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Chapter 51This is Gerald’s back story, up to the time he meets Monica, which is where he first appears in the film. There are no spoilers for the film in this section. Like four of his six brothers and two of his sisters, Gerald Simard began stealing at a very early age. By thirteen, on his own or with other people, he had already broken into several houses, holiday homes, some business premises, service stations, grocery stores, shops and even churches. He was known throughout Kénogami as a naughty and charming tearaway. Because he was good-looking and bright, because he was amusing and had a lot of mettle, everyone including the priest, the chief of police, his teachers and certainly his parents were disappointed to see him slide down the slippery slope. That his brother Bob, six years his senior, was already in trouble didn’t bother anyone. Bob was not good-looking, he made nobody laugh, unlike Gerald he was never outgoing, he didn’t talk much, he had a crooked mouth that nobody cared for and a shifty look that unsettled people. Unlike Gerald who always seemed comfortable and self-confident, Bob considered himself to be a loser, a misfit. The first time in his life that he tried to steal a car, he was caught. It was 29 March 1948, he was eighteen. Countless arrests and jail sentences followed. Even in the army, where he spent eleven months in the early 50s, he would only run into trouble and never make any friends. The only periods of rest and contentment he experienced were his years in prison. He had none of the charm and radiance of his young brother. He was shorter, tubby, shy. He was very strong, however, a real bruiser. When he’d had a drink he’d lash out blindly, for the hell of it, impervious to the beatings he received. He was jailed again in 1955 to the great relief of his parents, who were convinced that he would take the opportunity of his time in prison to reflect, and that Gerald, their youngest, at last removed from his elder brother’s bad influence, would end up getting back on the right track. But it was too late for a complete change of that nature. At twenty Gerald was a compulsive burglar, incapable of not breaking into anything that was shut, barred or locked. Using his feet, his shoulder, an axe or a hammer, he had broken hundreds of doors and windows all over Saguenay, then on the North Coast and in Gaspésie where he worked for several months as a lumberjack, and finally in the west of Canada, where he wandered about for a whole summer, working here and there as a labourer, building fences in the badlands of Alberta, picking peaches, pears and grapes in the Okanagan Valley in British Columbia, selling newspapers or begging on the streets of Vancouver. One rainy night in the autumn of 1958 in Kamloops, he got himself caught along with two ex-convicts, a native American from the Prince George region and a mentally retarded man from Wisconsin, in a food shop where they were forcing open the cash register which, it turned out, contained less than a hundred dollars. Sentenced to six years in prison on several counts of breaking and entering and other offences, Gerald escaped, and was recaptured three weeks later, frozen and starving, in a cabin on the bank of the river Ashuapmushuan. Having received several additional years as punishment, he was sent to Saint-Vincent-de-Paul prison, where he met up with his brother Bob, who still had five years to serve, and who strangely didn’t seem too unhappy with his lot. On the contrary, you could say that Bob blossomed in prison. Gerald knew that what people took as hypocrisy in his brother was his shyness, fear and anxiety, all things which in prison appeared to fade. Bob was more relaxed, he talked and laughed more. Even though he was already covered from head to foot in muscle, Bob spent several hours each day in the prison gym. Strangely, he didn’t seem very keen on the idea that Gerald trained too. “You don’t need to,” he said. “You’re already in better shape than I’ll ever be.” All the same, Gerald started to attend the gym. He had plenty of aptitude and skill. Without too much effort, in a few weeks he was doing as well as most of the regulars. But his natural charm, his good looks and his youth unsettled a few people. Explicit advances were made, which he fended off with anger and disgust. He knew enough about the prison environment to know that he couldn’t continue going to the gym without the risk of being attacked and raped, or of causing dangerous incidents. And nowhere could he find protection. He had discovered to his amazement that his brother blithely had sex with several of the inmates who went to the gym. He also learned that his presence disturbed Bob, who tried in vain to hide