an excerpt from welcome to the circus

a freehand sh
ort
nous and rené
lévesque
“Nous and René Lévesque” is from
Welcome to the Circus
by Rhonda Douglas
(Freehand Books, 2015).
978-1-55481-228-8
(also available as an ebook)
isbn
For more information or to order a copy, please
visit freehand-books.com.
© Rhonda Douglas 2015
Nous Re n é Léve sque
N o u s an d
Re n é Léve sque
We three girls, of Cupids born. Cupids, town of six hundred,
Conception Bay, Newfoundland, Canada, the World. We are
the Cupids Queens, top of our grade seven class because we
know things. Among the things we know: we know we will be
getting out of Cupids in five years, sixty-two days. We have
made promises, we have made plans, we have it all worked out.
If we keep getting 90% or higher, we can quitter the only way
we know — we will go away for school, we will grow and glow
West to the place of all things intéressant: Montreal.
The only one who understands our projectile yearnings
is Monsieur Levert. He is as magnifique as we are, though old.
No one knows how old. Brenda checks his perfect coif, his
cheveux blonds, on her way back from the pencil sharpener
and gives us the zero sign: zero grey hairs.
“Nathalie est ravissante dans son manteau rouge,” says
Monsieur Levert and we répétons after him: oh, ravissante.
Ravissante and rouge together — the Cupids’ classroom air
smells of Montreal, Montreal where des choses très intéressants
are always happening. Monsieur Levert believes tout le monde
can speak French if we will just try and so only French is
allowed in his classroom. If you need to use an English word
or two, though, Monsieur does not mind. Monsieur beams his
perfect white teeth at anyone who flexes un mot or deux.
3
“He’s a fag,” says Greg at recess, chieftain of a small band
of boys who hang out behind the school, trying out cigarettes
and new poses.
“Ferme ta bouche,” we tell him. “Idiot,” says Danielle,
gesturing in both official languages.
We are inseparable. Trois jeunes filles intelligentes. From baby
blankets spread on warm kitchen linoleum, to playpens, to
backyards, to the hills nearby, then school — we’ve grown closer
year after year until each one of us thinks like the others.
“Do you think Monsieur Levert was ever married?” Maxine
wants to know. She can’t lie on her stomach on Brenda’s bed
because her legs stick off, so she lies on her back with her knees
up, looking at the ceiling for answers.
“Doubt it. He doesn’t feel married.” Brenda licks her finger
and the pages of Modern Bride fly by. Danielle perches at her
shoulder so she can see.
“That one,” Danielle points. An ocean of ruffles and whitesatin polyester, puffed sleeves, a crust of beading falling down
the front. That one is carefully cut out, pasted to cardboard cut
from a Cheerios box, and carried to school for locker rotation.
On Fridays, we have sleepovers, usually at Danielle’s because
her father is the principal, her mother teaches geography,
and they have the biggest house in the harbour. Also, Cheez
Whiz and Pop-Tarts in the cupboard, chocolate ice cream in
the freezer, Pong and a rec room we can wreck, a place to play
Blondie albums really loud without being yelled at.
Except that this Friday Mr. Devereaux is in the rec room,
watching the large tv because Mrs. D. has a headache and has
gone to bed alone in their bedroom with the small tv and the
one in the living room with the Betamax is broken. We bring
our bowls of ice cream in with us, sit on the floor, and eat,
4 welcome to the circus
hoping he will take the hint but he doesn’t. Raising her eyebrows
high at us, Brenda slurps her ice cream and Danielle giggles.
“Shh,” says Mr. D. “I need to hear this.”
The man on the tv looks like Brenda’s grandfather: same
large lips mouthing a cigarette, same few strands of hair combed
sideways to cover the same freckled skull.
“He must know his skin shows through,” says Maxine.
Her lips are bright red from the raspberry Fun Dip she’s been
licking.
“Maybe oui, maybe non,” says Danielle.
“He’s an arsehole,” says Mr. D. “If he has his way, the whole
country will go to hell.”
“And he’s bald,” says Brenda.
The man on the tv is not from Newfoundland, which makes
him hard to understand, but his accent is French, just like
Monsieur Levert, so he must be from Montreal and therefore
he must know something. We listen, spoons clinking in our
emptying bowls, until we’re bored, which doesn’t take long.
Upstairs in Danielle’s bed, under its pink princess canopy all
the way from Sears in St. John’s, we give ourselves new names.
Brenda becomes Isabelle, and Maxine, Yvette. Danielle can still
be Danielle but now with a French accent. She thinks her family
used to be French maybe, a long time ago.
Monsieur Levert announces grades from our last French test
aloud in class.
“Maxine Winter —”
“Yvette,” whispers Yvette.
“. . . 87 pour cent.”
Yvette sits up, moves one shoulder toward her ear. It’s meant
to be a shrug, très Montréalaise. Not quite, but she’s beaming.
“Brenda Bonnell, 83%.” Isabelle is the image parfait example
of poise and secret delight.
Nous and René Lévesque
5
A few more names ring off one by one and now he is in the
seventies. Mon Dieu.
“Danielle Devereaux, 70%.” Shock, horreur.
