Miss Montreal

by Howard Shrier

  “Your family seems to have done all right.”

  “We were the exception in many ways,” Lucienne said, “not the rule. We gained our education. We secured a different future. But for the Quebec masses, it took precisely two hundred and sixteen years, from the loss to the British in 1760 until René Lévesque’s historic victory in 1976.”

  “Up to ’76 already?” a gruff voice cut in. “I swear, I was only gone a minute.”

  I turned to see a man in a dark grey suit, white shirt and blue tie—the same shade of blue as his party’s colour. I knew he was over sixty, but he looked fit enough. His hair was grey, so neat he looked like he’d just stepped out of a barber’s chair. Maybe he and Lucienne shared a crew. He wore aftershave, which clashed with Lucienne’s scent. His chin protruded but his lips were thin and tight, making him look like he had no teeth. But when he smiled, which he did without warmth as we shook, he showed a row of even teeth that looked professionally bleached.

  “I’m sorry I missed the beginning,” he said. “But I trust my dear daughter has given you a thorough grounding in our politics.” His English was flawless, even tinged with a slight British accent.

  “We were only up to the historic victory,” I said.

  “The first one,” he said, “but not the last.” He threw his head back a little when he laughed—a practised politician’s move that let me know he truly appreciated humour. Whoopee.

  “Let me take it quickly from there,” he said. “I know you have some specific questions regarding the death of your client.”

  “He was also a friend.”

  “Then you have our deepest sympathies. Doesn’t he, Lucienne?”

  “Of course, Papa,” she said, with all the warmth of an abandoned igloo.

  “Our party,” he said, “was born of necessity. The Liberals have always pandered to immigrants. Where else would they get their majority, if not among the English and the others? And the Parti Québécois, in order to increase the French-speaking population, has not taken great enough care when deciding whom to let in.”

  “Not discriminating enough.”

  He looked at his daughter, who shrugged, as if to say, This is what I was dealing with.

  “Have your jokes, Mr. Geller. But the truth is there for all to see. Allowing certain communities to grow without the appropriate checks and balances—”

  “By which you mean Muslims?”

  All traces of his smile vanished. “If we are to complete this interview in the time we have, you should make fewer such comments and spend more time listening. And yes, since you raise the issue, I speak of Muslims—not all of them, just those who resist our way of life. Who would impose their will if we allow it. If we insist that Quebec will never again be dominated by the Church, we most certainly will not submit to the laws or practices of unassimilated minorities.”

  “So you would restrict their numbers.”

  “The federal government has wisely ceded control of immigration to the province of Quebec, and when we form the next government, we will use the powers granted us to ensure a secular future.”

  “How far did you get with Sam Adler on this?”

  “I am surprised you don’t know the answer to that? Or do you?”

  “I read his notes. Unfortunately, he didn’t live long enough to complete the interviews or write his profile.”

  “Regrettable, indeed.”

  I noticed Lucienne was sitting back in her chair, watching her father, paying me no attention at all. No question who was in charge.

  “Were you concerned about the story he was writing?”

  “Why would I be?”

  “I doubt he agreed with your platform.”

  “That is not my concern. As long as he reported it accurately, and his reputation suggested he would, then any publicity would be good publicity. We have nothing to hide, Mr. Geller. We make our views very well known, whether on our website, in our printed material or in speeches. In fact, I was working on a speech when you arrived this morning. I will deliver it Friday night during the festivities of the Fête Nationale. It will be my first major address of the campaign, and I assure you every step of our platform will be clearly and unequivocally put to the people. No hidden agenda. Isn’t that true, Lucienne?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “We don’t expect to gain the support of all English voters,” he said. “At the same time, I believe a significant number will appreciate our views on the economy.”

  “You speak better English than most English-Canadians,” I said. “You and Lucienne.”

  He smiled and said, “In my day, coming of age in the early seventies, I felt it behooved me to speak the best English I could. After all, for the fox to enter the henhouse, it should first learn how to cluck.” He paused, as if waiting for laughter from his audience of one. None came, so he went on. “As for Lucienne, when we form the next government, she will need her English to communicate with her counterparts in other provinces. And when she eventually succeeds me, as I hope she will, she will take her place at the table with the other premiers, with the governors of American states. And she will not be found wanting on any level. Isn’t that right, my dear?”

  “I appreciate your faith in me, Papa.”

  What were they reading from, a teleprompter?

  “You’re so certain you’re going to form this dynasty,” I said. “But everything I’ve ever read about politics in Quebec suggests you’re out of step.”

  “Ah,” he said. “That myth that our population will only support a leftist government. Needless to say, we don’t agree. We don’t think the government should support its citizens from cradle to grave, as the saying goes. We would form a less interventionist government that provides more freedom to the entrepreneurs, the business class, the ones who want to compete with the other provinces and even the United States.”

  “I’ve been told no right-wing party can win an election here.”

  “Right wing, left wing—I will leave that to the hockey enthusiasts.”

  “Your operation here doesn’t suggest a huge swell of support.”

