He emerged on the other side of customs a tad earlier than anticipated and waited for his limousine at the curb just outside baggage claim. He had but one carry-on bag slung over his shoulder. He stood beneath a curved canopy of metal and glass that kept departing guests from the elements. Out of habit, he checked his e-mail on his phone.
He was lost inside a message when he got the uncomfortable feeling he was being watched. He looked up to see a disheveled man with a white beard and long white hair pulled back in a ponytail staring at him across the several lanes of taxi and civilian traffic. From the look of his clothing, Crow figured him to be homeless. Being stared at was nothing unusual—Crow was a fairly well-known author—but this guy, for some reason, gave him goosebumps. The man was the type who didn’t divert his eyes even after he’d been caught staring. His stare was the kind of uncomfortable gaze that made one shift one’s stance and look the other way, but Crow couldn’t. It was an entrancing fixation that Crow only imagined the Manson Family had experienced once upon a time. Just as he was getting a good look at the guy, his limo arrived.
Once the solid door of the car slammed shut, Crow was alone in the muffled luxury of the limousine. Cool air hissed from the chrome vents. Limos were standard fare for him, but somehow the homeless man made him embarrassingly mindful of its opulence. It was so unlike Crow to give a damn, and he cursed himself for it. He conjured up a defiant glare even though the old guy would never see him through the smoked glass, but when he looked back to the place where the tousled soul had stood, he had vanished.
Chapter Two
The limousine pulled away from the curb at the airport and Crow simmered in his unaccustomed feeling of guilt. He knew that a man’s circumstances were not happenstance. Where we find ourselves at any particular juncture in life is due to a sequence of choices. Sure, some are born into an advantage of wealth, but being born so does not guarantee success nor does not being born so guarantee failure. Crow took pride in knowing that he was born to no advantage whatsoever. Fate could have put him in place of the man back at the airport had he not decided he wanted something better for his life. If wealth was about making smart choices, then poverty was about making poor ones. It was that simple.
He remembered specific crossroads in his life when he had to make those choices. He chose to find a quiet place to write, while many of his friends opted to find alcohol and drink until they couldn’t see straight. Both were ways of coping with the hopeless surroundings of their drab little town. Crow’s fantasies took him far away from his tortured home life to any place his mind could imagine. It was a defense mechanism. Anywhere was better than where he was. The future, or even a fabricated past, were always more pleasant than the present. His stories helped him bind up the wounds of neglect and abuse. The little attention he got at home was filled with booze-induced rage from his father on the rare occasions he was even around. His mother’s downfall was that she was wholly unsuited for motherhood. She hadn’t a nurturing bone in her body. She was merely holding on to life, trying not to get bucked off.
If anyone had an excuse for failure, it was Benson Crow, but he refused to succumb to it. He had been told more than once that he could never rise above his circumstances. Over time, it was the negativity—even the doubt—that made him dig in. He had a vivid imagination that could see a better life, and he kept plodding toward it, never looking back until he was far, far away from the agony that, ironically, would be the fuel for the rocket ship that launched his meteoric career.
Crow gazed out the window at the river that seemed to race the highway into the city. It flowed into a swift current of memories that melded into the chilly waters that ran through the mill town of his youth.
“Make sure you come straight home from school,” the woman at the red-topped formica kitchen table said, taking a puff from her cigarette.
“Mom, I’ve been sixteen for six months. I need a car. It’s humiliating showing up at high school on a bike.”
Her eyes turned angry. “Where do you think we’re going to get the money for a car? We can hardly afford the one I have, and your dad’s truck has over 300,000 miles on it.”
“Where is he anyway?”
“At a new construction project in Lewisburg. Should take about six months.”
“Lewisburg? That’s two hours away.”
“Gotta go where the work is, Benson. It ain’t gonna come to you.”
