THE ASSEMBLY

THE LAVIGUEUR TAVERN ON RUE Ontario was an institution. The perfect place to wait out a bout of insomnia while checking out couples of a certain age, prudently entwining on the dance floor to the sound of an orchestra typical of Montreal’s east end: a gay man playing saccharine chords on a Hammond organ, a man with a huge moustache and a Hawaiian shirt scraping his brushes over a snare drum as if scrubbing out a pot, and an aging crooner in a tight-fitting leather vest and a cowboy hat who specializes in transforming old Johnny Farago tunes into treacle. The waiter, six feet tall, built like a former NFL linebacker, took in the patrons with equanimity mixed with sullen friendliness, whether they were students, avant-garde artists, or penniless intellectuals who came in mainly for a change of scenery but who sometimes tipped with suspicious generosity, as if to apologize for not belonging to the ordinary world.

The establishment’s four walls displayed a collection of unbelievably bad art: portraits of cultural giants from a long-gone era who had witnessed the closing down of the cabarets, the red-light district, and the Empire of the Night at about the same time as the rise of TV. At Lavigueur’s, after having shaken the salt shaker like a censor over your glass of draft, you sipped it under the converging gaze of a company of legends straight from the forgotten nightspots of the 1950s, the western bars of the East End and the studios of Channel 10: Michèle Richard, Ti-Gusse and Ti-Mousse, Léo Rivest, La Poune, Oscar Thiffault, Jacques “Patof” Desrosiers, Paolo Noël, Marcel Martel and his daughter Renée, Bobby Hachey, and Willie Lamothe, Olivier “Ti-Zoune” Guimond, flanked, even in this fake resurrection, by his straight man with the flesh-eating grin, Denis Drouin, the real crook of the collection. There was Raoul Bonnard with his thick mug as deeply grooved as a winter tire. All of them were immortalized by the primitive brushwork of the same untalented hack, up there between two humming female singers, two dirty jokes, and two below-the-belt one-liners.

You could ponder for a long time the size of the tabs that these canvases represented, given in payment while the artist waited for his next UI cheque. Could it be that this permanent exhibition, a sort of Pantheon of the Poor, had replaced the old autographed photographs of local punch-drunk boxers, of Rocket Richard and Jackie Robinson, who once played for the Montreal Royals, a farm team for the Dodgers, in the park next to the tavern? They were the immortals of a nation that had forgotten how to amuse itself. Guardians in charge of watching over this lugubrious collection of horse-piss drinkers and compulsively drugged players of electronic strawberry-banana-kiwi combos that formed Chez Lavigueur’s faithful clientele.

In the mid-1980s, the small band of university types who migrated here once a week after Branlequeue’s lectures on Hubert Aquin and the Revolution had, as the weeks went on, successfully passed all the stages of tacit acceptance necessary to be admitted to the inner circle of the tavern’s largely proletariat clientele. These sessions took place on Tuesdays. They arrived on foot, passing en route such monuments to popular patrimony as the scrap man, the treasure-hunter, the Panet Tavern, placed like obstacles on the course to middle-classism. Not to mention the sawn-off hookers hanging out on every street corner.

There was no membership, attendance was informal and spontaneous, based on individual interests and a desire to share truth. The Octobeerists’ format was therefore identical, in a way, to that of every revolutionary indépendantiste group active in the 1960s. A stable solar system gravitated around Chevalier Branlequeue: Alexis, the little comic destined to make stacks of money under the name Alexis-the-Man-of-Rubber, Humorist; Alexander, the cursed, trigger-happy poet who drank like a fish, got all the women, and was the future soul of the Group Alexandersen, of piercing and painful memory; Frédéric Falardeau, a.k.a. Fred, who was working on a great Joycean novel that absorbed him to such an extent that he ended up being transformed into the spitting image of A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. And there was Samuel Nihilo.

Women seemed condemned to remain at the periphery of the circle, assigned the role of simple observers, mainly because they (though not their clothing) were invisible as far as Chevalier Branlequeue was concerned. He quite simply ignored them. Among such creatures, Dogsbody’s spouse exhibited a kind of misogyny that looked a lot like distraction; their simple presence was something to which he seemed completely oblivious.

Another explanation for the fragile and provisional status of female students who risked turning up at Lavigueur’s (they usually lasted about three weeks) had to do with the very nature of the themes of the meetings: if the October Crisis in Quebec was going to accommodate the rising and powerful feminist ideology over the next decade, then women, in this male-dominated milieu, would have to develop their own idea of liberty, just as the Senegalese and Algerians driven to disaster by their colonizers resurrected the holy spirit of democracy on the battlefields of Europe. But you had to ask the complex question about how many human females were really interested in the secret services, outside of Mata Hari, femmes fatales (most often Russian), and other Bond Girls, whose roles were assigned to them by tradition. “No doubt we are dealing here,” Branlequeue remarked, “with one of the last authentic private hunting reserves of the male condition.”