After class, Danielle slips out, won’t talk to the other two of us.
But we are still three, we are inseparable, we have plans.
On vendredi soir, Danielle tells us that Monsieur Levert has
been sent to us by the government of Canada, a special language
monitor program to introduce French to the far away parts of
the country. Outside the bedroom window, the wind is beating up
against the house, a howl of protest as spring does its best to spring
in our small harbour. We are wrapped in flannel and wool socks.
Danielle is our source. Everything that happens in notre
petite école has been discussed first at her dinner table.
“He’s twenty-six,” she says. We all take this in silently:
older than we’d imagined.
In mid-May, a home computer arrives in Cupids. It takes up the
corner of Danielle’s rec room, the only computer in someone’s own
house that we know of. We can type things on it and print them
out, so we do. Also, there is a program on it called “Psychiatrist.”
Danielle types in “my parents are fighting” and it types back
“How do you feel about that?”
“I feel it sucks.”
“Tell me more.” After a while, this is boring so we make up
things to tell it.
“Greg Crummey had sex with an elephant.”
“Tell me more.”
“He liked it.” (“Greg or the elephant?” asks Yvette and we
kill ourselves. Hil. Arious.)
The computer doesn’t speak French. We try out a few things
Monsieur Levert est super-sexy — but all it says is “I’m sorry, can
you please repeat?”
6 welcome to the circus
When we type in swear words, the computer program tells
us it will not be spoken to in this manner and shuts itself down.
“Je vais marrier Monsieur Levert,” Isabelle says, staking her
claim as she touches the ocean ruffles dress on the inside of
Danielle’s locker. But after three weeks he still doesn’t seem to
notice her posing at the pencil sharpener; after two requests for
aide after school he tells her to just pay more attention in class.
Vendredi soir she insists that something must be done.
Anonymous notes, dans la langue d’amour. She’s afraid her
handwriting will be recognized so we try typing them on the
computer. After some fifteen minutes of debate over tu or vous,
Danielle presses print and tears the hole-filled edges off the
sheet of paper:
Mon cher Monsieur Levert,
Tu es adorable et magnifique.
Je t’aime.
xoxo
Mademoiselle Anonymous
“It doesn’t look right,” Isabelle says, and it’s true. On the paper
like that, the letters fade away, unimportant but strangely
official at the same time.
“You tell me what you want to say and I’ll write it,” says
Danielle. Pink construction paper is produced (the colour is
rose éternelle, Yvette says), and glitter pens. The final product is
sophisticated and elegant, just the right touch of a large purple
glitter heart at the end.
Nous and René Lévesque
7
“Très chic,” says Danielle.
“Romantique,” says Isabelle.
Yvette says rien and folds the letter into perfect thirds.
In the morning, we carry out our secret mission to deliver
the letter. Danielle wants us all to wear black, so we’ll blend in
just in case someone sees us, but navy is all the three of us own
and Yvette points out that the school walls are yellow.
8:00 am. One of us at the end of the corridor, one at the
class door, and one to rush in to plant the note in Monsieur
Levert’s desk drawer. French class feels like éternité but the
drawer remains shut, though our three hearts open and close
rapidly like the mouths of tiny birds.
The next morning, Monsieur Levert stands in front of his map
of Canada and La Francophonie, and explains le séparation.
It doesn’t really mean separate and apart, it means separate but
still together. Sovereignty-Association, nous répétons. It makes
the most sense, he says. It’s like growing up, becoming mature
and independent and moving away from your parents’ house.
We look at La Francophonie as he tells us and all we can
see is Paris glowing in the centre. Paris, mais oui. It is far away,
at least as far away from Cupids as Cupids is from Montreal.
Newfoundland sits on the edge of Canada as though the country
was sticking its tongue out. Sunshine from the class windows
reflects off the laminate map and we can see ourselves in
its reflection.
Danielle asks Monsieur Levert why Newfoundland is
separate from Le Rest du Canada; she points to where it hangs
over the edge.
“Non,” he says. It’s not the same kind of separate. For
Quebec, there is a common language to protect, une culture.
We know culture, it means Montreal. It’s everything we plan to
get away to one day, but we hadn’t planned on it being separate.
8 welcome to the circus
Monsieur Levert leads us to sing “Mon pays ce n’est pas
un pays, c’est l’hiver” but outside the class windows spring is
trying its level best and none of this makes any sense.
We must get the note back. Isabelle panics and she can’t
sleep, it was a bad idea, she says, and if he finds it she doesn’t
think she can stand it. She is malade to her estomach just
thinking about it. What if he knows it’s her, what if he calls
her parents. Her father isn’t home, he’s out on the water, but
her mother is home and she would skin her. We don’t know
the French mot for this but we know her mother and we can
see it happening.
The next morning we wear our navy again, go to school
early, station ourselves to sound the alert. We can’t agree who
should go in to get the letter back.
“It’s your stupid letter,” Yvette hisses at Isabelle across
the hall where she’s hiding up against the lockers. But Isabelle
won’t go, she’s on the verge of wigging out, so Danielle goes in.
When she comes out, we’re all on the edge.
