The Rose Prince of Mount Royal/Le prince des roses de Mont-Royal

Paul Corrigan

For/A Pierre Elliott Trudeau

***

No one has ever been permitted to cut the flowers in the Pierre Elliott
Trudeau Rose Garden in Town of Mount Royal. No one except Trudeau. 

   And it was the memory of the former prime minister making his
little-known but frequent visits to the garden to cut a single rose -
usually yellow - to wear on his lapel that Vera Danyluk was thinking about
yesterday, a day after Trudeau succumbed to cancer at the age of 80.

--Linda Gyulai, "Fitting tribute sought: From fountains to city streets,
Montrealers ponder homage," Montreal _Gazette_, September 30, 2000

***

[A spinning yellow rose (to indicate a Nanami flashback) appears.
Unfortunately, it's far too large and fills the entire screen, so that only
flickering bits of colour can be occasionally seen at the edges as it spins.]

Nanami [VO]: Five years ago... when we went on our family vacation to
Montreal, Canada... what incredible sights! The Biosphere... the Olympic
Stadium... the Botanical Gardens... the Old Port...

[As Nanami speaks, the tiny bits of the screen not covered by the spinning
rose change colour. We're probably missing some lovely scenery.]

--Alan Harnum and Paul Corrigan, "Sovereignty-Associationist Girl Nanami," 2000

***

September 30, 2000.

Dear Diary,

   The really shameful thing about the poutine business--which I imagine I
shall never hear the end of, just as Saionji never heard the end of the
curry and his sojourn as a monkey--is that I remember really very little
about Montreal in particular, or Quebec or Canada in general, so I of all
people had the least right to prance around in a fleur-de-lisé costume or
force everyone to speak French. 

   I do know where we went and what we saw. The Biosphere, the Olympic
Stadium, the Botanical Gardens, the Old Port, and so forth. But that's
because I've seen them in photos, long after. Try as I might, I can't dig up
any real memory of what they looked like.

   But then I can't remember what Mother looked like either, so that's no
insult to Montreal.

   On the other hand, I do remember Brother shooing me away in favor of a
cat, and how it upset me. More than Mother dying, I suspect. But when mother
died I was too young to realise what had happened, I suppose.

   The things one should remember, one doesn't. On the other hand, one
remembers the silliest things. One's head never gets its priorities straight.

   I remember only two things about Canada. One is poutine. Brother bought
some out of curiosity, and we shared it. Father was horrified, for some
reason, and forbade us to touch the stuff again. To this day, I've no clue
why. He said it was bad for us, but so is takoyaki.

   The other is a yellow rose I got there. Not a fleur-de-lys, but a rose.
It's pressed in with the photo album of Montreal.

***

   Did I tell you this story before, dear diary? I don't think so. I will now.

   Father, as a young man, had spent many years in Canada, mostly in
Ottawa--he worked at the Japanese Embassy there in those days--and always
had remembered the place fondly. It seems Montreal was particularly close to
his heart, which is why he took us there. I suppose as well I don't remember
very much of it because it meant very little to me. I was only eight after all.

   He still had a Japanese friend there, a Mr. Yamada, an old classmate at
Ohtori, who heard Mr. Kiryu was in town and invited us over for breakfast at
his house in a place called Mont-Royal. We got to Mont-Royal a little
early--Father wasn't sure he remembered where the place was, so we left
early just to be safe. We found the place all right, but that left us with
about three-quarters of an hour to kill.

   To give us something to do, I suppose, Father parked our rental car
outside somewhere that he said was called the "Pierre Elliott Trudeau Rose
Garden," near Mr. Yamada's house, deciding to let us wander around in there
for a little while, to walk around and wake ourselves up. We'd been rushing
around, and so little me must have been tired in the mornings.

   We went in.

   "So who's this Trudeau person? Was he very important?" asked Brother.

   Father looked at us as if we were out of our senses. "Was he very
important? Of course he was very important!" he said disbelieving. Then he
started on how he'd been Prime Minister of Canada for a long time, and what
a great man he was, and how much he'd done for that country, and how Japan
could have used a man like him, and then how he'd met him a few times when
he worked at the Embassy, and how he impressed even Father, who wasn't even
Canadian, with his charm and flair.

   "Men admired him, women loved him," I remember him saying. I remember
that because I thought that made him sound a lot like Brother. 

