Tanner’s Tiger

I found myself becoming very firm on the subject of Quebec autonomy.

As a matter of fact, I had almost forgotten about that particular cause until the border clown at the airport had forced it upon my attention. Some causes make more noise than others, and the MNQ had been lately quiet. A few years back, when some loyal activists had been using plastique to blow hell out of mailboxes, I had been more firmly committed. (Anyone who fails to find beauty in the systematic demolition of mailboxes has no soul.) But things were quiet, and there was little MNQ activity in New York, and, if I had not precisely lost interest, at least the extent of my emotional involvement had receded.

All changed, changed utterly. I lifted a glass of red wine in a silent pledge to Québec Libre. I ordered a second glass of wine and looked at the mob of convivial drinkers around me. Two hundred years of subjection had not altered them. Generations had come and gone, yet all of my fellow drinkers not only spoke French – they looked French. Obviously the Canadian Confederation had to be torn apart. Obviously these men deserved their freedom. Obviously-

I left the bar without having a third glass of wine. This was probably a good thing. Already inflammatory slogans were sloshing around in my brain, and another glass of the dry red wine might easily have moved them to my lips. I was not even supposed to be in the damned country, and the reason for my presence had nothing whatsoever to do with the heroic struggle for a free Quebec, and the last thing I wanted to do was call attention to myself.

Further downtown it became easier to resist the siren’s song. In the heart of the commercial district the aura of French culture was far less prevalent. Everything down there was incredibly new, with the great majority of the buildings less than five years old. Skyscrapers, all glass and steel, thrust themselves geometrically into the air. Movie theaters and strip clubs and restaurants and bars were far more reminiscent of Broadway than of anything French. I had another smoked meat sandwich – it’s like pastrami – and drank i

At least it was cool out, cooler than New York. I still didn’t want to be in Montreal, and I still couldn’t believe that the fair was going to be much fun, and I didn’t even want to think about my reco

I hoped it would stay that way. Because our sad excuse for a room wasn’t air-conditioned.

By the time I got back to the room, the sun was up and Mi

We had breakfast, then took a cab to the fairgrounds. The Expo was situated on a pair of islands in the St. Lawrence River. We bought seven-day passports, had something stamped on them, passed through a turnstile, and rode something called the Expo Express out to the actual Expo site. The train was completely automated and as tightly packed with fairgoers as a rush-hour subway.

Mi

Notre Dame was the location of most of the national pavilions, Cuba included. I managed to establish this by referring to the official Expo map, which someone had sold me for a dollar near the turnstiles. We left the train and climbed down a long wooden staircase and found a bench to sit on, and I studied the map while Mi

I had not been prepared for the sheer size of everything. There were massive buildings everywhere, brightly colored structures that clashed dissonantly with one another, extreme architectural excesses, triangles and spheres and palaces and tents, most of them pointing up the stated theme of the fair by suggesting that Man and His World were mutually incompatible. The pavilions dominated the scene like dinosaurs astride a prehistoric landscape. Beneath them, scattered among their feet, were the lesser mammals of the age, not nearly as glorious but better suited to survival – the boutiques and souvenir shops and hot dog stands and soda bars that raked in dollars while the pavilions offered themselves free of charge.

Overhead, little blue trains zipped along on the Minirail. Helicopters buzzed here and there. Boats of sight-seers cruised the canals. A pedicab rushed by us, the cyclist pedaling furiously in the rear while an old lady sat in the chair and fa

There were people everywhere, great mobs of them. They stood patiently in lines stretching out in front of some of the larger pavilions or walked furiously from one place to another. They bought hot dogs and hamburgers and soft drinks and cigarettes and propellor beanies and floppy hats with their names on them and souvenir pe

“It’s cool here,” I said.

“It is getting warm in the sun, Evan.”

“It’s cooler than New York.”

“Yes, it is.”

“That’s something.”

“Is it not beautiful, Evan?”

“I suppose so.”

She stood up, waving her arms ecstatically. “I am so glad we are finally here,” she said. “What shall we do first? Do you want to ride on the Minirail? What pavilions shall we go to? Can I have something to drink?”

We went everywhere, we did everything. We rode on the Minirail and took a ride on the boat, which was called the Hovercraft. We went to more pavilions than either of us could keep track of, passing up the ones with lines in front of them – probably the best ones, naturally – and wandering through endless exhibits, most of which concentrated on depicting the economic progress and industrial potential of the country whose pavilion it was. A little of this goes rather a long way. I saw at least twenty different jars of coffee beans, each with a little signboard explaining that the coffee of this particular country was the best in the world, and, while it may be a flaw in my character, coffee beans tend to look alike to me. So do chunks of polished wood – each African nation displayed at least twenty different specimens of polished wood, for example, testing even Mi