Читать книгу René Lévesque - Marguerite Paulin - Страница 12

1

I Don’t Want to Destroy Canada

“My dear friends, if I have understood you well…” René Lévesque attempts to silence his supporters gathered together at the Paul Sauvé Centre. Two women stand behind him, in the background: Corinne Côté, his wife, and Lise Payette, Minister Responsible for the Status of Women and the only cabinet member present at this occasion. Wearing black, as if symbolically in mourning.

From the bleachers to the floor, signs reading “oui” alternate with Fleur-de-lis flags. In the distance, a few voices strike up “Mon cher René, c’est à ton tour,” and spontaneously thousands of supporters join in the Gilles Vigneault song to pay homage to their leader’s courage. Lévesque smiles sadly.

At a little before eight o’clock on May 20, 1980, the referendum results are official: 59.6 per cent of Quebecers have said “no.” Some two million Quebecers refuse to give the government a mandate to negotiate a new political accord with the federal government.

It is a bitter defeat: over half the population has just rejected sovereignty-association. The leader of the Parti Québécois (PQ) assesses the extent of his power: before him, impassioned men and women await but one word to invade the streets of Montreal. One sign and they would force open the doors of the arena to show their sadness and disappointment.

René Lévesque had rewritten his speech several times. A democrat, the sovereigntist leader accepts the voters’ decision. Now they have to live together, despite the fact that voters are divided. They must make peace with their opponents, with those who believe in federalism. The Parti Québécois leader again asks for silence. His voice rises above the shouting crowd:

“My dear friends… If I’ve understood you clearly, you’ve just said “Till the next time…”

The supporters roar their approval: they want to resume the struggle as soon as possible. The battle has been lost, but not the war.

Lévesque then spontaneously invites those present in the room to join in the “the most beautiful of Quebec songs.” And, slightly off key, he strikes up “Gens du pays,” the song the crowd had begun to sing earlier. The time for sadness has passed: solidarity has overridden rancour and bitterness. Leader of the PQ government since November 15, 1976, René Lévesque is, first and foremost, premier of all Quebecers. After four years in power, he is thinking of the next provincial election he must soon call.

René Lévesque wants to bring opposing forces together, and he is the man for the job.

The referendum campaign had started long before it was officially called in March 1980.

Three years earlier, shortly after coming into power, René Lévesque had taken on a new responsibility: governing within Canadian Confederation while promoting the Parti Québécois’ sovereigntist option.

“It all would have been simpler if a vote for us had meant a vote for independence,” he regretted.

It was Claude Morin who proposed gradualism in 1972: win the election and then hold a referendum on Quebec sovereignty. “After all,” he claimed, “the time is ripe for negotiation and consensus. The international community will never recognize our political status if we only scrape by to win.”

René Lévesque also believed it necessary to consult the people before changing the country’s constitution. At the November 1974 convention of the Parti Québécois, the referendum passed two to one. From then on, they aimed for the majority of the National Assembly. But members were divided. Lévesque had to exert influence so that the resolution could pass, which displeased some, certain of whom even tore up their membership cards.

“It was the first crisis that had the potential to completely ruin us,” Lévesque confessed.

After the Parti Québécois was elected on November 15, 1976, René Lévesque returned to the very essence of the Sovereignty-Association Movement that he had founded nine years earlier. “Today,” he said, “I value this union more than ever!” It was a point of honour he set for himself. A sovereign Quebec must establish an economic partnership with Canada. On the strength of this faith, he curtailed the radical wing of the Parti Québécois that wanted to declare immediate independence. Lévesque was wary of idealists who didn’t accept the ground rules of democracy.

“They’re nitpicking troublemakers!” he said. “With left-wingers like these we’ll rot from within.”

From early 1977 on, the leader of the PQ needed to contain the aftershock. Lévesque had a heavy load to carry. One false move could endanger the entire party.

Any discussion among the party members – the Péquistes – inevitably resulted in a debate about the party’s options. Should they hold the referendum in the first year of the mandate? No. The leader’s response was unequivocal. Lévesque had other projects near to his heart, including passing a law on political party financing.

“There will be no more secret funds. Enough of giving money to friends of the party. I want the first law my government passes to give voters confidence.”

Certain people advised him that he was taking a risk by putting the referendum on hold. Lévesque remained firm:

“As Claude Morin says, you can’t force a flower to grow. Everything in good time.”

“If we lose, we can expect criticism.”

“And if we win,” he added confidently, “people will say we had intuition.”

It was difficult to choose ministers among the seventy-one PQ members elected November 15. Lévesque would make some jealous and he warned those most in a hurry: his nominations were not cast in stone. In the Eastern Townships, where he had gone to escape for a few days, he said he would begin the never-ending task that was choosing a cabinet.

