CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
1967-68

One night, when Paul came home to Briar Hill for dinner, he noticed that Geneviève seemed excited. “How did it go today? You were seeing a doctor, weren’t you?”

“A gynaecologist, as a matter of fact.”

“What? You’re not pregnant?” Paul could hardly absorb the enormity.

“Well,” Geneviève announced, “I am.”

Paul let out a whoop of joy. “But” she went on, “I asked him about having the baby here in Toronto. You want to be present when our baby is born?”

“I sure do.”

“Well, the doctor gave me one of those condescending smiles, and said, ‘Don’t worry, my dear, you and I are quite capable. Just let your husband go have a nice dinner, and when he comes back, we’ll present the baby to him.’”

“The creep!”

“Exactly what I thought.”

“So what about another doctor?”

“That’s the way they all work in Toronto hospitals. No fathers allowed.”

Paul’s eyes blazed. “Well damn it all! Let’s move!”

Geneviève looked at him, brown eyes softening. “Just what I hoped you’d say...”

“Now that we’re both working in motion pictures — why the hell stay? I mean, we can live anywhere.”

“With good doctors?”

“Yes sir!”

First they went to Paris, thinking they might move there.

Doctors were practising a new system called l’accouchement sans douleur, also known as the Lamaze method, developed in Russia. But though she learned something about “birthing without pain,” Geneviève did not take to the supposedly famous doctor nor his assistant.

On their way home, they stopped in Montreal to check out Hôpital Sainte Justine. There, she met a Dr. Noel, whom she did like. So they decided to buy a house in Montreal.

Before long they found an old castle-like hulk on Redpath Crescent, an exclusive street that curved up into the mountain park. The five floors needed a good deal of renovation, and had been sitting on the market for a couple of years. Having sold the Briar Hill house, Paul was able to fund the down payment.

The house had a storied past. Built in 1922 by the Smith family, it often hosted dinners with evenings of port and cigars. Mr. Smith had died, and Mrs. Smith had become friendly with Stephen Leacock, the great Canadian humorist lecturing just down the block at McGill. She even ended up buying a small house in Orillia, Prof. Leacock’s main base. One might speculate on their relationship, but to outward appearances they were just friends. Paul found a Leacock pamphlet: Christmas Convivial and Pleasant at Number Nineteen (as 1272 was then known) Redpath Crescent. He framed it and hung it in the powder room.

RENE

I think it has to be confessed

Our René is a perfect Guest.

At every Dinner, every Dance,

He shows the Grace of cultured France.

The Flood of Life he loves to swim in

With old, old Wine and young, young Women.

To Whiskey, Cigarette, Cigar

He says “Je ne refuse pas.”

Oh, noble France, if you have any

More wandering Sons as nice as René,

I pray you send them, one and all,

To Redpath Crescent, Montreal.

Although the whole house needed work, Geneviève decided first to prepare the second floor master bedroom for her baby. Between the baby’s room and smaller front bedroom sat a bathroom with the original plumbing from 1922, an antique marvel with a walk-in shower and the original white enamel taps.

Paul had long been friends with the great architect Moshe Safdie, designer of Habitat 67. Out of friendship, he redesigned the top floor and kitchen, losing money in the process. But the result was a lovely large master bedroom for the loving couple, with a picture window looking out towards the St. Lawrence and its two big bridges. The casement windows they kept.

Now the next question: Who would look after the baby while they worked?

Housekeepers in Montreal were expensive so Paul suggested they try Paris. “I bet we could find someone nice and motherly who would love a chance to emigrate.”

Geneviève agreed. So off the two flew to their favourite Hôtel du Quai Voltaire. Mme Muller, the owner, had taken rather a shine to the petite actress and was delighted to find Geneviève pregnant.

An advertisement in Le Monde brought some two dozen women, among whom they agreed on Madame Pecetto, large, heavy-set, with reddish hair, motherly, who had once owned a restaurant on Montmartre. It had been so successful that she had shut it down to enlarge it— but when it reopened, having lost its atmosphere, it also lost its clientele. So Madame Pecetto went broke, and followed them back to Montreal.

In the early morning of July 10th, 1968, Geneviève woke Paul with the news that the baby was on its way. Paul drove her in the little green MG to Hôpital Sainte-Justine, and stayed at her side as she did the required breathing. Dr. Noel turned up, and the birth began.

