The train journey from Montreal to Vancouver was certainly a trek, but in first class one couldn’t very well complain about the length of the journey. Every year, the hostesses of Canadian Pacific gathered to celebrate the anniversary of the railway’s foundation. Theirs was a Class-1 railway that ran the breadth of the country and from Montreal down to New York. At these yearly gatherings, one had to be the height of fashion: the ladies wore pleated skirts, fascinators and scarves, and some had their hair done up to look like Coco Chanel. Chantal was even wearing a fur coat, which, she reasoned, still counted as Canadian pride since the foxes had been sourced from their own national parks.
The hostesses murmured to one another, wondering what kind of surprise they were in for. A standing punch-ball had been brought in for the occasion, and Aimée Duchauvert, the big boss, would be giving them a demonstration. Aimée Duchauvert came from one of the great families of the Canadian landed class. They said Aimée Duchauvert had posed for the covers of women’s magazines, and that she’d met Greta Garbo in person. They said Aimée Duchauvert was a feminist. She was a member of the Women's International League for Peace and Freedom, and she’d fought for the right to vote for all Canadian women. She also spoke of the need for world peace. In short, Aimée Duchauvert was a fervent believer in peace, harmony and equality between men and women.
Today was about learning how to dare. Aimée Duchauvert wanted to show her employees that a woman could fight. Moreover, a woman had to fight: “They will never stop trying to prevent you from living freely, and so you must fight!” They marvelled at her sporting prowess and listened with respect. She went on: “You can drive trains too! You too can pull the levers!” She boxed as she talked, landing jabs and hooks, never seeming tired or flustered.
“My husband would have a stroke if I wore trousers, never mind driving a train!” remarked Chantal, caressing her fur coat.
“What about tennis? Can we still wear skirts for that?” Annette replied.
“You worry too much about how men see you,” growled Aimée Duchauvert.
“My husband’s a dope, I don’t care what he thinks. But he’d make my life impossible if I acted all feminist...” sighed Chantal. “Besides, I have lovers and mistresses to keep me busy. I don’t need to box!”
“Lovers and mistresses?” Annette was shocked.
“I like to keep things interesting,” Chantal shrugged.
“You won’t help the cause by hiding yourself away,” Aimée Duchauvert told them.
She was true to her word: Aimée Duchauvert had never hesitated to take on the journalists and politicians who opposed her. She’d caused a scandal during the Great War when she protested outside an armaments factory. Inside the factory, hundreds of women had been lined up in rows, busily making shells, pouring powder and assembling assault rifles. For Aimée Duchauvert, contributing to the war effort did not equate to emancipation. She had gathered a small group of activists from the International League and positioned them outside the entrance to the factory, where they’d brandished anti-war placards. They wore trousers and men’s hats and even smoked cigarettes. Journalists quickly descended upon the protest. “Aimée the black sheep disturbing the peace,” they wrote. “The black sheep,” the nickname that had followed her all her life. Word had it that she and her husband hadn’t shared a bed for years, that he couldn’t put up with her mood swings, and that she embarrassed him every chance she got. Once, she had emptied her champagne glass over the head of an industrial tycoon at a charity dinner. Apparently his dinner conversation had been rife with misogyny. People said Aimée’s husband should have asked for a divorce on the spot. But Mr Duchauvert had publicly refused, saying that he loved his wife not just for her beauty but for her exceptional intelligence and determination, and that any lapses of conduct were always justified. Despite the slander and the jeers, Aimée Duchauvert had never backed down. Today her efforts had paid off, and she was highly respected for her Canadian Pacific railway. It had been a long road to get there; hard years spent cutting through Canada’s every frontier, in every weather, every season.
“Aimée, how did you learn to punch like that?” Chantal asked.
“How? I train at home; I even have an instructor. I fence and ride horses too.”
“Doesn’t your husband get mad at you?” Annette worried.
“My husband is no caveman. I’ve educated him, my dear!”
“I tried doing that, but my husband hit me with a slipper...” Annette sighed.
“A man who loses himself to anger is like war — a sign of a world falling apart. But we, my dears, we have the power to put it back together. Of that I am certain!”
Alan Alfredo Geday