Foreign Relation of Pakistan with Neighboring Countries.pptx
Coming of age
1. COMING OF AGE
By
Slim Fairview
QUEBEC
Québec is a city in the Province of Québec in Canada. It is a walled city. Québec was
built at the top of the steep cliffs rising from the St. Lawrence River. It was once a fort.
When Québec was a fort, Canada was only a part of what was once known as the New
World.
On the plains above the cliffs, the Plains of Abraham, overlooking the St. Lawrence,
outside the walls of the fort, the British General Wolfe, defeated the French General
Montcalm and claimed all of Canada for England.
However, while the French army was defeated, the language was not; the culture was not;
and the religion was not. Québec is now two cities. One is Upper Town, Haute-Ville, on
the upper banks. The other is the portion of the city huddled on the sliver of land at the
foot of the cliffs. Lower Town.—Basse-Ville.
Though the city is no longer a fort, the wall is still intact. Cannons still stand guard along
the ramparts. Canons still stand guard along the rampart. However, the city has grown
both in size and in population. It now extends beyond the walls to the St. Charles in the
north. To the west, it pushes back the frontier; it abuts the unknown. Its population swells
with the arrival of immigrants and with people from the countryside looking for work
during hard times. It swells as the heart swells with tired blood; and, as with the heart, it
2. pumps the people, the lifeblood of the New World, out again, into the body of land that
will become a nation.
It is a Catholic city. Its sections proudly bear such names as St. John Ward, St. Lewis
Ward. In St. Sauveur Village, the streets run: St. Michel, St. Augustin, St. George, and
on and on.
In Québec, in Upper Town, in winter, the steel blades of the cariole cut effortlessly
through the snow. The windows of houses are frosted; warm air in candlelight frozen,
glistening in the cold. Through the windows of these many homes, when the frost is
wiped away, the snow can be seen glistening.
In Lower Town, Basse-Ville, in winter, on any of the narrow winding streets, there are
few if any tracks in the snow made by the runners of a cariole—only many footprints.
Along the sides of these streets, the snow is piled high with only a narrow path leading to
each doorway. In the evenings as the light fades, the snow turns grey, glistening only
beneath the gas lamps. In the snow, the many footprints seem to lead everywhere: to
homes, to jobs, and to taverns; and to nowhere.
When the seasons begin to change, the snow disappears, but the temperature at night still
drops to very low, dry cold that numbs the senses without chilling the body—that stiffens
the outer layer of flesh. Footsteps are crisp echoes trapped inside little boxes; and now,
there are millions of unseen footprints—and the cold. A silent waiting death.
3. ROBERT DUVAL
Robert Duval stands alone on one of the narrow streets of Québec Upper Town feeling
the chill of the evening as it settles into the fibre of his clothes. Lamplighters are
beginning their rounds. The crowd of those heading home from work is beginning to thin
out.
Robert Duval scrapes the last few flakes of tobacco from a crumpled packet, carefully
sprinkles them over the small piece of paper he holds carefully between his grimy,
calloused fingers, and with the skill of a surgeon, rolls the paper into a very thin cigarette.
“Damn wind,” he mutters as he huddles close to the grey stone wall of a building to light
the cigarette. “I’d better get something out of this.”
He inhales deeply, then sits down on the bottom step of a stoop and pulls a newspaper
from his coat pocket. The newspaper is two days old.
FIRE IN ST. SAUVEUR VILLAGE
Arson Suspected
Robert rereads the story. Long, difficult words he says aloud. Slowly. He goes up there
looking for a job when new houses are being built; but there he is told what everyone is
told. There is no work.
4. He thinks about the fire and feels reassured. He is not alone. There are more who feel the
way he, Robert Duval, feels. He is so deep in thought that he doesn’t notice the arrival of
the man he is waiting to meet:
“Duval?”
Robert jumped up. Though he was standing up one step, he still had to look up to look
into the chiseled face framed by a shaggy mane of black, curly hair—the face of Tom
Priou.
He felt threatened by Tom’s height, broad shoulders, and piercing, coal-black eyes.
“Yes.” was all he could utter.
“I’m here. What do you want?”
Robert looked up and down the street. “Can we go somewhere to talk?”
“About what?”
“I—I want to join.”
“Join what?”
