by Thomas King
Long love affair with dogs. Owned three chows that she dyed to look like giant pandas.
ONE OF THE PHOTOGRAPHS is of my mother as a young woman standing next to a motorcycle. I’m nowhere to be seen, so I’ve always assumed that the picture predates my arrival. I can only see part of the motorcycle. A Harley, perhaps. Or a Norton. Or an Indian.
I’ve tried to figure out the make and the year, but the bike is out of focus and there’s not enough for a positive identification. I assume that it was my father’s motorcycle, and I assume that it was my father who took the picture. There is nothing in the image itself or on the back of the photograph to support either of these conclusions.
Except for my mother. In the photo, she is radiant and alive. And she is smiling.
GUNTHER VOGEL’S INTERESTS were in genetics and deep-ocean organisms. An avid blue-water sailor. Married, two sons. Vogel had financial interests in several soccer teams and was a major stockholder in Hexagon Management, an international sports agency. A business reputation for ruthlessness and arrogance. Several of his companies had been heavily fined for their part in the destruction of a coral reef off the coast of Australia.
Under indictment for tax fraud in Switzerland.
IN THE SECOND PHOTOGRAPH, my mother is not smiling. Here, she looks different. Her hair is shorter, and she is thinner. She’s in a room with other people. A party. She has a cigarette in one hand and a drink of some sort in the other. She looks to be talking to someone just beyond the frame. The flash from the camera has caught her in the middle of an emotion.
Delight or anger.
I’ve looked at this photograph countless times, but it’s impossible to tell.
She’s older in this photograph. Again, I am not in the picture, but I imagine that I’m close by. Perhaps in a spare bedroom away from the noise, tucked up in a pile of coats on a bed. Or at a neighbour’s house, stashed away for the night.
The only thing I know for sure is that this is the last photograph I have of my mother and her life.
ARJUN CHAR BUILT a telecom juggernaut out of the family fortune that his father and grandfather had amassed, a success that was wholly due to the management team he had assembled to run the business. Char was more playboy than entrepreneur. Fast cars, elaborate parties, celebrities, drugs. Numerous arrests for driving while intoxicated. Several lawsuits for sexual harassment and rape, complete with non-disclosure agreements. One conviction for drug possession, which was stayed. Under investigation for his role in a network of phone-scamming centres in India and Ukraine.
Rumoured to be HIV-positive.
Oleg Baranov. Married with three daughters. Family fortune in oil. He had used his wealth and influence to branch off into alternative energy sources such as wind, solar, tidal surge, and algae biofuels, while at the same time doubling down on older technologies, using his money and power to influence policy on fracking and exploration in the Arctic. A moderate man, his one obsession was with movies. He tried to buy MGM and United Artists, and when that failed, he formed his own studio, where he made B movies, spy-vs-spy adventures with muscular men and half-naked women. He had even cast himself in several of the early features.
At the time of his death, he had been involved in a sexual-assault suit brought by several of the actresses who had worked with him on his films.
THE OTHER ITEMS in the lunch box are less important. The St. Christopher medal came with me, was part of my dowry, and was passed along from one foster home to another. The letter is just an official acknowledgement of my having been safely tucked into a social services system that cared for me as one would care for a folder in a file drawer.
The stone is something I imagine my mother picked up by a lake. In the water, it would have been bright green and glowing. Out of the water and dry, it is faded and dull. I have no idea why she would have kept it.
I keep it because she did.
AS WITH HIS FATHER and grandfather, Carlos Boeme had started out in oil but moved quickly into the international arms industry, buying surplus military equipment and selling to anyone who could afford it. Several of his companies were indicted for selling restricted technologies to embargoed or sanctioned regimes. Boeme himself was a heavy contributor to the NRA and had close ties to the Heartland Institute and Americans for Prosperity.
His daughter worked for Greenpeace. His son died of an overdose his first year at university.