   "Is he still alive?" Brother asked.

   "I think so," Father replied. Then, a little conspiratorily, "I'm told he
lives around here. We might run into him, you don't know." 

   Then he laughed as if he had made a joke, which he probably had.

   I had never seen so many roses, not outside Ohtori Academy at any rate.
It sounds silly now, but I was surprised to see any roses at all so far away
from the Academy. Certainly not in Canada, which Brother assured me was much
colder than Japan. It must be because people from Ohtori lived here, I
concluded.

   I was particularly impressed by a patch of yellow roses. I'm not sure
why. I'd always preferred red, like Brother.

   "Can I look at the flowers?" I asked at last.

   Then Father seemed to remember why we were there, and said, "All right.
Don't wander too far. And don't pick any of the flowers. It's not allowed."

   So he had a cigarette, and Brother wandered towards the red roses looking
bored, and I dashed off towards the yellows. I can't remember the breeds,
just the colors. I suppose I looked very cute, bouncing around, smelling
flowers and generally having a brilliant time in what I was sure was the
only rose reserve of its size in Canada. But Father had told me not to pick
the flowers, so I didn't. For that matter, I was a little afraid to touch
them. I stood a little away, trying to get as good a whiff of the odor as I
could.

   Then out of the corner of my eye I saw an old man about to pick. The. ROSES!

   He was a fairly tall man, very--well--French looking, I suppose, with a
beret on top of his head and a beige jacket, and a thoughtful, maybe a
little sad look on his face as he inspected the roses, apparently looking
for the one that suited his fancy just so. Finally he cut one just beginning
to open, a perfect specimen.

   He was white, which meant he was Canadian, which meant he spoke English
like Americans, or French like--well--people in Montreal, both of which
Father spoke very well, and Brother spoke a little because he was the
smartest boy in the world and he could do anything he wanted, but I was only
eight and I couldn't speak a word of either. So I just coughed, and put on
the angriest look I could muster. Of course that probably looked more cute
than fearsome.

   The old man noticed me at last, and looked a little puzzled. "Yes?" he asked.

   I knew that much English, but I couldn't answer, unless he knew Japanese,
and he was white so of course he didn't, so I just kept looking angry,
stared intently at the rose for a moment, and shook my head.

   Then he smiled, and looked a little sheepish, as if to say, "Yes, you're
right, I really shouldn't, should I?"

   "Nanami! I told you not to wander off! We have to go!" Suddenly Father
was there, holding my hand and beginning to drag me off.

   "Papa, he's picking the roses!" I complained in Japanese.

   "Don't bother the nice old man, Nanami..." started Father, and then it
seemed to sink in just who it was.

   Finally, he said, not terribly forcefully, "I'll deal with you later."

   Brother emerged from the reds. "Can we go now?"

   "Toga, Nanami," said Father, "say hello to Mr. Trudeau."

   Brother seemed to boggle for a minute, and finally said "Hello," in his
best English (as far as I could tell).

   "Haro," I said, imitating Brother, bowing low. 

   All the same, I was surprised. Was this the Mr. Trudeau that Father had
talked about? I must admit I was disappointed. He didn't seem at all like
Brother, not very dashing at all, just shy and old. That, and Brother
wouldn't have dared touch the flowers.

   Father bowed, shook Mr. Trudeau's hand--the one not holding the rose--and
spoke to him for a few minutes. It was all in English. Or was it French?
Either way I didn't understand a word. I do remember Father seemed very
privileged to be there, very deferential. Mr. Trudeau for his part seemed to
have withdrawn, nodding and smiling politely, but not seeming to know what
to do with all of Father's praise.

   Father must have excused himself, because he said at last, "Say goodbye
to Mr. Trudeau."

   "Baibai," I said. Then, bowing a little lower, "Sori." I was sure that's
how you excused yourself in English. At least Brother said so. I admit I was
a little frightened at the thought of having someone Father said was a very
important man be angry at me, even if he wasn't dashing.

   Mr. Trudeau seemed to think a moment, then crouched down, said something
in English, with a somewhat more genuine smile on his lips, and held out the
yellow rose, as if to offer it to me. 
   
   Did I blush? I might have blushed. Nobody had ever offered me a rose
before, not even Brother.

   Father looked a little shocked, waved his hand as if to refuse, but Mr.
Trudeau apparently insisted.