First, a list of the most likely names: Jacques Parizeau for Finance. What about Jacques-Yvan Morin for Culture? He tore up the piece of paper and began again. Then he remembered Robert Bourassa’s advice. While playing at designating future PQ ministers, the Liberal leader had noted, “Monsieur Lévesque, you would be better off having so-and-so in your cabinet rather than outside it.” He was right. The PQ leader worked on tirelessly, then went back to square one, determined this time to get it right.

During his sixteen years in politics, René Lévesque had known ups and downs. In September, for example, he had considered throwing in the towel. But Claude Charron’s interview in Le Devoir had galvanized him. Being called a “little old man” and “dead wood” at age fifty-four was hard to swallow! Should he resign, make way for new blood? No! Retiring was out of the question. The Parti Québécois had to remain true to the commitments it had made at the last convention. Swinging too radically to the left was out of the question. The “little old man” was resilient. He ordered the discontented: “Leave! Go found your own party!” Everything could have fallen apart at that point. But luck had it that Robert Bourassa, banking on the excitement of the Olympics, prematurely called the election for November 15.

His list completed, Lévesque met with each new minister. Jacques Parizeau was awarded the “triple crown”: Minister of Finance, President of the Treasury Board, and Minister of Revenue. He thus held the most important position in the PQ cabinet. Jean Garon, named Minister of Agriculture, at first considered refusing. He was informed he would end up regretting it: Lévesque never forgot an insult and especially disliked being opposed. The PQ leader was soon to offer Claude Charron, who had openly opposed his leadership at the Handfield Inn, the Department of Youth and Sport – with the problem of the Olympic deficit as a bonus! This was a hot potato in the hands of the young rebel who had opposed the leader. And Lévesque named Lise Payette, who had hoped for Culture, as Minister of the Department of Consumer Affairs, Cooperatives, and Financial Institutions. Not very original, the only woman appointed to caucus told herself. A woman in the Liberal government had held the same position just before her!

“I didn’t recruit people from the world of finance,” René Lévesque proudly pointed out, emphasizing the contrast with economist Robert Bourassa’s former Liberal government.

Complex J building of the Grande-Allée in Quebec City was aptly called “the bunker.” The elevator went right up to the cabinet room. Windowless, its walls covered in carpet, this softly lit strongroom looked like a flying saucer. Smack in the middle, an impressive horseshoe-shaped table dominated the entire room. “It looks like Dr. Strangelove’s war room,” remarked Lise Payette. “It feels as if we’re isolated in a space capsule,” added Lévesque. Before the opening of the first PQ Parliament, set for December 14, the meetings were like family get-togethers. People were becoming acquainted, sizing each other up. One, rather casual, removed his socks under the table; another grumbled constantly, contradicting everyone. All were on guard: they could not allow a colleague to eat into the slightest piece of their territory. It was a male chauvinist environment characterized by starchy ritual. On each side of the premier, in alphabetical order, alternating, the ministers sat properly in the seat designated by a card. The school of British parliamentarism was strict and disciplined. This first PQ cabinet was learning the ropes, and the students were well behaved. The most unruly waited until later before making themselves heard. René Lévesque had a moderating effect on the zealots: the people had voted against the Liberals, not for the PQ. Linguistic battles, the Olympic deficit, and the wear and tear of power had gotten the better of the Bourassa government. “We will try to learn from the errors of our predecessors.” René Lévesque was especially fond of one project among several and kept returning to it: “We will give Quebecers a code of ethics in voting practices.” Enough favouritism and insidious patronage. Any gift over twenty-five dollars had to be returned. Holding interest in companies doing business with the State was out of the question. People who had shares in the stock market had sixty days to dispose of them. Looking hard at each cabinet minister, Lévesque concluded:

“And if I ever catch one of you bribing anybody, I’ll blow the whistle on you immediately!”

“Cancelling is out of the question. Yes, I’ll be there.” As planned, Lévesque went to the federal-provincial conference set before the election. “Deep down,” he said to those close to him, “I want people to know that I do not want to destroy Canada. I am going to Ottawa in good faith, even though I think it’s a waste of time.” From the first day on, the Quebec delegation was questioned by journalists who hoped at every turn for confrontations between the separatist and the federalist. Lévesque versus Trudeau, the bitter rivals, as they liked to call them. For the prime minister of Canada, the PQ victory was practically a personal defeat. Now, making the best of things, he predicted the Péquiste government would not be able to hold on to power following the November 15 victory.

