Snow Job

by William Deverell

  “I am on bended knees begging you to come, Clara,” Finnerty had said, smiling, avuncular. “This is their big farewell reception. You’re my first minister, they’ll take it as an insult. And what’ll it look like to the press?”

  “There won’t be press. This is invitation only.”

  “They’ll be outside, counting heads.”

  Cabinet solidarity must prevail. It was Lafayette’s show anyway — he would carry the can if this disgusting love-in with these Mongol invaders went haywire. The red carpet he’d unfurled for them was a national humiliation. A colour guard! The governor general dragged from the sickbed to witness the signing of protocols. They’d been wined and dined, a stretch limo provided, a tour guide, interpreters, gifts of Inuit art and sterling silver embossed with maple leaves. Bhashyistan’s gift, a yak from the personal herd of the Ultimate Leader, had also been in the Ilyushin, in the aft cargo area. That delightful interlude, the ceremonial unloading of the shitting yak, had been on all the newscasts. It was trucked off to an animal farm in Chibougamau.

  Foreign Affairs had also arranged for an entire wing of suites in the Westin Hotel. Treasury wasn’t paying for these, thank God, or for the several street women who’d ended up there last night, according to RCMP watchers.

  Clara cracked open a window and lit a cigarette. Her driver tuttutted, but he was used to it. Ice on the canal, a frozen slick. Bringing to mind Ms. Blake’s well-reported sound bite about oil slicks. And their champion, the slick foreign minister.

  So much for Lafayette’s concept of educating these characters in the benefits of democracy. Only four showed up for the tour of Parliament yesterday. They’d sat in the Speaker’s Gallery for forty minutes, bored to numbness, then went shopping at the Rideau Centre. The Ilyushin was later observed being loaded with barbecues, dishwashers, and home theatres.

  At least the sovereign state of Canada had not demeaned itself by apologizing for permitting twelve of its peons to acquit the alleged assassin of the Great Father, Boris Mukhamed Ivanovich. His son, Mad Igor, had named a planet after him. Mars was now known, in Bhashyistan, as Boris. Venus had been named after Boris’s second wife, Igor’s Revered Mother. It was now called Nanotchka.

  A ceremony honouring the Great Father seemed to satisfy the Bhashies: expressions of deep regret, the laying of a wreath at the National War Memorial, another honour guard. Shameless. A huge demonstration outside the Centre Block today by a coalition of green NGOs abetted by the usual peaceniks and Amnesty Internationalists. One of nine such rallies across the country, a sizable crowd even in Calgary, outside the Alta International Tower.

  This government was in peril. The thought of jumping ship, returning to academia, continued to tempt Clara, but would be painful, a rebellion against five generations of party faithful. Her great-great-grandfather had served under Sir John A.

  Clara summoned strength as they arrived at 99 Bush Street. The fifteenth-floor Rideau Club was a venerable institution restored from premises devoured by fire some decades ago. A lavish affair was promised, allegedly bankrolled by the Friends of Bhashyistan, an organization previously unheard of, likely slapped together for the occasion. Presumably Canada had some friends of Bhashyistan, even immigrants from there, but Clara had never met one.

  There weren’t many on the Hill who doubted this was Alta International’s treat.

  Somehow, Gerard Lafayette hadn’t expected the Bhashies to have a minister of culture, but here he was, in the Rideau Club’s dining salon, raising a glass. “To Canada, like patriotic song saying, glorious and free.” A throaty voice from a barrel chest. This was the tenth toast of the evening; these eight beefy, genial visitors were taking turns, some twice. Most had a smattering of English, with strong Russian accents.

  Prominent among them was the minister of police, Mad Igor’s brother-in-law, a boisterous fellow with flashing gold teeth. Of possibly higher rank was the Ultimate Leader’s nephew, a big, shambling ruffian without a word of English, already half pickled, a clump of caviar in his beard. The defence minister, General Buhkyov, who’d been like a leech on Lafayette, was in a uniform dripping with medals and braid.

  “Oh, say can you see, we stand on guard for north strong and free,” the culture minister intoned from his trove of memorized anthems. “Is still part of British Empire, no?”