   "He wants you to keep it," Father said at last.

   "Why?" I asked.

   "He says roses look better on pretty girls than old men."

   I beamed and accepted the rose. "Sankyu," I said in gratitude. I knew
that one as well.

   I decided Mr. Trudeau was dashing after all. And sweet. 

   Though not as much as Brother, of course.

   Then Mr. Trudeau got up and went on his way.

   All I remember of breakfast--I was a child, so if I was not being
discussed, I wasn't listening--was father let slip to Mr. Yamada that he'd
run into the old Prime Minister at the Rose Garden.

   "I see him there all the time, getting roses for his lapel," said Mr. Yamada.

   Brother had helped me put the rose in my hair. "He gave me this to keep,"
I said, smiling from ear to ear.

   "He's still a ladykiller, I suppose," said father. 

   "Did he throw in a pirouette?" added Mr. Yamada.

   He and Father laughed about that.

   I for my part had decided he was very nice. That, and I felt very proud
to have met such a very important man. I boasted enough about it when I got
home, Brother remembers.

   I'm fairly sure I can date my penchant for yellow roses and yellow in
particular to that day. Blue and white are Miki's colors, really.

***

   It was because of Miki I heard the news, actually. Completely by chance.
I hadn't thought about Mr. Trudeau in years--even during the poutine
episode--I mean, for heaven's sake, why would I brood about _that_ of all
things?--and but for Miki I might not have heard it at all. Miki reads the
newspapers every day. 

   Saturday mornings we have French class. It seemed Mme. Lamer, thank
goodness, wasn't feeling well, so old Soeur Thérèse was the substitute. 

   Soeur Thérèse's one of the few from l'Ordre des soeurs de St.
Jean-Baptiste, the order of nuns from Montreal which founded the Academy,
that still teaches there. A remnant of the school's roots in Quebec, which
are rarely made mention of, and which I suspect most at school would prefer,
after the sign business, not to make mention of any more. (She's getting on
in years, so it would be too easy to call her a "relic!") We (by which I
mean the class in general--I'm on the Student Council, so I am permitted to
have some more spine) are deathly afraid of the woman as a result, which is
odd, because she's usually much more pleasant than Mme. Lamer. Perhaps her
habit makes her look fearsome. The religious are not to be trifled with, I
suspect!

   We stood and bowed as she entered as usual, then she made to start class,
pleasantly enough.

   Miki raised his hand--the one not toying with that silly stopwatch.
"Sister..."

   "Yes? You have something to share with the class?" Thérèse said.

   He stood up. "I heard that Pierre Elliott Trudeau died. I thought..."

   He didn't need to click that watch to freeze time just then.

   Theree's tone, was blunt. Very dark. "So I'd heard. Was that it?"

   Miki seemed a little surprised at that. "Well...it seems he did a great
deal for Canada, made it bilingual, repatriated its constitution,"--my
vocab. word for _that_ day!--"or so I heard, and you're Canadian, sister,
and I just wondered if you had anything to say, what you thought about him..."

   "As little as possible. I wasn't the only one." Firmly, to mark
discussion over.

   "I thought he was very nice..." I said, in a very small voice. 

   Not the answer Thérèse expected, I imagine. "Oh? What makes you say
that?" she said, a bit puzzled, but ready to go on the offensive any moment.

   Everyone else (besides Miki) looked confused. They'd probably never heard
of him, and why would they have? 

   "I thought he was very nice. I--Father and I met him in Montreal, when we
went there. By chance. He gave me a yellow rose to keep. Father worked in
the Japanese embassy in Canada once. He thought Trudeau was very impressive."

   She was silent a moment.

   Now Miki clicked his watch.

   "Yes, he was," Thérèse said at last. "I've got to hand that to him, anyway."

   She seemed to retreat a bit.

   "Look. I'm not the person you should ask...he made many people angry,
what he did. He was an idealist, maybe, which is fine and good, but he
seemed like a fool. He didn't understand people. 'Reason over emotion,' that
was one of his catchphrases, do the sensible thing and we'd all wake up next
morning liking each other forevermore. People aren't like that. We French,
we don't like English, and English don't like us. Never have. We wanted our
own country of Québec so we wouldn't have to deal with them any more if we
didn't want to. René Lévesque-do you know who that is?-the separatist
leader. He wanted Quebec to have its own country. He opposed Trudeau,
because he knew what Québécois really wanted."

