” Instead of remaining in the house, Pierre came bounding out to invite the two drivers in for a cool beer. The man was definitely a risk-taker. How easy it would have been for gossip to travel!
Pierre enjoyed listening to the country songs I had written, including one I dedicated to him called “So Many Years Apart” — “’cause age is not important in the language of the heart, / who cares that our two birthdays fell so many years apart?” He loved the melody and the lyrics about our contrasting stages of life, and could not understand why I had not found a singer to “make it a hit.” Tanya Tucker heard my demo after a TV show in Las Vegas on which we both appeared, and together we rewrote one of the verses to fit her own life. Although keen to record it, she unfortunately broke up with her older boyfriend, Glen Campbell, thus rendering the song inappropriate. To this day, it remains unsung in my files of music.
Careful to maintain appearances in front of the boys, Pierre and I went to great lengths to ensure that the various maids and nannies could never be certain where I had spent the night. At Sussex Drive, my cases would be deposited in the “Peach Room,” where Pierre insisted I rumple up the sheets and pillows, wet a few towels, and open the soap packages to leave the impression I had slept there overnight. But I was pretty certain that we were fooling no one, especially the head housekeeper, who had become familiar with my comings and goings. When I shared occasional meals with Pierre and his growing family, I was moved by his obvious love for them, his patience with their sometimes unruly table manners, his bedtime stories from the classics, and his efforts at bilingualism.
We were free of round-the-clock RCMP surveillance for only six months in 1979, after the Liberal government was narrowly defeated by Joe Clark’s Conservatives, who formed a minority government. After eleven years at the helm, Pierre was suddenly no longer prime minister. He and the boys were obliged to move into Stornoway, the official residence for the leader of the opposition. It seemed a gloomy, confining place in comparison with Sussex Drive. No longer shadowed by RCMP officers, we were able to stroll around enjoying relative privacy, go out for dinner to a restaurant in Hull, and drive the streets of Ottawa in his Mercedes like “just plain folks.” Unfortunately, the summer of ’79 had been heavily booked by my New York agent and I did not have as much free time as Pierre would have liked during his hiatus from running the country. He took his boys camping, went canoeing in the Northwest Territories, and then set off for Tibet, while I played concerts across North America and made a recording in England.
Over the eight years that Pierre and I used to see each other, from 1976 to 1983, we spent many glorious days and nights at the lake during the summer and autumn months. The country residence was a perquisite for Canada’s prime ministers. One July, the boys were given a Newfoundland puppy and fell in love with him at once. Together we took long hikes through the woods, but “Newfie” was a bundle of kinetic energy and even Justin and Sacha were worn out long before the rambunctious animal, whose wagging tail almost bowled over little Misha. Pierre had to explain to his dismayed children that the dog was being sent off to school.
Pierre and I frequently canoed around the lake during the tranquil even-ing hours before dusk; he pointed out the beaver dams and taught me the French names of the various birds we spotted along the shore. Sometimes I paddled with Pierre, but other times I simply lay back, listening to the peaceful dipping of the wood against the water, filling my lungs with the fragrant evening lake smells. It was such a serene spot, totally private except for the small lodge where a few RCMP security officers stayed. On occasion, we took a picnic basket to a tiny island in the middle of the lake, spread a blanket over mossy rocks and ferns, and lay in each other’s arms after feasting on pâtés, cheeses, and fresh fruit salad prepared by Pierre’s personal chef, Yannick Vincent. A few years later, while composing “Love in the Afternoon,” my memory drifted back to those hours of diurnal dalliance, when the warm summer sun and the grasshoppers were the only witnesses to our lovemaking. I can still picture the deserted cottage we paddled to on the far shore. The air around it smelled of dry peeling paint and hot dusty windowsills. The water was so pure then that we could take long, refreshing gulps as we swam.