  “Is no longer called Empire, is Commonwealth,” said the education minister. “But is still great contry.”

  Standing corrected, the culture minister carried on: “Is good news that Canada break free from British rule — like Bhashyistan, free of Kremlin. We are brothers, together we sharing national dream. To freedom!”

  He slugged back his vodka and gave the prime minister a hearty bear hug — there’d been an incalculable number of these. Lafayette had got his share over the last two days, and was staying on the move so as not to get trapped. Finnerty, though, was keeping up with the Bhashies, drink for drink. The old Fundy fisher was showing them what Canucks are made of — he’d still be standing when they were all on the floor.

  Next up, the Bhashyistan defence minister. “But Canada still honours English queen. Is figurehead, nice lady, like grandmother. To royal queen, God willing forever may she reign.”

  Lafayette had begun to wilt under the pressure of their interminable toasts, presumably a national art form. To glorious new friends and brothers of great democratic republic of Canada. To all people of Canada, including French and Indians. To national tree with red leaf.

  They’d been bundled off to see the sights of Montreal that day, so were spared the sight of the demonstrators outside Parliament with their placards. “What’s Alta Paying You?” “Send the Bhums Bhack to Bhashyistan.” “No Deal with Fascistan.” Every tree-hugger and anarchist in the Capital Region had turned out.

  Here was Clara Gracey, the minority of one, conscripted into service. Elegant in a long dress of low cut, more than a hint of bodice, denying her years with foundation and blush. One would think, given her aspirations, she would show more solidarity with this Bhashyistan initiative, get on board, try to place herself for the next race, after the stopgap P.M. founders.

  The Bhashie minister of penal corrections did the closing piece, a recitation of a few stanzas of “The Cremation of Sam McGee,” first in English — the queerest thing Lafayette ever did see — then in the consonant-laden Turkic tongue of the republic, a variant officially known as Igor. Lafayette took Finnerty’s cold glare as a signal: you, Lafayette, you have brought this on, you will reply.

  He vaulted up to a small stage, comfortably above everyone, then reached down and, with modest panache, cleanly plucked a Chablis from a passing tray.

  He thanked the visiting dignitaries — he dared call them that — for their offer of an exchange visit, and claimed to be champing at the bit to sample the renowned hospitality of their country. Otherwise, he kept to generalizations: good health, prosperous future relations, may we absorb each other’s culture and gain from that. When it seemed he had little else to say, some Bhashies looked distressed, so he threw in something vaguely laudatory about the Ultimate Leader.

  General Buhkyov was approaching the stage, voracious grin, arms splayed. He’d been lobbying to place his sons in college here; Lafayette was expected to put in the fix. Dismounting from the platform, he slipped behind an alcove, pretending he had an important phone call. Buhkyov veered away toward the bar. Others of his troupe had headed off to the billiards room.

  At the door, flashing her invitation, an unexpected presence — the media sweetheart, Margaret Blake. All the socialists in the House, among whom Lafayette counted half the Liberals, had boycotted this event, so it was doubly surprising to see her here. Especially given that her office had been the operations centre for a ten-city multiplex of demonstrations.

  Just a touch of makeup for this handsome woman, a natural tan, piercing grey eyes, spindle-waisted, best pair of legs in the House, and a constant, annoying burr in Lafayette’s side. A goat-keeping agronomist
from a West Coast backwater, slow to learn the rules, the decorum, the way things are done. An idealist. They never lasted long here.

  Still, she seemed to be enjoying her blip in political history. It might be amusing to relate to her. She was chatting with some of his ministry staff, who, after he joined their circle, politely dispersed. The leader of le Parti Vert seemed a little stiff in his presence, so he sought an opening that might relax her.

  “I don’t know whether I should feel complimented that you have targeted me, Ms. Blake, but I am bandaged head to toe from the wounds of your unerring darts.”

  This elegant paean didn’t even buy him a smile, just a cool, silvery stare. But of course she must pretend to be unflattered by the attentions of Gerard Laurier Lafayette. “Nothing personal, Minister.”

