Monique Nemni

IN SEARCH OF THE STATESMAN
 
For Canadians, the adoption of the Charter of Rights and Freedoms in 1982 marks the birth of modern-day Canada.
—jean-françois lisée
La Presse, June 30, 2010
 
WHAT, ANOTHER BOOK ON TRUDEAU?
Haven’t there been enough already – and maybe even a few too many? What can we offer that is really new? The answer can be summed up in a few words: we are directing a ray of light on one particular aspect of his character. Instead of the usual wide-beam searchlight, covering long periods of Trudeau’s life in their many dimensions, we propose a more focused study, both of the period and of the perspective. We believe this will help to get a clearer view of a man still regarded as an enigma.
 
Trudeau the chameleon, many people believe, will always be an enigma. Indeed, journalists, biographers, and many Canadians have been and continue to be intrigued and puzzled by Trudeau. A witty comment about him conjures up the peculiar state of confusion writers find themselves in when they set out to describe him: “Someone is going to say some day, ‘Will the real Mr. Trudeau please stand up,’ and about fifty-eight people will rise.”1 Quoted first by his biographer George Radwanksi in 1978, this comment has often been repeated, as if to highlight the contradictory aspects of the man or to suggest some elusive quality that makes it practically impossible to figure him out.
 
We have been associated with Pierre Elliott Trudeau for nearly twenty years, first as friends over a decade, then for another ten years buried in his personal papers and publications: we could make similar comments, although we would interpret his many facets differently. Indeed, we could have written several different biographies of Trudeau.
 
We could have written a biography of Trudeau-the-athlete. Anecdotes abound on the subject. For example, we could have described the many canoe expeditions he undertook, starting at a young age, travelling up to a thousand miles in a single journey. He was an avid skier who leapt at the chance to hit the mountain trails; in his younger years, he won several medals for his prowess on skis, and he was still skiing in powder shortly before his death in 2000. He was fascinated by all manner of water sports: swimming, diving, water skiing, scuba diving – and he excelled in every one. He knew how to fly a plane and could fly solo; he loved zooming up hill and down dale on his famous Harley-Davidson; he hiked hundreds of kilometres on foot and climbed mountains. Trudeau could do vertical headstands and horizontal handstands, as photographs in several biographies attest. Once he became prime minister, frisky as ever in his fifties, he could easily shake off admirers and journalists alike by bounding up the steps in the Parliament Buildings four at a time. We could give many other examples.
 
Long-time friend Peter Green provides a less well known anecdote. When Trudeau was prime minister, he sometimes vacationed with his family at the Green home in Jamaica, a constable of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police always coming along for security reasons. One day Green brought a horse to the beach so the children could have fun riding. “Pierre asked the Mountie to give a demonstration for the boys. The poor guy had probably not ridden for years and stumbled around the beach on the long-suffering horse. Pierre, without saying a word, got on the horse bareback – in his swimming shorts – and gave a short demonstration of control and superb riding technique, much to the embarrassment of the Mountie.”
 
We could have told many other juicy anecdotes along these lines, without exhausting all the sports at which Trudeau excelled. By the end of this biography of Trudeau-the-athlete, readers would likely conclude that he could have mastered these athletic feats only by devoting all his waking hours to sports and fitness. Obviously he could never have found time for serious business, so the real Trudeau must have been Trudeau-the- athlete, and his purportedly vast knowledge was only a thin veneer.
 
But we could just as easily have written a biography of Trudeau-the scholar- with-a-passion-for-culture. An insatiable reader, he devoured novels, works of history and political philosophy, as well as poetry. He was endowed with a phenomenal memory, knew several opera librettos by heart, and could declaim whole poems impromptu, in French and English. He did the rounds of museums, theatres, concerts, and exhibitions.
 
The people he met were often startled by his encyclopaedic knowledge, as the following example illustrates. He had only just become prime minister in 1968, when he was invited along with a host of celebrities to a party in New York thrown by the artists Joyce Wieland and Michael Snow, her husband. Trudeau was evidently in his element and seemed up to date on all the latest news of the New York cultural scene, from art-house movies to avant-garde dance and jazz. When Michael Snow introduced Milford Graves to him as “the greatest jazz drummer,” Trudeau instantly responded, to the amazement of his admiring audience, “And what do you make of Max Roach?”
 
We could give many more examples highlighting his impressive knowledge of painting, sculpture, music, architecture, literature, and philosophy. And after reading these anecdotes about Trudeau-the-scholar- with-a-passion-for-culture, readers would be tempted to conclude that here, finally, was the real Trudeau. As if the man had spent his entire life reading, studying, and trekking through museums, historical sites, and theatres and could never have found time for any other activities, such as sports . . .
 
We could have chosen instead to write about Trudeau-the-daredevil-adventurer, who criss-crossed Asia with a backpack for nearly a year and had many thrilling adventures, including a few short stays in jail for vagrancy. He could just as easily travel in high style as put up with the shabbiest accommodations. He dined in the finest restaurants of Paris (Maxim’s, La Tour d’Argent, La Pérouse). But he also sometimes slept in run-down hotels, sharing a room with total strangers or even hungry bedbugs! Here was a man eager to witness everything first-hand, to live fully.
 
He was hungry for challenges. In 1948, while visiting Turkey, he decided to swim across the Bosphorus Strait, which marks the southern boundary of Europe and Asia: “It wasn’t that hard, but it was cold and had a bloody strong current.” In April 1960 at the age of forty-one, he decided to paddle a canoe with two companions from Miami to Cuba – quite a harebrained scheme. Fortunately the trio were rescued midway, when their canoe was on the point of sinking.
 