One day, the RCMP was put on an extra security alert because of death threats to the prime minister. We were asked to stay indoors and not stray too far from their sight. In the afternoon, however, flouting their cautions, we paddled off to a distant corner of Harrington Lake and swam around the canoe among pale water lilies, before hauling ourselves back into the boat to lie naked in the warm sunshine. Suddenly, a low-altitude plane materialized out of the blue, circling above us twice before flying away. Because we were alone on the lake, it startled us; we suddenly realized how vulnerable we were to any terrorist’s assassination attempt. After all, Pierre, like any head of state, had attracted his share of enemies. We never ascertained if it was merely the RCMP officers checking up on us, because we were too embarrassed to inquire. I hoped that if they attempted more reconnaissance manoeuvres, we would at least have some clothes on!
In the evenings, we sat beside the water listening to the loons, gazed at the canopy of stars overhead, or took walks along the road leading to the main house. Once, we were severely startled by a huge black shape lumbering toward us out of the darkness. Pierre grabbed me, and together we leaped into a ditch at the side of the road. Terrified, we both let out screams, convinced that an enormous bear was about to attack. The “bear” turned out to be a burly RCMP officer taking his evening run; he was as scared by our vocals as we were by him. The next time, we made sure to carry flashlights.
In the autumn evenings, we lit a fire in the living room, and I concentrated on guitar practice while my over-burdened lover ploughed through piles of documents and briefs. Pierre enjoyed hearing me learn new pieces, and became quite familiar with the guitar repertoire; my transcription of “Gymnopédie no. 1” by Erik Satie remained his favourite. Pierre disliked television and I cannot recall it ever once being on during my visits. If the children were with us, one or two nannies always assisted, but sometimes we enjoyed being completely alone in the house, with no need to tiptoe around upstairs. We shared bubble baths and champagne while listening to classical albums by candlelight. A portion of the bedroom carpet had to be replaced when, on one occasion, we were oblivious to the expanding pool of melting wax from two red candles. For romantic evenings, Pierre often wore his floor-length Moroccan robe, and I a long gown of brocaded silk. These were times of escape from the pressures of two demanding careers.
While up at Harrington, we dressed casually — shorts and bathing suits in the summer, blue jeans and sweaters during the cooler months. When I was without a warm hiking jacket or boots, Pierre lent me some of Margaret’s outfits, which she had abandoned in the hall closet. I was literally filling her shoes. Margaret was extremely jealous and possessive of Pierre, but it was hard to be sympathetic, as she was the one carrying on frivolous affairs with a variety of men, hobnobbing with the Rolling Stones, and partying her nights away at Studio 54 with the jet set in New York and Los Angeles. In her book Consequences, Margaret complained that I had absolutely no taste in clothes and that on returning home unannounced, she had seen my “hideous purple coat” hanging in the downstairs closet. Pierre never once complained about my attire. Music, art, and politics ranked higher on our list of priorities than designer clothes. Of course, witnessing the preparations for a candlelight lobster dinner that Pierre and I were about to share certainly did not assuage Margaret’s animosity that evening. In many ways I felt genuinely sorry for her, part of me understanding why she had felt compelled to run away from her regimented life at Sussex Drive and the role of prime minister’s wife. After marrying very young, she had plunged into motherhood, wifely duties, and the public forum far too fast. I was glad to hear she eventually became more satisfied with her second marriage and two additional children. Margaret was a stunning young woman; it was easy to see how Pierre had been mesmerized by her beauty and flower-child philosophies. Once, when he ruefully implied that his marriage had been a big mistake, and that he should have proposed to me instead, I reminded him that, thanks to Margaret, he had three wonderful boys. With me, he probably would have ended up with nothing more than a collection of record albums!
Any feelings of guilt quickly diminished when I realized that I was not the cause of Pierre and Margaret’s marital difficulties. In some romantic sense, I believed I was helping the leader of our country unwind from his stressful political duties, although I am not foolish enough to presume I was the only diversion during the years we dated. Such is the world of powerful men.
