The Witchin’ Canoe

Chapter 3: Charmed

Chapter 3: Charmed

Walking up Saint-Denis Street, McGauran slowly begins to lose his confidence. How can these people live in their ornamented mansions, riding glittering carriages up and down these paved streets, while his mother toils eleven hours a day over a machine in a shoe factory which affords her no sunlight or fresh air?

How fair is that?

What do they have that he doesn’t? He knows things, too. He can read and write just as good as these people can, maybe even better. His mother taught him, as her adoptive mother had taught her. And he’s visited the Fraser Institute. He’s even read some books. History, mostly. And some papers on botany, too. A few science journals. He’s learned things in the last years. He’s no fool.

Maybe he should have stayed ignorant and pious. Why does he have to question everything so much? Father Hayes tells him it’s a sin…all this pride.

Mulling over these thoughts, McGauran quickly reaches the famous Saint-Louis Square. A water reservoir used to be here, before they moved it up to the southern slope of the Mount Royal, and now in its place is this quaint little park the French Canadian aristocrats have recently claimed as their territory. The rich sure know how to embellish their quarters. He can imagine Widow Leary’s boys having a place like this to run around in. How thrilled they’d be. How grateful, too. Grass and trees are a rare sight where he comes from. Never mind flowers.

The spring air is sweet in these parts, and as he walks across the square, digging his hands into his pockets, McGauran can feel people watching him from their benches. His reefer coat is tattered. His trousers are a bit too short, and loose around the ankles, out of fashion. When he passes two young women giggling coyly under their parasols, he glances over his shoulder at the prettier of the two. She blushes, and the two hurry away, skirts rustling over the tips of their patent boots.

He could seduce them, he knows it. Women, rich or not, stare at him whenever he walks by. He hears the local girls whispering in church. Sees their hungry eyes on him whenever he kneels for communion. He’s heard the older women in town call him the best catch of Saint-Anne’s ward.

What’s wrong with him that he can’t desire any of those girls back? How simple his life could be, if only he were a normal man. He’s prayed and prayed about it, but nothing has changed. If anything, his lust for men has become almost too strong to contain. At times, he fears it.

How long before he gives in to it again and gets caught?

Nervously, McGauran adjusts his plain black necktie, which is beginning to feel like a tightrope around his neck and hurries his pace. Now isn’t the time to be thinking about this. He needs to keep his mind on why he’s here. Heart in mouth, he crosses the square to the Latendresse home on Laval Avenue. John Baldwin told him what to look for and gave him the door number. The house is a mansion, and he has to pause to stare at it from the other side of the narrow street. The three-story grandiose home is built of gray stone and expensive dark bricks on which ivy has begun to cling. The front garden is thriving with all kinds of shrubbery, wild flowers, and newly planted trees, and like painted eyes, the house’s many large windows are flanked with shutters that gleam black in the sun. A cobblestone side way leads to the lower part of the house which has its own side door. He suspects that’s where the servants and cooks live. White marble columns surround the wide balcony, but what impresses him the most is the tower standing a story higher than the rest of the house. With its pointed black roof, it reminds him of a castle. The windows in the tower look directly at the park. Whose room?

Climbing up to the heavily ornamented wrought-iron porch, he pauses to take another shallow breath. Finally, he knocks on the black-lacquered door. That’s when he realizes he isn’t wearing gloves. A proper gentleman always wears gloves.

But then again, his coat is a size too small for him. He isn’t fooling anyone.

A man with a thin but attractive face, the valet McGauran supposes, cracks the door open. At the sight of him, the man’s golden green eyes slowly narrow as though he’s seeing someone familiar and not him. “Yes?” he inquires in a slightly nasal voice.

“I’m here for Monsieur Latendresse. He—he knows me. I’ve worked for him before. Can you please tell him that Mac O’Dowd is here to see him.” His voice jumps a little. “If you could…please. Sir.”

