Buy eagerly nods his head in agreement. He’s not alone: a large portion of the class supports La Marquise, who takes great pleasure in the knowledge that her opinions are shared, as always, by a small following of shorn sheep and milk-white lambs.
“Besides, they’re not communists, the Anglos,” Allie adds, anxious to say the right thing in order to maintain his informal position as La Marquise’s right-hand man in the hierarchy of the flock. “I have lots of English friends who would like nothing better than to understand the legitimate aspirations of the French-speaking Québécois…”
As if that were the issue, as if it were up to the Anglos to decide what is legitimate or not for their former subjects!
Every one of them throws in his fuzzy two cents’ worth, with Nihil looking on absently while studying the cracks in the ceiling. Oscar Naval attempts to put things back into perspective but gives up after three sentences. Oscar hates making things hard for himself.
As for me, I don’t say a word. I’m not going to waste my time trying to explain to a pack of morons that no one is innocent, that we all have some petty horror on our conscience, that violence is everywhere and the important thing is not choosing your victims or weapons but being on the right side of the fence. Any means of getting your ideas across is all right, as I think history has amply demonstrated. Come on, Nihil! Why not dole out a little wisdom to your congregation! Teach them epistemology instead of having them graze on your lyrical conception of the world and your raving admiration for Tycho Brahe. We couldn’t care less about man’s genius and his place in the universe. In any case, it’s been proven, the universe is no different from the rest: it lives, it dies and, when it goes, all the parasites that rely on it will croak too. Hence, no more problems, no more injustice, no more suffering, no more horrors. There will be nothing left, and then, at last, we’ll have time to breathe.
Anna Purna sits majestically at her desk. She is so beautiful, a statue ought to be erected in her honour. She chuckles at the twists and turns in the discussion, and her blond hair bounces on her shoulders in time with her impish giggles.
Nihil emerges from the haven of his daydream:
“Why are you laughing, miss?”
Anna is not easily put off.
“I find this debate amusing, Mr. Nihil. There’s never a dull moment in your courses. The point is, I simply think that injustice and oppression inevitably give rise to violence. The issue is not so much whether it’s justified or not, but rather to ascertain if it brings about a change in the status quo. To my mind, the answer is yes, clearly. Is the change good or bad? I wouldn’t presume to voice an opinion. I’m not a moralist, and you are certainly better qualified in that area. I don’t mean to offend you, but, being an atheist, I believe that values and morality are human inventions, and that life per se, as a phenomenon, can’t be bothered with human values. Life, death, the universe, time, all these things are somewhat beyond our grasp, don’t you find?”
She speaks confidently, since she prides herself on having experienced life, on having seen the universe, which of course places these Gentlemen in a fairly embarrassing situation. True, hardly anything will embarrass them. By the time she was twenty-four she had travelled the world as an air hostess, before resuming her education at an age when most others have completed theirs. This gives her some authority over her fellow students, who are all younger and in awe of her for having already lived so much. She is suspected of morals in keeping with her wide experience, and, as of the first day of classes, her angelic beauty and a figure worthy of Venus set her at the centre of every boy’s lewdest fantasies. The Suspicians, Thomist or otherwise, are not safe from her charms, a source of profound torment for them. Especially since she has a sharp mind, which makes it all the more awkward for advocates of a doctrine that, until quite recently, still refused to grant a soul to the female of the species.
Anna Puma’s diatribe wrenched Nihil from his cloud in no time. Perched atop his skinniness, the old ascetic hardly appreciates being sent back to his metaphysical investigations. In general, he’s not vindictive, but this time he ended the class by hitting us with a five-page essay assignment on the subject for the following week. That was, no doubt, the only way he could save face in the presence of the cold assurance, the staunch materialism, and the immeasurable beauty of his eldest student.
There are no classes at 3 p.m. on Thursday. I go down to the second floor lounge, the only place in the school where dim lighting and rock music are tolerated. Oscar is already ensconced there with Anna by one of the large windows facing the wooded slope that charges up toward Côte-des-Neiges Road. Zed Leprous’s “Wholottalove” is playing pretty loudly and it won’t be long before Pelvisius – the Suspician in charge of maintaining a semblance of decorum in these quarters and so dubbed due to his habit of settling his shifty little eyes near the crotch of the person he’s addressing – arrives to turn the volume down.
I join Oscar and Anna, whose mini-skirt discloses a fine pair of long thighs sheathed in dark nylon stockings. I sit down in front of her, where I can better admire them. Beside her, in a patent effort to be conspicuous, Oscar is stuffing a tiny chillum full of hashish. Anna is wearing yellow panties that I gawk at every time she crosses and uncrosses her legs, which she does often, since what’s the point of having something if you won’t show it. The pipe has been lit. Outside, the sun is about to set and the shadows of the trees stretch until they break against the old stables, used now only to store the gardeners’ paraphernalia. The smell of kif floods the lounge and a few cattle-heads swing our way, their eyes full of reproach and apprehension.
As expected, the door opens and there’s Pelvisius dashing straight for the loudspeaker. Head down so he doesn’t have to look at anyone, with that perpetual unctuous smile on his lips, he turns the volume down before scurrying away, his eyes focused between his legs, paying no attention to the jeers of two or three brave souls - he believes in freedom of expression – or the sweet vapours which he no doubt ascribes to some incense that the young scholars, in their craving for the exotic, must be burning in order to fulfill that deep desire for communion so typical of adolescence.
I drag on the pipe one more time before taking my turn at the music machine. Pelvisius won’t have the last word, not here. I pump up Zed Leprous to the limit and go sit down again. The speakers start moving along the floor; people next to them levitate above their chairs. Oscar nearly swallows the chillum, and Anna has flattened her hands over her ears with an awful grimace that makes her even prettier. The door flies open again, Pelvisius is back. His hand on the doorknob, he absorbs the blast, eyes squinting from the din and the faint lighting as they sweep across the room from one person to the next at bellybutton level. Or lower, because he’s not very bold. At this point, since I’m standing next to the amplifier, he approaches me and, addressing my thighs, signals to me to turn down the volume. I comply. Now we can hear ourselves.
“The machine went berserk, sir. I was just about to take care of it.”
Pelvisius attempts a smile, squirming even more than he normally does, in his black suit and clerical collar. I grin back at him.
“Japanese equipment, sir. You can never depend on those Orientals. You know, the Yellow Peril, these days, it’s industrial. Just think, this machine was probably made out of my father’s old ’63 Chevy…”
He lifts his eyes almost to my shoulders.
“You’re very good at derision, Mr. Tremblay. Or may I call you Larry?”
“For goodness’ sake, Arnold, I don’t see why not. I promise to take a look at your Japanese gizmo when I have five minutes to spare. I dabble in electronics. There’s no reason to fret, really, so don’t lose any sleep over it, if I may say so…”
And
