Asylum

by André Alexis

  As he descended the stairs, Mickleson helped Mr. McAllister to his feet, guided him to the living room, and allowed him to fall on the sofa. St. Pierre did the same with Mrs. McAllister, one hand on her elbow, guiding her around the poodle. When the McAllisters were sitting, St. Pierre asked

  – Are you comfortable?

  but as neither answered, Mickleson fired into one of the aquaria in the room. Gallons of water and a handful of gasping fish wet the carpet and the floor.

  – Are you comfortable? St. Pierre repeated.

  This time, Mr. McAllister managed a groan that was like

  – Yes.

  – Good, said St. Pierre. I want your complete attention, okay? We’re not going to kill you.

  – Really? asked Mickleson.

  St. Pierre smiled, looked at his watch, and addressed the McAllisters.

  – We have friends, he said, interested in your property in the Gatineaus. Apparently, you have a lovely cottage there. Is that right?

  It would be difficult to exaggerate the confusion St. Pierre’s question aroused in the McAllisters. Mr. McAllister, still bleeding from the nose, was not rightly conscious. Nothing seemed real, save the possibility of his own death, and it was absurd that his death should have anything to do with the Gatineaus. He couldn’t stop himself from saying, to himself as much as to the intruders

  – The cottage is closed. We haven’t opened it yet.

  As if there had been some mistake.

  Mrs. McAllister was convinced her silence was the price of her dog’s safety but, hearing her husband speak, understanding his tone, she ventured a few words, in the sudden, bright hope they would clear matters up.

  – You must have the wrong house, she said. Our cottage is still closed.

  – No, we have the right house, said St. Pierre. Our friends would like to buy your property.

  – It isn’t for sale, said Mr. McAllister.

  As if he had discovered a key.

  – No, it isn’t, said St. Pierre, but it will be.

  – When? asked Mr. McAllister.

  – As soon as possible, said St. Pierre. Tomorrow or the day after. Soon. You have a week to put your property on the market. If not, we’ll have to remind you how interested we are.

  Again, St. Pierre looked at his watch.

  – Our friends will put in an offer for $25,000, and you’ll accept it immediately, okay? And one last thing. I know I don’t have to mention it, but it’s good to get these things out in the open. It would be a bad idea for you to go to the police. You understand? The only thing we’ve done so far is kill Toto. How long would they put us away for that?

  – Not long at all, answered Mickleson.

  – That’s right, said St. Pierre. The system always favours the criminal.

  His voice was the voice of a well-wisher.

  – Another thing, he said. You work for the Citizen. It would be unfortunate for the people you love if anything about this saw the light of day. You know what I mean?

  Mr. McAllister was confused, and looked it. St. Pierre repeated

  – We wouldn’t want to hear about our business in the newspaper, you understand?

  – Yes, said Mr. McAllister. Yes, I understand. though, in fact, he did not.

  St. Pierre and Mickleson then walked out of the living room, and out of the shambles they had made of the McAllisters’ home.

  It had taken them less than fifteen minutes.

  The McAllisters were thoroughly and permanently traumatized. Though the physical damage they suffered was not severe or permanent, they never recovered. Nor did they need any further persuasion. Frightened as they were, it was not in them to fight for land that was, in the end, recreational. Their cottage in the Gatineaus was on offer a week after the invasion. And it was bought by a numbered company that paid them exactly $25,000 for their loss. And so, a few months after St. Pierre and Mickleson visited the McAllisters, the last of the private property that abutted the prison’s site belonged to a legitimate, numbered corporation that sold its holdings to the government at a profit.

  {41}

  FRANÇOIS’SCRUPLES

  For very little money, in order to help a friend and to distract himself from concerns that had been weighing on him, François had agreed to do quantity surveying for the new federal penitentiary. He hoped his work would be useful, that it would give Franklin a “heads-up” where costs were concerned, but really he had taken the project because numbers, research, tidy organizing all brought him peace and reacquainted him with work he loved.

  Still, after some time with the architect’s designs, it seemed to François as if he’d been asked to cost out a hallucination. It wasn’t that he’d had difficulty figuring the costs of the penitentiary. The difficulty was in accepting that a civil servant (Franklin), an architect (R. Mauer), and a Cabinet minister (A. Rundstedt) would think of building such a compound, never mind building it as a prison.

  Here was MacKenzie Bowell Federal Penitentiary:

  An immense marble piazza, in the centre of which was a circular building, also marble, with four entrances: north, south, east, west. The entrances were classical: marble columns with plinths supporting marble vaults, the doors oversized (24 feet high, 12 feet wide) and bronze. The circular building was itself immense, built of green and white marble. The first floor was some 48’ high, surrounded by 24 Doric columns that supported the second floor (16’ high) which itself used 24 (smaller) columns to support a vaulted roof (green and white marble) at the very top of which was a small-scale version of the entire building: narrow columns supporting a vaulted roof. At the south end of the piazza, there were two fountains, one on either side of the central building: marble, octagonal basins. Then there were the buildings that surrounded the piazza on three sides (north, east, and west).