Once, just before Christmas, I stayed a few days at Sussex Drive, enjoying the company of Pierre’s three boys and showing them a few chords on the guitar. The house was gaily decorated with ornaments, a gingerbread house, a large pine tree, and cards from all over the world. My eyes alighted on two Christmas cards — one from Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip and the other from Prince Charles and Princess Diana. On hearing that Pierre was only going to stuff them into a government archives box, I asked if he would allow me to keep those two once the holidays were over. “Well, if you insist, Liona, I’ll give you one, but not both.” I chose the Queen and Prince Philip’s. “Here’s a Christmas present for you,” he said, handing me two cans of maple syrup from a crate he had been given by a government minister, Marc Lalonde. Pierre was never generous with gifts, and I always paid for my plane tickets to and from Ottawa. Even Margaret had accused him of being “parsimonious,” and I suspect it was partly this aspect of his personality that had driven her to write her candid books, since he offered her and the boys only minimal support.
One time I hinted that a little memento might be appreciated. Christmas cards of Pierre and the boys, most containing affectionate notes saying he hoped I would be able to see him more frequently, were always forthcoming, but seemed slightly inadequate for a man of his means. Pressed, he rummaged in his drawer and came up with a gold-dipped peanut on a necklace chain that was given to him by Jimmy Carter’s brother, Billy, and an embossed leather box of Ceylon tea from the Sri Lankan Summit Conference — merely trinkets to him, but in my hands, treasures. I recalled Margaret’s complaints that Pierre never took time to buy Christmas gifts for the boys. Instead, he selected presents from the many souvenirs he had amassed during the years of official visits. Once, in his suite in Montreal’s Queen Elizabeth Hotel, my eyes alighted upon an ookpik doll thrown on a chair. “Could I please keep him?” I ventured, but was rebuked for even asking. Pierre had decided that the Inuit ookpik would come in useful for the boys next Christmas. Luckily for us, neither Margaret nor I were very materialistic, as generosity was hardly Pierre’s forte.
While I sat flipping through the in-flight magazine on a plane to Ottawa, who should take the seat next to me but our former prime minister John Diefenbaker. Then in his late seventies, Diefenbaker was showing the effects of years of Parkinson’s disease. When I shook his hand, his face lit up with a faint smile of recognition as he remembered my performance at one of the state dinners. We chatted on about insignificant subjects — the weather and flight departure time. “Dief” had been leafing through the Globe and Mail magazine supplement when he came across an article on famous Canadians and their favourite snacks. On turning one of the pages, he discovered a photo of Pierre next to a recipe for chocolate chip cookies. He muttered some unintelligible remark under his breath, followed by a sarcastic dig intended for my ears, as he pointed at Pierre’s photo. I smiled innocently. They had been political rivals for years. There had been a great furore, fomented by the press, about the money Trudeau had lavished on his indoor swimming pool at the Sussex Drive residence. The Conservatives were making the most of this controversial situation, hoping to substantiate assertions that hard-earned taxpayers’ money was being squandered on the profligate indulgences of our hedonistic prime minister. Pierre, however, was able to exonerate himself, proving to the press that the pool had been funded entirely by private donations. Diefenbaker grumbled that he had never understood Trudeau’s need to swim at home. “Why can’t the guy take himself off to the local health club once a week?” he asked me. I nodded sympathetically. What he did not realize was that the woman sitting beside him on the plane would soon be splashing around in that very pool. My telling Pierre about the magazine article and Dief’s disparaging comments about his cherished pool provided one of our better chuckles that weekend. It wasn’t every day that one got to rub shoulders with two prime ministers.
We still had to exercise extreme caution over the media and the public discovering our romance. Clandestine rendezvous with a classical guitarist would do nothing to improve a political image that already had been battered by Margaret’s indiscretions. One September morning, Pierre and I were at 24 Sussex getting ready to drive up to Harrington for a few days, when we saw that a group of reporters had clustered around the entrance awaiting comments from the prime minister on his latest political debate. To leave the grounds, we had to drive right past their cameras and microphones, as there was no rear driveway to use for escape. There was nothing for it — this time I had to be smuggled out; it would have been imprudent to let the press see us leaving together at nine in the morning. Pierre asked me to crouch down on the back floor of the car while he and the driver piled two heavy coats over me. I kept still as a statue as we pulled past the gatehouse and Pierre waved convivially at the press, tossing out a comment toward their anxious microphones. The RCMP driver gave me a sly sideways glance in the rear-view mirror as I squirmed out from beneath the hot coats once we were on the main highway. The police were probably keeping a detailed log of all my comings and goings. With that perfect guitar player cover, I would have made a great Mata Hari! Somehow the challenge of keeping our affair secret added an extra touch of romance and intrigue to our encounters. Certainly Pierre’s staff must have been aware of our relationship, as he often sent his aides to pick me up, but fortunately everyone involved remained discreet.
