Sweet Poison

By Pierre Turgeon

This is the story of the rise and fall of a middle-class family, destroyed by its legacy of greed and hatred. The hero survives only by learning the bitter truth about himself and his family.

REVIEWS: "Pierre Turgeon makes a stunning entrance into our literature. There are few writers from here who could not envy him his extraordinary mastery of the art of writing. Language more than correct, very rich vocabulary, sober and clear style, the finesse of psychological observation, variety and fantasy of imagination, depth of vision of the world. Turgeon has all these qualities and more. We should pay him a life annuity and condemn him to write for as long as possible." Réginald Martel, La Presse."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Born in Quebec City, October 9, 1947 – Novelist and essayist Pierre Turgeon obtained a bachelor's degree from College Sainte-Marie in 1967. In 1969, at the age of twenty-two and already a journalist with Perspectives and literary critic at Radio-Canada, Pierre Turgeon published his first novel, Sweet Poison. Several works followed. 22 titles in all: novels, essays, plays, film scripts and historical works. He is currently finishing a family saga that will include three volumes.

EXCERPT: I don't know during what era it was that the Norman whose blood still flows in my veins embarked for New France, but my grandfather's prominent brow, hard narrow eyes, and thick neck were inherited from that race of conquerors who in coming to the New World had bitten off more than they could chew, seeing it only as a means of self-enrichment. Motivated in turn by self-interest, Vincent married the daughter of a launderer, a nervous, whimsical, extravagant woman whose name was Suzanne. A common love of lucre and the children born to them each year for more than a decade lent an air of stability to that union of perpetual quarrels and infidelities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cogito
• Release date: Dec 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201003500

Book preview

Sweet_Poison_(New_English).jpg

PIERRE TURGEON

Sweet Poison

A Novel

NOVELS

Sweet Poison

One, two, three

Coming Soon

The first person (Won the Governor general award for novel)

Hitler’s boat

Last blues for October

The torrents of hope

Burn it all!

ESSAYS

Dead Friends

Radissonia: the James Bay adventure (Won the Governor General Award for essays)

Accelerate

Les Bâtisseurs de Montréal,

THEATRE

The interview (Won the prize for Theatre plays Radio-Canada).

HISTORY

Canada: a people’s history – Volume 1

Canada: a people’s history – Volume 2

Contents

PART ONE: INCUBATION

THE PRACTICE OF CRUELTY

THE CAVALIER IN THE TRICORN

A MAN OF STRAW

EXTRACT FROM A DAILY PAPER

LIKE THE EBB TIDE

BETWEEN THE ANVIL AND THE HAMMER

PART TWO: FLEET-FOOTED TIME

PROLOGUE

EMERGING FROM CHAOS

THE SELLER OF STARS

THE WATCH KEY

A LAMENTABLE ERROR

PUNCH AND JUDY

THE BLUE ROOM

RIDICULE

AN OBSTINATE NOISE

THE RED VAN

THE GAME AND THE CANDLE

THE ROLE OF FIRE

PART ONE: INCUBATION

THE PRACTICE OF CRUELTY

I don’t know during what era it was that the Norman whose blood still flows in my veins embarked for New France, but my grandfather’s prominent brow, hard narrow eyes, and thick neck were inherited from that race of conquerors who in coming to the New World had bitten off more than they could chew, seeing it only as a means of self-enrichment. Motivated in turn by self-interest, Vincent married the daughter of a launderer, a nervous, whimsical, extravagant woman whose name was Suzanne. A common love of lucre and the children born to them each year for more than a decade lent an air of stability to that union of perpetual quarrels and infidelities.

At six o’clock every morning, my grandmother would fill her big tumbler with laundry, clothes so filthy and greasy they were not fit to be handled without tongs. Then she would open the steam valves leading to the manglers and ticket the clothes that had been laundered the previous day. At seven o’clock, her employees would enter the soot-blackened building, where, in an atmosphere of insufferable heat, they would work without a break, amidst the gasping wheezes of machinery and the acidic odours of detergent. These girls hailed from Saint-Malo, the poor quarter of Quebec. Lacking background, education, and physical beauty, they lived in constant fear of Suzanne, an Amazon who was intimately familiar with their fornications and who wouldn’t hesitate at blackmail if they failed to clean their quota of shirts, a number that was posted daily on a large leather board and that varied with the affluence of the customers and my grandmother’s fluctuating moods. By dint of nagging, yelling, and scheming, my grandmother watched her business grow, as the branch stores and delivery trucks multiplied. But, despite her fortune, she never succeeded in infiltrating the upper echelons of society, which looked upon her as a parvenue, a daughter of the lower classes intoxicated with overnight success. I was familiar with those mansions, with their multiple gables and garrets, where voices were muffled between thick walls and only a pale, sickly light filtered through the blinds and the heavy damask drapes; mansions inhabited by all the magpies, nitwits, and dupes who comprised the aristocracy of Quebec: notaries, doctors, lawyers, faithful apostles of the status quo, sleepwalking their way through life and preaching submission to the masses, reeking of furniture polish, naphthalene and the confessional. I was sufficiently familiar with them to appreciate how they must scorn the petulance of a woman like my grandmother, bundled up in her extravagant fur coats and her bell-shaped hats with the long red feathers, perfumed, beribboned, talking loudly and crudely, sinking her fangs into the priest and any other man who did not meet with her immediate approval. Shortly before the war, vexed at having reached the age of 40, she took herself off to play the tourist in Europe and Asia, an excursion that was underwritten by 50 hired hands and ransomed by nine brats who had been packed off to boarding schools. When my father enlisted in the Air Force, it was to escape the insipid meals, the clappers, and the switches of the nuns. Of his mother, he recalled only the yells and the maledictions. That versatile woman, who had never wasted any love on her children, would later counsel my mother to have an abortion, to be unfaithful to Edouard.

