Life in the Court of Matane (22 page)

Anne Boleyn's Deposition Committee, created and named in 1984, bore the weighty responsibility of substituting one queen for another without weakening the king's power. The political hullabaloo caused by Catherine of Aragon's deposition in 1977 was still fresh in the mind. This time round, the king's power had been whittled away to the point where the commission now feared that a premature and poorly planned ousting in the Anne Boleyn affair might prove fatal to the throne. The fate reserved for the first advisers preoccupied the members of the new committee, who feared the worst in the event of failure.

The queen was first reproached for her stranglehold on the kingdom's purse strings. The king demanded greater spending power. But the argument was shaky, and the queen quickly quashed it. “I wasn't the one who spent all our savings building a boat that isn't even finished yet!” she told the fourth committee hearing.

And so they changed tack. The king's advisers brought up the recurrent conflicts between the queen and Catherine of Aragon's children, who appeared to still feel dogged resentment toward the queen. As though to support this theory, my sister chose that very summer to pull off a coup that would help the king move ahead with his projects. It just so happened that Micheline Raymond, professional cook and the first queen, invited her daughter to become a kitchen hand for the summer in the restaurant where she worked. My sister took her up on the invitation, thereby upsetting the delicate balance of the kingdom and confirming that Catherine of Aragon, despite the censure surrounding her name, had only to pick up the phone to bring the children that destiny had plucked away from her running back to the family fold. The Deposition Committee flogged this horse for all they were worth. Anne Boleyn, as though to defend herself from these attacks on her personality and her general inflexibility and impatience, became more accommodating and less distant.

It goes without saying that the reasons invoked by the committee fell short. The queen could perhaps be deposed for some reason or another, but it would be difficult, if not nigh on impossible, to get the kingdom to accept the coronation of Jane Seymour, whose dubious reputation raised fears of a reign blighted by instability and recklessness. That was to underestimate Henry VIII's determination to install by his side the woman who came to simper at the palace gates with a little more insistence each day. A flurry of edicts added to the Deposition Committee's interminable deliberations, some of which rescinded the edicts of summer 1977, notably Edict 101. We were once again allowed to talk about Micheline Raymond, professional cook, within the palace walls, even in the presence of the little brother, who discovered, at the age of seven, that we were half-brothers and became aware of Catherine of Aragon's existence for the first time.

Tensions at the palace didn't stop me continuing to plan my escape. The prospect of Jane Seymour's ascension to the throne simply accelerated the process. At fifteen, I already knew better than the poor, desperate kid who, one forlorn evening, had thought he might hop aboard a ship bound for Murmansk. What I had lost in naïveté, I had gained in determination. At school I would sometimes hang around the guidance counsellor's office in between two math exercises. The role of a guidance counsellor, like that of a Silva compass, is to help you find your way. Ours was a very nice man with a moustache, who always wore the same grey wool jacket and whose job was to test students eager to set career goals for themselves as early as possible in their adolescence.

One of these tests involved answering one hundred multiple choice questions on a computer, which then came up with a profession based on your responses. Some students left the office satisfied that the computer had spat out “doctor,” “gamekeeper,” or “banker.” Others, having supplied the wrong answers, were condemned to become “grocery baggers” or “crane operators.” Curiously, no one ever got “guidance counsellor.” In my case, the computer hesitated a second. I silently hoped for “pope” or “member of parliament” and was sure I had given the right answers to provide just such a result. The paper came out of the printer. “Actuary.” “What does an actuary do?” I asked my dear guidance counsellor. “Lots of math.” The oracles can be cruel.

While my guidance counsellor settled another student's future, my eyes fell on a recessed shelf, hidden in a corner and lightly covered in dust. “What're those?” I asked. “Those? They're programs for abroad or for English-speaking Canada. Be careful: they're dusty.” I picked up a few booklets at random and stuffed them into my bag. Back at the royal palace, the queen approved of the computer's decision to make an actuary out of me. The test, she explained, was based on the answers given by an extensive number of actuaries, doctors, crane operators, gamekeepers, and so on. Seventy-four percent of my answers matched those provided by actuaries. The people who had designed the test hadn't been able to quiz a large number of popes, so that profession wasn't one of the possibilities. I felt slightly relieved. “Actuaries earn a lot of money,” she murmured thoughtfully. I was more concerned with finding out if they travelled.