The valet has delicate features, a daintiness about him. “And you don’t have an appointment?”

In the house, someone is playing the piano loudly, hitting the notes at a speed he’s never heard before. For a second, McGauran loses track of his thoughts. “I—I don’t have an appointment, sir.”

“Then I’m sorry, young man.” The valet shuts the door in his face. But not too hard.

McGauran sighs and knocks again.

The door opens. “There’s a plague going around. I don’t wish to have you forcibly removed.” But again, there’s a hint of kindness in the man’s face. He seems more annoyed than angry. “Off you go now.”

“Wait, see, sir, I need to see him. I know he’s hiring, and if I don’t talk with him today, I’ll miss my chance.” McGauran tries another approach, leaning in a little. “I’m desperate. I need this money.”

“Qui est à la porte?” a man asks, somewhere in the house, but nearby. His voice is young and happy, full of zest.

“Go back to your practice!” With a smile, the valet snaps his head around. “And please, try not to wreck the keys!”

“I’ll do no such thing.” The young man’s face appears behind the valet’s shoulder, but before McGauran can get a good look at him, the valet shuts the door again. He hears the older man scolding the younger one in a somewhat paternal tone. There’s affection in the valet’s voice.

Again, the door opens.

This time, the young man is the one standing in the doorway. Resting his shoulder on the jamb, he gives McGauran a quizzical look. “You wish to see my uncle?” He has a charming French Canadian accent. Under his dark arched brows, his eyes are large, of a celestial gray-blue, maybe mischievous, but gentle, too. His hair, thick and black as coal, is parted to the side, swept away carelessly. He opens the door wider and gives him a bright smile. “Please, do come in.” The young man wears a tailored black frock coat over a red waistcoat threaded with gold designs and on which hangs a silver pocket watch. His shirt collar is chin high, stiff and starched, not a shadow of a stain on it. His fine silk necktie has a touch of blue in it, and McGauran can’t help noticing that it’s the same gray-blue as the young man’s eyes.

This man can’t be real. He’s a conjuration. An apparition from one of his secret nightly dreams. McGauran has never seen a more enchanting face. “Yes,” he finally answers, remembering to breathe. “I’d be eternally grateful.”

“Oh, don’t waste eternity on that.” The young man steps aside. “Well, my uncle is busy fornicating with his mistress, but I’m sure he’ll be in a generous—”

“Good Lord,” the valet says, walking up to the door, “have you no shame?” He gently grabs the young man’s elbow. “Go on, you p’tite peste.” But he’s clearly holding back a smile.

When the young man laughs, his teeth, so straight and white, shine in his mouth. “Bernard, please have Maggie bring tea and biscuits for mister…?” He stops and frowns. “Your name?”

“O’Dowd.” He tips his worn derby hat.

“Well, Mr. O’Dowd and I will be in the parlor.” The elegant host walks off, the heels of his ankle-boots clicking against the polished hardwood floor in the vestibule. “Please, take his coat and hat.”

In the azure-blue entrance, Bernard relieves McGauran of his coat and hat, and then hangs both items on the coat stand. “Where did you come from?”

Self-conscious, McGauran runs a hand through his red hair, hoping it isn’t too wild. “Uh, Griffintown, sir.”

Bernard looks him over. “I see. That area has been devastated by the flood, hasn’t it?”

“That’s right.” Among other things.

“How are the people holding up down there?”

Down there. Yes, beneath the hill. “We always make do,” he says, holding on to his pride. “We’ll get through this, too.”

“Yes, but with that terrible outbreak—”

“I’m not sick, if that’s what you mean. And I’m not gonna get sick either.” So far, he hasn’t told anyone about the vaccine. Not even his mother. But what does he care if the government doctor stuck cow blood or whatever in him? He’ll sort it out with God later. Right now, he wants more life. “I got vaccinated last year,” he says, real low, unfastening the first button of his shirt. “I can show you my scar.”

