Meeting Mordecai Richler

Meeting Mordecai, A Memoir

-Robert J. Bowles, 2021

Our Secondary II teacher called us up to the front of the class. A table was filled with books that were dog eared, cover torn and had that old book smell of stale dinner rolls.

“Okay, you can pick one of these for your book report.” I rifled through them and I was completely unmotivated. I love to read, but a book has to appeal to me on some level. History, sports, mythology or a good horror story. None of them promised anything like that.

I picked up what was the skinniest of them. The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz. Turning it over I saw that it was written by a Montreal author. The story featured Montreal as its setting. I walked back to my desk and opened it up. This was in 1972.

I found my new favourite author, Mordecai Richler. A skinny fourteen-year-old Catholic boy from Montreal’s suburb of Verdun was about to get an education on good writing and the Jewish culture.

I soon sought out everything he wrote and read them over and over. His writing spoke to me. He opened up doors and windows for me to jump into and out of while following his protagonists through their follies

In 1974, Dawson College accepted me into their Professional Photography program. Like Duddy, I was too impatient, and I wanted to get out into the real world and make money so that I can make my own movies. I dropped out after one semester, passing just one course.

In 1976 my employer moved me to Newmarket, Ontario to train me for management.

One of my neighbours was a tall, athletic girl with amazing legs. We quickly became friends, but just friends.

On a frosty December night, we took the train down to Toronto. We were going to see her favourite movie, Disney’s Fantasia.

The brisk walk back to the train station took us past The Royal York Hotel. A large black limo was idling by the front door. Canadian flags were flapping in the cold wind on its front fenders. I had a strong hunch that it was waiting for our Prime Minister.

We picked out a spot in the lobby where I knew he would have to pass by. An elevator bell rang. A group of burly men in suits sprang into action. “Don’t move,” I told my friend.

Seconds later The Right Honourable Pierre Elliot Trudeau stood smiling before us. I gave a slight bow and said, “Good evening Mr. Prime Minister.” He looked at me and said, “Good morning, how is your mother?” I answered, “She is fine sir, I will tell her you asked.” He shook our hands and he was gone.

My friend was now convinced that our PM was a personal friend of mine. I did not try to dissuade her of that notion. That night, our relationship turned romantic. I am sure Duddy would have approved of my lie of omission.

It was a crisp fall day in 1980. I was back in Montreal and I was now a buyer for Zellers Stores. I had been waiting for this day for the past three months. Mordecai Richer was going to be downtown signing his new novel, Joshua, Then and Now.

I was frantic. Trying to find a parking spot on Rue St. Catherine was a fool’s errand. I sent up a prayer to my personal patron saint. Seconds later a spot was opening up a few blocks from my destination.

I turned on my blinker to indicate that I was waiting for that spot. A blast of angry horns and some choice swear words from both languages were hurled at my little green car.

Running full speed to Classics Book Shop saw me almost knock down an elderly gentleman. I arrived breathlessly at the front counter, “I am here for the Joshua signing.” The pretty girl gave me a sad look that indicated I was in for a grave disappointment. “He has already left.” “But he was supposed to be here for fifteen more minutes”. I replied annoyingly.

“Check over there, he did sign some, there may be one left.” I found one and plunked it down triumphantly in front of her. She gave me a weak smile with a “Good for you.” That famous Montreal sarcasm totally escaped me at that moment.

In 1982, my son was born. That July 5th, I became a man. I was thrilled to be a dad.

My assistant manager knocked on my office door, “Hey, you like Mordecai Richler?” He asked. “Yes, why?” Well, he is going to be at Coles Eaton Centre two Saturdays from now.”

I got up early that morning. I poured myself a hot coffee made rich with cream into a travel mug. I kissed my son goodbye and headed out the door.

My brand new, 1989 purple Nissan 240 was rocketing towards Toronto. Mordecai's new book Solomon Gursky Was Here, was coming out. It was being hailed as tour de force and his best work to date.

