by Ingrid Betz
His mother sniffed. “Thank God you’re not a used car salesman,” she said. “At least there’s no stigma attached to being a real estate agent.”
“A broker, actually.” He’d explained the difference to her often enough.
Ignoring him, she shuffled over to the table with her plate and he went into the bedroom and changed ties to appease her. When he came back, she was hunched in her seat turning the pages of the Globe and Mail in search of the crossword puzzle.
“That’s better, dear,” she said, glancing up. “A pity you didn’t inherit some of your father’s looks.”
He’d inherited plenty of other things from the old man, he thought. None of them good. “Your pills, Mom. I want to see you take your pills.” He waited while her crabbed fingers picked them up singly with a slowness he knew was meant to test him and swallowed each one down with a sip of tea.
“Good. I’ll be on my way now.” He patted his pockets, checking for the car keys and the garage door opener. “You won’t try to do anything till the Helping Hands woman comes?”
“Like what, dear? What would I be trying to do?” she said innocently.
He said nothing; he didn’t want to give her ideas. She was capable of all kinds of craziness. Throwing shirts he’d just gotten back from the cleaners into the washing machine, tidying her pills away and not remembering where, cooking soup on a whim in the pressure cooker and forgetting to turn off the burner—she’d done them all and more in the recent past and he couldn’t risk any repeats.
“I think you know,” he said in a stern tone. He pulled the mobile phone out from under the paper and tapped the case. “If you go back to bed, make sure you take this with you. I’ll be calling you later. Okay?”
“You worry too much, dear,” she said. “‘Subterfuge’ in three letters.” She reached across the table for the ballpoint pen he used to make up the weekly grocery list, and labouriously printed out the word “lie” while her toast cooled on the plate.
Mike Landesberg remembered how he’d shut the front door behind him and drawn in a lungful of cool morning air with a feeling of relief. Every time he left the house it was the same. He’d never been to prison but he imagined that was how it felt to be allowed out on a day pass. He hated himself for thinking that way. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his mother, but the years of increasing care and responsibility for her welfare were beginning to wear on him.
Briskly he’d walked around the side of the house to the garage, telling himself that today his luck was going to change.
The mine had been part of his listings for three years without soliciting a single spark of interest. Some German with more money than sense, inspired by a wilderness camping trip, had bought the property in the eighties with a view to establishing a mining empire. The little gold he’d found was low-grade and by the time Uwe Keller died, the place had stood idle for years and his estate put it up for sale. Whether a Chinese company hoped to reactivate the mine, he had no idea. According to The Globe and Mail, they were all over the Canadian map these days, buying up mines and oil wells and logging rights and any kind of property that might fuel their appetite for resources.
He pressed the garage door opener and swore as the door rose to reveal a set of muddy paw prints scaling the midnight blue trunk of his Buick and heading up over the sunroof. Damn cat!
This wasn’t the first time. The last time it happened he’d threatened to call Animal Control on the woman next door who owned the cat, only she had unnerved him by bursting into tears. They were always getting around him, women. And not just his mother. He was too soft by half. It had cost him his wife, he sometimes thought, because if he hadn’t given in when Debbie insisted on driving out in a snowstorm to attend a Tupperware party, she’d still be alive today. He found a rag and wiped away as many of the tracks as he could reach. Last thing yesterday he’d taken the car through the car wash and forked out extra bucks to have the interior vacuumed. Clean people, he’d heard. Not like some of the local buyers he’d chauffeured around, who littered the floor with tissues and candy wrappers.
Traffic on Main Street was heavy—as heavy as it got in Huntsville—and he felt a prickle of perspiration break out across his back as a tractor trailer turning right caused him to miss the light. Commission on the mine sale would set him up for a year. He’d be able to hire full-time care for his mother; maybe even upgrade the Buick. The last time he’d taken it in for servicing he’d looked at the new Cadillac in the showroom and joked with the salesman that he’d be back when he won the lottery.