his relationships from him. Bob had been really terrified by the idea of his little brother finding out about his homosexual activity, convinced that he would despise and disown him. The inmates didn’t judge each other. Even those who didn’t indulge, didn’t consider homosexual relations to be unnatural. But for Bob, Gerald wasn’t an ordinary prisoner. He was his brother, someone from his former life, someone from the outside. In his presence he readopted his shifty look, his reluctance to talk. Gerald finally spoke to him, reassured him, told him that he knew everything, that it changed nothing, that he didn’t love him any the less. And from then on, thanks to some of his powerful allies, Bob did his utmost to build a protected zone around his young brother. Gerald was untouchable, respected. And Bob recovered his calmness, his good spirits, his boyfriends … Never had the two brothers been so close, so intimately bonded, with no secrets between them. When Bob got out in the autumn of 1964, Gerald had still almost five years to serve. He got remission and was released on 25 March 1967. He was 32, had no job, and had not heard from Bob for more than a year. He spent a few days, less than two weeks, in Saguenay, trying to work in a service station. But he was bored to death, he was being pointed at, he was being watched. He went to see his father and mother in Kénogami. Mr Simard, an honest labourer, had worked all his life at the Alcan factory in Arvida; he had never dared to think about stealing a pin belonging to someone else. He was angry with his sons. And because he couldn’t find the words to reprimand them, the anger grew inside him, barely suppressed. He didn’t talk to them, he hardly looked at them, was terribly intimidated by these strangers that he had done his best to raise. Their mother was a religious, gentle woman, always ready to believe that her boys had been victims of injustice or of a judicial error. She cooked their meals, gave them money, always wanted them to stay the night. Gerald was painfully aware that he had broken her heart. He left again, sad and angry …… He would have liked to have been a truck driver, making long runs from one end of the continent to the other, from Montreal to San Diego or from Vancouver to Houston …. He had never quite let go of this dream, even though he had no chance of ever realising it. Nobody would ever entrust a big Mack to a thirty-two year old guy who had spent a third of his life behind bars, who had been arrested twenty-two times for vehicle theft, breaking and entering, a thousand and one misdemeanours, and who, moreover, had practically never driven anything other than cars and trucks that he’d stolen. Nevertheless, when anyone asked him what he did, Gerald Simard always said he was a driver. And that was how he appeared in police files all over Canada: Gerald Simard, born 26 February 1935, Kénogami, 1.80 metres, 90 kilos, truck driver. Distinguishing feature: a red and blue heart tattooed on his left forearm. The day after Mothers’ Day, Gerald stole the Buick 6 belonging to the mayor of Kénogami and went down to Montreal via La Tuque, where he abandoned the Buick for a two ton Oldsmobile 98. At Grandes-Piles, where he was about to fill up, the pump attendant recognised the car as belonging to Sauvageau the dentist, who came down every week to Trois-Rivières and regularly stopped there. Gerald’s only solution was to drive off, even before the tank was filled. The garage owner called the police, who waited for the runaway at the bridge at Grand-Mère. When he noticed the blockade Gerald immediately made a U-turn. The road which ran along the left bank of the Saint-Maurice River from La Tuque to Grand-Mère would certainly be blocked at both ends. He could get off at Mékinac and take the road on his right that went towards Saint-Tite and La Pérade, or jump aboard the ferryboat where the river joined with the Matawin. He didn’t know what was on the other side, nor did he know where La Pérade was. But it was certainly better than prison. And he was enjoying the chase. When the road ran straight for more than a kilometre he noticed in his rear-view mirror a police car which appeared to be following him at some distance without trying to gain on him. “They’re waiting for the other one to arrive,” he thought. He was going to be trapped. He was just hoping that the police car coming from La Tuque wouldn’t be able to reach the Matawin before him. But then, with the other one hot on his heels, would he have time to get aboard? Passing the service station at Grandes-Piles where he had stopped, Gerald gave a long blast of his horn, waved to the pump attendant who had called the police, and with a big smile indicated with his thumb that he was being followed …. Less