“I understand, sir, but alas, my school it is in ze rural Quebec, and it burn down in ze spring.”
“I see. Well, it’s probably just as well you left; all hell’s breaking loose up in La Belle Province, as they call it. Large numbers of Quebeckers will be leaving soon, if you want my opinion. Large numbers of anglophones, especially, taking their money with them. An independent Quebec won’t have an economic leg to stand on. Be that as it may, if you wish to attend this institution, you’ll need to take entrance examinations.”
“No problem, sir.”
CUT to the dean warmly shaking Milo’s hand as he winds up a short speech on Opening Day.
“Not only did Milo Noirlac pass those exams with flying colors, ladies and gentlemen, but I’m proud to announce that the university has awarded him a scholarship to cover his tuition for the next two years.”
The audience applauds.
Voice-over (actually I’m not sure of this, but we can put it in now and take it out later): beyond the drone of Opening Day speeches at this institution formerly known as King’s College, maybe we could hear Neil’s thoughts during his commencement ceremony at Trinity half a century earlier: Do they not know? Is it possible they do not know that Irish babies are dying of hunger a mere stone’s throw from here? That hundreds of our country’s best men are rotting in the jails of Britain for having dared to defend our dream of independence? That their world is about to go up in flames?
Yes, Trinity College in Dublin and King’s College in Toronto — founded some two and a half centuries apart but both under the auspices of a friggin’ British monarch, eh?. .
IN RAPID ALTERNATION between English and French: scenes from the year 1970–71, the Toronto scenes shot in studio, the Quebec scenes taken from press archives. Sound track: excerpts from the FLQ Manifesto, maybe mixed with rock music from the time (Charlebois or Joplin). . and always, faintly, in the background, the capoeira beat.
Milo sitting up late into the night, working with gusto at the kitchen table, smiling as he writes. . Like more and more Quebeckers, we are fed up with paying taxes that Ottawa’s envoy to Quebec wants to hand over to anglophone bosses to “incite” them, if you please, to speak French and negotiate in French. Repeat after me: main-d’oeuvre à bon marché means cheap labor; British diplomat James Richard Cross and Labour Minister Pierre Laporte are kidnapped by the Front de Libération du Québec. Ta, ta-da DA, ta, ta-da DA. .
Milo and Roxanne walking in Toronto Island on a Sunday afternoon — cottages, gardens, paths, sunlight trickling through red leaves and dappling the sidewalks. . fed up with our obsequious government, bending over backward to seduce American millionaires, begging them to come and invest in Quebec, that Beautiful Province in which thousands of square miles of forests full of game and lakes full of fish are the exclusive property of these all-powerful lords of the twentieth century. . Pierre Elliott Trudeau announces the implementation of the War Measures Act. Mounted police gallop madly through the streets of Montreal. . Ta, ta-da DA, ta, ta-da DA. . Canadian army helicopters whir overhead.
Milo and Roxanne making love. . fed up with hypocrites like Bourassa, who use the armored cars of Brink’s, that perfect symbol of foreign occupation of Quebec, to maintain the province’s poor “natives” in the terror of poverty and unemployment to which they are so well accustomed. . Sirens, flashing lights, police searches. . Ta, ta-da DA, ta, ta-da DA. . Posted on every street corner in downtown Montreal, thousands of helmeted, camouflage-uniformed soldiers hold their machine guns at the ready. .
Milo and Roxanne quarreling in the kitchen — Roxanne throws a cup at Milo; it grazes his forehead and smashes against the wall; he leaves the house. Fed up with promises of employment and prosperity, whereas we’ll always be the eager servants and bootlickers of the big shots. . Civil liberties are suspended. Huge demonstrations are held. Ta, ta-da DA, ta, ta-da DA. . People are beaten, kicked and dragged by the police; blood runs down their faces. Five hundred well-known artists, writers, organizers and militants are arrested and thrown in jail.
Milo watching TV, a six-pack of Molson and a carton of Player’s at his side. . As long as there are Westmounts, Mount Royals, Hampsteads and Outremonts, those impregnable fortresses of Saint Jacques Street and Wall Street high finance, we Quebeckers will resort to any means necessary, including dynamite and guns, to kick out the big bosses of economy and politics, knowing they will stop at nothing to screw us over. . Pierre Laporte’s dead body is found in the trunk of a car, a chain around its neck. Ta, ta-da DA, ta, ta-da DA. .
Silence. CUT.
Milo in bed. The Black Hole has got him.
Roxanne (wearing different clothes, to show that days are passing) bends over him solicitously: “What’s the matter, my love?”. .
“Are you going to get up today?”. . “You haven’t left the house in more than a week.”. . “What’s the matter, my love?”. . “Did something happen?”. . “Did something happen, Milo? Are you depressed?”. . “Do you want me to call a doctor?”
Turning away from her, Milo pulls the blankets up over his head and feigns sleep. Sleep is still and always a problem for him. (Even today, my love, even today. .)
The telephone rings. He sits bolt upright in bed and yells.
Roxanne rushes into the bedroom: “What’s the matter? Jesus Christ. . You scared the shit out of me.”
She bursts into tears. Milo holds out his arms to her in hopes that she will comfort him.
“It’s okay,” they whisper to each other. “We’ll be all right.”
“I just made some tea,” says Roxanne. “Do you want a cup?”
Milo nods. Slowly gets out of bed and hobbles into the kitchen. Can’t look at Roxanne. Sits down at the table. Pours salt instead of sugar into his tea.
“Milo!”
They look at each other. . then avert their eyes, each embarrassed to see the other knows they know that it is not okay. They will not be all right. No, not at all. .
I’VE SEEN YOU that way, Astuto. I’ve seen you sink into lots of black holes over the years and lose lots of stuff in their depths — and when I say stuff, I mean fairly important stuff. Language. Your name. . your profession. . your age. . your wallet. . your computer. . track of time. Yeah, I’ve seen you vanish, man. Turn into a void before my fuckin’ eyes — and a lasting void, at that! No way anyone can kiss you then. Nothing anyone can do but let you stare at the wall for as long as it takes you to snap out of it. It’s pretty impressive. You succumb utterly to your malaise. Surrender all arms. Relinquish language and revert to pure, animal survival. Say nothing, see no one, stay home, stare at the wall. A triumph of inertia. A splendor of blackness. All your energy condensed into an invisible point in the depths of you, one that takes up no space but freezes everything around it. It feels like turning to ice, I remember your telling me once. Yeah, like Glacier — the white giant of Indian legend who invaded the northern lands in prehistory, shaping hills, polishing stones, slowly displacing millions of tons of rocks and gravel, covering all, paralyzing all for thousands of years. But ice is nice, you added. Can’t do much wit water. Ice, you can sculpt.
I don’t know how many times I saw you endure these crises of inexistence. Far from improving as you grew older, they grew worse — because you’d earned your stripes as a screenwriter; people knew you were brilliant and they expected you to perform. All of a sudden, strangled by anxiety, you’d find yourself unable to write. You’d miss deadlines and appointments, break promises and contracts, fall behind on obligations. Money would stop coming in, unpaid bills would pile up, bankers and tax inspectors would start harassing you. You would unplug your phone and stop checking your mailbox — no one could get in touch with you. And of course, the worse it got, the worse it got. The idea of their mounting resentment would make you cringe with shame, so you’d crawl further still into your hole.