  “Where is your husband, the eminent barrister?” A.R. Beauchamp, former leading counsel, now an artefact. His biography was being written, invariably an indication one’s career is over.

  “He was afraid he’d find himself gushing in the radiant company of your guests. He’s such an admirer of megalomaniac dictators. I hear Mad Igor has even named a slave labour camp after himself.”

  “All of which begs the question of why you are here.” He was miffed, he’d expected deference.

  “To keep an eye on you guys. I’m counting the bear hugs.”

  “If you’d like one, I’m sure that can be arranged.”

  The acerbic tone didn’t deter her. “I heard the cabinet was divided over this.”

  He flicked a look at Gracey. “We stand as one. It is trade, madam, free trade, the opening up of barriers, that brings a struggling nation out of darkness.”

  “And makes a bundle for Alta International.”

  “Canadian businesses ought to be permitted to compete in the international market. If exchanging ambassadors opens the door for opportunities, why should they not take advantage?”

  He could see from her startled eyes that his nimble rejoinder had struck home. But then he saw that those eyes were fixed on General Buhkyov, advancing like the Light Brigade. “Tovarich!”

  She slipped away just before he swooped.

  This lusty assault occurred as Huck Finnerty was strolling by to confer with the attorney general. He paused to watch, with relish, as Lafayette got his ribs squeezed and back slapped with meat-tenderizing blows.

  “It must be love.” A woman’s voice, behind him. Turning, he brushed her shoulder, nearly causing him to spill his rye and soda. Margaret Blake, the Green sharpshooter, who had also been watching this wrestling event. No damage done, but Finnerty apologized profusely.

  “There are strange things done in the midnight sun,” she said.

  He laughed. He liked this plucky woman, despite knowing that if she had her way the family trawling business would be kaput. He wanted to linger with her, enjoy a conspiratorial chuckle at Lafayette’s plight — backed against a table, with a stiff, gaping grin — but he’d had a skinful, he had to get out of here.

  He was planning an escape route when Guy DuWallup urgently beckoned him, a bad-news look on his unlovely mug. They met in a quiet corner.

  “Problem with Abzal.”

  “Abzal? Help me.”

  DuWallup sighed. It was always “help me” with the P.M. He was an old pal, though, and was carrying the party through some of its toughest times. “Abzal Erzhan. The sniper who immortalized the Great Father. He has disappeared.”

  Finnerty was too swizzled for those last three words to settle in right away. Erzhan. Vancouver. Fifteen years ago. Right. He’d got refugee status or something. “He disappeared?”

  DuWallup heard “dishappeared.” He took the P.M.’s rye whiskey and set it down. “Let’s go for a walk, Huck.”

  “Leaving anyway. Give me the bad, let’s hear it.”

  “Erzhan didn’t show up at work this morning. He’s been eight steady years as a high school teacher in Chambly, just east of Montreal. He was last seen leaving his home to walk to his school.”

  DuWallup steered him toward the coat check. Huck seemed to be walking okay; he might get past the press unscathed. “I’ll get your driver.” He dialed his cell.

  “Juss a minute, the RCMP was supposed to be watching this guy.”

  “He slipped past them, it was very quick. There’s an indication a friend picked him up in a car.”

  Finnerty fussed and grumbled as they headed down in the elevator. What was he supposed to do about this? Very bad time for a Bhashyistani assassin to be on the loose.

  He waited by the front entrance while DuWallup peeked out, summoned the liveried driver. “Not too many reporters out there, Huck.”

  “They know anything about this?”

  “It’s under wraps. Do we warn our Bhashie friends?”

  “No bloody way.” Finnerty didn’t want anything to delay their morning departure. They had behaved like the Mafia, had half a dozen women up at the Westin.

  “The other option is doubling security,” DuWallup said.

  “Yeah, right, let’s stick to the timetable, get these jokers out of here. We tell nobody.”

  Huck’s driver joined them, and the three walked together from the building, Finnerty held in place between them. “A fine evening,” he called out, too loud, to the converging press. Keep the smile steady. There’s the car. A smelly pall of cigar smoke from a clutch of Bhashies by the sidewalk. Clara Gracey out here too, with a cigarette, waiting for her car, looking cold.