On a few occasions, I had to sidle past hotel vestibules full of press for us to share some private hours together. It became such a risky business that I purchased a short, brown wig that enabled me to walk past the paparazzi, who scarcely gave me a glance. Before this handy disguise, Pierre always cautioned me to wear a scarf, as he considered my hair a dead giveaway. In retrospect, it seems surprising that some of the scandal-seeking press did not pursue us more aggressively. But in Canada this was a time of liberal thinking; Pierre himself had declared, “The government has no business in the bedrooms of the nation.” Perhaps the Canadian media had agreed among themselves not to exploit the prime minister’s life. In contrast, when I toured Latin America, the headlines declared, “Pierre Trudeau’s Girlfriend Arrives,” and even my grandmother in Bilbao had sighted similar reports in the Spanish tabloids.
On trips to Toronto, Pierre and his personal aide, Ted Johnson, sometimes stayed downtown in the penthouse of the Holiday Inn. On one occasion, in need of some fresh air, he suggested a stroll around nearby Chinatown. We felt quite daring holding hands in public, but avoided eye contact with passersby. Pierre was in a reckless mood that night; on seeing a film crew in the process of shooting a movie, he steered me toward the crowd that had gathered around the floodlights. “Let’s go over and be extras in their film,” he suggested mischievously. Amazingly, nobody seemed to recognize us! We stood anonymously, watching the camera crews and director until, when it all seemed rather uneventful, we started to make our way back to the hotel. As we were about to cross Dundas Street, a Greek taxi driver leapt out of his cab in a dither. “Oh, Mr. Prime Minister, amazing to see you here. Very pleased to meet you!” He pumped Pierre’s hand up and down and told him how much he admired him. “I think you play beoootiful guitar, Miss Boyd,” he added breathlessly, turning toward me. “My friends are never going to believe this!” I know that in a strange way, Pierre and I were rather glad that at least somebody had recognized us after all. Such are the egos of politicians and performers!
One evening, after attending a government function at one of the Toronto airport hotels, Pierre came to pick me up at my parents’ house. The inconspicuous street numbers made it difficult and he confessed he had spent time stalking around our neighbours’ gardens trying to peek in the windows. I could just imagine their state of disbelief if they had looked out and seen the prime minister of Canada creeping furtively through their petunias!
Pierre tried to book me for as many official functions as possible, but sometimes my schedule was already fixed; I had to forfeit the president of Portugal and the prime minister of Thailand. He succeeded, however, in arranging private Sussex Drive recitals for Jamaican prime minister Michael Manley and German chancellor Helmut Schmidt, who put in a special request for the music of Bach. Feeling that it was safe for us to appear at the odd entertainment and music industry event, Pierre escorted me twice to the Junos and to the ACTRA Awards, where we shared our table with Ed Asner. He even drove me home, carefree in the knowledge that there were no press following us. The next day, the Toronto papers featured a picture of me on their front pages, dabbing whipped cream off Pierre’s tuxedo. During our second Juno Awards together, People magazine’s photographer clung to us all evening like a shadow. Having borrowed one of my friend Gloria Loring’s décolleté gowns, I piled my hair up with a few bobby pins; in those days, I would never have dreamed of going to a hairdresser. Fortunately, the prime minister liked the natural look, and that suited my busy timetable. After the show, Pierre decided it would be wise for us to leave separately, so he and his aide escaped in their limo to the Royal York hotel, instructing me to follow by cab twenty minutes later. At that hour, there were no taxis to be found near the Convention Centre. I trailed around the deserted lobby in my evening dress until two members of the Guess Who offered to flag a cab for me — how embarrassing! After winning the Juno Award for best instrumental artist, I should have departed in the company of my escort, with whom I had been seated all night, or at least with somebody from my record company. “What on earth took you so long?” an impatient Pierre complained.