Chevalier opened each session by tapping several times on the table with some object of his choice, brought from his home for the occasion: a cap pistol, an authentic Mohawk tomahawk, and even, once, a coyote femur. The agenda was, as a general rule, chaotic to a fault; the president of the assembly was elected according to the principle of deepest pockets, and sticklers for procedural refinements had to content themselves with Moron’s Rules of Order. Example: the adoption of the meeting’s agenda was carried more often by raising a glass than by raising a hand.

“What you are holding in your hands,” Branlequeue announced, his voice quivering slightly as he passed around photocopies of a press clipping made on the department’s Xerox machine, “is an article from the Montreal Sun dated November 25, 1970. I’ll give you a moment to read it.”

KEY WITNESS DETAINED

SECRET FLQ MEETING HELD ON NIGHT OF NOVEMBER 3–4

BY PAUL CHARLEBOIS

The two FLQ cells claiming responsibility for the kidnapping of British diplomat John Travers and Minister of Public Works Paul Lavoie joined forces on the night of November 3 to hold a meeting that went on until the early hours of the following day, two reliable sources have separately informed a Sun reporter.

The accuracy of the information already furnished by these two sources, as well as their professional honesty, have never been questioned.

“The man who organized the get-together remains in custody,” revealed one of the sources.

“He has already given a statement, and we didn’t learn very much, but we do know that he still has a lot to tell us. And he doesn’t know that we know.

“We’re holding him for now in isolation from numerous other individuals who have been detained as witnesses.

“He now believes that we have no other questions for him. And that’s precisely what we want him to think.

“But at the proper time we’ll bring him back into Court, where he’ll have to answer to some pretty direct questioning.

“He won’t be expecting that. We’re going to surprise him by getting him to lower his guard, and he’ll confirm everything we already know.

“Such a corroboration of all the facts already in our possession will be very, very useful to us.

“The only problem is that we have to wait for a while before putting him on the witness stand. But we can’t help that, for reasons that, when they are able to be known, will be self-evident,” affirmed one of the sources.

“We’ve made mistakes so far. No investigation is perfect. But we are at the point of making up for lost time,” added the second source.

Information furnished by these two separate and well-placed sources is to the effect that the man (AKA “the liaison man”) who originated the meeting of the two FLQ cells (the Rébellion Cell in the case of Mr. Travers and the Chevalier Cell in that of Mr. Lavoie) was so designated by FLQ members trained in Jordan.

“We have reason to believe that the terrorists trained in Jordan are not presently residing in Canada, but that they keep in contact with their Montreal organizations. How they do that exactly we can’t say,” said one of the sources.

“We know the identities of the two FLQ men in training in Jordan, but the time is not ripe for us, that is to say, Canada, to go to the Middle East to look for two men, important though those two men be,” confided the second source.

“We have no assurance that Mr. Travers is still alive. What we do know, however, is that there are important frictions between the two cells.

“Of the two groups that have taken hostages, one is radically opposed to the infliction of the death penalty, no matter who would be involved: them, or their hostage,” added the source.

Chevalier let his glance sweep around the table.

“Those who understand what’s going on here, raise your hand . . .”

One of them picked up the pitcher of beer. Another cracked his knuckles.

“Now,” Chevalier continued, “we’re going to do a textual analysis. In literature, what is the very first question we always ask?”

“Who’s doin’ the talkin’?” said the big guy, Alexis.

“The identity of the narrator,” Chevalier agreed, imperturbable.

Eyes sparkling, he took a drink and put his glass back on the table.

“I’ve not been able to trace this Charlebois whose name appears above the piece, but he seems to practise an odd kind of journalism. At first glance his article is a tissue of anonymous quotes and allusions that are quite shocking for the pages of a reputable publication. So, what’s the next question to be asked?”

“Point of view,” said Fred Falardeau.

“And whose point of view are we getting here?”

“That of the two sources,” replied Fred and Alexander in unison, the latter slightly out of sync thanks to the two glasses of beer he’d poured and drunk for every one taken by his companions. He was beginning to show signs of being seriously tanked.

“And who are they, do we know?”

“Unidentified Canadian officials,” risked Samuel Nihilo, placing his finger on the sheet of paper and drawing his neighbours’ attention to the eighth line from the bottom: “ . . . us, that is to say Canada . . .”

“Officials, or perhaps . . . unofficials,” Chevalier observed with a smile. “Okay, let’s look at the characters. What do we know about this so-called liaison man?”