But the atmosphere at the palace wasn't conducive to career studies. The king was still waiting for Anne Boleyn's Deposition Committee to submit its report to the commission. The unfortunate committee members had exhausted all arguments, and the sovereign's patience was wearing thin. Barring a sudden stroke of inspiration, their days were numbered. To dispel all doubt as to his intentions, one evening the king sent a randomly chosen adviser to the Tower to be decapitated. The scene jolted the survivors into action, and they redoubled their efforts to satisfy the sovereign. Although he was used to thinking everything through for himself, the king left this job up to his advisers, keen to give the impression that the decision did not come from him but from an outside body, making him look touchingly vulnerable. Once again he was right. One evening when it seemed all was lost, just as the committee chair was steeling himself to swallow two cyanide pills, someone stood up and shouted “Eureka!” It was a bold solution. Since the queen herself had brought up the boat argument to fend off accusations of avarice, the committee proposed using the boat project as the central argument in the deposing of Anne Boleyn. The entire court was summoned for an extraordinary session in the Sapphire Room. The king, visibly satisfied with the findings, allowed the report to be submitted to the commission. The argument went as follows. The queen's unkind comments about the king, especially his project to build a boat, had greatly pained His Majesty. The queen was well aware of the importance the king placed on this as-yet-unfinished project. Her comment had cast doubt on the possibility of the king ever finishing his project and jeopardized its completion. Through her lack of faith, she had belittled Henry VIII's aspirations and relegated his lifelong dream to the ranks of mere fantasy. The committee could not allow the queen to cast aspersions on such an important matter. One adviser went as far as to suggest that the queen's doubts surrounding the project could easily descend into opposition, something the court could not tolerate. Finally, they argued that the danger was too great and that the queen's doubts amounted to high treason, punishable by death. It was decided, therefore, that the queen be put to death before sunset.

A heavy silence fell over the Sapphire Room. The committee members stared at the floor, unable to bear the looks of disapproval that their daring proposal would surely draw. From the back of the room, a Carmelite nun who had been acting as a silent, neutral observer stood up. To signal her intention to speak, she cleared her throat and put down the rosary beads she had been clutching throughout the deliberations. She looked like a much younger Sister Jeannette. She had the same voice and the same intelligent look. The petite woman was not intimidated by the advisers' furious looks. She began to speak. “Your Royal Highnesses, members of the royal family, honourable committee members, esteemed advisers, and respectful subjects, please allow me to say that the Church deplores the fact that the committee has failed to consider the little brother's well-being before arriving at this decision. I insist that my voice be heard today for the first time in thirty years and that my words be remembered.” The king smiled as he listened to the poor Carmelite. He looked almost moved. He took a moment to remind all present that since the edicts of 1977, members of the clergy had lost the right to speak on any matter whatsoever and thanked the nun for her intervention. Upon his signal, two guards seized the Carmelite by the arms and led her to the Tower, where she was executed in silence. She offered no resistance. The sad opera resumed in the Sapphire Room.

The king and Jane Seymour appeared satisfied with the judicial ruling. Flabbergasted by the committee's audacity, the queen stood up and crossed the room, holding her son by the hand. Before passing through the door, she turned, looked at each person in turn, and slowly removed her crown. “I do declare, Sire, that I am not so attached to it. If it has been decided that the queen be decapitated before sunset, then so be it,” she said, placing the crown on Jane Seymour's head. Jane Seymour smiled foolishly, not realizing that Anne Boleyn had just crowned her queen and thereby condemned her to death. Anne Boleyn and her son left the castle with their heads held high, with the wide-eyed committee looking on. I watched with interest, thinking of the great horned owl, who had maintained that we always have a choice. Anne Boleyn, the kingdom's despotic sovereign, taught us that day that it was possible to live in a monarchy without demeaning oneself. The deposed queen slammed the door on her way out as only she knew how. It was the finest of her entire career. All doors slammed in the future would be measured against that one.

Jane Seymour applauded proudly as she looked at the vexed king. She asked childishly, “You know your boat? Can it go all the way to Florida?”

Thanks to the king's deft political machinations, Jane Seymour was still alive the day after her coronation. The king had vetoed the committee's ruling, and all its members were decapitated the same day before the executioner could complain about having come all that way for nothing. The subjects had their spectacle, Jane Seymour was crowned, and the royal couple could finally show their love for one another in public. It is worth noting that the king's veto had not existed until then. He had had his advisers vote in favour of it at the double, just before he had them executed. The veto could be used retroactively on all decisions, no matter when they had been made or who had made them. No one would want a king whose powers were limited by previous commitments. Anne Boleyn was never mentioned in the court again. Edict 101, which banned uttering the name of Micheline Raymond, professional cook, was amended to include Anne Boleyn. In the palace of Henry VIII, life became one long succession of opening and closing doors. A series of short, sharp bangs that caused no end of drafts. The age of reason and Cartesian thinking was over. The period that followed was marked by profound questioning that the new queen didn't shy away from.