A dinner was arranged to pay tribute to some outstanding young achievers in various disciplines of the arts and sciences. It was to be held in the Château Laurier ballroom in Ottawa, and the invitees, including me, would be presented to Queen Elizabeth, the guest of honour. Pierre suggested that I fly to Ottawa a few days earlier so that we could spend some time up at the lake. The maple leaves had turned brilliant orange and we took exhilarating hikes through the painted autumn woods. He reiterated his love and great pleasure in our relationship. “We’ll have to be careful that the reporters don’t get suspicious. To divert their attention, my staff has arranged for Karen Kain to sit with me at the head table during tomorrow’s dinner, but if it bothers you, I’ll make sure you have a place there, too.” I felt piqued that after our two intensely romantic days, Pierre would be viewed by the national media with the beautiful ballet star Karen Kain at his side. “When you arrive at the ballroom, ma chérie, ask for one of the women attending to seating arrangements, and I will have left a message to have you placed at my table,” he assured me.
When I arrived at the gala black-tie event, no message had been left, or if it had been, no one appeared to know anything about it. I was seated in one of the remote corners of the room beside Carroll Baker, the country singer, and could see a glowing Pierre at his raised head table next to the gorgeous Miss Kain. I had tremendous admiration for Karen and her outstanding talent as a dancer, but the hurt I was feeling kept my stomach in knots all night. How could Pierre be so insensitive? Because of him, I had not arranged for another dinner date and was surrounded by strangers who puffed smoke into my eyes all evening. I felt angry and offended. At the end of the dinner, one of his aides sought me out. “The prime minister is looking for you,” he said. “Fine, he can come here and find me if he wishes to,” I replied unsmilingly. I saw Pierre pushing through the crowd in my direction. When he stood before me — all charm, red rose, and smiles — I could not pretend to greet him warmly. “How have you been, Liona? It’s so nice to see you in Ottawa!” he said, playing to the reporters who had trailed him. “Just fine, thanks,” I replied coldly, avoiding eye contact. “Is there anything the matter?” he asked, lowering his voice. “You know damn well what the matter is,” I retorted, at a level inaudible to any of the journalists, and hurried away before disgracing us both with the tears that were starting to well up in my eyes.
That entire evening in Ottawa was an unmitigated disaster for me. My plans were to return to Toronto after the dinner, as I had a busy schedule the next day, but on arriving at the airport to catch the 11:00 p.m. flight, I found that it had been cancelled. In those days I never carried credit cards, and twenty dollars was all the cash in my purse. I felt stranded and abandoned, yet could not bring myself to return to Pierre’s house. Perhaps Karen Kain was already teaching him some of her ballet pliés around the pool! My few dollars secured a taxi that deposited me at an Ottawa hotel, where I pleaded with the night manager to let me send him a cheque for the room the following day.
The next morning, the newspaper featured a dazzling picture of Pierre and Kain smiling at each other. I choked on my Air Canada coffee and Danish pastry. I had always been willing to keep our affair secretive, but his method of “diverting the attentions of the press” failed to impress me. I felt betrayed. Pierre phoned the next day to apologize. “But you know how much I love you, ma chère Liona. Why didn’t you come up to my table and ask me to find you a seat?” He could not understand how having to ask for a place in front of the head-table guests, including his beautiful ballerina, would have done more damage to my pride than being exiled to the far reaches of the ballroom. Perhaps my sensitivity was exacerbated by feelings of exhaustion, thanks to Pierre’s amorous attentions. I told him to forget about the incident, and that I was sorry to have appeared so glum at the Queen’s reception. Sometime later, he asked me to attend a small Ottawa dinner party in honour of Prince Charles, but I had already been booked for a concert. An invitation to fly with him to Korea had likewise to be declined, but we did succeed in seeing each other a couple of times in New York.
