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stomping of Grandfather and Uncle up the steps broke their spell; they openedtheir eyes on each other. Numb, neither could be bothered finishing and so they lay panting. It was just before dawn. Together they resented the returning men who hadn’t the decency to tread quietly. They were tired and drifting off, but jarred awake more than once by flushing toilets, heavy steps and the cawing and flapping of Grandfather’s pet crow. The scratching and whining of Uncle’s dog abated with a few yelps.
    One of Father’s few saving graces was his refusal to take part in Grandfather’s crimes. Mother thought of this and moved closer to him in the bed. In the dark, in their cramped room, he put his arm around her, thankful too that he was here with her and not with them; and also thankful that Mother had never complained of his lack of a steady job, that he’d tried and failed at so many things. For both of them, even indigence was preferable to the family business.
    It wasn’t necessary for Marie to stand by and watch her bombs go off. Timers were accurate, and she knew her business. But she was a perfectionist and insisted on being available in case anything went wrong. Sometimes she wondered exactly what she would or could do if there were no detonation. Would she dare try retrieving the package? If she did, what could she do with it? It was more dangerous to take a bomb apart than to put one together. But she couldn’t bring herself simply to set it and walk away. That was too impersonal, as if she were an anonymousquirk of fate rather than an active, intentional being. That would be like one of those unsigned statements her comrades in the Front de libération du Québec—the FLQ—were always sending to the newspapers. Like the diaphanous, ambient noise of the city itself or like messages from unknown spirits transmitted by Ouija boards. Her work was hers alone, and her insistence on watching it to completion was her way of signing her statements—for they were political statements—just as an artist would sign a canvas, or her brother sign his poems.
    Tonight’s operation was a masterpiece. She dropped the package into the mailbox outside the restaurant just as she’d planned with her cell. The place was full of drunks, stuffing themselves sick with smoked meat after boozing it up all night in the bars. Anglos mostly, of course. The bomb went off like a charm at three-twenty.
    Torn metal, shattered plate glass windows, people screaming and bleeding their way across the floor, across the sidewalk. The fire, the noise, the ambulances, and lastly the reporters with no sense of the humanity of it. It was a symphony of lights. First the explosion itself, a great orange fireball; then the blinking flashers of police cars and ambulances; finally the flashbulbs and floodlights of photographers and video cameras.
    She stood within a crowd of onlookers, herded back by patrolmen, watching the countless cops, firemen, paramedics, victims. When the detectives finally came around to ask for witnesses, she slipped away.Her report was for her cell. And it wouldn’t do to be identified at the scene.
    She walked slowly along the still busy rue Ste-Catherine, mulling over the events in her mind. She ignored the drunken advances of a handful of boors being turfed out long past last call. She walked as if by rote to the meeting place, gave the correct knock at the door, entered. Several faces gazed at her inquiringly. She began to speak. As she related her triumph to her unit of the FLQ, she heard her voice as if from a distance, the words indistinct in her own ears, like the prayers of others in church. But the images in her mind were vivid, the lights blinding, the heat of the flames blistering like an open oven, and adrenalin flowed through her just as it had through those whose world had been suddenly shattered by her actions.
    When she was done, the others began chattering excitedly, smiling grimly, gesturing importantly. Now it