Asylum

by André Alexis

  What a dark train of thought. But how ridiculous that a man his age had not seen it before. He had sat by at the deaths of his parents and at the passing of Edwina’s brother. He had visited hospitals and hospices up and down the province, had shaken hands with paraplegics, had commiserated with those who hadn’t seen the car coming, hadn’t checked the safety on the pistol, hadn’t noticed the rust on the railing. He could barely remember the words of solace he’d spoken, but he knew that, had they been offered to him now, by the side of the Bow, he would have drawn little comfort from them.

  And yet…

  He was not the kind of man to take refuge in darkness. What good would it do to go over and over the tangle of the last four years? What good to decide which moment he might have avoided: the election itself, his appointment to Cabinet, his trip to Paris? He did not have the capacity to discover the speck of poison in a bushel of grain. Nor would he turn to heaven and decry his fate. His belief in God, fervent and unswerving, did not extend to blame, certainly not for mistakes he himself had made.

  He looked down at the river, back at the island, and stopped thinking about himself. He thought, instead, of Edwina, of the red hat she’d bought to wear at her brother’s wedding. How amusing it had been…like a red shoe…

  It was not as difficult as he’d imagined it would be but, in a way, that made it more painful.

  They were alone, he and Edwina. She knew there was something wrong the minute he walked in the door. There had been something wrong since he returned from Vancouver, but he’d hidden whatever it was so well she’d almost managed to push her concern to another part of her consciousness. Still, no use pretending. Things had changed so much that she had been able to conceive the inconceivable: he was having an affair. She had been wrong to stay at home while he was stranded in Ottawa. Though she and the children had lived in Ottawa for most of his political life, she had pleaded to stay in Calgary for this one term. It was all her fault. She was willing to admit it, had admitted it to him already, in her mind. Bound to happen. Albert was a desirable man and lonely, and it had been nonsense to let him go off on his own.

  She almost said as much when he admitted he had something terrible to confess. She almost said

  – It doesn’t matter, Alby

  but the look of him stopped her. He looked not “different” but, rather, “the same,” the way he’d looked when his mother died.

  – What is it? she asked

  suddenly afraid for the children.

  – Oh, Ed, I didn’t have an affair, but it looks like I’m having one.

  He spoke mournfully, and he assumed his words made sense, but, really, he had spoken the most obscure sentence she’d heard from him in their long life together. They were in the dining room. They stood beside the table her father had given for their wedding: a long rectangle, darkly stained, worn smooth and flat in some places, smooth and dented in others. She had set the table hours before, choosing, first, the good china, then the yellow Fiestas, then the good china again, distracted beyond words.

  They would not be eating for hours.

  – It only looks like I’m having an affair, he said again.

  Edwina nodded sympathetically, as if she’d understood this time, but then she came to herself and said

  – What do you mean, Alby?

  Rundstedt, who had kept his coat on, took the incriminating pictures from an inner pocket and, an excruciating thing to do, he gave them to his wife. This had, at first, minimal effect. Edwina sat down. She laid the photographs out before her in a fan. She peered down at them, interested but seemingly oblivious to their content. She squinted as she looked so that Rundstedt, concerned, was about to ask if she wanted him to turn on the chandelier.

  – Who’s the woman? Edwina asked.

  – She said her name was Gudrun.

  – Oh, so she was German?

  It seemed to Rundstedt that his wife did not understand the depth of their misfortune, and he was confused. Edwina always understood or foresaw the consequences of moments and incidents before he did.

  – She said she was German, anyways.

  – Oh. Who took the picture?

  – I don’t know.

  – They must have been very close.

  – There was no one in the room but us.

  She held up the photograph of Rundstedt, magnifying glass in hand, nose to the pudendum of a dancer.

  – Why’d you need a magnifying glass, Alby? Was it…different?

  – Was what different?

  – Down there.

  – You can see for yourself, he said.

  – That’s true, she answered. She looks normal. So I don’t understand the magnifying glass then.

  Truth be told, Rundstedt, who had made use of the glass, didn’t understand its purpose any more than Edwina did. He told her the nature of the bar, described how he had come to be there, and explained how Gudrun had persuaded him to get as close as he could to the dancer, but, in the end, this was a matter one either understood or one did not. There was not, and there never would be, reason for him to peer so closely at what was, all things considered, not so unusual.

  After her questions about the bar in Osaka, Rundstedt was convinced Edwina would not understand the significance of his photographs. She did not seem to mind that her husband was in a hotel room, a young woman on him like he was made by Schwinn. As if she’d found the photographs entertaining, she asked

  – Are there any more, Alby?

  – No, he said, that’s all he gave me. Aren’t there enough?

  – Who gave them to you?

  Edwina understood the significance of her husband’s photographs. She understood entirely, and suspected they might bring about his fall from grace, but the photographs themselves were appeasing. They left no doubt that Albert was wrong. He’d said, “It looks like I’m having an affair,” but it looked like nothing of the sort. He was so obviously unhappy to be touched by the woman on his lap, one wondered how she had managed to get on him in the first place.