The sun was rising over the rooftop of the Paradise Motel when he turned into the parking lot. Landesberg snapped open his seatbelt with a sigh of relief. He’d squeaked in just ahead of the dot of nine.
7.
THEY WERE ALREADY OUTSIDE, inspecting the tiny pink blossoms on the straggling bush that constituted the motel’s landscaping. Two men and one woman, they were identically attired in stiff new denim jeans and jackets while their feet sported the latest in fancy hiking boots. With them was the Toronto lawyer who’d first approached Landesberg about buying the mine on behalf of his client, a Chinese business enterprise. David Chang, looking suave in a black leather bomber jacket, came forward to greet him as he stepped out of the car. Sunlight glinted on the dark wraparound lenses of his sunglasses.
“Mike, good to see you.” They shook hands. “That bush with the pink flowers,” said Chang, “they’re wondering what it is.”
“Ah. You’ve got me there.”
“Honeysuckle is my guess.”
“You could be right. I’m not much of a gardener.”
Smiling and nodding, he was introduced to the group. He’d never remember their names, he thought, feeling the perspiration start again. All those short syllables sounded alike to him. The boyish figure of one of the men was hung about with cameras and the latest in electronic gadgetry. The woman wasn’t much taller than the average Ontario twelve year-old and not much older either, by the looks of her. She had short black hair, the shiniest he’d ever seen. They bowed politely and murmured a couple of phrases he guessed were meant to be English.
“And this is Mr. Li. He’s the one who’ll be making the decision whether to buy or not.”
Landesberg found himself looking at a tough round peasant face. Shrewd close-set eyes met his without a hint of friendliness and he was aware of the hard feel of callouses against his palm.
“A great day for flying,” he said, making conversation once he had them installed in the car and made sure their seat belts were fastened. Mr. Li, seated next to him, stared blankly through the windshield. Landesberg made a point of articulating loudly and clearly. “The float plane is based on Muskoka Lake. About twenty minutes down the road from here.”
Mr. Li said something in Chinese.
“He’s asking, how long to reach the mine,” said Chang from the back seat. “Once we’re in the air.”
“It’s a fifteen minute flight and from there it’ll be a five minute hike on foot. There’s an old logging road connecting the mine to the main highway down to Gravenhurst. But it’s in pretty rough shape and to go in that way would take a couple of hours.” Chang translated and Li nodded. Landesberg had a feeling his black eyes didn’t miss a thing as they sped along. In minutes they’d left the town and its outskirts behind and soon Muskoka Lake began showing up in the form of blue streaks visible between the rolling fields and stands of bush.
The float plane looked about as substantial as a painted moth, bobbing lightly on the water. Sunlight picked out the red insignia on the white fuselage. Blackfly Tours, it read, a name that was repeated on the baseball cap worn back-to-front by the pilot, who was leaning against the side of the wooden shelter at the end of the dock, smoking a cigarette. Tossing the butt in the water, he straightened up to greet them.
“Name’s Cody. C’mon in,” he said, and invited the group to look
at the big topographical map posted on the wall behind a makeshift counter. “Customers always feel easier once they see where they’re headed,” he explained with a nod at David Chang.
Landesberg stayed out on the dock and took the opportunity to call the house. It was well after nine and the Helping Hands woman would have arrived by now. The phone rang a long time and it was his mother who answered. Was it his imagination or did her speech sound slurred?
“Mom? Where’s the woman who’s looking after you?”
“Who?”
“The Helping Hands woman. Isn’t she there?”
“No’ yet, dear. Maybe your wash is fast.”
“Mom… ” he began, but she interrupted.
“I’m blushing my teef,” she said and hung up.
He stood there wondering if he should get on to the agency. He had the number with him, on a card in his wallet. Before he could make up his mind, they emerged from the shelter.