AFTER BOEME, I take a full break. Food, coffee, something with sugar. Then I lie down, try to imagine that I’m in a cabin in the mountains, somewhere near Penticton. Mind over matter. It doesn’t work. When I open my eyes, I’m still in the Locken tower, rummaging through the lives of dead people.
LADY AMAHIE ZUMA was a major player in Africa’s and South America’s energy extraction industries. Most of her companies were legitimate businesses. But there were several cases before the courts in Peru involving illegal gold-mining practices and the human trafficking of young men and women as cheap labour and sex workers.
Over the years, her foundation had been a regular contributor to UNICEF and World Relief.
THE BUNDLE OF ROAD MAPS is the curiosity. There are ten in all. One for each of the provinces. I’ve opened them in turn to see if there are any clues as to where she might have gone, where she might have wanted to go.
Of course, if the motorcycle in the first picture did belong to my father, the maps might have been his. I like the idea of my mother and my father sailing across the whole of Canada on a motorcycle, going nowhere and everywhere fast and free.
It is a romantic notion that more properly belongs in a paperback.
ROBERTO ROCCA HAD STARTED R&R Laboratories in and around Naples, but when his daughter took over, Giuliana Rocca moved the headquarters to Rome and added toxic waste disposal to the company’s portfolio. Long rumoured to be a major polluter and in partnership with the Mafia, the company was embarrassed by the release of a video that showed toxic waste being dumped into the ocean. Additional videos surfaced of R&R burying unprocessed garbage and waste in fields near Casapesenna and Castel Volturno. Public outrage, but no action taken by the Italian government.
Giuliana had homes in Cannes and Napa Valley, as well as an estate outside Rome, where she kept peacocks and Lady Amherst’s pheasants.
BERNARD DASSAULT. Real estate magnate. Dassault Holdings is the world’s leader in office towers, convention centres, and bridges, with interests in concrete and steel. Multiple citations for the use of substandard materials in construction projects, especially in Third World countries.
An avid golfer with multiple club memberships around the world, Dassault’s main aspiration is to play in the Pebble Beach Pro-Am. His handicap is low enough, and he certainly has the money and position to wrangle an invite to the annual tournament.
But he is known to cheat. A virtue in business, a felony in golf.
AT ONE TIME, the tin lunch box had a matching Thermos. But it’s long gone. As well, the image on the front has faded. The Lone Ranger still gallops across the prairies on his horse, but parts of the scene have flaked off or rusted away so that now pieces of Silver’s face are missing and the ranger is minus his left arm.
There are dents all around. The metal folding handle catches, and the latch won’t close completely. Still, the box is the perfect size for the pieces of my mother’s life.
DUTCH EAST SHIPPING, or DES. Privately owned by the Heineken family with a long history in oil tankers and cargo ships. In the last fifteen years, Kommer Heineken moved DES into the lucrative field of luxury cruises, building a fleet of smaller, more opulent ships that could go places the larger liners could not. Heineken himself has been the subject of media scrutiny for his public views of immigrants and immigration, and for his support of white nationalism.
In addition to a world-class wine cellar, he also has a fine collection of vinyl records and a selection of vintage turntables.
TWELVE BILLIONAIRES. Activities included the Frieze Art Fair in London, the Fo
rt Lauderdale International Boat Show, the Snow Polo World Cup St. Moritz, Paris Fashion Week, and the Dubai World Cup.
Twelve billionaires. Stocks, gold, real estate, fine art, rare coins. Swiss and offshore bank accounts, trusts, and tax havens.
Twelve billionaires. Twelve out of 2,473 worldwide. Predominantly male. All from wealthy families. All with inherited fortunes.
I give up a little after midnight. There’s the chance that a good night’s sleep will bring with it renewed energy and clarity. But when I wake up the next morning, the world looks just as tired as it had when I closed my eyes.
26
As promised, Oliver Flood is waiting for me when the Sikorsky touches down in the field. He looks happy to see me, has a smile on his face, which is somewhat unnerving. Even Spot and Rover appear pleased to have the band back together again.