“No, no, no, that won’t be necessary,” the old man stammers, blushing. “I believe you.” He coughs dryly and steps back. “It was a wise thing to do, young man. Brave, too. But please keep your shirt on.”

Somewhere down the large hall, the young man’s musical voice is heard again. “Bernard, he’s my guest, not yours!” His boyish laughter echoes through the large house, chasing McGauran’s dark thoughts away. “Don’t be selfish!”

Bernard regains his composure. “There will be no tea or biscuits, and you will not bother the young master for more than a few minutes. He has a nervous condition and must be spared any excitement.”

Nervous condition? What does that mean exactly? He’s seen the ads in the paper advertising all sorts of bizarre treatments for women’s nerves, but can men suffer from this type of ailment, too?

“I suggest that you sit and be quiet and I will see about getting you a brief appointment with Monsieur Latendresse. Senior.”

“Thank you. That’s very generous of you.” McGauran leans back on the heels of his worn boots. “That’s all I hope for.”

“Well, then, follow me. And don’t touch anything, please.”

As they make their way down the luxurious hallway, McGauran’s heart races like a horse at the tracks. He gapes around at the crowded hall cluttered with furniture, foot lamps, statues, and various other trinkets. Paintings, all encased in large gold frames, hang loosely on every papered wall in a disorganized manner. He wants to stop and look at the one of the ballerina dancers, but Bernard is walking fast ahead. Then the valet turns to glance at him over his thin shoulder. “That’s a Degas. Do you know the Impressionists?”

He hasn’t read much about art.

“It’s all about the light, Mr. O’Dowd. The beauty it reveals.” Bernard stops. “I’ve heard that Monet settled in a garden home in Giverny where he paints the same lily pond over and over. Obsession can lead to marvelous things, but it can destroy an artist’s mind, don’t you agree?”

No one has ever bothered to ask him such questions. McGauran thinks about it for a moment, then says, “Well, it’s difficult to create something that wasn’t there before, so I suppose it would make a man want to get it right, absolutely right.”

The valet watches him and smiles kindly. “Very astute observation.” He continues down the hall, which now begins to separate into a narrower passage leading to more rooms at the right, and a wide, deep-red carpeted staircase that turns and opens into a beautiful dark-wood balustrade circling the second-floor landing.

The walls in this part of the house are covered with golden oak and glimmer under the light of a low hanging chandelier. McGauran stares up at the stunning crystal piece above his head. Those aren’t candles in there, but glass bulbs.

“Monsieur Latendresse had the whole house wired with electricity last year. No more awful gas lamps or kerosene oil in this house.”

Electricity…Around the quarter, people say men died because of those wires. Shocked to death.

“Oh, here is the telephone. But please, don’t touch it.”

McGauran stares at the box hooked up to the wall, frowning at its bells and wires. How can people talk to each other through this apparatus? He still doesn’t completely understand how the telegraph machine works. Everything is moving so fast these days. He’ll have to remember all the details so he can tell his mother later tonight. She won’t believe he was inside such a house.

“The music room.” Bernard stops by an open door. In there, an upright piano, deeply polished and catching the light, waits to be played again. All around the instrument, silk red and green couches woven with gold threads, glitter in the sunlight. So much gilded gold and bronze in this house, it confuses his senses.

A king could live here. Or a prince.

Is that what that young man is?

“Mister O’Dowd.” Further down the hall, Bernard signals impatiently. “I will be very near,” he says, showing him into the room. “Do we understand each other?”

“Uh, yes, sir.” Not knowing what to expect, McGauran peeks into the room. The furniture in there is all white-lacquered, lovely—almost feminine. Intricate grapevines have been carved and painted into the chair seats. The pale green velvet drapes are pulled open and sunlight streams through the large windows. Potted plants and flowers of all kinds line the sill.