  He had been thoughtless to be taken like this. It was thoughtless to endanger everything he’d worked for, but that was, perhaps, her fault as well as his. Hadn’t her own mother warned her, so long ago, about letting her husband out of the yard? She’d said

  – Eddy, a husband’s like a bad dog. You shouldn’t let him out the yard on his own.

  Her mother’s attempt to share wisdom, and the only advice she remembered receiving from Hannah, who, Edwina was certain, was not thinking of Albert so much as she was of Oskar, Edwina’s father, whose reputation had been well known. In fact, her mother had almost certainly loved Albert more than she did her own husband, and had died thinking him a good son, but Albert was a man and, for the women of her mother’s generation, it was a great shame men were issued their parts without proper training. To her mother’s mind, finding a responsible man was akin to finding a civilized savage. God works in mysterious ways, but not often.

  Edwina had always thought Albert an exception. It had taken some forty years to discover that the man she thought incomparable was, in the end, comparable. In that time, however, she had also come to know herself, and in coming to know herself, she thought she had come to understand her mother’s words more fully. It wasn’t that men were lesser than women, nor that they were contemptible. It was, rather, that their flaws were different. They did not have fewer of them, nor more. Their flaws were the price women paid for loving men, and vice versa, and it had always been, to Edwina, bearable.

  That, in any case, is what she hoped her mother meant because, whatever the meaning, her mother and father now lay in the same cemetery, side by side, their flaws forgiven (if there is a God) or forgotten (otherwise).

  When he finished telling her all about “Larry,” Edwina said

  – You’re not going to give him anything, are you, Alby?
r />   and Albert, as if it were unbearably sad, or as if he were betraying her further, said

  – No. I’m sorry, Ed.

  They went into the kitchen and began, distractedly, to cook.

  – You’ll have to resign, she said.

  It was not possible for him to resign immediately, though.

  He and Edwina planned his departure, wrote a modest speech for his resignation, and he left word with Al Jackson that, if they would have him, he wished to return to lawyering where he had left it: for the firm of Jackson, Washington, and Dunn LLB. He did not want to return to law, but as he was about to make a life in politics difficult for himself, he had little choice. He might have asked those who knew and admired him to direct him to more prestigious firms, but, really, the only life he wanted would soon be beyond him, so what did it matter where he worked?

  There was no question, he had to go, and yet…The word before the election was that it would be close. If he resigned before election day, he might hurt his party’s chances. To be, himself, out of the ring was one thing; to help defeat the Conservatives was another. He believed in its ideals. He believed in free trade. He believed in Mulroney’s vision. Even though it meant a moral compromise, he did not see how he could endanger its progress. And what if it were close and power depended on his seat in Parliament? What if his resignation crippled the government? He would cross that bridge if he had to.

  It was said, before the election, that his opponent (Jock MacCallum, a school principal running for the Liberals) was popular, that it was a good thing Rundstedt was at his post for this election, but, as if the people themselves knew resignation was on his mind, there was, for this election, an outpouring of support for his campaign. He had never felt quite so appreciated.

  You might almost say circumstances conspired to have him run. So…

  He ran.

  He was elected.

  Then, after a suitable time, he resigned.

  Having done his all for the Progressive Conservatives, satisfied after his trouncing of the Opposition, relieved that the PC did not absolutely need his vote in Parliament, Rundstedt returned to Ottawa to clean house and prepare for the end. (Edwina went with him.) There were two pressing duties to perform. First, before anything else, he had to speak to Martin Brian. After all the man had done for him and for the country, it would have been unforgivable to tell anyone of his resignation before he told the prime minister. Second, he would have to inform Franklin. Until Cabinet appointed someone to take Rundstedt’s portfolio, Franklin would have to see to the ministry’s remaining business.

  When did Brian Mulroney become Brian Mulroney?

  That is the question that occurred to Rundstedt as he walked into the prime minister’s office. He was filled with admiration for Brian, but he was aware that he had not always admired the man. Was it that he had not always been able to see what was admirable in him? Was it, rather, that in leadership the man’s best qualities had a sharper profile? Or was it, perhaps, that the man with whom he now spoke was not the same man he had met four years ago? Whatever it was, they were ill at ease. They were not best of friends, never would be. They were politicians, one of whom did not know what the other wanted of him. At the best of times, they were only as friendly as actors competing for the same part, and now that Rundstedt had requested a one on one, the prime minister was on his guard.

  And yet, yes, the man was a strong symbol of himself, self-confident, crafty, blunt, and warm. He was six inches taller than you thought, however often you’d met him. His mouth was a dainty slash above the expanse of his chin, his eyes lovely. One felt that Brian would never find himself in the situation Rundstedt had. He was not that kind of man or, if he was, that aspect of him was profoundly hidden.

  Martin Brian was a politician’s politician. He shook Rundstedt’s hand, as if they were close friends. He said

  – How you doing, Alby?

  as if he were genuinely concerned. Then, solicitous, he put a hand on Rundstedt’s shoulder and directed him to the chair beside his desk.

  – What can I do for you?