“Welcome home,” says Flood. “We’ve missed you.”
Definitely unnerving.
“Have you missed us?”
Flood stays talkative all the way to town.
“Mrs. Moosonee has a nasty respiratory infection, probably caused by the mould in her trailer. But she’s eating well and recovering nicely. She’s a sweet old woman. Knows how to tell a story. It’s a lost art, you know.”
I try to ignore Flood.
“And that Lala is full of the dickens. She’s going to give you a run for your money. What is it she calls you? Pop-Up? Makes me laugh whenever I say it.”
I debate whether to go home or stop in at the café first.
“Ms. Locken asked me to make sure you have everything you need to facilitate the forecast. I’ve had to make most of the decisions on my own, but if there is something that I forgot, please let me know.”
I decide to get out at the plaza.
Spot pulls the car up against the curb. Rover opens my door. Flood leans forward in the back seat.
“I’m serious,” he says. “Anything you need, just let me know.”
THE PLAZA IS BUSY. Good weather has the effect of bringing people out into the world. Wes Stanford and the Neighbours are camped out in the far corner. Several other families are scattered about on the blankets. There’s even a small group of musicians in the bandstand, playing show tunes.
I look for Roman, but he’s not there.
I find a bench. The sun is warm, no wind. I close my eyes, try to relax and enjoy the moment. Blue skies, happy voices, nothing to do, nowhere to go. Twelve names on a list. I try to flush it out of my mind, but there it remains.
Twelve names on a list.
“Jerry.”
Bob Loomis. Blocking out the sun.
“Haven’t seen you around.”
Thirteen names on a list.
“Having a little fundraiser at the club tonight, and I’m hoping you can join us.”
Mayor Bob is dressed in a three-piece suit. He has a big “Bob’s the One” button on his lapel. The button is attached to a blue ribbon that hangs halfway down the jacket.
As though he’s been awarded first prize at a livestock show.
“Food, dancing. Bring a friend, if you like. Couple of big announcements.” Mayor Bob looks over his shoulder at the Neighbours. “Time we get serious about public safety.”
The mayor crosses the street. He stops in front of the bakery. He stands there admiring his reflection in the window and checking for anyone who might be watching. Then he slips into the hotel, smooth as water down a drain.
It’s too soon to hope that Emma and Lala have found a place of their own. Not that they’ve been a problem. They’ve been quiet and inconspicuous. Still, I miss the complete seclusion and isolation of an empty building.
If I go back to the old school right now, Emma might still be at work and Lala might still be in school.
And then I remember. It’s Sunday.
THE CROSSES STAND STIFFLY above the graves. The stones lie silently on the ground. There is no cordon of police tape around the graveyard, no notices of city bylaws and warnings of trespass.
I search the trees for the crows, but they’re off somewhere else. I want to give them Mayor Bob’s address. In case they can’t find his place on their own.
Three of the stones have been stacked on each other. A group of eight has been arranged to look like a bird. I don’t have to guess which little girl’s imagination has been at work here.
The school looks quiet enough, dark and inviting, as though it’s happy to see me. I can feel the tension drain out of me, can feel my shoulders drop and settle. I take a long, deep breath, open the front door, and step inside.
Emma and Lala are in the kitchen. So are Nutty and Ada and Roman. Along with Jake Somosi, Gordon James, and Benjamin Hunt.
“About time,” says Ada.
As soon as she sees me, Lala is out of the chair with a squeal.
“Pop-Up, Pop-Up, Pop-Up,” she shouts, and dances in place.
“The man of the hour,” says Emma. “This is all very generous, but you should have asked me first.”
Lala has a cellphone in one hand.
“I can take pictures,” she says.
“She’s a little young to have a cellphone,” says Ada.
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are, honey,” says Emma.
“It’s my phone,” says Lala.