than two kilometres from the Matawin the engine of the Oldsmobile gave a few hiccups and came to a halt. It was out of gas. Without thinking Gerald ran into the woods. It was two in the afternoon. In the area around all the villages along the road there were forest paths which he avoided. He walked in the denser part of the wood, parallel to the road, about a hundred metres from it. He arrived at the ferry which he caught sight of, motionless, on the near bank. There didn’t seem to be anyone on the other bank, where he could see a shed and a track which disappeared into the forest above the River Matawin. Gerald had only to climb down, cross the road, and get on board. But soon the police car which had been following him from Grand-Mère appeared, driving very slowly. Five minutes later the ones from La Tuque arrived. Standing right in the middle of the road, the police had a discussion …. Gerald, who could see them from above, heard what they were saying almost perfectly. The ones from Grand-Mère said that they had stopped by the Oldsmobile, obviously out of gas, that the thief had abandoned a kilometre back. They discussed what he might do, asking if he was armed; one of them said that he probably wasn’t far, that he might even be able to hear them. And he pointed a finger almost directly at him, adding that he couldn’t go far, that they’d have to bring in the dogs, but that there wouldn’t be time to do much before it got dark. Gerald was excited, amused. It all seemed like a game. He realised however that he couldn’t take the ferry, which was too well guarded and linked to a steel cable to prevent it being diverted by the current. He could make out, less than a kilometre upstream, a small American Indian canoe upturned on the shore. He went higher into the forest so as not to attract attention, and set off in that direction. He was going to cross the road and take the canoe when he decided that it would be better to wait till nightfall, which would come before the police reinforcements. The wait was almost pleasant. The weather was mild. The trees were in leaf. The black flies and mosquitoes hadn’t appeared yet. Gerald lay down in a sunny spot on the moss and, chewing on a stick, waited till dark. At dusk he climbed down to the side of the road, turned the canoe over and pushed it into the water without making a sound. Not having paddled for more than ten years, he had a great deal of difficulty maintaining the canoe in the erratic current, and was carried down almost level with the ferry. He reached the opposite bank a little upstream of the ferryboat shed. Having pulled the canoe under the trees, he forced open the shed, stretched out and slept for a few hours. At dawn he took the path into the forest. This path didn’t lead very far; just to above the rapids where the river was calmer. It was still nice and mild, but Gerald was less amused. Hunger had begun to make him feel unwell. And in addition there was the fear, sadness, regrets, all these unpleasant and predatory emotions that befall a man who is upset and starving ….. There was another canoe above the rapids. Gerald climbed in, but he was so hungry that he was about to give up paddling when he heard voices. It was some Indian fishermen who greeted him rather coldly, then set about shouting abuse and threatening him when they realised that he had their canoe. Despite the gnawing hunger, Gerald knew how to calm them, to win them over and to make them laugh, but he couldn’t get them to believe that he was lost. A white man lost in the woods never goes upstream. The upper reaches of the rivers belong to the Indians. Everyone knew that. So it was obvious that Gerald was a runaway. And perhaps because of this and because they were friendly, they helped him. One of them even replaced the boat at the top of the rapids with the one he had borrowed. It wasn’t there by chance. Someone had gone down into white man’s country and was to return in two or three days’ time. He could always cross the Saint-Maurice by taking the white man’s ferry (which the Indians hated doing), but he would need his canoe to travel up the Matawin to Lake Taureau, then via Lake Légaré and Lake Villiers to Manouane, where the tribe spent the summer. Three days later, having followed the path of the water in their company, Gerald found himself in Saint-Michel-des-Saints, at the head of the Taureau reservoir. He bought a shirt and socks, rented a room for two hours, showered and shaved and went downstairs to the hotel bar, where he recognised four guys from Montreal who were returning from a week’s fishing at Lake Boucher and who agreed to take him with them. The whole experience had delighted him. On the Friday evening, with less than twenty dollars in his pocket but wearing a shirt