“I didn’t know anybody else would join in.”
“I saw you run right out into the street. I couldn’t believe it!”
“The people of Quebec joined with you tonight, Anik,” Paul said solemnly. “We are rising up.”
Finally, she was making friends with those who would not only talk and debate, but with those who understood that actions spoke more loudly than words. Tomorrow, headlines would announce the riot to the world, and the people of Quebec would realize that their cause had been brought forward, that students were willing to denounce the politicians, fight the police and even escape from their custody for the sake of independence. The people of Quebec would know, in their hearts and minds, that their political environment had changed forever.
“Trudeau loses tomorrow, I bet,” Vincent opined. “If he does, it’s because of us. Quebecers will wake up in the morning and their eyes will be open for the first time in a century. We’ve exposed him as a traitor—he’ll be kicked out of office.”
They clinked glasses and waited as expectantly as politicians for the verdict from the polls.
“Are we all members of the RIN?” Jean-Luc inquired. The boys agreed that they were, but Anik flatly said no. “You must join,” Vincent encouraged her. “No,” she repeated. “I won’t.”
A shock. “But you must!” Paul insisted. “Why won’t you?”
“We need all the help we can find.”
“I won’t join.”
“Why not?” Paul pressed.
“I won’t put my name on a membership list. You never know how things will evolve. Someday, we may have to go underground. You don’t want to go underground if you’ve put your name on a list the Mounties have already copied in triplicate.”
They were impressed by her foresight, by her commitment. Anik had inherited tactics from her mother’s long experience fighting union battles.
Very late that night, exhausted, exhilarated, she slumped home. None of her new friends had cars, and after the last pitcher of beer she didn’t have cab fare. The métro had closed for the night, and the bus schedule didn’t offer help at that hour. A long walk across downtown, then down the hill into the poor community of Pointe St. Charles, would be welcome anyway. A chance to clear her head and process her thoughts on the night’s uproar. To act, to be doing something, felt so great. Yet she doubted the optimism of her new companions. Students had been throwing rocks, that’s true, and bottles, which had been foolish, but no general uprising had taken place. For sure, they’d caused a commotion, but nothing more. Among the thousands of spectators, most had turned out for a parade, not a riot, and only a minority had responded favourably to the rampage. Changing people’s minds, Anik believed—and again, she drew upon her mother’s experiences—could be a slow, discouraging process. At least the contest for the hearts and minds of the population had begun, and that was the value of this night. The sun would come up on election day, and should Pierre Elliott Trudeau be returned to power, he would know, and the whole country would know, that a new contest had indeed begun, one the election itself had not resolved.
Bone tired, she was opening the latch to the knee-high gate outside her house when she heard a step. At this pre-dawn hour, it made her heart jump. “Hello, Anik,” a voice said.
She would not have turned had the intruder not spoken, but now curiosity obliged her to look his way. She recognized the uniform, then him. “You,” she said.
“I guess I never introduced myself. Constable Émile Cinq-Mars.” “Curious name. Is this a social call?” “I’m here to arrest you.”
“What’s with you, anyway? I met people tonight who threw twenty or thirty rocks, so they say. I threw
one.
I met a guy who threw his shoes—he’d be easy to find. You could do a Cinderella thing—if the shoes fit, arrest him.
Why hunt me?”
“You threw the first rock.” He stepped closer to her, cognizant that she could still make a run for it, in which case catching her, as he knew, would not be easy.
“Is that a bigger crime? Tell me about this mythical law that says whoever throws the first rock is more guilty than the person who throws the second.”
“'Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’ That’s from the Bible. So there’s an implied dimension of guilt, but I agree, it won’t stand up in court. But let’s not forget, you also escaped from police custody. That’s a bigger crime.”
“I’m claustrophobic. I told you. I was going mad in there. I had to get out. When the door burst open, I burst out. When you think about it, nobody actually told me to stay put. Maybe I was being let go.”
“You’ll have to tell that to the judge, I’m afraid.”
“I intend to. He’ll be sympathetic, I bet.”
They were lit by the porch light her mother had left on, but suddenly the hall light inside the house also snapped on as the door creaked open.
“Anik?” Carole Clément asked sleepily. “Is everything all right?”