  Something classical must have inspired the architect’s delirium. Not all of the buildings were of marble, but most of them had arches or columns, or arches and columns. A building on the east side was typical. It was three storeys high, a rectangle. Doric columns supported the second floor, which was notable for its profusion of tall windows, trompe l’oeil pillars, and elaborately moulded windowframes. The third floor had pillars that supported the roof, but it was unusual for its balcony, a generous balcony that went round the entire floor, affording a view onto the piazza.

  In a word, there was nothing practical about Mauer’s design. There were no fences, walls, or obvious guard posts. The compound was as porous as a small city, and it was difficult to see how the prisoners would be effectively watched. There was, perhaps, something humane in all this. It was as if a society had decided to keep its scruff in a Renaissance setting, sending rapists and murderers to Bassano del Grappo, say, or Arezzo. Thought of in this way, there was something almost touching in Mauer’s design, but it took little experience with materials to understand that the buildings would cost the public millions and, even if baser materials were used, would do poorly what it was designed to do.

  You could see it from here or, at least, François could see it, now, after months of consideration: MacKenzie Bowell was a white elephant. Months after he had submitted the figures for the cost of the penitentiary, months after it had been approved by the selection committee, and to his own surprise, François Ricard was offended. He was not personally offended. The intellectual he was could find reasons to approve of MacKenzie Bowell: it was fantastic, innovative in its retrospection, perhaps even a moment in the rethinking of incarceration. Rather, he was civically offended. His communal self was offended by the thought of spending so much money on what was, in effect, a wager. There were so many needs. A certain class of citizen was doing well, in Canada, but there seemed to be more, and more evident, poverty. He had visited Toronto for a conference and been overwhelmed by two things: the pace of the city (mindlessly brisk) and the number of unfortunates living on the street
. The shame he’d felt at the sight of bodies wrapped in dirty overcoats, curled up on the pavement like dogs, returned to him at the thought of the penitentiary. There were vagrants in Ottawa, of course, but there were more of them in Toronto. In Toronto, when François remarked on the number of homeless, his companion had sighed and said

  – It’s pretty sad, eh?

  But it hadn’t seemed sad to François. It had seemed hypocritical and cruel. Cruel, for obvious reasons: who could live while men and women froze to the grates they clung to for warmth? Hypocritical, because he lived in a country where poverty was thought to be a foreign gentleman. Poverty lived in Africa, visited Asia, was in South America on vacation. Thinking about the plans for the penitentiary, François thought of domestic poverty and it seemed to him that this prison was a poisoned chalice.

  Why? Money.

  Though Franklin might justify the expense, he could not prove that spending on marble and polished brass was better for society than care of the homeless. Or, if he could, François wanted to hear the proof for himself. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to have the ministry reconsider the choice of materials if nothing else. In light of the estimates he’d given them (and the price for the marble alone was, one would have thought, prohibitive), MacKenzie Bowell seemed the product of a ministry (or an administration) intent on social experiment, which made Franklin the porte-parole of good, if misguided, intentions. However, late or not, someone needed to be told that there was more to government than interesting ideas or good intentions.

  François called Franklin’s office and arranged to meet him the following day at two in the afternoon. So, when he arrived, he was surprised to find Franklin was away.

  There was only one person in the office, a young woman who looked oddly familiar.

  – May I help you? she said. Puis-je vous aider?

  There was something about the way she spoke, an ease. François considered her for a moment before speaking, in French, though she was almost certainly anglophone. He said

  – Je m’appelle François Ricard. Je suis venu voir M. Dupuis. Nous avions rendez-vous à quatorze heures, je crois.

  – Ah, she said. Malheureusement, M. Dupuis n’est pas encore de retour. Mais je m’attends à c’qu’il revienne bientôt.

  Her French sounded Belgian, Liègeois, say, though she was dark-skinned, perhaps Caribbean.

  – Et vous vous appelez…? he asked.

  – Mary Stanley, she answered.

  Touching the back of a chair a few feet from her desk, he asked

  – Ça vous dérangerait si j’attends içi, Madelle Stanley?

  – Pas du tout, she answered, je vous en prie.

  François now had the curious feeling they’d met in high school, though this was improbable, as she was obviously younger. But the feeling was pleasant and, when he was not reading his novel by Modiano, the two of them carried on sparse but light conversation (about the Byward Market, mostly, and how one used to be able to buy live pigs, goats and chickens…and about Parliament) until almost three thirty.

  Having relaxed in François’ company, Mary inadvertently spoke English. She immediately apologized.

  – No need to apologize, said François. I speak English.

  – I’m glad, she said.

  And blushed, not certain which language to use, until François said

  – This new penitentiary of yours is quite the project, isn’t it?

  – I’m afraid I don’t know much about it, she said politely.

  And looked down at the papers in front of her. After a while, he said

  – Look, I’d love to stay a little longer, but I’m afraid I must go. Please tell Franklin I was here. And I hope we’ll talk again, the two of us.

  – Yes, that would be nice, said Mary. Thank you.

  As he got up, François handed her his business card:

  François Ricard

  Transport Canada/Transports Canada

  1-800-535-1177

  – I enjoyed talking to you, he said. Maybe we can do it again sometime.

