This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons alive or dead is purely intentional.
EXCLUSIVE TO
CAROLYN BENNETT WRITER/COMIC BLOGSPOT.CA
I was Pierre Trudeau's and Justin Trudeau’s girlfriend. Not at
the same time. Wait, let me think. …. …. … … ……. ……. … .. no, not at the same
time.
I met Pierre in 1996 at the corner of Sherbrooke Street and
Rue Guy. I was about to get on the 165 Bus opting for the scenic route up The
Boulevard to get to Côte-des-Neiges and eventually Van Horne to board the 161
to Côte-Saint-Luc, when I tripped on my untied shoelaces and into the arms of
an older man wearing a cape. “Superman?” I exclaimed. “Non, mademoiselle, -- Pierre Elliot Trudeau.” He righted me against
a wall and held me by the shoulders while I caught my breath, which took 15
minutes. My knees kept buckling and he
kept holding me up, until a passerby told us to “get a room”. We did.
The room was around the corner at the Ritz Carlton Hotel,
the "Grande Dame" of Sherbrooke Street. Ironic that I should be walking in with a
former Prime Minister when in fact, I had been banned from the establishment
since 1994 -- some trifle about dousing a balustrade with gasoline and lighting
it on fire. Pierre lowered himself on the king bed, shrugged, and then loosened
his pants. I could tell by his pinched expression and general ennui that making
love to me would be just another public service for a man who had given so much
to his country. I grazed his flaked and bony
fingers with mine and whispered “it’s okay. Let’s just drink instead.” He
ordered several bottles of Dom Pérignon (which I adored when someone else was
buying). I drained the bubbly while he stroked my dirty blond hair and watched La Petite Vie on Radio-Canada. I must confess my memory fails me a bit after this.
At some point in the evening I recall Justin Trudeau knocking on the door and imploring
his father to leave. “Je t’aime papa”, he
cried. Pierre did not leave me. Au
contraire [from the French for “on the contrary”] dear reader, he listened
as I recited poetry I had scrawled on hotel stationery, and caressed my
back as I knelt before the toilet vomiting.
Afterwards, I have a vague impression of his thin lips on mine, blowing into my mouth while applying steady compression on my chest
with the heels of his hands.
The next morning I woke up on the floor, fully
clothed, pallid and parched, with delirium tremens and a mark on my neck
resembling a hickie. The DTs are gone, but the “hickie” remains, In fact, every
year on the anniversary date of my rendezvous with Monsieur Trudeau, I allow the faithful to touch the stigmata, which
is formed in the image of a middle finger. Suffice to say, I have not washed my
neck in almost 20 years.
I will always t’aime
Trudeau senior. But you won’t believe what happened almost 20 years later with me and his
son Justin!
NEXT MONTH PART II: The Justin Year(s)day.