I have a photo in my room of my father in his aviator’s uniform: the tight, curly hair, the gentle eyes, the mouth twisted into a half-smile. Neither his cap, worn smartly on the right side of his head nor his bomber jacket, with its infringed epaulettes, eclipse the almost feminine allure of those smooth cheeks and glossy pink lips, slightly parted in an expression of apparent pleasure, revealing two upper incisors.

Returning from leave in the city, Edouard showed his pass to the guard, who silently opened the gate. An asphalt road ran between the log barracks, stretching all the way to the landing field with its strings of red and blue lights. There was a low, snarling sound, which accelerated and became a roar, and the squat, black silhouette of a Lancaster rolled heavily toward the end of the runway. Edouard clenched his jaws. He would never pilot a plane. When the instructor flashed the picture of a Messerschmitt or a Junker on the screen, he could identify it at once; and he had passed all the physical tests. But he had failed his exams in theory, being insufficiently familiar with the English language. When he had protested, his teacher had gazed scornfully at him and asked:

But why are you French?

Soon, the entire camp had taken up this cynical retort, using it as an irrefutable argument whenever the handful of French Canadians in the squad deigned to register a complaint. Because of his excellent eyesight and quick reflexes, Edouard had been assigned the dangerous position of tail-gunner.

He was watching the Lancaster take off when three men surged out of the shadows and surrounded him. A scrawny fellow with a Bourbon nose sneered:

You stupid Frenchman, what …

A blow to the Adam’s apple cut the man short, as he doubled up with a moan. Edouard ducked the hook of a fat sergeant, sinking the toe of his boot into the man’s gut. There remained only the third assailant, who stood before him gasping for breath, his face beaded with sweat, a knife clutched in one hand.

He’s scared to death, thought Edouard.

And, picking up his cap, he went slowly on his way. But at the sound of a step behind him on the gravel, he whirled about, arms and legs spread wide, fearing the third man was about to leap on him. An officer stood in the middle of the road; his switch tucked beneath his arm.

Come here, Frenchie! he yelled.

The man with the knife had vanished. The captain must have seen him.

So you’re a tough guy, eh? he said to Edouard, who stood at attention before him.

The other two men got slowly to their feet. In the distance, there was the whining sound of an engine.

Spitfire, thought my father automatically.

He was sentenced to ten days’ fatigue duty and solitary confinement. The task he was assigned was to polish the floor of the latrine. Each time it was sparkling, a sergeant passed by and accidentally upset a pail of dirty water over it. Edouard went back to his work in silence, though once he hammered the walls in his rage. One evening, the soldier who handed him his plate of beans said in an undertone:

You’d better watch it when you get out.

In this way, they continued to provoke him. And if he made a move to defend himself, he was sent back to the pound. The insults and the persecutions did not humiliate him, however; they were to be expected between enemy races. He was much more suspicious of the English. who made an effort to meet him half way, who showed a certain sympathy for their French-speaking compatriots.

Suddenly, the snow began to dance in the light that streamed from the windows and that transformed the yard into a giant black-and-white checkerboard. Intoxicated with joy, Edouard pressed his face between the bars, opened the window, and inhaled the icy air that even bore the smell of freedom. Memories of his childhood with the nuns, whose rapacious nails had lacerated him even in his dreams, caused him momentarily to choke up; but the sight of the falling snow quickly effaced all recollections of the frightful emptiness of the past, like an unexpected boon from heaven.

Close the window, whimpered a little Jew, who had been locked up for desertion. I’m cold.

Edouard scooped up a handful of melting snow from the windowsill and rubbed it over his face. His mind was made up: the moment he was released, he would head straight for Quebec.

Go to hell! he replied to the little Jew, whose teeth were chattering.

Disembarking from the train, Edouard hailed a cab and gave the driver his parents’ address. The snow-covered city resembled a cream cake: the streets were streams of chocolate and the Nordic sun sitting low in the sky was sprinkled with icing sugar. Dressed