Benson flung his backpack over his shoulder and heard the screen door slam behind him. His sneakers hit the gravel and he pulled the handlebars from the dirt, mounting the bike in mid-stride. The pedaling became easier once his tires reached the asphalt. The day was gorgeous. Too gorgeous to be cooped up in some dreary classroom listening to the teacher drone on about nothing. The ticking of the ten-speed’s spokes slowed. He balanced on one side of the bike until he could disembark. He let the bicycle fall then slid down a slight embankment where he could hear the rushing water. He used a large rock as a back rest and pulled a notepad from his backpack. He fished down toward the bottom for a pen then flipped the pages to where he’d left off. The pad rested on his knees and his pen tapped against his teeth as he thought. An idea swirled around in his head like the churning currents of the river and he grabbed it, massaged it, and shaped it just so, then wrote it down on his pad.
The door opened and shattered his thoughts. “Your hotel, sir,” the driver said.
Crow emerged from the automobile. He reached inside the breast pocket of his jacket, pulled out a couple of large bills from his wallet, and placed them in the driver’s palm. Montreal felt a world away from New York City. The air was a bit cleaner, the atmosphere markedly cheerier. It possessed the bustle without the hostility. The Quebec sovereignty movement was very much alive. All the signage was in French. The shop clerks spoke French, and English only if they had to. Had he been blindfolded, he would have no trouble at all believing the Eiffel Tower was just a cab ride away.
Crow stood on the sidewalk on Rue Saint-Jacques and a doorman opened up a luxurious world in front of him. Walking past the ivy walls through the front door into the small but elegant lobby of Hotel Le St-James one got the feeling that money was no object. He walked beneath an arched canopy ceiling reminiscent of a cathedral, but in miniature, across the inlaid marble floor up to the front desk. The building was originally a merchant bank established in 1844 that was transformed into one of Canada’s most elegant hotels.
A smiling clerk greeted him, ready to check him into his suite. He took the moment while she checked his reservation to drink in his surroundings. The wood-paneled walls and the elegant dining room with its grand staircase leading up to a cozy sitting room exuded grace and refinement. The clerk gave him his room key and a quick synopsis of the hotel’s amenities. He located the elevator, the doors of which were handpicked from five different continents, and showed himself to his accommodations. The Heritage was a sizable one-bedroom suite with 1,000 square feet of living space. It featured a separate living room, exquisite nineteenth-century oak wood flooring, and mahogany wood paneling. The centerpiece of the bedroom was a king-sized four-poster bed with Bruno Richard linens. Thomas Browning might not be much of a publisher, Crow thought, but he sure knew how to book a hotel.
A walking tour of Old Montreal was recommended by a studious-looking lady sitting next to him in first class on the plane. She was the type of woman who watched public television and read the arts section of the paper before the front page, if she read any other section at all. She looked at him over the white-framed reading glasses she used to work the crossword puzzle. He allowed as to how he was staying at the Hotel Le St-James and she noted with glee that he was already staying in Old Montreal. She gave him a list of ‘you simply musts’ that Crow jotted down in the notebook he kept handy for random ideas.
At the top of her list was Notre-Dame Basilica, a church in Old Montreal dating back to 1642. The church was only a three-block stroll from his hotel. He was just before entering the church w
hen he happened to notice something across the street on a pedestrian walkway. There, by a bench under a tree that grew out of a metal grate among the street pavers, stood the unkempt man from the airport staring at him. At least he thought it was him. A delivery truck passed between them for a brief moment. When it was gone, so was he.
New York architect James O’Donnell designed the basilica. Crow learned he was born a Protestant but converted to Catholicism just before his death in 1830. Some say he was inspired to do so by his own design. It intrigued Crow that a man’s own creation could bring him closer to God. The painted wood of the sanctuary struck Crow as something you were more likely to see at Disney World rather than a church. The rich hues of blue were accented by lights which created a sky effect above an altar that bore a striking resemblance to Cinderella Castle.