  – I’ve got some bad news, Brian.

  – What’s the matter, Alby?

  Rundstedt took the photographs from his pocket and laid them out before the prime minister.

  – I want you to see these before they become public, said Rundstedt. I think I’m going to have to resign.

  Martin Brian said

  – Ahh…

  as he examined the pictures of his Cabinet member in the embrace of an unclothed young woman, and then he said

  – I didn’t know you had it in you, Alby.

  – No, said Rundstedt.

  – Well, this is a real kick in the nuts.

  The prime minister sat down. His first impulse was to make certain Rundstedt was all right. At times like this, his anger was momentarily quelled by an instinct to protect those close to him, and Rundstedt though not close was close enough. But, really, this was too much. How was it possible to choose a Cabinet, two Cabinets in which there were so many careless people? How had he come to be saddled with Suzanne Blais-Grenier or Robert Coates or, now, Albert Rundstedt? It seemed to him, at times like this, that the Blais-Greniers of the world, to whom he naively extended a hand, fooled him by appearing normal. This one, for instance. He had taken Rundstedt for a solid man, responsible and popular and, above all, lacking in the imagination that led to this: lurid and embarrassing photographs that would shake the public’s faith in the prime minister, in his Cabinet, and in the party. He looked at the man before him. Rundstedt was dressed in a dark blue suit, a kerchief like a crimson coxcomb in his breast pocket, a brilliant white shirt, button-down collar, a solid yet faintly iridescent crimson necktie, and cufflinks in the shape of Lilliputian six-shooters. You had to give the man credit. He still looked trustworthy.

  After an hour or so, they agreed Rundstedt would face the public manfully and resign. He would step down before the photos were made public. They would minimize the damage to the party. There would be:

  1) A simple press conference, no questions: reasons of state.

  2) No dissemination of the evidence: it would be unedifying for the public to see Rundstedt with a naked and nearly bald woman. (If the photos were made public, Rundstedt would be seen to have done the right thing in resigning to protect his family.)

  3) Rundstedt would use all his resources, if any remained after his resignation, to help elect his Conservative successor.

  4) Foreign Affairs would deal with the East Germans, though this blackmail was most unlike the East Germans, who were generally interested only in West Germany. It was much more like the Soviets, even down to the incompetence of the agent who had tried to turn Rundstedt. In any case, the whole sad business would be shared with the Americans and they would take it from there.

  At the end of their time together, the prime minister asked

  – Where did you get your cufflinks, Alby?

  Rundstedt looked down at his cufflinks.

  – Les Cheveux Rouge du Forgeron, he answered.

  – Here in town? They look Western.

  Rundstedt tugged at his shirtsleeves until they descended far enough to reveal his cufflinks to best advantage. Then, he leaned forward; and then, he got up, put his left wrist by a window so the cufflink might be seen in daylight, daylight as it washed over the washed-out city. Hull, the city on the other shore, looked anemic beneath the anemic blue sky, and the river, not quite frozen, was now like a long tail separating one shore from the other. As the prime minister politely examined the cufflink, the winter landscape momentarily hypnotized poor Rundstedt. Once he resigned, he would not be back here. He would not see any of this again. The city he had known for thirteen years would recede in his memory.

  All for the good.

  Good riddance.

  Rundstedt’s resignation f
rom Cabinet was unnerving (and slightly humiliating for its trivial finale: a man at the end of his career displaying clever cufflinks to another too polite to admit indifference), but his final meeting with Franklin was closer to what he expected. You could see Franklin was not prepared for the news. He was incredulous, full of concern, and outraged that communists could do this to a faithful servant.

  – There must be something we can do, said Franklin.

  – There’s nothing, answered Rundstedt. The only thing would be for me to play along with my blackmailers and that’d be worse, in the end. Anyways, you don’t need me. MacKenzie Bowell is in good shape. I’m proud of what we’ve done. Maybe I’ll even come back when construction’s finished.

  Franklin nodded at Rundstedt’s remarks, but you could see he had his doubts. He seemed genuinely upset to see him go, and Rundstedt felt that this was what he would miss most: like-minded men. True, there was a hint of desperation to Franklin’s commiseration, but Rundstedt took it as proof of Franklin’s commitment to the penitentiary, despite all the changes made to it, and as tribute to their work together. Good to know there were a few faithful associates about.

  He spoke to the others in his office in vague terms. He spoke of neither cause nor calendar when he told Mary and Edward of his imminent departure, but he thanked them for their loyalty and wished them the best in their careers.

  With that, there was only the public to inform.

  There had been rumours of something, a scandal or change of the guard. So, Rundstedt’s former campaign office was filled with journalists and photographers. There was barely room for everyone. Rundstedt, his wife, and both of their children all sat in fold-out chairs behind a black-metal desk. When the journalists had settled and there had been a call for silence, Rundstedt stood up to speak. He said

  – I’m sorry, boys, but I won’t be taking any questions.

  – Now or afterwards? someone asked.

  – Neither, said Rundstedt. I’ve called this conference to announce my retirement from politics. My press secretary will take questions.