In July 1981 I was engaged to perform a fifteen-minute program in the Château Montebello in Quebec. My audience would comprise all the leaders of the Western world who were attending the Twentieth Economic Summit Conference. At the Ottawa airport, I was met by a military woman who drove me the sixty kilometres to the château. On approach, I noticed several RCMP officers standing half-hidden behind the roadside bushes and pine trees. Terrorism posed a real danger to such a gathering of world powers. Arriving at a checkpoint, I was photographed and given a badge that allowed access to the hotel, but no one bothered to search my guitar case — an obvious receptacle for smuggling weapons, as proven by those infamous mafia violin cases. No sooner had I arrived at my spacious room and rolled my hair into curlers than the phone rang. Pierre was anxious to see me and was sending Ted Johnson to guide me past the clusters of walkie-talkie-toting Secret Service men swarming the corridors. We were stopped at every turn, but Ted’s badge worked wonders. Before long, I was safely in Pierre’s suite, and we tumbled onto the bed, exchanging happy embraces and laughing about the excessive security. Watching Pierre dress for dinner, I thought what a refined and elegant man he was, and how great it felt that he had wanted me to share this important summit he was hosting. After debating the OPEC oil crisis, runaway interest rates, and Soviet Union concerns, were all of these international heads of state really going to be listening to me play my party pieces in a few hours? Pierre and I, planning to meet again after the event, kissed each other good luck and promised not to giggle if everyone became too serious and our eyes met.
My concert was arranged for nine-thirty, but it was after ten when I was finally escorted into the dining room where the G7 leaders were finishing their desserts and coffee. As Pierre stood up to say a few words of introduction, I scanned the faces that were so familiar from my television screen. The energy flowed into my fingers and I launched into the music. Aware of what a unique privilege it was to have the attention of these political giants, I played confidently and expressively, smiling at them during my introductions and sensing their appreciation. When I had struck the last chord of my fifteen-minute set, a jubilant Pierre bounded up to my chair and led me to the table to meet his guests. I was presented to Ronald Reagan, Helmut Schmidt, Margaret Thatcher, François Mitterrand, Zenkō Suzuki, and Giovanni Spadolini: the leaders, respectively, of the U.S., Germany, Britain, France, Japan, and Italy. Margaret Thatcher showed particular enthusiasm, asking why I did not play in London more often when Pierre explained my English origins. “Liona, stay here and listen to Diane Juster’s singing,” Pierre whispered to me, motioning to a large armchair at the side of the main table. “No, I just thought of a better idea,” he added roguishly, and pulled a spare dining chair in between him and Reagan. Wow! I was going to be seated with all the world leaders! The protocol staff must have been raising their collective eyebrows.
Diane Juster, in the pre-Margaret days, had been a girlfriend of Pierre’s, and I smiled to myself, thinking how shrewdly he had planned the entertainment. She was one of Quebec’s leading chanteuses, and it was understandable that Pierre had been attracted to this dynamic artiste of soaring voice and passionate songs. He and I sat holding hands under the table, sipping the drink he offered to share with me. Diane’s set, which was supposed to last fifteen minutes, extended past thirty; I noticed that Helmut Schmidt was nodding off to sleep and that Mitterrand kept examining his watch. Thatcher, however, exemplifying stereotypical British fortitude, sat upright, head held high and a smile on her face. Reagan, aware of the familiarity between Pierre and me, whispered compliments about my guitar playing and asked about the harpist who was accompanying Diane. “I can’t understand a word. What are these French songs all about?” he asked, so I tried to give him a vague idea of their content. He told me he loved the sound of the harp and found it a perfect accompaniment to voice. “It’s a beautiful instrument, don’t you think?” he said under his breath; I agreed that after the classical guitar, it was definitely one of my favourites! I told Reagan I had visited Pacific Palisades, where I knew he had lived before the White House; and he confessed homesickness at the mere mention of the name. Encouraged by his friendly manner, I asked if he might allow me a photograph with him. After all, this was a rare opportunity; I was learning to seize the moment — carpe diem — as they come but once.