I arrived in plenty of time. Looking around the book shop, I could not find any place set up for an author’s signing. Further investigation could not turn up the book either. I was a week early this time.

I had heard that Richler’s phone number was listed. I called 411 and got his number. I could not imagine there could be more than one Mordecai Richler in Montreal. I dialled it with anticipation. I had no idea what I was going to say. I highly doubted that he would even pick up the phone.

On the third ring, his unmistakable voice answered the phone. I could not speak. Three angry hellos later from him, and still, I was frozen. He hung up leaving me staring at my phone with great humiliation.

By this time my wife and I had parted. My girlfriend could not figure out what to get me for my birthday. I told her about President Bill Clinton coming to Hamilton for a black tie fundraiser. She was thrilled. Two friends were to join us.

That night saw the girls looking amazing in their evening gowns. We rented a limo for the event.

A crowd was outside the venue waiting to get a glimpse of Clinton. When I alighted from the limo, the crown started to scream, “He’s here.” I was always getting mistaken for him while he was in office. This mistaken identity continued inside, where people insisted that I take pictures with them.

In the lineup to meet Bill, I had a beautiful woman on each arm. He looked up at me and gave me a mischievous smile with a wag of his finger. I returned a knowing smile.

Later on, I got to speak with him one on one. We discussed our mutual favourite presidents and I offered that history would put him in the pantheon of Teddy Roosevelt, FDR and JFK.

In 1994, I was enjoying a comfortable lifestyle, a nice home, a luxury car and lots of travel. I had sole custody of my son who continued to be the great joy of my life.

A headline in my Saturday paper read, “Mordecai Richler to read from his newest book.” This Year in Jerusalem was sitting on my coffee table.

This time, I was taking no chances. I confirmed the time and date with the venue and his book publisher.

I entered a surprisingly small room. There were about forty of us. Richler was given a warm welcome. He was sipping an amber liquid while smoking cigarillos. No one seemed to mind.

He got up and spoke about the book and what it meant to him. He then read a few pages and sat down. I was expecting a Q&A but none was offered.

I followed the lineup to meet him. While he was signing my book, I mangled my prepared line of being a fourteen-year-old Catholic schoolboy doing a book report on Duddy. He just looked up over his glasses and gave me a look that seemed to say, “So, anything else?

You would think I was disappointed, but no, quite the opposite. I finally met my literary hero. Just being in his presence and getting to shake his surprisingly soft hand was a bigger thrill than meeting Trudeau or Clinton.

In October 2019, I finally realized a fantasy. I had moved back to Montreal. In fact, I am living right across the street from Dawson’s Historical grounds. I enrolled to finish what I started in 1974

I finished my third semester and am doing well. In the Fall I will be re-starting in the Professional Photography program.

Thomas Wolfe got it wrong, You can go home again.

Mordecai passed away in 2001. There was no mention of him being ill or how he passed away.

An MRI taken last October revealed that cancer had returned to invade me a second time. A series of radiation treatments, biopsies and consultations with five different doctors took over my being. Surgery to save my life was performed May 7th.

During this time, I was reading, Mordecai: The Life & Times by Charles Foran

The book was written very much in Richler’s style. It gave me some new insights into his personal and family life that made for good reading.

Mordecai Richler was an inspiration for me. His many op-ed pieces were compiled in Oh Canada! Oh Quebec! is very well thought out and written. Richler never shied away from giving you his unvarnished, but well-thought-out opinions on his beloved Quebec. He was always an equal offender. He did not spare the English, the French or the Jews. For me, he was fearless, honest and acerbic. His sarcasm informs my sense of humour to this day.

As I face many months of recuperation and rehabilitation, his works will be on my Kindle. They are there to help me get through what I have to get through.

Mick Jagger sang, “Time Waits for no one, and it won’t wait for me.” It has become even more important now, than when I first heard it at seventeen.

In Solomon Gursky Was Here, Solomon opines, “Gerald Murphy got it wrong-living twice, maybe three times, is the best revenge.”

So, how could I disagree?

Robert Joseph Bowles, 2021 Verdun, Quebec