On a quiet Sunday morning her phone buzzed while we lounged with nothing better to do, and when she saw the number, Aline motioned me quickly toward her. I felt a jolt of uneasiness until she said very loudly, “Yes, I can hear you!” She looked at me with a broad smile as her parents made their periodic check-in call, this time from Senegal on the coast of Africa where they paused for minor repairs on an adventure to visit friends in Dakar. They intended to follow the shoreline all the way to Cape Town, but problems with the boat’s electrical system compelled them to save that journey for another time.
I listened to Aline shouting and laughing with her dad or exchanging updates about cousins with her mother, and it was the first time she ever spoke to them when I was around. There’s no good reason why I found it so extraordinary but I did; for all her mysteries and the caution of others when I first arrived, here was a daughter chatting with her parents no different than any girl would do. Perhaps it was simply watching her being an ordinary person in an ordinary moment, but I felt better when she nodded and pointed suddenly at me.
“No, Mother,” she said, “I don’t think he came all the way from America just to meet me.”
She smiled and winked in the middle of the teasing joke but it was clear they had spoken earlier. There were approximations and guesses as to return dates and potential locations, but without being told, I was already committed to meeting the parents. When at last they disconnected, Aline raised her eyebrows high and said through a gentle, slightly nervous laugh, “I think they want to meet you before the end of summer.”
“Aren’t I lucky!” I replied with enough sarcasm to let her know I would’ve preferred an alert after she told them of our involvement. “Okay, where and when?”
“Maybe Mallorca, but I think my dad would rather not commit to a hard date. They’ll be sailing back before winter, so I expect it will be sometime in late September or October.”
“I hope they don’t hate me.”
“So do I,” she replied to close out the duel with a chide of her own.
BECAUSE IT’S IMPORTANT, she insisted, Aline booked us on a leisurely ferry ride across the Channel to Le Havre. The famous port city was not her goal and I didn’t realize why we made the effort until she maneuvered a rented car along the rue de Nesmond in Bayeux, aiming me toward the magnificent Musée de la Tapisserie. It took a while to navigate along glassed enclosures where the historic tapestry described in 230 continuous feet of embroidered images events that culminated in the legendary medieval Battle of Hastings. I couldn’t understand its importance to her but in time, she said, it would be different. I shrugged in my ignorance, unable to see what she really meant.
I recall them with fondness but our road trips brought other sensations, too, and not all of them so pleasing. In the wake of our debacle with Andre Renard, I caught myself fighting a subtle feeling of anxiety each time we passed a police car, wondering if they might’ve changed their minds after all. Aline didn’t notice, and I said nothing, but the nagging worry was always there. I decided on our way home the lingering doubts and concerns were more trouble than they were worth and, determined to close the circle, I dialed Jeremy’s number while Aline was busy buying gas at a Shell station in Shrewsbury.
Jeremy’s neighbor is a North Wales Police officer and, I reasoned, if anyone could help determine how far Renard had gone, he would be the likely choice. At the time, we knew nothing of Renard’s cover story as the uncle of a college kid come to grief on a bike tour. It didn’t matter because I left names out of it and asked only if an older Belgian gentleman came to see the police in the spring. Jeremy passed the question to his pal and he called back half an hour later to report the cops hadn’t heard from any Belgians that season except for a bus carrying a tour group on holiday from Antwerp involved in a minor fender bender on their ride over to Holyhead.
I felt the tension ease and despite Renard’s big talk and loud threats, there was no longer any doubt his best efforts to drag Aline off to jail had gone for nothing. When I maneuvered the car into my tiny garage, intent on beating Aline to the bathroom, a weight lifted and the laughter returned.
I noticed she was more often on the phone with Vienne and their growing friendship produced a slightly wicked tone of collusion and shared intent to mold me into a better person. Aline sided with Vienne in the long-running argument over my frugal habits, now characterized as “Evan the cheapskate.” The mild insult was tolerable, but it carried with it a renewed demand that I find a better car. I balked, of course, but despite my reminder that her military surplus Land Rover was no spring chicken, Aline deflected the contradiction with one of her “I dare you to argue with me” expressions.
When the leaves began to turn once more, the anniversary of my arrival to the valley came up and Aline seemed more charmed by it than I. Still, the season was changing and she was becoming restless to finalize plans for a vacation week with Vienne and her outrageous friends in Montreal.
It seemed strange and unlikely Aline would openly court such an adventure, taking careful steps to remain at a distance just a year before, but when I told Jeremy of the idea he smiled and nodded approval as if reminding me he’d been right all along. Vienne went to work planning out every second of our week and Aline did nothing to stop her, so I was obliged to lay out suitable clothes for the trip and arrange flights. I admit the tedium of another transatlantic airline adventure was no longer enough to dampen my spirits at a chance to see my big sister again, and with it came the quiet satisfaction of bringing Aline out for our first “big-time” road trip.