“Your organisation.”
Tom Priou’s face was blank.
5. “You do have an organisation,” Robert stated, attempting to sound sure of himself; to
convince Priou he was worth considering. “Don’t you?”
“No.”
Robert failed. He felt his stomach sink. He felt like a plod of manure stuck to the heel of
Priou’s boot, something about to be scraped off against the curb.
However, as Tom Priou turned to leave, Duval grasped at the sleeve of his coat and
blurted, “St. Sauveur Village.”
Priou stopped, turned his head, and started down at Duval.
“What about it?”
Robert felt desperate. He thrust his jaw forward and squared his shoulders. “That
organisation.”
Tom knew it was possible for Duval to know that an organisation existed, but not that he
was connected. He’d argued with Pierre about this meeting. The election was too close.
“Come. Let’s go where we can talk.”
Robert walked quickly, attempting longer strides and a faster pace to keep abreast of
Priou. Up Rue St. John, through the Gate of Hop, Robert watched as they walked, hoping
to memorise the directions to a secret hide-away; but the brisk walked ended at an alley.
At the end of the alley was a large oak door bearing a sign: Le Baptiste. A tavern.
6. Inside, Le Baptiste is one large room. Windows to let in light are too high to see though
to the outside. In the middle of the room is a large, wood burning stove. Around the stove
is a cluster of tables. Around each table is a cluster of men. The bar is to the left—the
length of the room. Waiters in leather aprons carry pitchers of ale, loaves of bread, and
wedges of cheese to the patrons. The mood of the patrons, unlike the mood of those in the
street, is happy. Troubles are left at the door. Here, for a few cents, each man can fill his
belly and drown his sorrow. Tom held up two fingers. A waiter nodded. When they found
seats at the edge of the crowd, Tom spoke. “Now then, what is all this about an
organisation?”
Robert Duval took a deep breath. The beer arrived in time for him to pause, to think, to
drink. Tom Priou waited. Finally, Duval spoke.
“I was at La Rouge. I was there with a friend. I heard you talking in the meeting room.”
Tom lit a long, narrow cheroot and puffed. “Was that friend Jean Duffet?”
Robert nodded. He sipped his beer. A mistake, he thought, mentioning Duffet’s name.
Still, Tom had to have checked to know, but it was the only way to get Tom’s attention.
“I remember what you said about joining together.”
Tom remembered the speech. A unity speech. He had been trying desperately to gain
support from the conservative Catholics while trying desperately to get money from the
Anglais
7. Tom looked at Robert’s large, beefy hands, thick neck, and broad chest. His worn coat
was stretched over him. Expensive but worn. Too small. Duffet’s coat.
“There are many organisations; but I am not the leader of some secret society. I was
telling the privileged few at La Rouge that divided we cannot stand. It will hurt us all. I
am sure you know that better than your good friend Duffet.”
Robert was quiet. He drank. Tom Priou slid a packet of tobacco and some papers across
the table. Robert muttered a barely audible ‘merci’.
“Let me buy you another.” Tom signaled the waiter. He could see Robert was visibly
shaken. Humiliated. Tom knew that in a moment this would turn to resentment, then to
anger, and then boil to the surface. Tom drained his beer. The waiter brought two more.
Robert fooled Priou. His response was controlled. Measured.
“I know you have to be careful; but, I can be very useful.”
“How?”
“The fire in St. Sauveur.”
“What about it?”
“I could have set it.”
“Did you?” Tom knew the answer.
8. “No, but I could have.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I was planning it. Someone got to it first.”
Tom was quiet. He could have asked Duval why he didn’t start another. He didn’t.
“That is why organisation is important. The workers can’t do it alone.”
Tom recognised the words from the Manifest of Marx being circulated privately among
the students at University.
“And what would you want in exchange for this support you are prepared to offer?”
Duval spoke slowly. “A job. Food. A warm coat.”
“You planned to burn down a house. Why not plan to steal a coat?”
“Would that find me a job?”
Jesuits, Tom thought. “Jobs are hard to find.”
“I know there is an organisation. Are you going to help me or not?”
Tom paused to contemplate Duval’s sincerity and stupidity. Then, he leaned back and
laughed. “Salue.” He raised his glass and swallowed up its content. Then he leaned across
the table.