Crow soaked in the history, eavesdropping on a tour group from the United Kingdom. When the tour group was on the move, Crow ducked out a side door which spilled onto a narrow street to the left side of the front entrance. He descended the wrought iron staircase and turned left back toward the front of the church. He spotted the old man once again across the street on the pedestrian walkway near the bench where he’d been before. He stared intently at the entrance of the church as if he were expecting someone to emerge.
Crow waited for cars to pass then headed across the street. The man noticed him with a start and turned to head down the cobblestones of Place d’Armes. Crow didn’t want to look like he was chasing the man in broad daylight, but he didn’t want to lose him either. Why was this odd man following him? What the hell did he want? Crow picked up his pace to a faster clip to keep up with him.
The stranger crossed Rue Saint-Jacques without looking. A car skidded to a stop just inches from crushing his legs. The smell of burnt rubber hung in the air. The old man scampered up the steps of the old Bank of Montreal building. He disappeared through one of two heavy, ornate wooden front doors. Crow looked both ways before sprinting across the street. He scaled the steps of the historic bank building two at a time. He grabbed the knob and pushed the door on the move, fully expecting it to open. It didn’t. His left shoulder acted as a shock absorber. He rattled the doors for a moment then backed up looking to see if he was mistaken about where the old man went in. He wasn’t. It was the only entrance.
“They are closed,” a courteous lady with a French accent passing to his right offered.
Crow looked up. “Did you see a man just go inside?”
She laughed slightly. “Non. It is closed.”
“On the weekends?”
“Non, monsieur. Permanently.”
Chapter Three
Crow soaked in the tub sipping Hors d’ge cognac and thinking about the old man. He was obviously being stalked. But why? A deranged fan? The most disturbing part was he seemed to know where Crow would be even before he did. He was sure he saw the stranger enter the bank building in Old Montreal, yet the door was locked.
He lay awake in the four-poster bed until his thoughts turned from the old man to his own destiny and where he might be when he reached the same age. For so long—too long—he had been in control of his future. Complacency crept into his camp like the enemy. Time was its sword. It gashed his genius until its creative juices drained onto the floor. He forced himself to sleep, less out of a need to rest his body than a yearning to escape the notion that all he knew, all he enjoyed in life, might well be coming to an untimely end.
The luxuriousness of the night’s sleep helped soften the blow of his reality and Benson Crow awakened surprisingly refreshed. His brain had all but erased the odd encounters with the old man. He pulled out his computer tablet and stared at a blank screen for an interminable time. The ache returned. He powered down and flipped through a magazine. Bored, he ventured out of his room and down to the elegant dining room with its gorgeous chandeliers casting shards of light upon fine works of art on its walls. He enjoyed a light lunch of fruit, yogurt, and crêpes.
After a lazy nap on the sofa in the living room, he dressed himself for the event. A two-button dark green and navy windowpane-checked sport coat from Sartorio of wool, silk, and linen hung from his broad shoulders atop an all-cotton band-collar shirt in white dressed down by an old pair of jeans—no belt—and sockless blue boat shoes. The doorman anticipated his exit from outside and pressed a button to open the heavy glass doors of the Hotel Le St-James. Crow all but ignored him and descended the steps onto the sidewalk and into the warm summer afternoon. A slight breeze blew through the ivy on the facade of the building. Crow turned left at the corner and down the street for the one-block walk to the Palais des Congrès—Congress Palace—a rather odd-looking convention center with windows each of a different color of red, yellow, orange, green, blue, and purple. It looked like a faddish relic of the ‘60s, one that had gone out of style with white belts and Nehru jackets. Crow wondered if the designer had been dropping acid all the way to its inauguration in 1983 only to learn that the psychedelic facade was added much later, which he found inexcusable in a town with as much style as Montreal.
A rep from Congress Palace waited at the front door to escort him. Jennifer or Jessica or something like that. She bubbled as she pointed out Lipstick Forest, a collection of 52 pink concrete tree trunks, which was the focal point of the main floor. Crow couldn’t fathom how it and the elegant architecture of the Hotel Le St-James could co-exist on the same planet, much less a city block from one another, but he held his tongue.
