He makes full use of his remaining days. I’m certain he feels he’ll go on forever. No need to ask. The full day starts with a 6 AM basement stationary bike workout, 20 minutes. Then the phone calls, mostly going out, he orders this, commands that, which ultimately leads to delays necessitating yet another call to announce he’ll arrive later than scheduled. Busy, busy, you know.
The end of the day does finally arrive, late of course, long after sundown, but arriving with a satisfaction which he feels deep down in his tissue, deep down in his fabric, a contented satisfaction of jobs well done and at-a-boy honours soon on the horizon.
Like us, M. mayor recently moved to this hamlet, this sleepy oasis. But unlike us, he is already making waves; it’s in his nature to make waves, to get things done. He sees the gravel paths on rue Principle paved into concrete sidewalks though he must drive his SUV because of his flat feet.
Newly arrived is relative. The benchmark for the historically inclined village folk is the pioneers who moved mostly from Montreal five generations ago for the free land, free as long as these hearty few made use of it. Some five generations ago they rooted down, planting enough seed to satisfy the king, his representatives and the local priest. The children remained rooted, cousin next to cousin, aunt and uncle down the street. They became excavators, builders, local government administrators or elected officials. They gave the family name to the street their family occupied for all those generations: rue Blondin, rue Baulne, rue Allard.
But let me get back to the newly arrived, present for a matter of years, not even a decade.
He retired here from the east end of Montreal but still maintains a city schedule. He works hard and sleeps little. But when he does sleep, he sleeps profoundly, done to perfection in great detail. Yes he works hard and his spirit shoots straight like an arrow.
He rallies around him a team of faithful. It is mayoral election season and he’s seeking a second term He keeps a tight rope. He prods them along, he strikes with his spirited arrow if necessary. They toe the line. The circle of faithful enlarges, from the very inner core of council members which clandestinely meet for hours at a time, to distant volunteers trained to stuff envelopes or prepare lists. And when this precise, taut woven circle begins to fray he himself reaches out and does the stitching, ties the knot.
Four years ago he took the mayoral seat and transformed a part-time elected position in our little village into a full time passion. He is transparent, pro-environment, (does this mean if you’re not with him you’re anti-environment?) He is honest. You can trust him with your last dollar. He is committed but please don’t call him insane. His drive is without end, his energy contagious.
Now he has the vote. Persistent door knocking and more intimate sessions with the wealthy land owners who always feel they must be treated different, yield registries of the strong supporters, the number ones. Hubert, LaBelle, Sanfacon, Lacasse, Bergeron, Pineault, Rivard, Trépanier. The list goes on for a total of more than 600 names. But wait. I don’t see McGinley in this list of number ones. Maybe McGinley doesn’t belong.
This is the setting in which I landed. His ubiquitous arrow had avoided me, odd man out McGinley. But, for the last three years, the M. Mayor targeted MFA. She didn’t immediately dive in and noticing her reluctance he appointed her to the CCU, the comité consultatif d’urbanisme. A first step, a calculated move, she became a thread in the faithful fabric which he could reweave later.
He is obviously fond of her and she is easy, “Comme vous voulez M. Mayor.” Too easy. Not that I need to be concerned. He is old enough to be her grandfather.
It is now later and he asks her to be a member of his team of councillors, six total to give advice. Or is it to surround the mayor? Half the councillors are retired already wanting something to do. Six total make policy in this village of 2500 citizens.
Too many you say. I agree.
But there are decisions to make, projects, land to develop, enormous land to develop.
M. Mayor says we need to continue developing to remain independent.
“We might as well merge with St Sauveur if we can’t build any more.”
So it is campaign season. Another mayoral election and the spirits are high as the weather turns cold. The winter cold doesn’t stop the arrows from flying.
The mayor (maire sortant) holds the kick-off party at his home and he wants a large turn-out. Word will get around the village that the mayor already has a large following. The mayor hopes this will discourage any contenders. He strategizes, always puts plans in place and leaves no rock unturned.
I want to do my part to confound this charade and invite my Cuban American and Ukrainian neighbours who are ineligible to vote but are always willing to accept free flowing wine.
It is rainy and cold the day of the campaign kick-off. The mayor lives on a hilly street so a volunteer car shuttle service is offered to the supporters.
Silence now, the mayor will speak. Silence please.
We stand packed together, jacketed against the cold on the backyard deck. Earlier that day yet more volunteers drew a tarp overhead to protect supporters from the rain. The rain keeps a steady beat and runs off the far end of the tarp in sheets.
Ok now, the mayor is ready to present. Silence please.
We sip our wine from little plastic cups and settle down.
But what’s this?
Look.
The mayor reveals several sheets of paper, neatly folded in half. He unfolds, presses flat and begins to read.
This is his kick-off speech to rally the supporters. I stand close enough to M. Mayor with his head down reading the text, some bold, some bold and capitalized. His voice rises and falls with the script.
I feel pity for this diminutive and proficient man. The heart has been removed, surgically; that is the nature of these things. Not a drop of blood spilled.
Now he summarizes in English. One of the faithful translated a condensed version.
“An now I won to sa a feu wors to my engulish fuens”
I appreciate the effort and tell him so in my clumsy French.
“M. Mayor, your French is very good.” We have a laugh.
This moment represents the summit of our relationship.