At the conclusion of Diane’s long set, Pierre asked me to remain beside him as we stood to say goodnight to everyone. For a brief moment, I enjoyed the illusion of being the first lady of more than the guitar! When I saw Reagan and his entourage leaving the room, I raced up to him with Pierre’s aide, Ted Johnson, and the official photographer in tow. Instantly, three bodyguards flung themselves in front of the U.S. president — a conditioned reflex to any sudden movement toward their chief. Reagan laughed, telling them to relax, and said he had promised to take a photo with me. The consummate actor graciously allowed the cameras to shoot away as we posed together.
Back in my room, I changed and waited for Ted’s knock at the door. Somehow he had discovered a back staircase that avoided the crowded lobby, enabling us to reach Pierre’s suite without too many embarrassing security stops. We indulged in strawberries, kiwi fruit, chocolate, and white wine, and made love to a loud Mahler symphony on the radio, lest the Secret Service be eavesdropping along the corridors. What an adventure to be in the arms of my amorous prime minister while most of the maximum-security officers were none the wiser! Getting back to my room with dishevelled hair at two in the morning might prove more challenging. “I think you made quite an impression on our visitors,” Pierre said, proudly hugging me as he loaded me up with souvenir summit matches, fruit, and chocolate bars, which I stuffed into my bulging handbag. Pierre was always magnanimous with superfluous hotel-room goodies. He made sure the coast was clear and kissed me goodnight, whispering, “Je t’aime.”
In August 1982, I performed a private concert for President Chun Doo-hwan of Korea, and in October I was delighted to be invested as a Member of the Order of Canada. The medal is an honour bestowed by the governor general on citizens who have contributed to Canadian society through humanitarian deeds or scientific, literary, athletic, or artistic accomplishments. Pierrot Productions, who were shooting a documentary on my career, recorded the event on film. Governor General Ed Schreyer, placing the medal around my neck, whispered, “I remember how President Portillo of Mexico thought you were an angel when you played for him. Congratulations, Liona.” Wearing a floor-length gown of dusty rose, I stood proudly among the gathering of distinguished citizens and politicians.
At the reception I was seated with a fellow recipient, film director Norman Jewison, and Pierre put in a brief appearance to greet my mother, who had accompanied me. They had never met, although over the years they had become telephone acquaintances. He invited us both to join him at Sussex “for a night cap,” arranging for his driver to take us there later. My mother had already listened to my descriptions of the official residence, including the various plant pots where I had discreetly dumped portions of the cognac and sherry I had felt obliged to accept! But Pierre gave her a personally guided tour, letting her quietly peep into the sleeping boys’ bedrooms and asking her advice on how to care for a vivarium of salamanders they had collected from the woods at Harrington. Having tolerated Damien’s various menageries, my mother had become an expert on anything that crawled, from iguanas to tarantulas. He invited her to go swimming, but she protested that she had no bathing suit. “Pas de problème. You don’t need one here,” he said, shrugging both shoulders and subtly wobbling his head with his characteristic French mannerism. My mother declined anyway. Laughingly, she recounted how once I told her that I was “flying CP Air to Santiago” and, hearing it as “see Pierre,” she had presumed that we were planning a rendezvous in Chile! That was before CP Air renamed itself Canadian Airlines International.
Like errant children, Pierre and I hurried off to the pool and sauna while my mother remained in the living room, browsing through coffee-table books on Canadian history and Native art and sipping sherry, which she chose not to share with my favourite plant pot. When she and my father had decided so many years earlier to book passage on the SS Columbia to Canada, how could she have ever imagined that the leader of her adopted country would one day be entertaining her in his private residence and showering kisses on her eldest daughter?
From that day on, I was allowed to wear an Order of Canada medal. My years of trekking across the continents with guitar in hand, battling intemperate climes to represent Canada in faraway places, struggling to compose and transcribe new repertoire, staying up late into the night to memorize concertos, and giving concerts or radio and television interviews in the capitals and backwaters of the world had finally brought me some official government recognition — what a feeling of gratitude and accomplishment.