Two little legs appeared first. Geneviève panicked. “It’s dead!”

Dr. Noel, cigarette in his mouth, smoke partially closing his eyes as it drifted upwards, tickled the tiny foot. It kicked.

He grinned. Geneviève relaxed.

Right after Matthew James was born, Dr. Noel gave him to Geneviève and Matthew lay on his mother’s breast, looking around. In his next film, Paul put these words in the mouth of his actress:

“Well, it was so good to start pushing at last, and you’re so busy, with natural childbirth, you — well it was all of a sudden really, the head came out, and then, almost in one push the body — un garçon, the Dr said and lay him on my breast. He lay looking around with big eyes, not seeing, I know, but with such strange… Wisdom. David was crying of course, and I could hardly see…”

1967 had been a banner year for Canada, its Centennial, with Expo 67 over on St. Helen’s Island in the St. Lawrence. Excitement thrived, especially in the arts. The Canadian air force, army and navy had been unified as the Canadian Armed Forces on April 25. Previously, as Minister of Justice, Pierre Elliott Trudeau, had liberalized the laws concerning abortion and homosexuality, when spoke the iconic phrase: The government has no business in the bedrooms of the nation.

After screenings of Isabel for friends (including the Trudeaus), they would invite the audience back for parties where the team would glean criticism and thus adjust the film. Madame Pecetto proved not only a fine housekeeper and nurse, she also cooked good dinners. Then the couple had to fly to New York for Isabel’s opening at the 72nd Street Playhouse.

Their press agent, Lois Smith, often held screenings for opinion makers. Late one evening, Paul decided to go to the one for Broadway performers, believing serious actresses would attend. But within fifteen minutes, the hyped-up singers and dancers from musicals decided they’d had quite enough of this bleak, icy, Gaspesian landscape and its repressed actress. They leapt up into the aisles, dancing and yelling: “Man, Isabel, you got a problem!”

On his way home he wondered how to break the news that their creation was such a flop.

Amazingly, Geneviève pooh-poohed his reaction, calmed him down, and said she was sure the critics would like it.

And so they did. Lois had arranged for lunches with many of them, the venerable Archer Winston, a dean of film criticism, and Judith Crist, also widely read. New York critics took film as a serious art, assiduously researching each film’s background and intention, seeking to judge it properly and thoughtfully — a practice unknown in Toronto.

The next few days in their hotel room, the couple devoured their glowing list of press cuttings. But was this luck just too good to last?

***

Geneviève made sure they mingled with the French community in Montreal. Cultural activities were blooming. A couple of years before, the NFB director Don Owen had gone to shoot a half hour documentary called Nobody Waved Goodbye. After a time, the Board sent him telegrams: come home, no more money, stop shooting and return at once! But Don ignored them and kept right on sending back rushes. He made sure not to return until he had a whole feature film. What could the Board do but let him edit it? It won awards and was considered one of the best films of that year.

The French Canadian filmmakers on the other hand, with no access to money from English distributors, made doubly sure to give their audience what it wanted. Denis Héroux led the charge with a film called Valérie (1968) followed by L’Initiation in 1970 — both of which “undressed la petite Québécoise”. Actresses well known in theatre and television dutifully disrobed for the movies. The public were delighted and flocked to the cinemas. Claude Fournier quickly followed with a film entitled Deux femmes en or (1970), lightly translated as Two Brazen Women. A third, more serious filmmaker, Gilles Carles, made La vraie nature de Bernadette. The Canadian Film Awards, struggling since 1949, now found itself with several interesting films to judge.

On October 4, Paul and Geneviève flew to Toronto’s Royal York Hotel for the ceremony. Introduced by Fred Davis, the craft and acting awards went to Isabel: Georges Dufaux “Best Cinematography”, George Appleby “Best Editing”, Gerard Parkes “Best Actor”, and Geneviève Bujold “Best Actress”. Paul waited confidently for the announcement of Best Director. Lo! it went to Don Owen for The Ernie Game, which then went on to win Best Film.

Paul had seen so many rejections over the years, it hardly bothered him, and joined in celebrating for his pal Don. But the time had come to think up his next project. What on earth would it to be?