A Deep Sense of Shame: A Story of Love and Hate

PROLOGUE

The four nightriders were clad in their darkest clothes. They worked quickly, and with precision, although they were tense, and apprehensive. The tension mounted as the old, black, rusted, once efficient, taxicab turned off Cotes Des Neiges, and onto The Boulevard.

Tournez ici, said a calm, husky voice. It came from the young man with the street map, and the tiny flashlight. Westmount could be a formidable maze to a casual visitor.

The driver followed instructions silently. They turned down a rather steep street, came to Westmount Avenue, and turned at the park, Voici la place, said a voice. Ici. Stop.

Jean Jacques was to be the spotter. He slid noiselessly from the old car and stood by the telephone booth as a lookout. He reached up, and broke the overhead light. There was security in darkness. He would whistle if a patrol car came by. If not, it was his job to send a message to those left behind, when the deed was done. It would take only a few minutes. First Pierre would have to get to the house, then plant the bomb, and return to the car. Time moved slowly as Jean waited.

The car stopped a short distance from number 4699. The driver looked around. It was quiet except for the party noises coming from the house across the street. Figures could be seen through the window, sipping cocktails, and chatting over the music. In the driveway, the Cadillac, Audis, and Buicks sat waiting.

Cochons! spat Pierre as he alit from the car.

Vas Y, the driver whispered, Et bonne chance. He realized that he was perspiring. He wiped his hands on his soiled jeans, and slowly drove around the block. As he returned, he spotted his cohorts running towards the car on the still deserted street. The lethal weapon had been deposited.

Sa va, his pal whispered, as they raced to the telephone booth, to pick up Jean Jacques.

Jean dialed the six-digit number and whispered, Onze-heures. C’est fait. Pour Québec Libre.

The group returned to the main street, and headed east. The device would go off in about fifteen minutes. That was enough time for the trio to return to safety.

A girl in her twenties, with flowing black hair and dark eyes stood in the darkened room of the cold-water flat on Clark Street, near St Louis Square. She puffed nervously on a Gitane, and looked at her watch. It was a feckless effort. Ten more minutes, and the three would return. One was the driver one acted as lookout, two planted the bomb. The latter was Pierre’s area of expertise. It had been a necessary job, especially for the most passionate, francophone Separatists.

There were many who agreed to go but Yves, Pierre, Gaston, and Jean Jacques were the cell’s choice. Now, there was nothing to do but wait. Time crawled. These things couldn’t be rushed. They should arrive soon. She lit a cigarette, and timed the moment of the expected explosion. She knew it would work since Pierre was the experienced one. He was the leader. He knew his end of the job all too well. The girl believed in him.

"Deux minutes, she whispered.

The group stirred, paced, smoked and waited in silence.

Trente seconds." . . .

Vingt… dix… zero.

Nothing happened.

She threw her cigarette to the floor and stared at the phone. She was running wet. She felt feint. She rubbed her hands together.

Georges put his arms around her.

Tranquillement’, he whispered… Slowly…"

Suddenly, a shrill ring filled the air. It rang twice and stopped.

C’est fait, said a voice. C’est fait, pour La Québèc libre.

The dark haired girl sank into an overstuffed armchair. She cried softly.

Max Rusk often entertained. He and Ida knew what was expected of residents of fashionable Westmount. They could well afford it, and derived pleasure from old friends and neighbors. Their sprawling home was nestled behind mammoth evergreens, through which they could see the glimmering light of Montreal in the distance below. There was no special reason for the gathering, except, perhaps, to relieve some of the tension of the time.

Politics uncovers strange idealists, ready to attempt illegal and daring deeds, and Quebec in the late 60s reeked of dangerous ideals.

The party consisted of the Rusks, Rabbi Dr. Victor Goldstein of the reformed temple, Peter Hellfield, the textile tycoon, and his wife Ruth, who lived across the street behind a hedge, and Dr. Paul Rusk, son and heir to the Rusk Pharmaceutical fortunes, author, bachelor, bibliophile and professor of English at McGill University.

The talk was about politics, history, economics and literature, the theater, fashions and the future.

They drank the best liquors, and smoked the finest Cuban cigars, that had been imported especially for Mr. Rusk. It all followed a sumptuous meal, served meticulously by an aging maid.

The group was deeply involved in chatter when, just before eleven, an ex-taxi cab came to a stop diagonally across the street. Their discussion continued undisturbed during and after the occupants of the car completed their night’s work. It seemed like another quiet night in normally quiet Westmount, bastion of wealth, overlooking strife-bound, but sparkling Montreal.

The screaming rupture that split the night changed the participants for all times, especially the Hellfields, whose home was totally destroyed.

Another revolution had begun.

It would end in pools of anglophone and francophone blood.

PART I

THE OPENING

Chapter 1

It was raining the first time I saw Esme, that is, the first time I saw her in reality. In my mind I had seen her many times before; standing at a bus stop, behind the teller’s cage at the bank, or at the theatre amid the crowd, eating popcorn as she stood in the queue, waiting to enter the land of make-believe. I saw her on the street, in a crowded store, in New York, in Toronto and in Buffalo. I saw her in my dreams or as I gazed out at nothing but empty, lonely sky. She would linger, just out of reach, dancing sensuously to oriental rhythms or middle-eastern airs. She would race through cornfields; her black hair lifting and tumbling in slow motion on her lean and shapely shoulders. In my dreams, she would smile as I entered, and lose some of her composure, when I would leave. She would sit quietly at my feet before the dying embers of a warming fire. She would shriek with delight as I chased her through the soft snow, or knee deep in icy waters, that lost their frost in the sudden exhilaration of the moment. She appeared often, but only in my fantasies. She was not yet Esmeralda. She was Beatrice, Cassandra and Helena. She was, at different times, Guinevere, Juliet, Athena, and Bathsheba.

