887

Robert Lepage, Louisa Blair

• Verlag: Arachnide Editions
• Jahr: 2018
• ISBN:
  9781487003937
• Thema: Literature
• Thema: Canadian Drama

From internationally acclaimed playwright and author Robert Lepage comes 887 — an autobiographical story originally toured as a solo show. Framed by Lepage's attempt to memorize Michèle Lalonde's poem "Speak White, " 887 is an exploration of memory, culture, and community in Quebec.

As the 40th anniversary of La Nuit de la poésie in Montreal approaches, playwright Robert Lepage is invited to recite Michèle Lalonde's seminal poem "Speak White" from memory on the special night. After agonizing hours spent attempting to memorize the piece, Lepage finds himself unable to recall a single line. In a last effort he decides to employ a mnemonic device dating back to ancient Greece called the Memory Palace — a technique of imagination and association. Lepage's Memory Palace is 887 Murray Avenue, the apartment block where he grew up. Winding his way around the rooms of the building and the lives of the tenants therein, Lepage guides the reader through a world of recollections of 1960s Quebec, the decade that shaped the province's cultural and political consciousness.

A mesmerizing and multifaceted glimpse into the realm of memory, 887 is a tour of culture and community in 1960s Quebec through one masterful artist's remarkable, boundary-defying perspective.

Parc des Braves No. 1

Robert spins the building back to its original position, but now projected on the screen is a video shot of Parc des Braves in the foreground with the Lower Town and the Laurentians in the background. Simultaneously, a model of the park entrance (with the Monument des Braves in the middle, the two pavilions on each side and the long balustrade between them) silently slides out and stops in front of the screen, exactly its width.

Diving deep in the waters of my past
I see this one bright place from far away;

The first and oldest memory of them all
is what began my lifelong one-act play.

The Parc des Braves, that legendary place
where every Sunday wealthy families go

To eat their picnics sitting on the cliff,
gazing at the town stretched out below.

The day my family moves to Upper Town,
my father rushes to bring us to the park

While my mother, always dutiful and meek,
unpacks boxes until long after dark.

My father has a war vet’s pension, and
now as well, a taxi driver’s pay.

He never dreamed his life would look so good
as it did in Parc des Braves on that spring day.

He points to Lower Town, our former home,
where the working classes live in the crowded streets

Of Saint-Sauveur, Saint-Roch, and Limoilou,
and people work like dogs to make ends meet.

I can see our silhouettes as children now;
the sun goes down and the afternoon gets colder,

My brother Dave, and sisters Ann and Lynda,
and I ride on my hero’s trusty shoulders.

The model of the park entrance slides offstage.

Street names

Using his cellphone again, Robert makes a world map appear on the screen and zooms in on the Montcalm district, satellite view, showing the street names and places of interest.

We lived here. Right in the heart of the Montcalm district, an area sandwiched between two battlefields that were pivotal in the history of Canada: the Parc des Braves, to the north, and the Plains of Abraham, to the south. That’s why the streets in this neighbourhood are almost all named after the great British and French military officers.

This is what’s called historical toponymy (or the historical naming of places). In theory, when you come across a street called Murray, it’s supposed to bring to mind General James Murray (projects portrait of Murray), who was Quebec’s first British governor. Murray fought alongside James Wolfe (a portrait of Wolfe appears next to Murray’s) at the famous Battle of the Plains of Abraham. Since Wolfe fell very early on in the battle, Murray took command of the British troops and managed to get the French troops under Montcalm to surrender.

But just between you and me, it probably wasn’t a very hard battle to win, judging by this painting by Hervey Smythe (projects painting by Smythe); the French troops, you can see them here in blue, were clearly outnumbered by the British troops, in red, who had reinforcements coming from all the way down beyond the Beauport Flats.

And in fact that was General Wolfe’s strategy, to scale the cliffs of the Plains of Abraham after landing his troops here, at Anse au Foulon. So this is another memory-place: when you hear “Anse au Foulon” it’s supposed to trigger the memory of that very important historical event.

Anse au Foulon

In my case, it triggers something else entirely.

Projection of a period photo of the beach at Anse au Foulon.

When I think of Anse au Foulon, I think of the beautiful sandy beach it was to become centuries later, and where my father worked as a lifeguard in the 1930s.

Photo of Robert’s father, on the beach.

Here he is, barely twenty years old, in his bathing suit, with his lifeguard’s hat and his St. Michael’s Medal — St. Michael is the patron saint of lifeguards.

Photo of his father on the beach doing a handstand.

My father spent most of his youth at Anse au Foulon in a poor neighbourhood called Cap-Blanc. During the Great Depression, families would take their kids out of school and send them to work. My father was only eight years old when he was sent to the docks to work on the boats so he could help his family.

Photo of his father in swimming trunks, cigarette in hand.

In those days they didn’t pay children with money, they paid them with flour or packs of cigarettes. My father smoked from the age of eight until he was seventy-five, when he died of lung cancer.

Photo of his father, bearded, in his navy uniform.

When the Second World War broke out, it was only natural for him to join the Canadian Navy because he was used to working on boats. He had all kinds of adventures. He was decorated several times. But we never really got to know the details of his exploits, because my father was a man of few words, and also because one of his great qualities was his remarkable humility.

Wedding photo of Robert’s parents after the ceremony, on the church steps.

After the war, my father met my mother, a young woman from the Saint-Roch district, where they got married. My mother’s sisters were all very jealous. They said my mother didn’t deserve my father because, according to them, he was the best-looking guy in the whole city.

Photo of Robert’s father in his taxi driver’s uniform.

When my father left the navy, he had to find a civilian job. As he could barely read or write, the only job he could find was driving a taxi. But the great advantage he had over the other cabbies was that he was perfectly bilingual, as he’d learned English during his years in the navy. That meant he could offer sightseeing tours to American tourists, who usually rewarded him with very generous tips.

Photo of his father with Ann, Dave, and Robert in his arms.

So for me, as a kid, my father was the ultimate superhero: a good-looking, strong, athletic man who had saved many lives when he was young, who had risked his own life during the war, and who was now prepared to make any sacrifice at all to give his children the best possible standard of living.

The library

With a swipe of his cellphone, Robert slides the photo off the screen and dials a number while taking off his jacket. Meanwhile, the screen/wall revolves and the front of 887 Murray reappears but then rotates another 90 degrees. The other side of the building is now a wall of bookshelves, his present-day personal library. At the same time, a floor lamp with a tray table glides on stage left and moves over to far stage right. We hear a voicemail greeting.

“Your message has been transferred to a voice messaging system. ‘Fred’ cannot take your call at the moment. At the tone, please leave a message.”

A beep indicating the beginning of the recording.

Hi Fred, Robert Lepage here. Listen, old pal, long time no see. Sorry to call you on your private number – I guess it’s your cell number. It’s just that I didn’t have a work number or a home number for you. By chance I ran into Marie-Christine the other day at the mall and she gave me your private number. I promise I won’t give it to anyone . . .

Beep indicating the end of the recording.

Hold on . . . that was way too quick!

To the audience:

Fred is a guy I studied with at the Conservatoire d’art dramatique, Quebec city’s theatre school, many years ago. Let’s just say he wasn’t the greatest actor, but he had a fabulous voice.

He touches automatic redial on his cellphone.

So he was the first in our class ...