The young man stands at the window, with his back slightly turned to him, his profile bathed in sunlight. For a moment, McGauran’s attention roams over him. There’s grace in this man’s lines. A finesse to his movements. When McGauran steps into the room, the lights switch off, and then all at once, turn on again. A little taken aback, he frowns.

But oblivious to the event, the man touches a purple flower on a dark green plant. “This is an African Violet. They’re very delicate. Usually, the mother plant likes to be near its offspring, like this.” His fingers gently go from plant to plant as he names each one. “Begonia. Jasmine. Another Strepto—um, Streptocarpus, yes.” He looks up and smiles. “That’s a difficult one. I rarely get it right.”

“They’re nice.” He wishes he had more words.

“Please, sit down.” The young man points to one of the four chairs circling a white-wood table covered with lace. He glances up at the door where the valet is still standing. “Bernard, let my uncle know that Mr. O’Dowd is here for him.” He raises a thick and sculpted eyebrow. “Et le thé?”

“It’s not five o’clock,” Bernard retorts.

“Oh, please, to hell with the British. Call it resistance tea.”

“Fine. Fine.” Surprisingly, Bernard leaves the room. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The young man’s presence as gentle as it is, is also commanding.

“Please sit down. I insist.”

McGauran stares at the chair for a second and then eases himself into it. When the wood creaks under his bulk, he feels awkward and clumsy. At least he bathed in the canal this morning and his clothes are clean. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands and tries not to watch the door. Most of all, he tries not to stare at the young man’s beautiful, trusting face.

The fear, ugliness, and death of the last year seem not to have reached this house.

The man sits with his legs crossed, the white button spats of his shoes showing under his ankle-fitted pants. For a brief moment, his gray-blue eyes hesitate over McGauran’s hands. His hair, so thick and lustrous, shimmers blue where the light catches it.

Feeling hot under the collar, McGauran shifts his weight in the narrow chair, causing it to creak again. “I’m here for your uncle’s wood-burning business.” His voice sounds wrong and he lowers it. “Lumber.”

“Oh…the camp.” The young man watches him with a kind expression. “It’s rough business.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty tough out there.”

Young Latendresse nibbles on his bottom lip. “But I suppose the fresh air is nice. The scenery as well.”

McGauran doesn’t quite know what to make of Latendresse’s candor. “Lots of trees,” he says. “Lots of snow. That’s about it.”

Latendresse chuckles. He seems easily amused. “Yes, well, I’m certain there’s a sort of poetic charm to it.”

Feeling a little more at ease, McGauran cracks a smile. “Yeah, that’s why I’m going out there. For the poetry.”

This time, the young host laughs freely, his eyes sparkling.

The pleasure he feels at the sound of that spontaneous laughter surprises McGauran and his guard goes up again. “Your English is very good,” he says, more seriously, wanting to make conversation, yet hoping Gédéon will rescue him from this thrilling encounter before he reveals too much of himself. “For a Frenchman.”

“My mother was American.” Latendresse pauses, a slight tremor furrowing his brow. “Later,” he goes on in a soft voice, “after she died, I had a tutor.” Suddenly, he leans back in his chair, staring at something over McGauran’s shoulder. On the side table, the lamp shuts off.

“Is something wrong?” McGauran leans in a bit, ready to act.

“No, nothing. I—you’ve worked for my uncle before?” The young host keeps looking over McGauran’s shoulder with a startled expression.

Curious, McGauran checks the window. In the cobbled path that separates the house from the next, a black dog sits watching them. What kind of a dog is it? He’s never seen anything like it before. It has short ears and a flat muzzle—a chest nearly as wide as a man’s. Its eyes almost look human. “Is that animal yours?” He stands, wanting to see the dog up close.

“No…don’t go near it.”

As McGauran approaches the window, the dog runs off, dashing for the square.