“What's your sign?”

“Gemini.”

“I'm Aquarius. Those two signs always get on well together! That's just great!”

While I had spent the previous regime having to work out the most fiendish equations, solve devilishly difficult Rubik's cubes, and translate spy novels in order to curry favour with the crown, henceforth I would have only to read the horoscope page. In the short term, the reign of Jane Seymour brought with it some interesting changes for me and my sister. Naturally, we moved to another house. Then, we saw less and less of the king. In fact, we hardly saw him at all. I thought back to the beached whale in Matane in the summer of 1977 and the message I had read in its entrails. It seemed to me that the Kingdom our Father had promised us was taking its sweet time coming. For this ersatz family that had managed to struggle on for years, barely keeping a grip on real life, the end came well before the king's boat ever hit the water. At the time, people spoke of separated families, reconstituted families, and dysfunctional families; mine had been pulverized. My sister ended up leaving the castle. I remained at home, alone with the forms I had taken from the guidance counsellor's office.

Which country would you like to visit?

My thoughts turned to Heidi in the Alps. She would have to go back there one day.

I borrowed
Les fleurs du mal
from the library.

As we listened to the committee hand down its verdict, I remember how Anne Boleyn had stared into the distance, into a black abyss into which spiralled figures and equations. For his part, Henry VIII hungrily scanned the horizon for women and beer. Sometimes you hesitate between two visions of the future. Neither direction appealed to me. I decided to blaze my own path across this wasteland, spurred on by memories of the laughter of Micheline Raymond, professional cook, and a poem by Baudelaire.

I learned the two quatrains and two tercets in no time. I waited for a cloudless night before I left. In the port of Matane, right beside a nervous chickadee, I sent my message to the great horned owl.

Owls

Under the dark yews which shade them,
The owls are perched in rows,
Like so many strange gods,
Darting their red eyes. They meditate.

Without budging they will remain
Till that melancholy hour
When, pushing back the slanting sun,
Darkness will take up its abode.

Their attitude teaches the wise
That in this world one must fear
Movement and commotion;

Man, enraptured by a passing shadow,
Forever bears the punishment
Of having tried to change his place.

The black-capped chickadee was taken aback for an instant, then, slightly perplexed, perched on a lilac and struck up a long
chick-a-deee-deee-deee-deee-deee
, repeated several times over, until a passing white-throated sparrow picked up the signal in the distance and translated it into its own language, high above the treetops on the Gaspé Peninsula.
Frederiiick, Frederiiick, Frederiiick! Frederiiick, Frederiiick, Frederiiick!
The night resounded with its cries for a good hour. I waited in the red sunset. Far away on the other side of the St. Lawrence, the lights of Baie-Comeau were already glistening. Then the wood thrush—the soprano of our forests—struck up the loveliest song of all:
karlakarlak tirloo treeeee
! I could make out the deft wisdom of Baudelaire's poetry in its complex melody. The sun descended over the North Shore. I heard the sinister hoot of the great horned owl. My signal had reached him. The wind picked up, swept under my shirt, rushed through my hair, and forced me to close my eyes. On the wharf in the port of Matane, right where sad little Laika still runs around on winter nights, I held out my arms. Then, as light as Nadia Comaneci flying between two uneven bars, I let go of the upper bar forever to sketch a long curve eastward across the night sky. On the ground, on the huge green mat of the Gaspé Peninsula, I could make out my little henhouse, chickens by the thousand, winkles, a giant fibreglass shrimp, the skeleton of a beached whale and, in the distance, a huge owl frantically beating its wings atop a tall fir tree. The song of the black- capped chickadee, the white-throated sparrow, the wood thrush, and the great horned owl—the soundtrack to my country—was the last thing I remembered, the most beautiful, the most precious of all. The only thing I decided to bring with me, along with the memory of the laughter of Micheline Raymond, professional cook. Because at the end of the day, that's really all we're left with: just a name, the sound of a bird singing, a laugh, the punishment of having tried to change one's place.