  It was difficult to figure why a man from Transport was interested in the penitentiary, but she let that pass. The important thing was the impression he left. She’d felt, instinctively, she could trust him. The one she was unsure of was herself. She found she had actually wanted to talk about the prison as if that might have led to talk about the goings-on around her. Something was not right in the ministry and she felt, knowing things were not right, part of something shady. This feeling of “shadiness” was actually more disturbing to her than if her suspicions (about forgeries) or her fears (about St. Pierre and Mickleson) had been confirmed. That is, being a person of strong moral backbone, Mary found doubt unbearable.

  Though she had tried to share her initial suspicions of St. Pierre and Mickleson with Franklin, she’d told no one of her subsequent investigation of the duo. Of course, her “investigation” hadn’t got very far. She had tried to track the men down, to check their references, only to discover that none of their references added up. They had both listed their most recent employer as

  Far Western Land, Inc.

  but when she’d called Far Western, she had got

  Carol’s Hair Salon

  In fact, all the telephone numbers they’d left, including their business numbers, were for salons. She had dialed all of them, a few of them more than once, and by the end she had felt oddly disturbed, as if she’d had a waking dream about telephone numbers. She had expected to discover that the men were not what they claimed to be. She had intended to report her findings to Franklin, to warn him. Instead, she kept the episode to herself because, for all intents and purposes, St. Pierre and Mickleson were ghosts or, worse, the kind of men who could not exist even when they clearly did. She was not frightened exactly, but she was disturbed. It was clear to her that the non-existence of St. Pierre and Mickleson could not be revealed without some understanding of why the men had hidden themselves (or were hidden by others) or who knew about their non-existence. Did Franklin know? He had hired them, after all.

  She’d had no right to verify the references given by St. Pierre and Mickleson. The official business of the department was not, strictly speaking, her concern. And yet, she had verified and she was concerned. Could she follow her father’s advice, she would have told someone something, but her circumstances were such that she neither knew what to tell nor to whom she should tell it.

  She turned François’ card over, as if there might be some clue to the man on its reverse side, and wondered if she should call him, nothing more in mind than tea and talk. She also wondered, as she always did, how soon she should call, if she were to call at all, and if it were polite to suggest a simple tea after work or, perhaps, a meal somewhere, the Khyber Pass, say.

  On entering the Khyber Pass, Mary looked for a table away from the other diners.

  When François arrived, not long after her, she had to stand and wave at him, feeling graceless.

  She might have enjoyed the physical attraction that flared up at the sight of him: well dressed, nicely shaved, his hair dark but not oily, his nose straight. But the attraction made her feel frivolous, as if it were wrong to take him in that way, what with them being mere acquaintances, two civil servants talking, that’s all, though it pleased her to be with a man she found attractive. And why shouldn’t it, she thought, why shouldn’t it?

  After words about the weather (cool), the Liberal campaign (ineffectual), John Turner (untrustworthy), and Brian Mulroney (a self-important martinet with a heartfelt vision of the country), they were surprised to find the waiter beside them waiting for their order. Neither had even glanced at the menu.

  – A moment, please, said François.

  – Of course, said the waiter.

  Mourgh, aush, qabili pilau, kofta nakhod, lamb and spinach…

  – Have you been here before
? Mary asked.

  – Yes, I have, answered François. I’ve liked everything. This was a good choice.

  It was Mary’s second visit and, as she couldn’t remember what she’d had the first time, she let him order: qabili pilau (rice with lamb, carrots, raisins, cumin, and saffron…an intoxicating fragrance) for her, lamb and spinach for himself, a Riesling for the table and Bride’s Fingers for dessert. The most enjoyable meal she had had in years or, at least, it would be in retrospect. She was distracted from the taste of pilau and wine by her interest in him. How open he was, without being effusive, and how attentive. He had told her about his son, his late wife, the work he did at Transport. Moved by his quiet generosity, Mary spoke of her own concerns, but sideways. She asked if he believed in astrology. (He didn’t, though he knew he was Sagittarius.) And then she asked if he didn’t agree handwriting is a better indicator of personality. He agreed in principle, though he was skeptical here too. And finally, they began to talk about what “evil” handwriting might look like. Would it be sloppy, ill formed, ragged, or, perhaps, on the contrary, smooth as silk?

  At this point, their conversation was interrupted by a woman who said

  – François? I thought it was you. What are you doing hidden back here?

  François smiled and stood up to embrace Louise Dylan. The man who was with her came forward as well.

  – Walter! How nice to see you, said François.

  He introduced both of them to Mary, then asked

  – Where’s Paul?

  – I don’t know, said Louise. We’re divorced.

  – I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I haven’t seen anyone for a while. Is everything all right?

  As the three spoke, Mary was, briefly, left out of the conversation. These, then, were François’ friends. The woman had an appealing smile. Attractive. There was something in the way she held herself, the way she dressed, that reminded Mary of her mother. The man, Walter, was a different matter. Even in the dim light, he looked familiar. He was tall, slender, and quiet; quiet, even when he spoke. Perhaps he was English: confident and a little cool, as she thought the English, though she didn’t know any Englishmen.