  “This office?” he said. “It is only the first of several that will open as we get closer to the election. On July 1, for example, we will move into a much larger space with capacity for dozens of volunteers. And then everyone will see that we are a force to be reckoned with. A difference maker. Why? Because no existing party of any stripe has had the answers to the problems we face. Did you know, Mr. Geller, that Quebec, despite all its vast resources, is Canada’s second-poorest province and on its way to becoming dead last?”

  “I’ve read something to that effect.”

  “But do you know why?”

  “I think you’re about to tell me.”

  “For more than fifty years, we have been building a welfare state we can no longer afford. And while I admire France on many levels, this is one aspect of their society we have been fools to emulate. Providing everything to everyone at every stage of life. And because of these expenditures, along with declining revenues, our debt now stands at fifty-five per cent of our gross domestic product. Fifty-five per cent! We now get equalization payments from the federal government. We are considered a ‘have-not’ province, qualifying for handouts from the haves. Nearly ten per cent of our provincial budget comes from Ottawa.”

  He stood and opened a file cabinet next to his desk, thumbed through the drawer and pulled out a thick sheaf of paper. “This report,” he said, “published just this month, shows that we could very quickly become one of the haves, instead of a pathetic have-not, if we just developed more of our natural resources. Offshore oil deposits, natural gas, more electricity and the like. But no government has done much, if anything, about it. Why? Because we would lose our equalization payments. They would rather remain in thrall to the rest of Canada than stand up on their own two feet. Like the person who would rather stay on welfare than seek honest work. All of that will end under a Lortie government. We will be one of
the haves, oh yes. And even better than that, who will work these mines, pipelines and hydro projects?”

  “Let me guess. You’ll need halal markets.”

  “How astute. Yes, we will require new immigrants to move to regions where they can find honest work, instead of forming these seething little pockets of resentment in Montreal and other cities where true Québécois are afraid to walk. You’ve seen what happened in France, in the suburbs where North Africans congregate. It is hell on earth, right outside one of the greatest cities in the world.”

  “You see them as that big a threat?” I asked.

  “Lucienne,” he said. “Hand me that garbage that arrived yesterday. Look at this,” he said to me, holding up a crude leaflet that showed caricatures of Laurent and Lucienne, badly drawn but easy to identify—both wearing shirts with QAQ armbands, meant to draw comparisons with other notorious armbands from history. Under their feet was a woman wearing a headscarf, blood spurting from gaping wounds.

  “Mort aux racistes” was written below. Death to racists. And in block letters, “Front de Libération des Musulmans du Québec.” Quebec Muslim Liberation Front.

  “That’s your precious immigrant right there,” he said. “Threatening violence against real Québécois. But we will not be intimidated, will we, my dear?”

  “Never,” Lucienne said.

  “We will win this election,” he said, “and form a government that sets this province on the right course, the one that is its true destiny and has been since 1760. Must we separate from Canada to accomplish this? Not in my mind. We must simply be strong, stronger than we have ever been. We must fight to become an economic powerhouse. And we must rid ourselves of medieval forces that would impose their outrageous views on the Québécois majority. That is what I told Mr. Adler and that is what I tell you.”

  “Is that your only answer? Cut down on immigration?”

  “Not all immigration. Only the ones who challenge the collective will. And we have other solutions to offer from an economic and social perspective, but I don’t have the time to explain them to you. Nor are they germane to your inquiries.”

  “So let’s stick to what is. Are you sure there was nothing in Mr. Adler’s profile that might have put you in a bad light?”

  “We’ll never know,” he said. And the way he said it was utterly devoid of any sympathy. It sounded like gloating to me.

  The office door banged open then, and a muscular young man strode in, carrying a heavy carton, the veins of his biceps and forearms bulging with the weight. He set it down loudly. “Eh, Papa,” he said. “Y’a une douzaine de ces boîtes-là. Où veux tu que je les place?”

  His French was unlike that of either of the Lorties. Rough and fast, the words boîtes—boxes—pronounced bwytes. Place sounded like plowce. Were it not for the fact that he’d addressed Laurent as Papa, I’d never have guessed that this was his son, Luc. He was short, with long dark hair that covered his eyes like a sheepdog’s. His T-shirt was stained with sweat and dust from the box he’d carried. His jeans were frayed at the bottom and the lace of one shoe was untied.

  “En avant, Luc,” Laurent said. “Toujours en avant, comme je te l’ai dit.” With a note of impatience in his voice, even more than he’d shown to me and my lack of understanding of Quebec.

  “Okay,” Luc said, shaking his hair out of his eyes. He never looked at me or his sister. Laurent made no move to introduce us. Luc picked up the box and backed out of the office, bumping it shut with his hip. His footsteps clumped loudly until they receded into the distance.

  It was hard to believe he and Lucienne were brother and sister. One tall, slender and blonde; the other stocky, dark haired. Lucienne articulate in two languages; Luc’s gruff French straight off the street.

  It came out of my mouth before my brain had fully processed the thought: “Did Sam Adler ever ask you about adoption?”

  CHAPTER 13

  “So what did the big man say to that?” Ryan asked.

  “For the first ten seconds? Not a word,” I said. “He looked at his daughter, she looked at him. Then he said it had never come up. Didn’t say, ‘No, why would it,’ which is what I would have said.”