When we boarded our plane, she explained it had been many years since she last flew. I splurged considerably and bought business class tickets, but she seemed to take the relative opulence and pampered treatment in stride. It was my first time on an airliner not jammed with the masses back in “steerage,” but I think the distinction mattered more to me than it did to her.
THE EXPLOSION OF autumn colors was nearly gone when we started a cloudless descent into Montreal in late afternoon, and I frowned, knowing Aline would miss October leaves and the yearly renewal of nature’s loveliest works of art in a place where it is always spectacular. Vienne waited for us to clear Customs, but it seemed a bit insulting that again, she was more excited to see Aline than her own brother.
I begged her not to drag us through a gauntlet of fashion industry sycophants and hangers-on but she ignored me and I resented it until, in a skillful move, Vienne bought me off with luxury box tickets to watch our beloved Sabres play the Canadiens at Centre Bell Arena. For the occasion I bought and wore a Gilbert Perreault number 11 throwback jersey with defiant pride, determined to show the “Habs faithful” a Buffalo man was in their house. The experience was satisfying—the Sabres won 3-2 in overtime—but also entertaining as my sister explained to Aline why NHL players are allowed to beat the shit out of each other and not go to jail for assault.
We went on an all-day trip up to a little town in the Laurentians where Vienne’s friend and her husband run a general store, but the visit was mostly an excuse to get out of the city for a while. We waited through a shower turning to snow with quietly powerful cider and a huge plate of poutine that tastes a lot better than it looks. In both directions the ride was an understandable exercise in catching up, but I listened as they did most of the talking and I wondered if Aline considered the events of summer and Andre Renard’s mistaken belief he could rattle her.
Of course, we couldn’t tell Vienne any of it and a deliberate silence brought the first pangs of guilt and discomfort that gnawed at me watching as she celebrated the couple Aline and I had become. I soothed myself with the belief a time might arrive when all of it could be revealed to her; a moment when circumstance would allow me to unburden myself. I wanted to tell Vienne the full story but mostly because I needed the little voices inside my injured conscience to stop whispering “liar” from that hidden place where our character is kept and measured.
ON THE FOURTH day in Mo
ntreal, Vienne went into the office for a couple of hours to sort out a logistics snag threatening a recruiting event, leaving Aline and me to relax on our own. It was considerably cooler when we stood at a broad window in Vienne’s apartment high above the streets, looking south with mugs of coffee as a slow parade of cargo ships eased their way along the river. Time had passed since Aline startled the hell out of me in the woods separating our farms, but at last the invisible boundaries between us were finally dissolved.
It was suddenly quiet and I asked her about her relatives, wondering if they were distant from her. Aline nodded and told me an aunt, her mother’s sister Laine, lived in Newcastle with her second husband. The cousins, Audra and Glyn, both lived outside the UK; Glyn teaches music to high school students in Halifax and Audra lives in Windhoek, Namibia, where her husband took on the family’s construction business. Aline’s grandparents were gone when the last one—her maternal grandfather—died in 2000 but other aunts, uncles, and cousins lost regular contact over the years, and I heard in her voice an adult life lived mostly alone.
As our Canadian week ended with another boarding process, the most notable change was the progression of Aline’s deeper kinship with Vienne. It was somehow surprising to me, the closeness and ease with which each adjusted to the other. Romantic attachment has its limits and the void Aline endured by distance from her relatives became a target Vienne seemed more than willing to attack without being asked. I watched with quiet satisfaction, knowing they would likely remain close regardless of my relationship with Aline.
When we finished unpacking and collapsed in my front room to inspect collected mail and catch up on local news from the television, it felt as if a necessary trial had been won and time to do nothing but recover from our journey was well-earned.
MY phone buzzed from the kitchen and I was sure it would be Vienne calling to make sure our airliner hadn’t plunged into the ocean. Instead, Jeremy’s name appeared and when I answered, his voice was low to ensure no one overheard.
“Evan,” he began, “are you home yet?”
“We just got back an hour ago. Why?”
“Have you been contacted by anyone else today? From here, I mean.”
“No one but you just now; what’s going on?”
He paused again and I could hear his door close as he repositioned the phone against his shoulder.
“My mate Danny called this morning and said some people were asking about Aline.”
I sat forward at once as the gnawing fear returned like a silent battering ram.
“What people?”
“Government people, Evan—three of them with credentials tied to Special Branch—and they wanted to know about a België detective who was here in the spring. I assume this has something to do with your earlier question?”
I felt the color drain from my face as the image seeped in and Aline saw it.
“Who is it?” she whispered.
I mouthed Jeremy’s name silently, but she only smiled a little and nodded.
“It’s a long story,” I offered. “Why do they want to talk to Aline?” I asked.
“No idea,” Jeremy answered, “but they came ‘round here wondering if I knew where you might be; Danny said they asked for my contact info straight away.”
“What did you tell them?”
“I told them you were away in Canada visiting relatives. The head boy—a quiet little bloke called Marsden—smiled politely and suggested my mouth ought to remain shut about their visit to avoid injuring sensitive diplomatic interests, or some such rubbish.”
“Anything else?”