“It isn’t there,” she says.
Merde.
Isabelle runs to the girls’ room. She’s crying and she’s
nauseous and so she goes home with “stomach flu.”
French class comes and goes and Monsieur Levert says rien
about the letter.
For a whole week.
Spring breaks through in full and there are days of sun.
At lunch time, we can walk up the harbour and get custard
cones, taking off our windbreakers and folding them into little
pouches worn at our waists when we get too warm.
The next vendredi is Day Six and French class is the last
period. Monsieur Levert gives the class worksheets on verbes.
Nous and René Lévesque
9
When everyone is quiet, he walks up behind Danielle and taps
her on the shoulder to come with him.
They are gone a really long time, at least ten minutes.
Isabelle rocks back and forth in her seat.
After school at Danielle’s, we sit in the rec room, with bowls
of kd getting clammy in our laps.
“I don’t like him anymore, he’s mean,” says Danielle.
She says he took the note out of his pocket and showed it to her,
asked her if it was hers. She told him no and he accused her of
lying, but she told him it couldn’t be hers because she didn’t
even think like that about him anyway. Which is true, she says.
“La verité,” says Yvette.
“Shut up, Yvette,” says Danielle. “Speak English.”
Yvette throws a fit, says it was never fair for one of us to just
pick him out like that anyway, all toute seule. She decides to go
home and not stay over after all. None of us has done that since
the time of staying over started. When she leaves, the rec room
is too quiet, like the air in there has come apart.
“Let’s just watch a video,” Danielle says. But her dad comes in
and puts on the news. The bald guy is back, with his talk of refer­
endum and a vote to decide the future, next Tuesday, May 20.
“Jesus idiot,” says Mr. D.
That night just the two of us sleep under the princess canopy.
The future seems to yawn open, becomes something far less
certain, all of our plans swinging on their hinges.
Monday we get our French tests back again: Isabelle (84%)
and Yvette (82%). Danielle has a 62% which is practically a fail.
At recess, only two of us are there, Danielle has disappeared
and it feels like there’s a new kind of space between us.
Tuesday Danielle is still not in school. In French class
Monsieur Levert wants us to say why ce soir is important but no
one he asks gives him the answer he is looking for. Even we are
10 w e l c o m e t o t h e c i r c u s
silent. Without Danielle we are too bored for vocab. He sends
us away early, so mad his hair sticks up from rubbing his hands
through it and his lips thin out in a way even Isabelle says is not
very attractive.
Wednesday comes and almost everything is still together,
the country at least. Monsieur Levert is malade and we have
a substitute, but she can’t speak French so we do English class
instead.
May rolls over into June with a fog that muffles everything.
Danielle sits alone in the back of class, doesn’t look at us when
we look at her, doesn’t try to answer Monsieur Levert’s grammar
questions, spends recess hanging out with her cousins from
down around the shore. They are notoriously bad spellers.
With only two of us, sleepovers move to Isabelle’s and we
begin baking in a way that says food might keep everything
together. Friday nights are an orgy of Devil’s Food cupcakes
and icing fresh from the can, caramel pudding cakes with the
sauce baked in. We sit in our nightgowns and get Betty Crocker
crumbs in the bed. We give up our French names, writing them
down on strips of paper and burning them in the blueberryscented candle Isabelle has stolen from her mom’s room.
Danielle inches back. She looks over her shoulder in geography
one day and we are surprised but we smile back. In English the
next day she passes us both a note to meet her in the library
at lunch. When we get there, she’s at the back wall where they
keep the large map of the world. She has a pile of books on the
table next to her and the yellow-tipped pointer stick in her hand.
With it, she taps a space just below France.
“Yo hablo español,” she says. The books are full of Barcelona
and Madrid, ladies with full ruffled dresses and red high-heeled
shoes. Oh, Madrid.
Nous and René Lévesque
11
Near the end of June, Monsieur Levert is disparu. For two days,
he doesn’t show up and then Mr. Devereaux comes in to talk
to us, wearing the face he wore to watch the news. Monsieur
Levert has left, he tells us. He was unhappy (our minds leap to
triste before we can stop them) because he had been receiving
notes. We three are still, except for our hearts fluttering in our
rib-caves.
Mr. Devereaux unfolds a note — thin green paper of pure
relief — and reads: “Go back home you frogy fag.” In the tick tick
of the wall clock, our stomachs settle as the rest of the room
avoids looking over at Greg.
Mr. D. explains hatred, he explains bad manners, he shames
the writer for bad spelling, he explains that a guest came to
Newfoundland, came to Cupids, our harbour, and was sent away.
He says we ought to feel ashamed and we do, at least three of us
do. Notes become conflated and confused in the silence Mr. D.
opens in the room. He says every single one of us will have
detention until the person or persons who did this confesses.
Behind him on the blackboard: Nathalie mange un gros gâteau.
Je me brosse les dents. Il y a un oiseau a la fenêtre and its wings
beat the glass once, then it’s gone.
12 w e l c o m e t o t h e c i r c u s
Read more by Rhonda Douglas:
rhondadouglas.com
@shallicompare
freehand-books.com