Out ran a terrier, bounding frantically around the young woman. She knelt down to calm him by ruffling his ears and giving him a kiss on the snout.
“Yeah, Mommy, don’t worry. I’m just being arrested—I think.”
“That’s nice, dear. Officer, I think you should call it a night. It’s 4
A.M.”
Anik laughed, and Émile smiled a little himself. “Mommy, I’m serious. He’s arresting me.”
“He’s not your date?”
“I don’t date—” she censored herself before uttering the insult on the tip of her tongue. “—cops,” she concluded.
“Why don’t you both come inside and we’ll discuss it,” Carole invited, and held the door open.
“Ma’am—” Cinq-Mars was about to issue his objection when Anik snatched the opportunity to skip up the stairs and slip past her mother. He followed her up, where the woman put a hand on his chest.
“Incidentally, Officer,” Carole inquired, “do you have a warrant?”
“The arrest commenced outside, ma’am. That gives me the right to continue the pursuit indoors,” he informed her. He moderated his ire. “Should such a pursuit become necessary.”
Carole removed her hand from the policeman’s chest and instead used it to direct him inside with a welcoming, yet sardonic, flourish. “Ranger, stay outside, boy. Have your pee.”
The dog welcomed the early-morning romp in the yard.
Inside, the policeman’s problems continued. First, the daughter said, “Want a cup of tea, copper?” and then her mother dialled a number on the phone.
Waiting for someone to pick up, Carole Clément asked, “What’s this about anyway? What did she—allegedly—do?”
“Allegedly—” Cinq-Mars began, but the woman was holding up a hand to stop him.
Into the phone, she said, “Captain Armand Touton, please.”
That name again. Of all the officers above him, Cinq-Mars accorded no one more respect than Touton, albeit by reputation alone. “Is he your brother or something?” he asked the woman, but before she could reply she was talking directly to the captain himself.
“Armand, it’s Carole. Sounds as though you’ve had a busy night.”
She nodded to Anik that she would indeed have tea. Cinq-Mars shrugged. Obviously, he was not going to regain control anytime soon. He
might as well have a cup, too. He had been through a long night, and had endured a boring wait for Anik outside in the gloomy shadows. “There’s a police officer here … No, a patrolman. He’s come to arrest Anik … Allegedly, she was being rambunctious at the parade tonight.”
That was one way to put it. Cinq-Mars bobbed his chin to indicate that he’d state matters differently.
“Sorry,” Carole said, speaking to him, “what’s your name again?”
Her daughter answered first. “Émile Cinq-Mars, Mommy. Where’d you get a name like that anyway, copper?”
He didn’t know if she was teasing him.
“Are you from Montreal?” Anik asked.
“I’m from the country. Small town. Saint-Jacques-le-Majeur-de-Wolfestown.” “He’s a small-town boy,” Carole said into the telephone. “Are you a rookie?” she asked him.
Cinq-Mars nodded that he was.
“Yep, a rookie. Goes by the name of Cinq-Mars.”
Waiting for the kettle to boil, Anik had slumped down crossways into an armchair. Having kicked off her running shoes, which had served her well that night, she peeled her socks off and let her bare feet dangle over the side, rocking them a little.
“Is she really talking to Armand Touton?”
“Yep.”
“The
Armand Touton?”
“Scared?”
“That’s right,” Carole advised the famous captain of the Night Patrol. “He’s in the house right now. Set to have a cup of tea like he’s the king of England…. No, I think he followed Anik home.” She paused, then held out the phone to Cinq-Mars. “Your boss wants a word.”
The young officer hesitated. This was not going well, and certainly not as expected. “He’s not really my boss—not directly,” he said.
“Do you truly want to split that hair right now? You’ve ticked him off enough already.”
Cinq-Mars took the phone. “Hello?” he asked, tentatively.
“What the hell’s going on?” the voice demanded.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t know for sure whom I’m talking to, sir.”
“Do you want to find that out?”
He wasn’t sure. “Well, sir, no, to be truthful. But you’re only a voice on a telephone right now.”
“Do you mean to tell me that you followed some girl home for miles?”
“No, sir. I knew her name. I got her address from the station, because she has a driver’s licence. Then I went to her house, and I waited for her.”