And in my view, whatever relationship there is between us, it continues to decline. At various village gatherings, from births to funerals, (he attends them all), when I am reluctantly present I get a perfunctory hand shake then he hurriedly moves on to conduct more value-added business. I feel angry and isolated and I don’t like this feeling one bit.
I tend to question motives. To be honest, it is more than a tend to, it is an obsession. This questioning is not the Michael Moore big business conspiring against the little guy. That’s too easy which explains Moore’s mass appeal. The motives I question deal with the “inner circle”, the fraternity of friends which exclude, the back slapper, the at-a-boy, the gourmet dinner gathering for the pampered few to raise money for the soup kitchen which feeds the hungry.
At the most recent gourmet dinner fundraiser for the local soup kitchen the mayor receives an award and much applause (yes that mayor and more awards). Why this honour? He orders meals once a month from the soup kitchen for the monthly council meetings. The meals are paid for from the city coffers. Ok, it’s a small sum but why not applaud the village citizens?
Campaign season is clearly marked by posters which sprout during the night and come into full bloom the next day. In our village they sprout in pairs, M. Mayor with his team and the opposition, side by side, rarely one without the other. Village citizens can read from poster left to poster right, the two posters become one political campaign: “A team that works for you and with you……..Always on your side…….” To get the entire campaign punch, one must have some speed reading skills for each team does have much to offer.
Most major intersections of our village display these large (maybe three by six feet) political posters nailed in place and struck to the ground with 2 by 4s’. Our mayor steps toward you with confidence, fists firm; he is a man of action. His thin white lips clamp shut forming a perfect straight line. Is that a smile or a frown, I wonder pausing just long enough to solicit a honk from the impatient driver behind me. He is definitely a man to be taken seriously. He is in charge with his diminutive council members receded in the far background as if part of the landscape.
His look reminds me of some cartoon character. Is it the nearsighted Mr Magoo or Homer Simpson’s senile, demanding father?
Anyway, he will most likely take charge as mayor of the village for another four years and MFA will be swept into this demanding administrative structure.
“Comme vous voulez M. Mayor.”
I have never thought about casting a vote as much as this one. I wonder with all that’s being said and all the scrutiny and all the rumours, I wonder if my vote will truly be cast in secret. The nice, frail retired lady paid a small pittance to help on election day will subtly make a tiny fold on my ballot to show later on, during the counting, that this man, husband of candidate for council seat number 2, did not even make a mark on the mayoral ballot, did not make a choice for one or the other.
It all came to a head Saturday afternoon, the day before the first day of elections. All the distance I felt between them (the village power brokers) and me, the exclusivity with which they unintentionally operated and the resentment I felt being on the outside came to a head.
MFA intended to make phone calls all day to rally her supporters and to satisfy last minute desires of M. Mayor. But the opposing team had distributed a campaign brochure the night before to every resident in the village. The brochure summarized the attacks the opposition had made during the two month campaign.
Saviez-vouz? The village annual budget increased one million dollars with M. Mayor,
Saviez-vouz? the local police force were mistreated by M. Mayor,
Saviez-vouz?……….
This last minute assault hit with remarkable accuracy. The phone calls MFA made to neighbours, instead of being, ‘get out the vote’ calls, were focused on defending M. Mayor’s administrative record. M. Mayor himself called last minute huddles with the core faithful to assess the damage. But the mayor issued no public response, a strategy he deployed during the entire campaign as if to say, -my exceptional record as mayor speaks for itself. I have no need to defend my actions.-
The calls and e-mails fluttered about all day and near five in the afternoon the cordless phone beeped with exhaustion, needing a recharge. The phone rang once more. MFA answered the call from my office using my well rested office phone. It was M. Mayor once again. He demanded MFA to update him on the faithful she had contacted.
“Yes M. Mayor, he will be available one half hour in advance”, MFA assured him
“Yes, she has the pencils and rulers. I gave them to her this morning.”
This exchange continued for another four or five minutes and I could see no end in sight. He needed assurance and MFA offered it in great quantity. He asked that more documents be e-mailed while my patience grew shorter. MFA sensed my impatience and thought it best to leave my office and continue satisfying M. Mayor from the partially recharged cordless.
“One minute please M. Mayor. I’m in my husband’s office and he’s next to me trying to study. I’ll pick up another phone, one minute please.”
MFA left my office to search for the cordless. I felt the heat of anger rising up to my head. I act impulsively in these circumstances and I charged ahead in this instance. I picked up the vacated phone and started with a salutation.
“Bonjour M. Mayor”
We greeted each other. This is where conversations between M. Mayor and me always begin and end, with a brief greeting. This time I had purpose and it showed in my voice. The fight chemicals were instantly released and I felt the strength they gave me. I had no control over this. This was man-to-man combat.
“Will this take long M. Mayor,” I asked, my voice becoming noticeably firmer. “We are expected at our neighbours in a few minutes; this is Saturday evening M. Mayor.”
“No, no, we are finished,” he responded in surprise. I could barely hear him as my heart pounded up to my ears.
“Very good M. Mayor, have a good evening.” I let him go with that short exchange while MFA took up the other line.
“Hello M. Mayor, hello, are you there?”
She finally finished and approached me disturbed by the exchange she overheard.
“I’m so embarrassed. Why do you despise him so? What has he done?”