  “But you’re not a born liar.”

  We were having breakfast in a café on Mont-Royal that made great omelettes and better coffee than the Lorties had offered me.

  “So you think the son’s adopted?”

  “Let me tell you what happened when I left. I knew Luc was at the back, unloading boxes, so I went around to talk to him. He’s there with another guy, handing him cartons out of the back of a van. I can tell they’re QAQ flyers because there’s a sample taped to the outside of each box. He’s got earbuds in and he’s bobbing his head to something with a thrash kind of beat. I walk up to him and say, ‘Allô.’ He looks at me like I just walked down the ramp of a spaceship. Taking me in but not computing. I stick out my hand and say, ‘Bonjour.’ He ignores me and goes to get another box. I get in between him and his helper and say, ‘Tu est Luc Lortie?’ He shrugs. Says something I don’t quite get but his friend laughs. I say, ‘Je suis Jonah Geller.’ He says, ‘Pis?’ ”

  “Pee?” Ryan said.

  “How he pronounced puis, which means ‘and,’ or in this context, ‘What’s your point?’ I tell him I’m a private investigator and I want to ask him about Sammy Adler. He says, ‘Qui?’ Like he’s never heard the name. I say, ‘Il était journaliste qui écrit un article sur ton père.’ He laughs, his friend laughs. I think article was the wrong word or I pronounced it wrong.”

  “Let me guess,” Ryan said, “Your hackles started to rise.”

  “A little,” I admitted. “I mean, I was trying. So I say, ‘Est-ce que Monsieur Adler a parlé avec toi?’ He doesn’t answer. Just smirks, steps around me and hands the box to his friend.”

  “And you wanted to lay them both out. Bing bang boom, Jonah Geller strikes again.”

  “Wanted to, but didn’t. So he turns and pulls another box out of the van, and this time I step in close, almost pinning him up against the bumper. And I say to him, ‘C’est quoi le problème? J’ai quelques questions très simples pour toi. Ça prendrait deux minutes.’ He tries to step around me and I move with him. I want to say to him, ‘This will all go faster if you just answer,’ but I can’t put the words together. So I say it in English. I figure he has to understand a little at least. And he puts the box back and turns—I think he’s going to take a shot at me.”

  “Tell me he did.”

  “Sorry. But get this. He strikes the exact same pose his father strikes in their poster. And he does a pitch-perfect impression of Dad’s mid-Atlantic accent. Says to me, ‘Sorry, old chap, I don’t speak English as well as dear old Pa-paw.’ I’m thunderstruck. He says, ‘I never met Mr. Adler and I have nothing further to say.’ And he picks up the box and chucks it at his friend.”

  “Weird.”

  “It was beyond weird, it was eerie. Except for the fact that Laurent is older and his voice is a little more gravelly, it was like listening to the same person.”

  “Except he’s supposed to be slow on the uptake.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Still think he’s adopted?”

  “Maybe he is, maybe they both are, I don’t know. It sounds like Sammy knew something, was asking around, but would it really make any waves? In today’s world, if Laurent and his wife couldn’t have kids, so what? Adopting is a positive thing, a contribution. Not something they’d have to hide.”

  “He’s a politician,” Ryan said. “They all have something to hide.”

  “But to kill over?”

  “No, you’re right. Adoption would probably get him on Oprah, or whatever the local version is. Have all the daytime ladies weeping in their recliners.”

  “Still must be hard for Luc,” I said. “The sister gets the looks, the brains, the seat at Daddy’s right hand, and he’s in the back alley humping boxes.”

  My phone rang and I saw it was Bobby Ducharme.<
br />
  “You owe me at least three cases of beer,” he said. “Twenty-four each.”

  “For what?”

  “First, I got you the unlisted home number of this adoption worker you mentioned. Marie-Josée Boily. And her address. What part of town you in now?”

  “Mont-Royal just east of St-Hubert.”

  “Then you’re not far. She’s on Chambord, which is maybe six, seven blocks east of St-Hubert, and judging by the street number, right around Laurier, which is only a few blocks north. Less than a five-minute drive.”

  “Great.” I jotted the address down on a napkin.

  “The second case is for the address of the import-export company I told you about, Homs. It’s on Boulevard de l’Acadie just north of the Metropolitan.”

  He gave me the address, which I scribbled on the back of the napkin.

  “That’s two,” I said.

  “I also reached out to someone I know at the RCMP. He might know a thing or two about your Syrians.”

  “What branch is he in?”

  “Intelligence,” he said. “I think maybe Counterterrorism.”

  It was just past eight-thirty and I thought Marie-Josée Boily might still be at home. As we drove toward her house, I used Ryan’s cellphone to call her. I knew she wouldn’t answer a call from mine, not with caller ID. Ryan’s phone had a blocked number that divulged neither his name nor the Toronto area code.

  “Oui, allô?”

  “Good morning,” I said. “This is Jonah Geller.”

  “Maudit Christ,” she said. “How did you get this number?”

  “I’ll tell you if you tell me why you’re ducking me.”

  “I have no obligation to speak to you. In fact, my obligations are very much against it.”

  “You were okay with it yesterday.”