“We know who he is,” Fred said. “François Langlais, alias Pierre. It’s in the Lavergne Report. Page 53, I think . . . And, in fact, the episode of the meeting on November 4 is extremely well known. It’s mentioned in about three or four reports. And the name Pierre came up at the coroner’s inquest. . . . The real question is, why did these sources say he was detained in November 1970, when it’s known that he was not arrested before his departure for Cuba?”

Fred drew the looks of mild hatred always levelled at those at the top of the class. In the battlefield of sheer intellectual virtuosity, he and Samuel engaged in a muted competition for the Master’s approval that was no less ferocious for being subtle. Le Frotteur and Alexander were several rungs below them on the ladder leading to such emulation.

“Yes, the mysterious Pierre Chevrier,” Branlequeue agreed. “The childhood friend of Richard Godefroid, and his companion during a trip to France. The most discreet of all the FLQers, from what we can gather. I think I’ll assign one of you to come next week with a complete dossier on this guy . . . Sam?”

“Okay, I’m on it.”

“We must also turn our attention to two other important characters in this little unhistorical history,” Chevalier continued. “You’ve no doubt guessed that I’m talking about the two fellows who went to Jordan to train with Palestinians from the Popular Democratic Front for the Liberation of Palestine in August of 1970. The Algerian option. Code names: Zadig and Madwar. Both were graduates of Collège Sainte-Marie, the precursor to UQAM, and therefore they had the same alma mater as you, in a way. You’re practically brothers-at-arms. Does anyone wish to continue?”

Frédéric raised his hand.

“They were found near Javesh, in Jordan, by the journalist Yves Lépine when he was writing an investigative report of the FDPLP training camp in the middle of the desert. They let themselves be interviewed and used the occasion to announce that a campaign of selective assassinations was to be carried out in Quebec. As far as I know, the Sun article was the first to suggest a possible link between the famous fedayeen in the FLQ and the Travers–Lavoie affair.”

“Excellent . . . really, excellent,” murmured Chevalier. “My dear Fred, you will report back on these weird fedayeen and their mysterious delegation to Algeria.”

Falardeau and Nihilo exchanged smiles above the empty pitcher. Chevalier, at the head of the table, embraced the group with his beneficent regard, like a scholar from Greek antiquity.

Falardeau, apparently having decided to deliver the coup de grâce, raised his hand once again.

“Yes, Fred?”

“This Charlebois, it’s beginning to come back to me . . . he collaborated with the police. His double game was revealed by a commission of enquiry in the seventies. He was an officer in the Reserves, with connections to military intelligence.”

“Better and better.” Branlequeue beamed appreciatively. “Good. I think we deserve another round after that . . .”

As always, the tone mounted slowly, the voices became thicker, the discussions grew more heated, more chaotic, the entire table seeming to dance on a thin line between scandal and genius.

Taking advantage of the fact that he was still reasonably sober, Branlequeue refilled his glass and resumed control of the seminar.

“In this newspaper article there is probably more mystery and human drama than in a dozen pages of Shakespeare. The text you hold in your hands reveals a few things, but it hides a few things from us as well. In fact, it hides as much as it reveals. The mask betrays its real function: it shows us the very thing it would hide from us . . .”

The Octobeerists hung on his every word.

“We are literary scholars. Our vocation is to decode texts. And it is my belief that this strange example of prose contains the key to many of our preoccupations. Read it again carefully, keeping in mind that the police controlled a great many journalists. Their exaggerated overstatements are the oil in a machine that creates atmosphere and fabricates public opinion. We are looking for the subtext, the infrastory. . . . We should read it as if we were defusing a bomb, opposing our intelligence to theirs. Disinformation is nothing less than the bastard child of the union of literature and publicity. In brief, we are swimming in a pool of semiotics, my friends. The text that you have before you may well be a kind of minor masterpiece . . .”

“Maybe, but in any case it isn’t addressed to me!”

Everyone turned to Marie-Québec, who was sitting at the opposite end of the table, the only hanger-on to have turned up that day.

“Excuse me?” asked Chevalier.

Marie-Québec squirmed in her seat, then leaned forward.

“All I said was that I didn’t understand a word of it. And for a very good reason: because it wasn’t written for me. That’s obvious.”

Fred turned toward Chevalier:

“The question of the intended reader . . .”

Chevalier, pensive, nodded silently. As for the young woman, a first-year drama student, she was so uncomfortable with all the looks she was receiving that she did her best to be forgotten again, and at the first opportunity she put on her coat and fled to the door.

Sam let the silence continue for a few seconds, and when the meeting erupted once again in a contained euphoria of cackles and crazy laughter, he took his own leave.

Stepping out onto the sidewalk, he saw her hurrying through the rain, making her getaway, perfectly discreetly, as untheatrical an exit as anyone could want, he thought. Then, seized by a sudden impulse, he almost ran after her, but changed his mind and let her go.