  He made it into the back seat, a persistent microphone at his shoulder. “Sixty M.P.s signed a pledge to boycott this event, sir. What do you say about that?”

  “They weren’t missed.”

  Reporters laughed. So did Clara, who envied Finnerty’s easy rapport with the media. Drunk again, but somehow he always kept his balance. It must be all those years on the high seas.

  The Bhashie culture minister had been eyeing her and now was approaching with the family pictures he’d been showing around. Where was her car?

  “You like seeing my people in traditional costume?” A fistful of glossy prints. “This my wife.” A woman in a burka and a gorgeous patterned robe. “This my wife too.” A sombre young woman in an imposing headdress.

  “How many wives do you have?”

  “Only four now. You are also some man’s wife here?”

  “Not exactly.” Be pleasant. In ten hours they head home with their goodies and their trade treaty.

  “You like I show you fine jewellery my country.”

  “You have it with you?”

  He produced a gold locket, dangled it. “Is more in hotel room.”

  Here came rescue, her driver.

  5

  Arthur is in an old folks’ home, staring out at a pastoral scene, maybe Blunder Bay. He strives to go there, but his wheelchair can move only backwards, nurses and attendants skipping out of the way, laughing, patting him on the head. They’re all on cellphones and Blackberrys, planning something cool, street theatre.

  His bedside radio, programmed to drag him out of bed at eight-fifteen, rescued him with a sonata. He regretted having to turn it down. Schumann was a salve after that dismal dream. Rolling backwards, that’s what he’s been doing. Backwards into senescence.

  Sleeping soundly beside him was his stay-up-late wife, who’d slid into bed after midnight, waking him briefly from fitful sleep. He’d thought it unwise, but she’d gone to an event for the Bhashyistanis. “Farewell Reception,” the embossed card read, an oxymoronic keepsake. Presumably, she went out with her gang afterwards, to regale them.

  He didn’t approve of such late nights, was fearful for her safety ever since the spectral man in the black coat had proved to be a follower indeed. Several nights ago, after leaving a committee meeting on the Hill, Margaret had turned to see him in distant, shuffling pursuit, wearing either a black toque or a wig. And at least twice she’d seen him in her rear-view mirror in his small car, a Mitsubishi, this time with a moustache that seemed pasted there. A detectiv
e hired by Alta International, that was their best guess. He seemed unlikely to be a government hireling — if exposed, that would ignite a scandal. Margaret had morbidly taken to calling him her personal death angel. She no longer went out at night without a swarm of friends attending her.

  Arthur quietly slipped from under the covers, and she rolled over but slept on, dreaming her own vivid dream. A low laugh, the kind sleep disguises as a pleasant guttural rumbling. Arthur envied her dreams, which seemed abnormally congenial, unstirred by the repressed pain that energized his own harrowing nighttime travels.

  An old, lined face, buttered with foam, stared at him as he scraped it with a dull razor. He’d been considered handsome once, despite the elephant’s trunk, but age had begun to expose the codger within. He resented having to shave every day, having to wear a tie, but Ottawa had imposed its will. Anyway, it’s how he always dressed for the city, suit and tie, even on his walks. It was something neurotic, the fuddy-duddy syndrome.

  As he performed his morning routines, he was plagued by a sense that his marriage had begun to show gaps, ever widening, a gulf between two islands. His slowly sinking beneath the sea, hers high above the tide line, full of bustle and battle. The thought of losing her had been causing palpitations, panic attacks.

  Friday, November 26. Why did the day feel so oppressive? He had to shake this mood. A sprightly pre-breakfast walk along the canal ought to help, though it looked bone-chilling cold out there. Global warming had yet to target the nation’s capital.

  A morning spat from next door, quickly drowned by a baroque concerto. The neighbours had arisen.

  The phone rang as he pulled on his pants, and he nearly stumbled in them as he raced to arrest a second ring. “Good morning.”

  “Good … well, it’s actually not a good morning, Arthur.” Savannah Buckett, in Blunder Bay. It was five-thirty out there.