Several years later, in April 1985, when I visited Jamaica to play at the international music festival, Jamfest, my mother had another opportunity to meet Pierre. He was vacationing in Ocho Rios as a guest in Lady Mary Mitchell’s house, to which he invited us for lunch. We enjoyed swimming in the tepid Caribbean waters and reminisced about our times in Ottawa while sunbathing on the sandy beach. Justin, Sacha, and Michel had certainly grown up since I had last seen them, but were just as delightfully energetic as I remembered. A few years earlier, Pierre had wanted me to give them classical guitar lessons and sought advice on which instruments to buy. Michel studied from Shearer’s Book 1 and Justin opted for country style, but other hobbies intervened and their guitars lay neglected in the closets of the Cormier House. As I watched their boyish antics in the palm-dappled sunlight, I wondered how they would have reacted had we produced a little sister for them to romp around with. She would definitely have played the guitar!
On a couple of occasions, Pierre had suggested that, although he never intended to be married again, he would be happy to have us live together and share a child. For some reason, he was sure we would produce a little girl, which would please his paternal instincts after three boys in a row. “I have full-time nannies who could care for her while you’re away giving concerts, so it wouldn’t really interfere with your career,” he had reasoned. If this proposition had resonated with my own desires, our lives would have taken a completely different turn. Although I felt honoured in a sense to be entrusted with this fantasy, some inner compass was steering me in another direction.
During all the years of our relationship, I cannot ever remember the feeling of being completely “in love” with Pierre, although I had loved him in a caring and trusting way. Perhaps we were both always holding something back because of our all-consuming careers. At first I had been flattered by his attentions and infatuated with his position and power, but even after those aspects assumed less significance, I always remained full of admiration for his remarkable mind and the calm strength with which he conducted his political and family life. Pierre was a man with very definite opinions, strong ethics, and high standards for himself and others. Those Jesuit priests who had been his teachers at Collège Jean-de-Brébeuf had done a fine job honing his sharp intellect, flair for extemporaneous speeches, and powers of logical reasoning. He always tried to be fair and just, whether settling a political crisis or refereeing an argument between his sons.
Pierre had an unusually gentle and sensitive nature that seemed to set him apart from many other politicians. His passionate love for music, art, and nature revealed an aspect of his personality that almost seemed in contradiction to the forceful political spokesperson most people saw. On the other hand, his cerebral and rather offhand approach to practical matters of state infuriated his detractors, who portrayed him as an elitist snob. Pierre never pandered to the media, and refused to conceal his obvious derision toward many of his critics. This attitude hardly scored him points in the press gallery, although many media pundits admired the way he stood up for his ideals, brilliantly defending his vision of Canada even in the face of considerable criticism.
At the start of his career as prime minister, the charismatic Pierre Trudeau was hailed around the world as a unique leader who would strengthen Canada’s position in the world — so young and hip compared with his predecessors. Here was a swinging bachelor who had dated Barbra Streisand; a brown-belt judoist, a skier, and a diver — a man who slid down bannisters in Buckingham Palace and dared to wear sandals to the office. Canadians adored his eccentricities at first, but inevitably, as the years unfolded, public opinion impugned his unorthodox persona and policies. Western Canada resented his loyalties to Quebec, and many blamed Canada’s economic woes on their headstrong leader. In May 1979, he was defeated by the Conservative opposition, led by Joe Clark.
In December, however, the vicissitudes of politics saw the new government fall abruptly, and the following February, after an energetic campaign, a revitalized Pierre was once again running the country. He had agonized over whether he should re-enter public life. But, fired up over René Lévesque’s separatist movement and his own desire to repatriate Canada’s constitution from Britain, he had decided that the country needed a leader who would fight for the fundamental issues. Only after several years of promulgating his belief in a united Canada, and presenting dozens of world leaders with his peace initiatives and polemics against nuclear arms, did he finally decide to retire from politics for good.
In 1984, watching Pierre give his farewell speech with his boys onstage beside him, I, along with millions of fellow Canadians, was overcome with emotion. We were witnessing the end of an extraordinary era in Canada’s history. Although I admittedly had only a small part in the overall drama, I felt gratified by the role I had played in Pierre Trudeau’s life, and he in mine.