“I told them I’m already bound by legal professional privilege but I don’t think they were impressed. Evan, if you’re in difficulties, you need to tell me!”
“It’s not as bad as it sounds,” I lied. “If they come back, let me know and I’ll deal with it.” I felt the uneasiness building, but when I looked at Aline, she seemed disinterested. Jeremy’s words were a shock and my mind began to race with the possibilities of an aggravated army of bureaucrats trying to avoid an international incident. What seemed an issue dead and buried when Renard went home to Liège was somehow resurrected. No one could know about the Brugge incident unless Andre told them, making it a near certainty the faceless Marsden would return.
“Don’t let this go too far,” Jeremy whispered. “If you need help, bloody-well say so, all right?”
“It’s covered,” I answered, “but I’ll keep you in the loop.”
She waited until I tossed the phone aside.
“What did he say?”
I explained as best I could without sounding paranoid, but she stood and walked slowly to the window.
“It was always a matter of time,” she said, turning toward me with a sad smile. “Renard must’ve spoken with somebody before he ever came to see me.
“Which means,” I continued, “Andre’s been clever; he planted seeds in case he couldn’t get it done on his own, but something’s wrong.”
“What’s wrong?” Aline asked without looking.
“How the hell did a retired Belgian detective get in front of high-level British officials, and worse still, what kind of bullshit story did he give them?”
“He was only hedging his bet, Evan,” Aline replied with a strange, distant voice.
The terse phone call replayed in my mind and Renard’s demand to be left alone suddenly made less sense than before. “It’s finished!” he’d insisted, yet Jeremy’s news told a different tale and one now driven by powerful intelligence agents from Her Majesty’s famed Special Branch.
Uneasiness in the pit of my stomach became a tempest, but Aline stood suddenly alert and an urgency was plain in her expression. Today, I know it was inevitable, but I watched in that moment as her eyes darted left and right until she nodded twice.
“There’s no other way,” she said firmly as she pulled her hair back and secured it into a ponytail with an elastic tie.
“I can’t explain this in words; I wanted to ease through the process and allow the answers to find you naturally, but that is no longer possible. Are you ready to see?”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” I replied as the torment returned like fingernails scratching along an old blackboard at the prospect of facing the true measure of her illness, alive again and holding her tightly in its grip. She leaned close and reached for my forehead like a mother concerned for a fever in a young child.
“How do you feel?”
The question seemed out of place—disconnected to so serious a moment.
“A little anxious and confused, I guess, but other than that…”
“No, I meant to ask how you feel physically.”
“I feel fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I answered with an unconvincing smile as she knelt and sat slowly on her heels.
“And now?” she asked as her eyes narrowed.
It happened with the suddenness of a switch thrown by an unseen hand when throbbing pain swirled through the sides of my head—pulsing and electric. It felt as though my brain was connected with a high-pressure air hose, inflating it beyond the space of my skull, and I cried out involuntarily. There were no other thoughts beyond the shock and abrupt agony—the kind of stunning and immediate pain that consumes every thought.
My sight blurred so badly, only light and faint shapes appeared before me. I heard the raspy moan escaping through my nostrils because my teeth were clenched tightly, but as suddenly as it gripped me, the pain was gone and only the familiar ringing in my ears remained. When my vision began to clear, Aline wrapped my trembling body securely in her arms. I don’t remember moving but I was on the floor, and she held on tightly with her head pressed against mine.
“I’m so sorry, my love,” she said softly, “but you would never believe any other way.”
I felt paralyzed as Aline brushed back the hair from my forehead, beaded now with perspiration, and she waited. After some mi
nutes, I don’t know how long, she leaned close.
“Can you taste anything?” she asked, but all I could do was shake my head.
With the same suddenness, my tongue reported the unmistakable, acrid flavor of a penny, somehow dissolved and pooling inside my mouth.
“Do you taste copper?”
This time I nodded and said “yes, I can taste it” but the words were slurred and clumsy. She helped me onto the couch gently, but when we settled the foul taste was gone. In my ears the persistent ringing was gone, too, and she told me to sit still while the last of the effects faded.
The air was quiet and a breeze wafted through an open front door I hadn’t touched. When she pointed to it, I turned to look. Without a sound it moved slowly closed. I stared in disbelief but Aline saw it quickly.
“Don’t be afraid—it’s all right.”
She pulled me slowly to her and guided my head against her shoulder. It was subtle and yet powerful—her touch drained off the tension like a sponge. I went without a thought, obedient and compliant like a child in her arms. My terror from moments before was taken away as if waking from a nightmare, soothing and meant to reassure I was safe again. When I felt myself returning to normal, I looked at her.
“How?” was all I could say.
She went quickly to the bathroom and returned with a wet washcloth, dabbing the sweat from my head and neck.
“People called it magic when I was first young but it’s not that at all. Some of us were given a very special ability, and it takes time to even recognize it, but this is just the power of nature, Evan. When we came of age we learned to use it, adding something from before each time we began to mature.”
The Seventh Life of Aline Lloyd Page 18