“You chased him away.” The young man’s voice is close to his ear, and when McGauran turns around, he finds him standing inches away. Up close, his eyes are even more striking, large and benevolent as two silver moons, and it’s more than McGauran can take. Flustered, he quickly walks back to his chair and sits, wringing his hands.

He has to get out of this house before he makes an irreparable mistake. “I guess it doesn’t like me,” he says, trying to keep his true nature hidden. “Red hair sometimes scares people…Or dogs, I guess.”

“Your hair is so exquisite!” Flushing pink, the young man hesitates, and then says, “Oh, mon Dieu, I haven’t even properly introduced myself.” He walks back to the table where McGauran sits and extends his hand. “How rude of me. I’m so sorry. I’m Honoré.”

It’s a common French Canadian name. It’s even the mayor’s name. McGauran has heard it many times before. Yet, the name has never meant anything until now. Honoré. Yes, that’s what this young man is. Honored by God. Spoiled with beauty and riches. He shakes Honoré’s fine hand, trying not to crush his tapered fingers. “McGauran is my name. People call me Mac, but…I’m not too fond of it.”

“I thought your name was O’Dowd.” Honoré sits in the opposite chair, giving him a questioning look. There’s indeed a nervousness about him. Something in his nimble hands and the way he won’t stay still for more than a few seconds.

“McGauran O’Dowd is my full name.”

“Oh, I see. Is it a common Irish Catholic name?”

“There’s a story to it.”

“Please do tell it! I love stories! I’d be delighted to hear yours.”

Is he getting the young man too excited? What is a nervous condition, anyway?

“Well, I don’t know if you’d like it.”

“Please, I’m curious. Indulge me. No one interesting ever comes around here.”

He stares at Honoré for a moment and then shifts his weight in the chair. For some reason, he can’t refuse him this story, though it’s a private one he hasn’t shared with anyone who wasn’t Irish before. “All right, well,” he begins in a subdued voice, “my mother named me after the priest who saved her life. Up on Grosse Isle. Where they quarantined her folks. They were escaping the famine in the old country and came by on those coffin boats.”

“Coffin boats?” Honoré seems riveted. There’s no malicious curiosity in his eyes.

McGauran goes on. “See, when the timber companies sent their stock to Europe, they had empty boats on the return trip, so they decided to fill them with starving people looking to start a new life across the sea. There was a typhus outbreak. That’s where the boats got their name. From the people dying. The government stopped the boats at Grosse Isle, close to Québec city. Plenty of my people died there on that island. Most of them I guess.” How depressing is he? “It was…pretty cruel,” he adds.

“Our government did that? That is positively criminal! I’m so sorry.”

Honoré’s sincere reaction catches him off guard. “It’s not your fault. I mean, you weren’t even born.”

“Can I say something?”

Curious, McGauran frowns again. Honoré is genuinely nice to him. He hadn’t expected that from a rich man. “Yes…what?”

“Coffin was my mother’s surname.”

“Huh.”

Honoré gives him a charming smile. “And your name?” The lamp near him turns on again.

“Uh, that lamp keeps turning—”

“Oh, never mind that.” Honoré waves his comment off. “It does that all the time. Every lamp, globe and—” he points up “—chandelier in this house has a will of its own.” He raises a brow. “Tell me you story!”

Delighted by Honoré’s enthusiasm, McGauran can’t help chuckling. “Right. Well, Father McGauran, from Saint-Patrick’s parish, was a young priest assigned to Grosse Isle. He almost died there himself. He saved a lot of orphans, making sure they had homes. So when my mother heard the story, she swore she’d name her first son after that priest.”

“I’m going to write a poem about it,” Honoré whispers. “Thank you for sharing that story with me.”

They gaze at each other, and McGauran wants to break this silence, but can’t seem to look away from Honoré’s eyes, and no words come. He remembers the first time he’d held a compass in his hand. The way the magnet had showed him true north. He feels that way now.

