A Truth Made of Lies

A Truth Made of Lies: Part Seven

In the summer, the grounds of Parliament give the onlooker a chance to familiarize themselves with the very seat of democracy in Canada. There are few things more beautiful than a well groomed lawn, other than a well groomed lawn that has been trod by generations of the country’s finest leaders, leaders whose intoxicating aura force any youngster to follow in their footsteps. It is only when sitting in the grass of that majestic hill, which contrary to its name has been slowly flattened over time, that one can fully appreciate the thousands of years of delicious history of concerned citizens choosing to soil their clothes on the lawn of politics and better their country. Of course, with the expense of proper suits nowadays, the green of the grass has been replaced by the green of Common’s chair cushions, but the thrill of democracy remains slathered about the ground itself. It’s impossible not to feel in that place that the souls of every great man and woman before you are soaking into the bottoms of your shoes and wait to inhabit your very being. It was this feeling that first made me fall in love with politics in the summer. It was in winter, eight years later that I fell in love with something even more entrancing.

            The Centennial Flame still burns bright in the winter, its fingers of fire tasting the chill air like a puppy licks the frozen face of its master. The manicured lawn lies underneath a bundle of snow that lays almost uniform except to be hobbled on by the occasional protestor or wandering tourist, though in a Canadian winter they can be few and far between. The humidity of the place keeps your skin from cracking or your lips from drying and the cold freezes over the Rideau Canal until the first patrons feel enough confidence to make their trial tenuous steps on the ice. The halls of Parliament lie empty during Christmas break, but once the politicians have returned and they’ve removed their scarves and tuques in the cloak room, the building heats from the fires of debate alone, no furnace required. The frigid walls of the Centre Block look like frozen arms just waiting to embrace a long absent lover, though they know that no matter how long they stand in the cold, nothing will come to their loving bodies. It is tranquil in its chaos and beautiful in its stark desolation. It was the perfect place to bring Claudine on a frosty afternoon in the middle of December of my sixteenth year.

            Her knitted scarf was more than a fashion item, it was a sensible choice. My unadorned nose threatened to drip snot on my icy cheeks and my scrawny tuque was offering a miniscule defence to the onslaught of the wind. Yet, as we wound around Parliament Hill to the statue of Sir Wilfrid Laurier greeting us from East Block, I started to find the warmth that only comes from good conversation and close companionship. Claudine halted in front of the statue in the middle of the sidewalk, other pedestrians angrily angling around her. With a gloved hand she pointed to the statue.

            “Doesn’t he seem belittling to you?” she asked, her eyes completely transfixed.

            What can one say about the emotion of a statue? The man stood with his right hand on his hip and left foot out, proud and tall, “statuesque” one could say. But belittling? His face had no more emotion than the building behind him.

            “I really don’t notice anything, Claudine,” I declared.

            She tilted her head ever so slightly to hear my reply and through the corner of my eye I could see the slight crack of an all knowing smile. “That’s because you don’t know where to look.”

            She hopped a fence that separated the street from the grounds and I reluctantly followed. The place may have been public property and there certainly weren’t any rules against analyzing statues but there just seemed to be some protocol in approaching former prime ministers that Claudine had so nonchalantly discarded that made feel deeply uneasy.

            “Look at him again, but this time, don’t imagine Laurier, see the person behind the statue. See the way that he puts his foot forward. It isn’t just posturing; he’s stepping on something. He’s stepping on us. Look where his head is, just staring above the people on the street below. He knows he’s better than the rest of them down there. Here is a man who isn’t afraid to be a shepherd in the world ruled by the sheep and yet, if you didn’t see it from this angle, you’d never notice it. He’d blend in like all the others. He’d be hidden in the crowd.” Her eyes stared off into the distance and then turned back to me. “It’s strange what you can find on closer inspection.”

            I had to change the subject. “So, did you ever want a statue like this?”                  

            She smiled, patronising and climbed back down to street. “No, but it’s obvious you did. Maybe you still do.”

            I was surprised by that. “Obvious?”

            “Oh please, anyone can see in the way you speak to people. You don’t just introduce yourself to find a new client; you always look for a vote. These days a lawyer does need to be a good salesman, but not nearly as good as you, Sam. You still have that youthful attitude about politics. The one that makes you think that every handshake is going to translate into support, that every speech convinces a voter or a debate sways support to your side.”

            “You seem to know a great deal about politicians.”

            She rolled her eyes. “I married one.”

            That was something I was not expecting. I suppose she was of the age that marriage was a possibility, but I never thought for a minute that I would end up being the “other man”. Things were starting to get out of control. My world was spinning; I needed a point to focus on. Her naked ring finger was that point. I breathed an invisible sigh of relief. She had married one. Strange what a difference a single auxiliary verb can make.

            “What happened?” I wondered aloud.

            She laughed a dry, bitter laugh without an ounce of humour in it. “Once he started to realize that politics what more about shaking wealthy hands, making empty speeches that pleased everybody and helped nobody and making a theatrical show of debating without any hope for progress he wasn’t such a fantastic guy to be around. It’s remarkable how much about yourself you find is optional so long as you want to impress someone else.”

            I sighed, agreeing. “Yes, it certainly is.”

            She shrugged. “When the face of the person you wake up to and the face of the person you go to bed with aren’t even recognizable, you just know it’s time to leave. I just woke up one morning and told him I wasn’t going to smile in front of any more cameras or cut any more useless, oversized ribbons or kiss the asses of self-righteous pricks any longer.” She threw up her arms. “And I guess that was that.”     

            We continue walking until the three blocks of Parliament were long behind us, barely saying a word. It might have been because there was nothing much left to say after that or because the cold had frozen our throats completely shut, but our tongues seemed unwilling to make the uncertain voyage of speech. After a long while, I stopped to catch my breath and coughed as the glacial oxygen brought fire to my lungs. Claudine paused just ahead of me and turned back, a slight annoyance coming to her green eyes.

            “You know, it’s getting rather frosty and my place isn’t far from here…” her voice trailed off after that.

            I shot up to feet, suddenly refreshed. “Uh, yeah. That’s sounds wonderful.”

            She stood stalk still for a moment, as if reconsidering. Then she spun around and started walking at a much faster pace before either of us had time to think it over.