The following story is based on a true story. It involves the statue of a Canadian historical figure who was tormented by outside and inside tormentors throughout his life. Google "Louis Riel" for details. (photo below)
WHO CUT THE BALLS OFF OF LOUIS RIEL
The statue of Louis Riel looms over me in all its twisted, naked glory. His head is too large and out of proportion with the rest of his body. Big, blank, bronze eyes stare blindly to the north. His hands are behind his back. I wonder about that. Why would they put his hands behind his back? He is leaning forward. His leg muscles are massive and his body is twisted and knotted into permanent steel spasms.
A man comes up from behind. “Somebody cut off his balls,” he says. I look up again and sure enough, the statue’s genitals have been crudely removed.
“They must have used a hammer and chisel,” the man says. “Cut them off cleanly. I’ll bet they're hanging on someone’s wall. You know, like a trophy.” He shrugs his shoulders. “Cut off his balls,” he says quietly.
He is Metis, handsome, in a rugged kind of way, and well dressed. He lays his briefcase on the bench. He folds his arms and looks at me. For a moment I am intimidated. I step into the shadows of the cement wall that almost encircles the statue. There is room inside the walls for the cement bench. I realize Riel has been designed so that he stares out from an opening in the wall. I sit down on the bench near the man's briefcase. He picks it up and sits near me, placing his briefcase locked between his feet. I am momentarily annoyed but say nothing.
“What’s that word?” the man says.” You know, that word that means to have your balls cut off? I forget.”
“Castration,” I say.
“That’s it,” he says. "Somebody castrated old Louis Riel.” He chuckles when he says this. “Cut his balls right off.”
A teenager appears from the trees that line the river. He turns to the trees and a young girl joins him, tucking her shirt into her denim shorts. The man sees them and pokes me in the ribs. “Look at that,” he says. The couple walk boldly up to the statue. They stop and look at the statue, ignoring the man and me. The girl walks forward and touches the foot. She rubs a big toe slowly. Her eyes move up the statue to the scar where the genitals have been removed.
“What happened to his…..ah……? she whispers.
“Somebody cut his balls off,” the man says. “Castrated old Louis Riel,” he says.
The couple look at us. The girl says “castrated?” like she is puzzled by what the man has said.
The boy starts to laugh. A teenager’s laugh. “They neutered Louis Riel,” he says.
The girl smirks and the boy drops his arm over her shoulder. She tucks her head onto his chest and they walk away. The boy looks back, smiles, and raises his fist with his thumb up.
“Kids,” the man says. “You gotta love em.” He waves to the boy, “Now that kid has balls,” he says.
I snort and wipe the sweat from my forehead. “Sure is hot!” I say.
The man stands up and walks to the base of the statue. He rubs the same toe rubbed by the girl. He looks up, craning his neck to view the face. The massive chin looms over him. “So,” he says, “what do you think?”
I look at him. I don’t understand the question, so I don’t answer. He sees my problem. “About the statue?” he says,” What do you think about the statue?”
“it’s a great statue,” I say.
He checks me out to see if I am patronizing him. “What’s so great about it”? he says.
I tell him I like the way the artist has captured Riel’s torment in his blank eyes and twisted body. He nods his head as if deep in thought. “What about his balls?” he says.
“His balls?” I choke on the word.
“Yes,” he says. “What about his balls? Do you think they should replace his balls?”
I am beginning to feel uneasy. I half-smile and look around. Not far away, a man in a skimpy black bathing suit is kneeling on a blanket, He sees somebody and stretches his arm skyward. His hand waves. Not his arm. Just his hand. His fingers move gracefully, as if he were playing a piano, an imaginary piano high in the air. Across the street, another man notices him and the gesture is returned. The newcomer crosses the street. He is carrying a shopping bag. When he gets closer, I can see his eyebrows have been plucked. He hugs the man on the blanket and sits down beside him.
“So,” says my companion. “Do you think they ought to make him a new set of balls?
I turn toward him and say, “I guess so.” I return my attention to the couple on the blanket. The newcomer is rubbing lotion on the bather’s back. They are laughing and talking. Bathing suit is stretched out on his stomach. The newcomer points in our direction and says something. Bathing suit looks and turns his head away from me and lays it on his arms. His body is heaving with laughter.
“Why?” says my companion. "Why should they fix him?"
I am getting annoyed. I don’t like talking about balls.