The younger man snapped pictures as the pilot unhooked the guy wires that fastened the plane to iron rings on the concrete dock. Exclaiming, the woman caught sight of a school of minnows in the water and bent to watch them. Li stood with his hands clasped behind his back, staring at some of the larger summer homes visible through the trees. On impulse Landesberg raised his mobile and took a snapshot of him; this could well be the biggest real estate sale he’d ever make in his life. Li frowned and waved his hands to indicate no pictures.
Sauntering over, Chang raised an enquiring brow. “Problem, Mike?”
“No. No problem,” he said, slipping the phone into the pocket of his jacket. “Just called home.” They were a responsible agency. So the woman was a few minutes late—that could happen. He joined the others beside the plane while the pilot completed his preparations for takeoff.
Mike Landesberg had been up in the float plane before with clients, more times than he could count. But he was still aware of a heart-stirring rush every time the Cessna churned roaring across the water and lifted into the air with a palpable thrust of power. In his mind the takeoff signified escape, flight, freedom—from what, he wasn’t sure, but it satisfied some deep-seated inner craving. At least for a few minutes, he thought, watching the wings tilt as the plane banked into a turn.
Hunstville’s building-block town dwindled away on the horizon. Lakes appeared, like mirrors dotting the limitless green with flashes of blue sky. Soon they were flying along the southern edge of Algonquin Park. Pressing his forehead against the Perspex pane, he made out the wooden finger of the dock that marked the lakefront property he’d sold to Paul St. Denis, the guy from Québec who’d started up an outfitting business. From time to time they ran into each other and shared a coffee, bemoaning the lack of business, or some new government regulation, or the latest tax grab.
A stifled sound made him aware of the young Chinese woman in the seat next to his. She was gripping the arm with whitened knuckles and staring resolutely at the seat-back in front of her. Scared stiff, he realized. He felt a protective urge and had to restrain himself from patting her arm. Maybe there was a code about no touching between the genders. Or did that only apply to Muslims?
After they’d landed, the group had spent most of the morning inspecting the buildings. Clad in white clapboard siding, the wooden structures around the mine were still in reasonably good shape, apart from the paint peeling around the window frames.
Behind them the land rose in a thickly wooded slope. Hidden among the trees at its base was the entrance to the mine.
While the prospectors took various measurements in the buildings and made copious notes, Landesberg retrieved the portable generator stored in what had once been Uwe Keller’s office and carried it outside. They’d need light to check out the interior of the mine after lunch. His nagging worry was that they were hoping to see actual veins of gold. From what he’d heard, those were few and far between—if they’d ever existed at all.
“Need a hand with that?” said David Chang, watching from behind his impenetrable glasses.
“Thanks. I think I can manage.”
Landesberg wasn’t normally much good around engines, but the instructions given to him by the Keller’s estate people seemed simple enough. He emptied the tank of the generator, refilled it with the fresh gasoline they’d sent along, and for good measure replaced the spark plug. Giving the cord a couple of experimental tugs, he was rewarded by a sputtering burst of life and tried not to look surprised. He’d seen some helmets too, in the office, and it might be a good idea to offer them around.
When he returned with them slung over his arm, the others were making themselves comfortable on the weather-worn timber pallets scattered about in the long grass. The younger guests in the group took off their jackets to reveal identical white T-shirts sporting a logo Landesberg couldn’t decipher. They stretched out their arms to the sun and he wondered, were all Chinese so slim and elegant?
Blackfly Tours has provided them with box lunches, packed by one of Hunstville’s more upscale restaurants. As they ate, the woman asked to know the names of the red and orange flowers stirring in the breeze. Indian Paintbrushes, Landesberg told her, hazarding a guess, and when Chang translated, she giggled as though he’d told a joke.