   "I read Trudeau was from Quebec..." added Miki finally.

   "It didn't matter. Made it worse. The 'Elliott,' you see--his mother was
English anyway. Lévesque said so." Thérèse thought a moment. "It's like
this. Lévesque, he was what we really were, a simple man, a voice of the
people. Trudeau, he was cosmopolitan, dashing, a citizen of the world, a
prince among men. He was what we should have been, maybe. I knew people for
whom he was who they wished they could be." Reflective. "I suppose Trudeau
was very easy to admire. I was never too hot about him myself, but..."

   A brief pause, then, oddly enough...

   "I never met him myself. I only saw him in the papers. Tell me, Ms.
Kiryu, was he still a handsome man when you saw him?" she asked at last.
Conspiratorily, sharing a joke.

   I giggled. "Well, I don't know, I was very little..."

   She smiled. "That's all right."

   Then we got on with class.

***

   Reason over emotion sounds like Miki, come to think of it. At least on
his better days.

   For that matter, man as he is versus man as he ought to be could be me
versus Utena Tenjo. Or all of the duellists versus Utena Tenjo, come to
think of it. Maybe Utena Tenjo _is_ a fool. But she's beaten me every time.

   And she's admirable, I suppose. Certainly dashing enough. And beautiful.
A prince among men. 

   Enough to turn the head of Brother. The only one to match him, really.
Maybe he looks at her and not me because I don't even come close.

   Maybe he thinks I'm just a normal girl, and she's what girls should be.

   Mind you, I don't think I was much of a voice for the people on Student
Council either.

   Utena Tenjo's very easy to admire. But I still don't like Utena Tenjo
very much.

***

   I got nothing done after class. Neither did Miki--I made him spend all
afternoon looking for articles about Mr. Trudeau on the Internet, poor boy,
because I can't handle computers at all. (I'd have asked Tsuwabuki, but Miki
reads English and Tsuwabuki can't.) We even found a picture of the Rose Garden.

   "That's where I saw him," I said.

   "He must have left an impression on you, I guess." Miki looked
thoughtful. "It explains the poutine mess." 

   I must have gone quite crimson. "Miki! You said you'd never mention that
again!" It came out as a whine.

   "Just kidding!"

   I asked him whether he wanted to see the rose, which was in the photo
album at home. He said no, pleading a previous engagement--specifically,
making dinner for his sister. He was surprised that I got so upset, and
frankly so was I.

   I don't know why I was surprised. The whole world knows Miki's sister
isn't worth the trouble of making dinner for.

   I went home and looked at the album anyway. Thought of the old man.
Thought of Utena Tenjo, too. Until I started writing this down I was sure I
didn't know why. I'm still not sure. I _am_ silly, aren't I?

Yours, Nanami

***

END/FIN

***

Yes, Sovereignty-Associationist Girl Nanami is back for an encore.

When I heard about Trudeau, I couldn't help but think of Nanami in Montreal
again. "Nanami meets Trudeau" almost wrote itself. The anecdotes about the
roses in his lapel did it.

Soeur Thérèse's hypothesis about Trudeau and Lévesque is paraphrased from
remarks by a leading separatist (whose name has escaped me, alas) to the CBC
on the news of Trudeau's death. He had a point. It makes the whole business
no longer seem quite so absurd. I didn't write SAGN with Alan with the
Lévesque/Trudeau conflict in mind, but the more I look the more Nanami and
Utena look like them. Or vice versa.

Or neither. I'm really not sure if this turned out quite right or is even in
good taste. Maybe it's just plain shallow. But I tried. 

The man was hard for even enemies not to admire, seems like, even if he was
controversial. I tried to not make Soeur Thérèse a caricature, I really did.

I don't know if Trudeau ever watched anime at all (I doubt it; he had better
things to do), but I had to honor him somehow. We could use more people like
him even down here in the States--and I don't mean necessarily liberals. May
he rest in peace. _Qu'il repose en paix._ (Merci, Louis-Phillipe; merci,
Stéphanie.)

Comments welcome.

The Canadian government's official memorial site is www.trudeau.gc.ca.
Condolences can be written in the guestbook there.

That's it. C'est tout.
Paul Corrigan
corrig11@pilot.msu.edu