Setting: Outside
a dance hall, Montreal somewhere South of Ste. Catherine, East of University
and West of St. Lawrence Boulevard.
Two men, similar in age and build, both 60 ish, both about 5 foot 8 inches. Both with trim, athletic builds. Both sporting tall bowler hats.
Under his tall
bowler, one man has thin black hair and a deep receding hairline, and under his
tall bowler, the other man has a healthy head of curly almost wiry hair that is
receding only slightly but greying most noticeably.
Both men are
well dressed, in white shirts with high-necked collars and dark blue flannel business suits. The balding man’s lapels are notched and thin,
to match his tie. The curly hair man’s lapels are peaked and wide- also to match his cravat.
The balding
man’s outfit is a more conservative cut, but the style worn by the anglo businessmen
of his circle. The curly man’s suit more a la mode, as they say, although still
very appropriate for a man of his age of his stature.
These are
men of the Upper Middle Class. One English Canadian originally from Ontario. One French Canadian born in Laval.
Both men live with their bossy wives in three storey townhouses in tony
sections of Montreal, one on Chesterfield in lower Westmount, one on Sherbrooke
Street just a little West of St. Lawrence Street, or St. Laurent.
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The English
man is Tom Wells, a businessman and President of Laurentian Spring Water. The
French man is Jules Crepeau, a high-ranking City civil servant, the Director of
Municipal Departments.
Crepeau
arrives in a taxi. A Black Lasalle. He exits the car quickly without paying. Wells
drives up in a Bentley, its back seat holding three giant clear glass bottles,
the front passenger seat a stack of yellow boxes.
The two men
meet and shake hands on the curb in front of The Mermaid Café and Dance Club.
Tom: I
brought the bottles myself, as the Mayor Instructed. But I can’t lift them, you
know. Sciatica. Curling injury.
Jules: A
constable is to arrive shortly.
The front
door of the cafe opens and out pour two dozen or so patrons, mostly young men
and women, the women in form-fitting flapper dresses with flying fringes and
colourful cloche hats, and young men in shiny high-waisted suits with baggy
pant legs.
In the
background, a song is plays on a Victrola. It is Hello Montreal by Billy Eckstein.
A trio sings:
Goodbye
Broadway, hello Montreal.
(Listen on YouTube)Hello Montreal
Yamo, yamo, I think I want a drink; Yamo,
yamo, there’s water in the sink.
The sink, the sink, the sink, the sink, the
sink;
The good old rusty sink;
But who the heck wants water when you’re dying
for a drink?
Oh, “We Won’t Get Home Till Morning” Is the
best song after all,
Goodbye Broadway, hello Montreal.
There’ll be no more Orange Phosphates,
You can bet your Ingersoll,
Goodbye Broadway, hello Montreal.
The front door
closes as the last couple straggles out, just as a tall young policeman in
dress blues, broad-shouldered and burly, arrives on foot. He crosses the street
and walks toward the older men standing in front of the big black Bentley.
Jules walks
up to meet him a few paces from Tom and whispers a few words to the cop.
He returns
to stand beside Tom. The cop takes up position beside the front door a few
yards away, standing at ease with his arms behind his back and legs slightly
apart.
Tom: How
long do we wait, then?
Jules
(shrugging) As long as is required.
I have some
crates, then, in the trunk. For us to sit on.
Jules nods.
He waves the
constable over. Instructs the young man as to the matter. Tom gives him some
keys. The Cop goes to the car, opens the trunk, grabs a medium-sized brown
crates in each hand and carries them past the sidewalk, and places them on
either side of the café’s front door.
The cop
resumes his position a few yards away. The older men sit on the crates.
LAURENTIAN SPRING is written in upside down green lettering on the crates.
The more
than middle-aged men squirm and fidget, turning away each other, turning
towards each other. Tom examines the streetlights, Jules the road directly in
front. Tom adjusts his hat, Jules his tie. Then the two almost identical
looking men turn to face each other – but obliquely.
Between
them, the café front door opens and two 30ish women, looking the worse for
wear, exit on wobbly ankles.
A voice from
inside: C’est l’heure de fermeture. Rentrez chez-vous, mes Pitounes.
Another
voice, more drunk sounding: Go home flour lovers.
The two men inspect
the women as they might a stray cat or dog, without any perceptible change in
their expression.
Then a lock
on the front door is banged shut and a sign goes up window over Jules’ head:
CLOSED! Over Tom’s head: FERME!
There’s a long
pause as the men adjust to this slightly uncomfortable situation. Then
finally….
Tom: Yanking
at his tie knot. Too hot for an autumn night.
Jules: Some
like it hot..What does it mean, flower lover?
Tom: Too
much make-up. Flour as in face powder. (He makes a motion with his right hand,
as if powdering his cheeks and he does this he purses his lips.)
Jules: Ah.(After
another long pause) So, you are the one who put that crazy advertisement in the
newspaper?
Tom: What advertisement. What do you mean?
Jules: The
advertisement that said “Don’t drink filthy germ laden city water. Laurentian
Spring Water is always the same, pure and wholesome. Do not wait until you are
sick to drink it.”
Tom: My sad Aunt Sally. That particular promotion was
placed over 4 years ago. You can’t
possibly remember it word for word.
Jules: I
remember it perfectly, believe me. This is my special gift.
Tom: Well, then,
you must certainly be aware that we haven’t run anything quite like it since.
Jules: The
letter from the City’s Avocat en Chef might have had something to do with your
change of heart.
Tom: No. The fact is, we’ve changed our advertising
policy, right about then. We started pushing our new line of soft drinks. (He pulls out a bottle from each side-pocket and
shows them to Jules.)
Jules:
(inspecting cans) Soda water and Sweet Ginger Ale.
Tom: No sir,
we certainly didn’t cave to the treats from over at City Hall. (He returns the
bottles to his pockets.)
You know, we’ve
only ever received one lawyer’s letter from you people. Ever. And we’ve run a
slew of newspaper ads along the same lives over the years in promotion of our
bottled water. No, the most trouble ever we got, before that letter, were a
couple of huffy phone calls from Dr. Laberge’s department.
Jules: Of
course, The Health Department
Tom: Your guys couldn’t catch us on anything.
Jules: Yes,
all your clever wordplay. “What chances you take if you don’t drink Laurentian
water.” “The Safest plan is to drink Laurentian Spring water.” Never quite lying,
never quite telling the truth. Not slander, not in the legal sense. But
slippery lies are lies just the same.
Jules: Even
the name of you company is a sort of lie. Laurentian Spring Water. Your aquifer
is under Craig Street. Right downtown in the business district. And there are
underground springs all over the city.
Tom: Sure,
but our well has the purest water, it’s a proven fact. The scientists at
Macdonald College tested back it in 1909, the year of the last typhoid
epidemic.
Jules: Pure, Purer, Purest. Mere words, once again. What does the word “pure” really mean,
exactly?
Tom: Now, what’s
wrong with the word Pure? It’s a great
word. A beautiful word. Everyone likes it. Everyone uses it.
Jules: That’s
precisely what’s wrong with it. (Pause) A word that everyone uses can’t be a
good thing. A word like that means too many different things to different
people. And if something is pure, then something has to be impure.