“But you don’t get to use it all the time.”
“Linda and Helen have cellphones, and they use them more than all the time.”
Emma looks at me, a pained expression on her face.
“Television and the internet are another matter,” says Ada. “Baseball really comes to life on that big screen.”
I have no idea what they’re talking about, and I’m afraid to ask.
“I can take pictures of Pop-Up and the graveyard,” says Lala. “For show and tell.”
“Roman was going to move my bed over, so I could look after Nutty,” says Ada. “But that guy of yours just bought everything new.”
Oliver Flood.
“Pretty generous, cuz,” says Roman. “Looking after Nutty like this.”
FLOOD HAS INSTALLED a satellite system for television and internet. He has set up a television in Emma’s room and one in the classroom across the hall where Ada and Nutty are staying. He’s also bought beds for everyone, along with dressers and tables, a couple of easy chairs, and a recliner for Nutty that works by remote control.
He has given Lala a cellphone and blamed it on me.
I add another name to the list.
“We couldn’t take Nutty back to her trailer,” says Roman. “And then that guy from the parking lot shows up. Says you arranged all this, and that we were to bring her here.”
I can feel my shoulders start to creep up my neck.
“Nutty’s getting better already.”
“That big-screen television is something else,” says Ada. “Didn’t know what I was missing.”
Roman waves a drumstick around in a circle. “I invited the boys over to practise. Your guy said it would be okay if we used the big room at the end of the hall.”
“We’ll try to keep it down,” says Jake.
“The Clay Pigeons ride again,” says Gordon.
“Roman says you were thinking about sitting in,” says Benjamin. “You know how to sing?”
I head towards the staircase and my room.
Roman calls after me, “Your guy said you wouldn’t mind.”
THERE’S A BRAND-NEW laptop on my desk. Next to the laptop are Keizo Takahashi’s binoculars tied up with a bow. Along with a note that says “Welcome Home.” Not that the school feels like home anymore. Not that it ever felt like home.
Even with the door to my room closed and the lights out, I can hear the television in Nutty’s room. A baseball game of some sort. Every so often, Ada’s voice explodes, full of enthusiasms. I catch snatches of an argument between Lala and her mother. Over everything else is the sound of the drummers at the other end of the school, hard into a round dance.
At seven
thirty, I give up and get dressed. My only suit, blue shirt, red-flecked tie. I have to shave and wet my hair so that it stays close to my head. The end result is not encouraging but falls short of a disaster.
I slip down the stairs, making as little noise as possible, and as I step out into the night, I realize that, in spite of my best efforts, I am now functionally homeless.
THE CLUBHOUSE at the Gleaming Golf and Country Club is an hommage to the clubhouse at Augusta National. Right down to its ornamental cupola.
I’m sure there is someone somewhere who cares.
During my time at Locken, I attended more than my fair share of social events, affairs where I had been required to walk the room, smiling, shaking hands, talking with strangers. They were nothing more than displays of wealth and power, the one-percent’s version of butt sniffing.
I’m under no illusions. I know there’s little pleasure to be found in this place. But having lost my sanctuary, the choices are a night in the park on a bench or the anonymity of a large crowd with free food.
I get as far as the entrance to the great room before I’m tackled by an older woman with a “Bob’s the One” button.
“You don’t have a name tag.” The woman’s name tag says Doris. “And everyone needs to have a name tag.”
A band is setting up in the far corner of the room. The Jeff Bird Trio. Keyboard, double bass, horn. I write my name on a peel-off label, and Doris sticks it to my lapel.
“Elaine is taking donations for the campaign,” says Doris. “And there’s a silent auction that you don’t want to miss.”
I pat my tag. To make sure it doesn’t fall off.
“And of course, you have to see the model.” Doris bubbles away. “It’s all very exciting.”
I locate the food table with little difficulty. Cheese, fruit, spring rolls, sliders, hummus, crackers. It’s not a real meal, but it will do.