“O’Dowd.” Gédéon Latendresse enters the room and goes straight to him. “I thought you’d joined up with the Les Chevaliers du Travail. You have some gall showing up here at my home. Why didn’t you respond to the announcement I placed in the Patrie newspaper two weeks ago?”

“I don’t read that paper, sir,” he says, tearing his gaze away from Honoré. “And I only organized a few strikes. I’m no trouble-maker.” He offers the notary his hand.

But Gédéon recoils from the touch. He glances at Honoré, something passing over his face. Suspicion? Possession? “Let’s not talk in here. My nephew needs his peace.” Tall, broad shouldered, Gédéon Latendresse is an imposing man. His hair is as dark as his nephew’s but streaked with gray and he wears a thick mustache, which hangs low over his lips. His eyes are pale as well, but not as lovely and luminous as Honoré’s. There’s a steely look in them.

McGauran remembers Widow Leary’s tale. Could this man have done what she said? Did he ride the witchin’ canoe? He sure looks like a man who could cheat the Devil out of his due.

Gédéon touches Honoré’s sleeve, and when he looks at his nephew, the ice in his eyes melt. Clearly, he’s very fond of the young man. “I’m holding a meeting tonight and I expect you to entertain us with a concerto or maybe one of your poems. So please rest today.”

“Uncle, you know how much I hate those Freemason meetings.”

“It’s not a Freemason meeting.” Gédéon winks. “And you shouldn’t speak of those meetings so casually. You wouldn’t want O’Dowd here thinking we aren’t good Catholics.”

Honoré tips his head and pouts. “Well then, tonight will be a meeting of the French Canadian chamber of commerce and I dislike those as well.”

“Oh, we should be so lucky to have one, Honoré! No, tonight, I’m holding an assembly with the members of Montreal’s historical society.” He ruffles his nephew’s thick black hair, and for a moment, McGauran is jealous of that touch. “Now will you entertain us? You know how proud you make me when you do.”

“But those men are such bores!” Honoré gives McGauran a conspirator’s smile. “And the only history they’re interested in, is the one they make.”

He can’t help smiling back at Honoré. That was a clever thing to say.

Gédéon lovingly pinches his nephew’s ear. “Behave yourself. Do you want the Brits to write all of our history?”

When Honoré laughs, the small gilded chandelier above their heads flickers, and McGauran glances up, but Gédéon turns his attention to him again. “Let’s go to my study, shall we?”

He must remember the purpose of his visit. “Yes, sir,” he says, his cheeks stinging.

“Well then, follow me. With this damn plague, I’m a few men short and you look like you’ve been eating your meat and potatoes since I last saw you.”

Not quite in control of himself, he follows the notary, but can’t help looking back at Honoré. “You play the piano very good,” he blurts out.

“Oh, that.” Honoré grins. “Well, I was hoping to drive Bernard mad for throwing out my new copy of Madame de Maupin.”

McGauran laughs, though he’s not sure who or what that is. Honoré’s smile is a tonic for his soul.

“But if you like…I could play for you some time. A more reasonable concerto.”

Honoré wants to see him again? Him?

“O’Dowd,” Gédéon shouts from the hall. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Honoré’s lovely eyes dance with humor. “My uncle isn’t a patient man.”

“Yes…” McGauran hesitates by the door. “Goodbye.”

Honoré bows his head a little. “Goodbye, Mr. O’Dowd. Charmed to make your acquaintance.” He turns and walks to the window sill, touching the plants again. “Of course my uncle will have your address,” he says in an unsure voice, staring out at the square with his back to him. “Maybe I’ll send for you.” Near him, the floor lamp flickers, dims and then brightens strongly, and Honoré glances over his shoulder. “Would that be acceptable?” he asks, his eyes saying more. Saying so much more.

Leaning on the door, McGauran decides to take a risk, to let his true self show, if only for a moment. If only to this man. “I’d be honored,” he whispers.

The enchanting smile Honoré gives him was definitely worth the risk.