They took the escalator and arrived just outside a large conference room. Crow was delighted by the size of the crowd. A new futuristic film had just screened inside to a packed audience. He wasn’t sure if the movie crowd was sticking around to see him or if his fans decided to take in the movie, and he didn’t much care which. They were lined up down the hallway to buy his book, so it meant a trip well worth making.
Two organizers from the convention greeted him with wide smiles and walked him over to a long table with a white tablecloth set up in the large hallway in front of the conference room. His books were stacked as if on display in a bookstore, and he sat down to the enthusiastic applause of his fans. A huge backdrop banner featuring his almost-smiling face and the cover of his latest book stretched the length of the table behind him. His “people” handled the coordination of sales and made sure the line was orderly. A couple of stern-faced security guards in dark suits with corkscrew wires leading to their ears stood as sentinels at either side of the table, a touch insisted upon by Thomas Browning. Although they’d never discussed it, Crow assumed his publisher arranged it more to evoke an air of importance rather than any real threat, perceived or otherwise.
Crow often pondered the paradoxical relationship he had with his readers. He stopped just short of loathing them, but he wanted as little to do with them as possible. Yet they were the very reason for his existence. One astute old mentor once counseled him, Don’t feed the fans. What he meant was don’t get involved with people who hold you in such unrealistic regard that getting to know you can only lead to bitter disappointment. Much like his books, Benson Crow, the man, was a mere fantasy.
Crow signed books and posed for selfies for the better part of two hours. He was signing one of the last books when he happened to look up and see him, just off to the side, away from the crowd, observing. The old man from the airport. Crow had completely dismissed all thoughts of the man from his mind. This time he was closer, and Crow could make out the piercing blue eyes that seemed to betray a man younger than his haggard look suggested. Crow broke out in a cold sweat. Another fan asked to pose for a picture. Crow smiled for the camera. When the blinding flash subsided, he looked back at the old man. He was gone. His uneasiness grew. His sentinels stood unaffected, either not concerned about the old man or never seeing him at all.
He finished signing the books and thanked the staff who had helped him, posing for a picture with the convention director and the several people who worked the event. His security team asked if he
needed an escort back to his hotel and he declined the offer. The afternoon was late and he was trying to decide what to do with himself for the rest of the day. He stopped by the men’s room before heading back to his hotel and sat in a bathroom stall exploring his options. Too late to do any more sightseeing. He thought about an early dinner at Bouillon Bilk. He heard the foie gras served with bananas, smoked apples, and sour cream was delicious. Perhaps Casino de Montreal for a little gambling afterward. A relaxing hour or two at the blackjack table might do him good. The idea sounded more appealing the more he thought about it. He exited the stall and washed his hands, thinking through the sequence of events. He rang the water from his hands, reached for a paper towel, and looked in the mirror. That’s when he saw him. His heart raced. There, in the shadows of the restroom behind him, stood the old man with the blue eyes. Crow whipped around.
“Who the hell are you? What do you want?”
“Excusez-moi, monsieur,” the man pleaded. “I mean you no harm. I have something for you,” his words dipped in French.
Crow took a step back.
“I know how you love books, monsieur,” the man continued. “I have a very special one for you.” He started to reach inside his dusty old coat.
“Easy,” Crow warned.
The old man slowed his reach and, with a gentle tug of his forefinger and thumb, produced a red velvet sleeve. “It is a very special book. Do not look at it here. You can examine it later.”
Crow just stared at the old man.
“Take it,” he said. It was less a command than an invitation.
Crow tossed the towel in the trash and cautiously took the book by his own forefinger and thumb, only because he didn’t want to get any residual water from his hands on it. He slipped the velvet sleeve into the inside pocket of his sport coat.
The First Face of Janus Page 2