Then, one rainy Thursday morning, I looked up from my desk, and there she was.

Her eyes sparkled, and fresh rivulets of rain dripped from her cheeks, and umberella, like pearls, in slow motion.

I blinked, thinking it was just another of my dreams. If it was a dream, it seemed so real.

My work was piling up but it would have to wait. She was actually standing only a few feet away. She smiled as she began to remove her rain hat, exposing her long, black, rain-tipped hair. She shook her head vigorously and ran her red tipped fingers into the damp tresses. Her fingers glowed next to the yellow slicker.

There she was, that lovely companion who had shared my cubistic dreams.

Can I talk to you for a few minutes? She asked, softly.

She was smiling. So was I.

Certainly, I replied as I motioned to a chair.

She hung up her slicker, sat down, and sighed.

As busy as I was, my work could wait. It was a moment I would savor and relive.

She crossed her legs and continued. Do you like rain, she asked.

Yes, it’s okay if you bundle up. It makes me think of approaching winter, and I hate winter with a passion.

I put down my ledger and leaned back. But surely you didn’t come here to talk of the weather. What seems to be the problem?

Oh no, she smiled. I was wondering if you would give me a tutorial. I already okayed it with Dr. Barber. He said to ask you myself. You do give tutorials, I heard.

I do, I smiled, provided we’re both free at the same time. My schedule is rather tight this semester.

Why was I saying that? I had already made up my mind to say yes even if it meant early or late sessions.

By the way, what is your name?

Oh, I’m Esme Jonas. It’s just short for Esmeralda.

I nodded. I knew the name well.

I’m free part of most days. We should be able to work something out. Then I asked, What are your interests?

Modern American, she replied. Perhaps Twentieth Century.

I smiled. That’s right up my alley. I’m sure we can work something out.

She smiled. I’m counting on it. You have quite a reputation and I was beginning to feel desperate.

I consulted my schedule. Well, we can’t have any of that. How about Monday morning around eleven? I usually have a department meeting in the afternoon.

Again, she smiled. That’s perfect. I don’t have classes until two o’clock.

I nodded. But I’d like to know more about your education, your courses and your background.

She sat back, more relaxed. She began to talk, with a little more lilt to her voice. I was struck by her poise. The words poured out easily. She could easily have been a model, I thought.

She explained that she was a graduate student in her final year and needed a tutorial as a half credit in order to complete her requirements and select a thesis topic. Her bachelor’s degree was completed at Memorial University in St. Johns, Newfoundland. She had worked, after her degree, in Montreal, and, after a few years, decided to return to get her Masters at McGill.

Where did you work?

"In the reading workshop of the University of Montreal. My French is quite good. My Dad was French Canadian. He passed away and left me enough to complete my education. While her thesis would be on Modern Literature, she was also interested in writing.

We talked about McGill and how universities were changing. Her goal was to teach but not at the university level.

I watched her as we chatted. She was beautiful, I thought, with eyes that sparkled. There would be a lot of work giving a tutorial to only one student, but we arranged to meet the next Monday in my office. I set her some preliminary reading.

Start with F Scott Fitzgerald. See what you can find out about him. Start with his Bio. You might find him interesting, but don’t rush to any conclusions.

I reached for two paperbacks.

Here is a biography by Turnbull, and a copy of This Side of Paradise, Fitzgerald’s first major book. Maybe we should start a week from Monday so you can read enough to discuss him and what Turnbull says about him. I’ll give you my number here, if there’s a problem.

We spent the next few minutes talking about some of the other American writers."

I’m anxious to learn more about Fitzgerald. He was my father’s favorite.

We stood up together. She began tucking her moist hair into her hat as a protection from the rain. I noticed now that she was on the tall side, slender but not skinny. She looked younger than the average graduate student, especially since she said she had worked for two years. I contributed it to her simple clothes and lack of makeup.

Was your father an avid reader?

Yes and no. He read in spurts. He often had little time. He was a doctor and had to run out on calls all the time. But when he was home, he read a lot.

Doctors seem to have more settled hours these days. I’d say he was born too soon.

You may be right. But he never complained. He loved Newfoundland, especially St. Johns. Have you been there?

No, not yet. Maybe I’ll get there, one day

Don’t put it off. It’s unique, and so are the people. She smiled, revealing perfect white teeth. Her eyes lit up. She was relaxed, young and quite attractive.

So I’ll see you at 10:30, a week from Monday. Thank you Dr. Rusk. I’ll see you then.

She was gone, but I would see her again, soon. Strange, I thought. Could I have seen her before? Maybe I’d seen her on campus, but if I had seen her, I’d certainly have remembered.

I returned to my desk. I could feel the quiet surround me. I suddenly felt lonely. I reached for my pipe and placed a cassette in my tape player. The sound filled the room.

I went to the window. In the distance, I could see her approaching her car. I watched her search for her keys, and unload her books. She drove away as I sucked on my pipe, and watched. The music continued.

I worked for what seemed like minutes but time was confused. Suddenly it was getting dark. I sat back, thinking of the past. I was back in time as an undergraduate. It was fifteen years ago and it rained then too. I was nervously waiting for Hanna. I felt lost and alone. She was to meet me outside the residence on University Street. We had argued, the last time I saw her. It was about love, faithfulness and marriage. There