One-Way Ticket

By Dany Laferrière(page 3 of 5)

I discovered the well-to-do suburbs of Montreal with Paul, a friend who I did Canada World Youth with. His parents are friendly. The father is a fierce Pequiste. The mother is interested in nothing but her family. It was in this house that I learned about politics in Quebec. I thought people here didn't discuss politics. That the head of state was a good father, Catholic, who ran his country like his family. I quickly learned that it's much more complex than it appears. Don't trust the innocent face, the country fragrance, or that kind of farmers' honesty (at first, I thought Quebeckers didn't know how to lie) that floats in the air. Upon arrival you get the impression that it's a country without a past. But no, they too had (for me it was Duvalier senior) a strong man who dominated their conscience (Duplessis). Duvalier reigned in Haiti with the help of voodoo, by playing on the people's ancestral fear. Duplessis counted on the help of the Catholic Church. Duvalier often counted on nationalism to stay in power. Duplessis as well. Fortunately Duplessis didn't have any Tontons-Macoute. The difference lies in the methods used by each of the two peoples to get through this era of great darkness. Haitians, obsessed with History, wanted to deal with the problem only on the political front. The Quebeckers carried out a quiet revolution based on education and the secularization of the public authorities. And on culture too. They ended up opening the windows wide. Fresh air rushed into the house. Haitians are still wading through the mud of dictatorship.

That morning, I was sitting in front of Paul's father, at the breakfast table. Paul was sleeping off last night's drinks. "But really! Really! I never would have believed thisÉ Claude Ryan asking us to vote for the Parti Quebecois in his editorial in Le Devoir." Le Devoir is Quebec's big intellectual daily newspaper. Someone recently explained to me that Le Devoir is to Quebec what the Le Monde is to France. Paul's father passes me the newspaper. A long, copious editorial full of nuances and reservations saying he is opposed to the raison d'�tre of the party for which he is asking people to vote (in the pure Jesuit tradition). In Haiti, you think of nothing but physically eliminating your political adversary. Here, you're asked to vote for him if it seems reasonable. Reason. In Haiti, a political adversary is an enemy. Passion. Good Lord! I'm not going to fall for Senghor's formula that asserts that "reason is Greek, and emotion, black". "What's the importance of an editorial like this?" I ask. "Huge. When your worst enemy comes around to your side, there's no better propagandaÉ" "And what will happen when the Parti Quebecois comes into power?" "They'll finally ask the question. They'll ask Quebeckers if they want to live in an independent country or stay a province." "Well, in Haiti we had a national war to gain our independence. I had never thought that a country could become independent simply by asking its citizens: do you want to be independent?" He looks at me worriedly. I had just spoiled the pleasure the editorial in Le Devoir had provided him. What a misunderstanding! I was in total admiration of the founding work done by the Quebec people. I prefer the calm morning to the bloody twilight.

I spent Friday night with Paul's friends. We had gone to a small island with a few cases of Molson beer, some marijuana and a little music. Guys and girls. It took me some time to understand that for the guys the point of the night wasn't to sleep with the girls. We mostly talked about surrealists. Poets: Breton, Eluard. Painters: especially Dali. I didn't understand. The father completely obsessed with the coming election. The son saturated with surrealism. Where's the link? I tried to smoke a bit. It's no use. It does nothing for me. First: no effect. I'm told that the first time, it doesn't happen right away. You have to wait. I waited. Nothing. So I started to look at the girls and to listen much less attentively to the debate on the difference between Dali and Picasso. I quickly spotted a tall, thin girl who also seemed not to care about Dali. I went to sit beside her. She's sweet and kind. I took her hand, like that. I pretended to read her heart line. At a given moment, she bent over to kiss me. My whole body was trembling. It was slightly chilly, mid-November. We kissed for a long time. My first Quebec kiss. I like her smell. We had made a fire, and her hair smelled of smoke. And also that smell that I couldn't determine. The smell of the other. I myself must also have a particular smell. The accent or the smell. Nobody can escape it. No perfume can mask your intimate smell. She started to caress me. I felt a bit embarrassed in front of the others who were watching us.