River City Read Online Free PDF Page B

of them rehashed a meeting that had gone badly, the man adroitly, and bravely, fingered those who lied. Finding him on the square, Trudeau dropped his automatic air of combativeness.
    “Father François,” Trudeau greeted him. “A surprise. How’s it going?”
    “Fine, Pierre. Taking in the riot on a midnight stroll?”
    On the bench seat, the marks of footprints in snow told that others had sat in a similar position to himself, on the backrest. “Father, are you blind? I’m sitting here, minding my own business.”
    The young priest emitted a self-conscious chuckle and sat at the opposite end of the bench, on the icy seat portion. “I see the potential arsonist in you, Pierre. You’re in the mood to burn down a building. So don’t tell me you’re here as a neutral observer.”
    “Observations are neutral? Since when? We see what we want to see, with the slant we prefer. What about you, Father? Packing snowballs with rocks inside? Burning cop cars?”
    “Twenty-five minutes ago—like you, I was minding my own business—I was standing alongside a cop car when it burst into flames.”
    “Spontaneous combustion?”
    “Something like that.” The priest leaned forward. The night was not too cold for March, but his breath was visible under the streetlights. “I singed my jacket. My first thought: what happens if the gas tank explodes? I tried moving people away, but on a night like this, people have minds of their own. They insisted on encircling the car, cheering.”
    “And you, incognito with no collar on. You could have said Mass.”
    “I didn’t expect to be attending to my flock this evening.”
    “Didn’t you?” Trudeau dug his hands into his pockets to warm them, not having bothered with gloves. “You usually listen to hockey games, Father?”
    “At this time of year, of course. Not you?”
    “Tonight, for the first time. But I expected tonight to be different—more than just a game.” Both men were distracted by a momentary roar from the approaching throng. “Sports fans,” Trudeau scoffed in the sardonic manner familiar to Father François Legault. “Their team scored a goal.”
    “Another cop car’s been roasted,” the priest surmised.
    “An English store window spontaneously shattered.”
    The priest eyed the other man closely. While he had been irritated by Trudeau in some discussions before, a timbre to his manner on this night made Legault suspect that he might enjoy his company. “You’re not curious, Pierre? You’ll walk no closer?”
    “They’ll be here soon enough.”
    Father François looked around. In accompanying the mob down Ste. Catherine Street, he had usually contrived to stay ahead of the action, looking for those areas where the police might initiate a pitched battle. In one instance, he coaxed officers to retreat by pointing out to them the discrepancy in numbers. In another, he confronted the wounded on both sides of a fight while they awaited ambulances. “The French and the Catholic are fighting French Catholics. Does this make sense?” he inquired. Lacking confidence in his physical health, he had carried on to this square. Intermittent breathers kept his pulse regular.
    “Why be confident, Pierre, of where they’ll go? It’s a mob. Without a destination. It could turn off anywhere, slide away in any direction.”
    Across the street from Phillips Square, where they were sitting, a department store, Morgan’s, projected its wares in bright windows. Like Eaton’s a block away, the store was an emblem of English Canada. Clothing, furniture and cosmetics for the ladies, but the French were obliged to speak English if they expected to be served, and speak it well if they wished to be served politely. A French lady buying French perfume from France had to learn to say please, not s’il vous plaît.
    “Why trouble myself by finding the riot,” Trudeau remarked, a nod indicating Morgan’s, “when I can sit here in a front-row seat and the riot will find