René Lévesque learned a tough lesson at this first meeting with his counterparts from other provinces. Against all expectations, seven provinces chose to penalize themselves by agreeing to two income tax points instead of four. To journalists seeking his impressions, Lévesque conceded that the inter-provincial alliance was a trap. “The others chose to let us down, even at the risk of losing millions from the federal government.” Lévesque returned from Ottawa disappointed, convinced more than ever that sovereignty was the best solution for Quebec.

He set aside political quarrels and spoke of the upcoming vacation he would take with Corinne Côté. Yielding to his companions insistent demands, he was going out openly with her.

“You’re not afraid what people will say?” a friend asked him. “After all, you’re still not divorced.”

René Lévesque didn’t worry about his reputation as a skirt chaser. He was uninfluenced by scruples, hated moralizing and worrying about gossip. Being premier would not change his attitude. He loved Corinne, whom he had met eight years earlier at the launch of his book Option Québec (An Option for Quebec). Among the guests jockeying for autographs, he had noticed a young Laval University student originally from Alma. Born into a Quebec nationalist family, Corinne Côté admired René Lévesque. He had left a well-established political party to begin a thrilling adventure, not knowing whether his courageous move held a future. Among the people congratulating him, Lévesque was entranced by the dark eyes of this woman twenty years his junior. The seducer was seduced. “Call me,” he had written to her after seeing her again at a dinner with friends. What began as a fling, little by little developed into a love affair spanning nearly twenty years. He who had never let himself fall victim to love was now contemplating splitting up with his wife Louise. He would be the first Quebec head of state to divorce. And he didn’t give a hoot about the gossip.

To be witty or provoke people, René Lévesque considered himself a Yankeebécois. He liked the U.S., was fascinated by its history, its people, its geography. As soon as he had a chance, he would rush to the Atlantic coast where the ocean and scenery reminded him of his childhood in the Gaspé. Far from being a threat, he saw the United States as a democracy whose political institutions protected against excess. He admired the great dream of equality held by the founders of the American nation and personified by presidents such as Franklin Delano Roosevelt. FDR was his hero. The New Deal slogan, We have nothing to fear but fear itself would serve as the point of departure for his sovereigntist manifesto Option Québec. For Lévesque, Europe was far away. On the other hand, America was on the same continent. For better or for worse. He was also thrilled, at the beginning of his mandate, to receive an invitation to give a talk to members of the Economic Club of New York. Robert Bourassa had had to wait three years before being extended the same privilege! But Lévesque was not taken in by the honour: the Wall Street financiers seemed quite impatient to meet the leader of a party that wanted the separation of Quebec.

René Lévesque worked on his speech until late in the night, seeking the right idea, the words that would strike a chord with his hosts. He scratched out a sentence that he had left unfinished. No one else was allowed to look at his speech. When it came to explaining his ideas, he once more became the journalist of the program that had made him famous. René Lévesque forever remained the star of Point de mire.

Before leaving for New York, those accompanying him insisted on reading his speech. “We have to modify certain expressions, nuance things.” When the premier heard of this order, he categorically refused to change so much as a comma. He refused to address the bankers of the Economic Club any differently from the way he had always addressed Quebec voters. On January 24, an airplane landed on a private field in New Jersey, with the Quebec delegation on board. The next day, the Quebec premier was to meet powerful America, the big boys on Wall Street. René Lévesque was nervous and impatient. He had to prove that his government was a credible player in the eyes of the most imposing empire in the world, to show that the Parti Québécois could hold its own on the North American political scene. There was a full schedule of meetings. In a few hours, he would meet about twenty lenders holding millions of dollars, investors that he had to convince. Lévesque grumbled to himself: “If it were only that!” In the evening, receptions and official handshakes would follow. His personal hell.

“Do they all think the same thing?”

They were rebroadcasting the program in which journalists analysed the premier’s visit to the Economic Club.

René Lévesque had committed the error he should have avoided. He had given a disappointing speech! It was the wrong way to speak to the Americans. He turned off the television, lit a cigarette. Were they right in reproaching him for having drawn a parallel between the sovereignty of his country and the thirteen American colonies’ struggle for independence? “It was an awkward comparison,” Claude Morin remarked to him. “I said to change certain paragraphs.” Lévesque was not the type to blame his blunders on others. “Everyone knows that I write my speeches alone.” He remained convinced that he was right to mention 1776. Even if the historical context was different from Quebec’s, he thought, the people aspiring to freedom displayed the same courage. Drawing inspiration from historian Alexis de Tocqueville, Lévesque maintained that Quebecers were hostage to a political system unfavourable to them. Certainly the parallel was awkward, but he had to find an image for his audience that would hit home. He had managed to shake them up.

“There were one thousand six-hundred guests in the Hilton Ballroom; I’ll never believe that they’re all as fanatical as the Toronto clique.”