that was still clean, Gerald was on Main Street << Rue St-Laurent >> looking for his brother Bob. He hadn’t set foot in Montreal for nearly ten years, and he felt perilously foreign. But the experience he had just gone through gave him a strength which felt overwhelming. In addition, there was a holiday atmosphere in town, with people coming from all over. So he paced leisurely down Main Street, going into bars and cafés whose names he recognised, stopping for a moment at the Montreal Pool Room … Near midnight he was standing in front of Pal’s thinking about going in, when a firm hand settled on his shoulder. It was luck personified: Viateur Dupire, a guy from Jonquière who had always had a great admiration for Gerald Simard. There are always plenty of people like him in the criminal world: fans who wouldn’t dare steal a cheese from the grocer, but who profess boundless admiration for those who dare to break into vehicles and banks; they make heroes of them, they recount their exploits and their acts …. In Sanguenay where he had begun his career, Gerald had been surrounded by many such admirers. The fact that he had been in prison served only to elevate him in Viateur’s eyes, who bought all the drinks and found him a bed for the night complete with a girl. However, he didn’t know Bob’s whereabouts, but, in the course of the next few days, put Gerald in touch with several guys from Saguenay, including his young brother Edmond and Gilles Jodoin who came from Kénogami like Gerald. Even though Gilles was younger than Gerald by twelve years, he knew exactly who he was. Edmond Dupire and Gilles Jodoin didn’t drink very much and didn’t really party like most young men of their age. They hung around with students and teachers, artists from the school of Fine Arts, at The Swiss Hut in Sherbrooke, or in little dark smoky cafés in Clark and Saint-Dominique. There in the evening they listened to and applauded poets accompanied by guitar and harmonica, talking in their songs about changing the world. Their world was really nothing like that of Main Street. But there were very strong, unbreakable ties between them and Gerald : the blood of Sanguenay, the accent, the humour, an obvious, innate, total solidarity….. Gerald understood vaguely that they stood for a cause and that they were getting ready for some revolution. The idea, although unclear in his mind, attracted him. To wreck the established order, for whatever reason, seemed an exciting thing to do, even if the reasons weren’t his area of expertise. He got into the way of dropping by The Hut at the start of an evening, and if Dupier or Jodoin were there, letting them buy him a beer or two. Never any more, alas! because Jodoin and Dupire never stayed put. They always left, always had to meet someone somewhere else, in another café. And they never wanted to say where they were going, never wanted anyone to follow them. Then, one night at The Hut, all the talk was about Jodoin whose big round face was splashed all over the front page of the morning paper. He had been arrested the day before on a bank raid in Masson Street in Rosemount. His two sidekicks, a tall thin fellow and a young woman had got away. For several weeks this readily identifiable trio, one short and fat, one tall and thin and a young woman had worked the whole of the east of Montreal, Lanaudière and the Richelieu valley. At The Hut there wasn’t any doubt that the other member of this famous trio was Dupire of whom, this evening, there was no sign. Even his brother Viateur, whom Gerald met on Main Street, didn’t know what had happened. He wasn’t too worried about him. The Masson Street robbery had netted more than six thousand dollars, which was a lot more than the average annual wage. But Viatuer said that his brother had big plans that needed a lot of money and that he would no doubt have to get down to work before long. Actually, Edmond Dupire was scared to death. He believed that Jodoin, who was grilled by the police, would crack and shop them. Or that someone from The Hut would point him out as being the tall gaunt one of the trio. He would have loved to shrink a few centimetres and walked even more stooped with his head pulled down into his shoulders. Jodoin’s arrest helped to create a keen interest in this trio of bank robbers who seemed to be led by a woman. She henceforth became a veritable cult object in places like The Hut, where artists and poets were busy making her into a legend, a wonderful heroine whom they incorporated into their fantasies and their most woolly-minded theories. That same day, or rather the same night, in early June 1967, Gerald Simard met up with his brother Bob and got acquainted with a woman who was going to change his life. Just as he was going to change hers. |