One last example. On July 6, 1961, Trudeau was in Pamplona (the capital of Navarre in northern Spain) for the first day of the San Fermin festival. The city becomes one huge fiesta from July 6 to 14, attracting thousands of tourists from around the world. The main event of this festival is the Running of the Bulls (encierro): at 8 o’clock each morning from July 7 to 14, the bulls are let loose in the narrow streets and then run almost one kilometre to the bullring for the afternoon corrida or bullfight. Along the course, daring young participants run just ahead of the bulls. Accidents are common, due to the ferocious nature of bulls and the surge of the crowds. On July 6, Trudeau partied until three in the morning. The city was overrun with tourists, no hotel room was available, and he ended up sleeping on a bench. The following morning, he participated in the Running of the Bulls. Finding the experience electrifying, he came back for a repeat performance two days later. Here was a man with a lust for adventure, someone who lived life to the hilt during his many world travels. No doubt readers of this particular book would take Trudeau-the-daredevil-adventurer for the real Trudeau, as if he lacked the more serious qualities befitting a statesman.

A February afternoon in 1995, we were driving along Highway 20 on our way to Montreal. We had left Quebec City planning to arrive at our destination an hour early. We did not want to take a chance on being late for our meeting with Pierre Trudeau. But, what with the snow-­clogged roads, we arrived at the Indian restaurant on Crescent Street barely a few minutes before the appointed time. He, as usual, was punctual. We were quite nervous, and for good reason. We had come to talk about our plan to write his intellectual biography. We had known him, now, for five years. We had told him of our intention, and he had expressed an interest. He wanted to discuss it with us, and that was the reason for our encounter.

As we shared a convivial meal, we explained as best we could what we had in mind. Trudeau listened carefully and asked a few questions. It was not his private life that interested us particularly, we told him, but we wanted to focus on his ideas, his political vision, and on how they evolved from his earliest years. To what extent, when he was actually in power, was he able to apply his ideals? He listened with interest. Finally, with some concern in his voice, he asked: “And what do you expect of me?” “Not much, really,” we replied. “We might, as the occasion arises, want to ask you a few questions, have access to unpublished documents that you still keep at home, ask you to help us contact some of the people who were close to you . . .”

He kept nodding in agreement. “No problem,” he said. Then, after a silence, he added: “I presume that you will want to maintain your intellectual autonomy. I understand, and I approve. So here is what I suggest: you will show me each chapter as you go along, I will make my comments, and you do with them whatever you choose.”

We were stunned. It was all we could do not to jump up for joy. “That suits us perfectly,” we said, as calmly as possible.

The bill arrived. He wanted us to be his guests. We refused and insisted that we should be paying. “Well, then,” Trudeau said, “let’s do what I do with my pals. We will share the bill.” “That’s fine,” we said. “But that means that we pay two-­thirds.” “No,” Trudeau said, speaking to Max. “We share fifty-­fifty. I take half of Monique.” And so it happened. Until his death, he took half of Monique.

When we got back home, we were jubilant. We began working out our program and our timetable for the research that we were undertaking — until April.

Anne-­Marie Bourdouxhe, the daughter of Trudeau’s long-­time associate Gérard Pelletier, resigned as the publisher of the periodical Cité libre. Though we sat on the editorial board, we expressed not the slightest interest in replacing her, and for a simple reason. We had absolutely no experience in actually publishing a magazine. And besides, we had set out on a project that was much closer to our hearts. Weeks went by. For a variety of reasons, the board of directors was unable to agree on any of the available candidates. Beginning in March, the directors began courting us. They increased the pressure. With a referendum on the secession of Quebec just months away, they asked us how we could live with ourselves if we allowed the only French-­language magazine that stood strongly against secession to die. We were unsettled. We did not know which way to turn.

After many sleepless nights, we met Trudeau in a Chinese restaurant one April evening to lay before him our dilemma: if we agreed to take on Cité libre, we must drop our projected biography. He was understanding, he shared our anxiety about the political situation in Quebec, and he came up with the suggestion that we agree to publish the magazine for a year, until the referendum was well behind us. And that was the decision that we conveyed, clearly spelled out, to the board of directors of Cité libre.

It happened, though, that no one had anticipated the extent of the trauma that the 1995 referendum would trigger, before as well as after the event, among those who voted Yes as well as among those who voted No. With no one in line to take over, we could not bring ourselves to abandon Cité libre. On the contrary, we became convinced that it must expand and be read from coast to coast, and in both official languages. That is what we carried out in 1998.

Meanwhile, our relationship with Trudeau had settled into a friendship. We spoke often on the phone, we used the familiar “tu” with each other, we met regularly until his death in 2000. During the five years that we published the review that he and Pelletier had founded, he gave us his unfailing moral support amid all the inevitable controversies. He listened sympathetically when, now and then, we expressed our dismay at being unable to work on his intellectual biography. And he would come back with the same answer: “What you are doing at Cité libre is very important. No one else can do it. As for the other project, there is no rush.” But there is a rush, we would counter. He would only laugh.

Time would tell that there was in fact a rush. Still, we do not regret our decision. But, since he left us, we have often wondered what this book would have been like if we had written it while he was alive. Would we have had access to the wealth of documents that have now been made available to us? And, if so, how would we have reacted to the discoveries that we have now come upon? Would we have had the courage to discuss them with him? And how would he have reacted? We cannot know for sure.