“Why?” the voice demanded to know.
“Sir, I don’t know whom I’m talking to—”
“Cinq-Mars, is it? Answer the fucking question.”
“Sir, she started the riot tonight. She was the instigator. She threw the first stone.”
As he spoke, he realized that his obsession with this one fact carried no legal weight. Throwing the first stone was no more significant than throwing the last one, and Anik had been correct to call him on that. Yet the voice on the other end took a moment to consider this news, and Cinq-Mars took advantage of the pause to add, “And she escaped from police custody, sir.”
“What are you talking about? She’s never been in police custody.”
“Tonight, sir. She was in a paddy wagon. She and the others broke out.”
“She was one of those?” The man seemed to imply a certain admiration.
“She would have been the first one out, sir.”
“All right, Cinq-Mars. Do you mind staying on until I arrive?”
This sounded suspiciously like appropriate police protocol. “I’ll wait, sir. How long, do you think?”
“Quick enough. Just cool your heels,” the voice said, and hung up.
The police officer put the phone back in its cradle. He looked from Carole to Anik, then back down at the phone.
“He’s coming over,” he said.
“Kettle’s boiling,” Anik announced. “Milk, Cinq-Mars? Sugar? Cyanide?”
Carole Clément, grey-haired with wan skin, flicked on another floor lamp to provide additional light, then pulled her housecoat more snugly around herself as she sat in the chair Anik had vacated.
“How come your daughter’s so hard to arrest?” he asked her.
“You’ve had an exciting night,” the woman noted.
“It’s been an experience.”
“Something new for you, I expect, coming in from the country.”
Her reference sounded vaguely derogatory.
“I might be a rookie, I might be new to the city—”
“—and therefore lacking experience in these matters.”
“People should not throw rocks and bottles, I don’t care where they live.”
“My daughter knows to never throw a bottle.”
Of all the surprises that had confounded him through the night, that remark topped them all. “Rocks can hurt people, too, ma’am.”
“Don’t I know it. Twice I’ve dropped a scab to her knees with a rock.”
Cinq-Mars appeared too flabbergasted to respond.
“Strikes,” Carole explained. “Sometimes you have to take a side.”
Anik returned with the tea.
“What’s Anik’s side?” the officer inquired as he accepted a cup from her.
“Ask her.”
“Trying to humour me, Cinq-Mars?” the young woman asked him back.
“There’s an election tomorrow—later today, now. You could express your opinion that way, by voting.”
“No candidate in this election is expressing my opinion,” she claimed.
“Nor too many of mine, come to think of it,” her mother added.
“No one deserves my support,” Anik maintained. “I suppose your opinions, and the opinions of the police department, are well represented, Cinq-Mars?”
The tea soothed him, the double whammy of a mother-and-daughter verbal confrontation less so.
“At least none of the candidates run on a platform that the police are pigs. Which seemed to be the main argument I heard expressed tonight.”
Both women smiled. “We’ve touched a nerve,” Anik noticed.
“You’re right,” Carole added. “Not every sentiment overheard tonight—I can guess what you went through—not every insult merited expression.”
“Or rocks.”
“Or rocks. Now, really, why have you come all this way, expended so much energy, merely to arrest one of thousands of protesters? Before you answer, keep in mind that it’s a serious question, one your superior officer will be asking.”
“Ma’am,” Cinq-Mars began, putting his cup down on the side table by his chair, “if I may ask, what is your relationship to Captain Armand Touton?”
The two women shared a look. “Cinq-Mars,” Anik piped up, “that’s one issue I wouldn’t press if I were you. Partly because …” The woman put a hand to the side of her mouth as though to block her voice travelling to her mother’s ears, and whispered, “…
nobody knows.”
She dropped her hand back down and resumed her normal voice. “And partly because nobody wants to know because the answer might scare the living bejesus out of the person who finds out.”
“Anik.”
“They might be lovers.”
“Anik Clément, stop that this instant!”
“Or maybe my mom has something on him, a blackmail-type thing. Either way, you don’t want to know.”
“Maybe you
should
arrest her,” Carole stated. “He’s got a thing for me, I can tell.”
The mother looked across at the policeman again. Suddenly, some things made sense. “Officer Cinq-Mars? Is that true?”