“Because the scar is too rough and you can see chicken wire poking out . The statue should be bronzed again and polished all over. It is not dignified scarred like that. It looks like it has corroded or burned or something. The statue should be uniform in its nature. And complete. That’s why.” I say and I add sarcastically, “Anything else you want to know?”
“Because the scar is too rough and you can see chicken wire poking out . The statue should be bronzed again and polished all over. It is not dignified scarred like that. It looks like it has corroded or burned or something. The statue should be uniform in its nature. And complete. That’s why.” I say and I add sarcastically, “Anything else you want to know?”
The man grunts. “The chicken wire is a distraction,” he says. “And it is undignified. Sort of appropriate, don’t you think?”
“Don’t know,” I say.
The man coughs and says, “will you look at those two,” he says,. nodding toward the couple on the blanket.
I look and see they are sitting side-by-side, feet stretched out in front of them. They are obviously watching us and making remarks to each other. One of them is drinking a beer. They are like spectators at a hockey game. I don’t react. I look up at Riel’s face. He has an enormous mustache and flowing hair. His lips are pursed. I drop my eyes to his chest. Good pecs, I think.
The man follows my gaze. “I think they should leave him ballless,” he says. I think of that word. I wonder if it contains three ‘l’s’ next to each other? I decide it does.
“It seems right the way it is if you know what I mean,” the man says.
I kind of tilt my head. I place my hand on my cheek, so that one finger, the index finger, can rub at my eye. I am buying time. I pull my hand across the hair at the side of my head. “Sure is hot!” I say.
The man ignores my comment. “I guess you don’t know,” he says. “Riel had no balls in his lifetime, so why should they give him a set now?”
“No disrespect intended,” I say, “But, history will record him as a hero. A man who stood his ground, leading to the establishment of a province. He was very smart and very brave.” I am settling into a good oratory. I am on a roll. “I know he had mental problems in later years but..........."
"Mental problems!! You mean he went bat-shit crazy mad and they hanged him. Not an auspicious ending, but fitting for the statue,"
The man had interrupted me, rather viciously, but I continued, quietly, professorially. "They should make him whole and you should see him as your man.”
"Mental problems!! You mean he went bat-shit crazy mad and they hanged him. Not an auspicious ending, but fitting for the statue,"
The man had interrupted me, rather viciously, but I continued, quietly, professorially. "They should make him whole and you should see him as your man.”
“Balls!” says the man, profanely, derisively. “He had no balls at all. But you wouldn’t understand,” he says. “None of you could ever understand. You are white! You just have no idea.”
He has ruled out any rebuttal. I cannot lay claim to any valid opinion because I am white.
“Look,” he says. “I don’t mean to scare you or offend you. You can’t understand. It is this way. You guys cut off his balls when he was alive and now you’ve gone and done it again.”
“White man’s magic,” he says. “Only a white man could castrate another man twice.”
I fall silent and look at the couple on the blanket. They are packing up and looking at me.
The man picks up a pebble and underhands it at the statue. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Bad day in court.”
“ You make an assumption that it was a white man who mutilated the statue,” I say. “It could’ve been anybody. Anybody.”
“No,” he says. “It was a white man.”
I don’t want to talk about balls anymore. I stand and prepare to leave but I am blocked by the blanket couple who have quietly approached us. The blanket sticks out of newcomer's shopping bag.
Bathing suit says, “You seem fascinated by this statue. Did you notice his testicles are missing? We cut them off.” He begins to giggle.
“Yes.” says newcomer. We emasculated Louis Riel. It seemed like the right thing to do.” They both begin to laugh and they jog off, hand-in-hand. The shopping bag bounces against newcomer's leg, causing him to wince and to hold it away from his body.
The man looks at me as if to say I told you so. “
Just one more thing,” he says.
Just one more thing,” he says.
“What’s that?” I say.
“Have you looked at his ass?”
“His ass?” I say.
“Yeh,” he says. “Take a look at Louis’s ass.”
“Why?”
The man stares at me. We are face-to-face. I can see something roll down his cheek. I can’t decide if it is sweat or a tear. I can smell his cologne.
“His ass,” he says “It is well polished. It shines when hit by the sun and I expect by the moon. That ass is the shiniest ass in Canada. It’s historical. Someone should cut off his ass and hang it on a wall.
I smirk and he adds, “You white guys are like pigs in lipstick. Pretty, but still just pigs. He thinks a moment and says, “No offense intended.”
“None taken,” I say. “I’ve heard it all before.”
The man curls his eyebrows. "I wonder what's in that shopping bag," he says.
The man curls his eyebrows. "I wonder what's in that shopping bag," he says.