The smoked salmon on a bagel was definitely a step up from the ham on rye Landesberg usually picked up for lunch at the corner variety store near his office, but he would have preferred a Molson’s Canadian to the Tsing Tao provided for his clients. He wasn’t really into foreign beers. Mr. Li, he noticed, had commandeered a spot in the shade for himself and was studying the surveyor’s report while he ate, with occasional low-voiced input from Chang. That had to be a good sign, he thought.
Landesberg left them to it and wandered the brief distance down the path to the river’s edge. Amazing how peaceful it was here in the bush. Nothing to be heard but the water whispering over boulders and now and then some kind of blue and white bird piping in the trees. The sheer rock face of a cliff jutted up from the opposite shore and around a slight bend, the river widened sufficiently to accommodate the landing and takeoff of the float plane.
“See you at four,” the pilot had said when he dropped them off. Pontoons ploughing through the water, he’d turned the plane upstream and raced to become airborne. Within minutes, the raucous buzz of the engine had faded on the horizon as though it had never existed.
Lowering his bulk cautiously onto the rickety remnants of a wooden wharf, Landesberg pulled out his phone and called home. No joy. As he’d expected, Huntsville was out of range. He tried not to think what his mother might be doing. Leaning down to dabble his hand in the flowing current, he felt the weight of the flask as his jacket swung open. With quick, practiced movements he unscrewed the cap and took a couple of swallows. To take away the taste of the Tsing Tao, he told himself.
He returned to find the clients on their feet, packing away the empty boxes, the bottles, and stray napkins. Orderly people, as he’d thought. Not the kind to leave litter around, even in the bush. When the breeze lifted a plastic bag and carried it bouncing over the weedy grass, the younger man chased after it, yelling like a kid. The woman laughed and clapped her hands as he pinned it down with a final lunge. Even Mr. Li, watching from the shadows, gave a grimace that might have been amusement.
“Whenever you’re ready,” said Landesberg heartily. “I’m sure you’re all keen to go down in the mine and have a look around.” He distributed the helmets, hoisted the generator and led the way back through the trees.
Hopefully the light wouldn’t give out halfway through their explorations. Groping around in the dark under fifty feet of earth with a bunch of nervous foreigners relying on him was not the easiest way to make the sale of his life.
The sun was fading from the rooftops when Landesberg pulled up in the parking lot of the Paradise motel. Car doors slammed as they climbed out, their hair wind-blown and their pale indoor faces su
n-reddened. They’d been chattering away amongst themselves on the drive back from Lake Muskoka, with Li’s gravelly voice prominent among the rest. Landesberg checked the seats to make sure no one had left anything behind. He’d thought the tone of their comments sounded promising, but what did he know when it came to Chinese?
“Mike?” said David Chang, behind him. He straightened up in time to see Li’s peasant face rise like a moon over the other side of the car.
“We’ll talk over dinner. You’ll stay please?” he said.
Landesberg nodded, taken by surprise. The cunning old fox; he’d been able to speak English all along.
Chang took off his dark glasses and, smoothing a hand over his hair, elaborated. If Landesberg could answer a few more questions and clear up a couple of concerns, Mr. Li was prepared to take negotiations for purchase to the next level.
“Great! Sure, I’ll stay.” Landesberg felt a rush of anticipation, followed immediately by thoughts of his mother. He aimed a quick look at his watch. It was five-twenty.
“Unless you have a prior engagement?” said the lawyer politely.
“No. No, nothing like that.”
Even if he had, he’d have turned it down. He’d be crazy not to. He’d told Helping Hands five, five thirty at the latest but no problem, he’d call and get the woman to stay on and organize a bit of supper for his mother. Maybe he could even make a quick trip home himself, just to be sure.
But that idea faded as Chang said, “Mr. Li wants to eat as soon as we’ve washed up. He needs to get back to Toronto tonight.”
The lawyer produced his motel key. “You can use the facilities in my room.” He unlocked the door. “Paradise mattresses aren’t designed for sleeping but there’s no shortage of towels. Through there,” he said, motioning.
