by Mario Bolduc
“In El Salvador I was constantly afraid, so I took shooting lessons without saying anything to Philippe. Go ahead. Pick it up.”
“I’ve never used a gun.”
“Easier than a tube of lipstick. You’ll see.”
Juliette closed the glovebox. Enough violence. Why make more?
Along Route 87, Max, now travelling as Peter Flanagan in a rented Ford Taurus from Kennedy Airport, heard on the radio that his nephew hadn’t regained consciousness after the attack but the surgeons were hopeful they could bring him back: “His heart is solid, and he’s strong, so he’ll pull through.” Max also learned that David hadn’t travelled alone from Delhi; Juliette was with him, bent over the stretcher, in tears, naturally. Max knew his nephew was married but hadn’t met the young bride yet. After the death of Philippe, his son David had cut Max off, or rather he had fallen into oblivion.
He crossed the border at Rouses Point using one of his American passports. The customs officer, already blasé about the security measures introduced after 9/11, barely glanced at it, cellphone in hand, more interested in lecturing his eldest daughter about letting everything lie about the house than hunting potential terrorists. Max then went directly on to Montreal. He thought about stopping at Mimi’s first, but the pain, like the curiosity, was unbearable. He just had to know, to understand.
David’s mother lived in a building, the Rockhill, in Côte-des-Neiges, where she’d moved after Philippe died. Béatrice could have gone back to Ottawa to be near her son when he was recruited by Foreign Affairs, but Montreal was more her style.
“Do you know how many years I’ve spent in boring capitals, practically going to bed at curfew? Ottawa’s pretty and calm, but no thanks!”
Juliette fell asleep fully dressed, and it was the doorbell that cut into her dreamless sleep. It was daylight, and she heard voices. This is it. They’ve come to tell me it’s all over, she thought. In the kitchen she came face to face with a bulky, grey-haired, uniformed policeman who respectfully stood aside, surprised to see this little thing appear from behind him. A second man sat at the table, a smaller, younger plainclothes officer. He got up when he saw her and offered a cold, hairy hand, very official.
“Detective Sergeant Luc Roberge, Quebec Police Force. I’m very sorry to bother you. This is Officer Morel.” The officer nodded. Juliette turned to Béatrice, who was leaning on the counter and paying no attention to her.
Why did she let these two in?
“What’s happened is absolutely horrible,” Roberge continued. “Since 9/11, it’s as though everything’s upside down. Totally.”
Juliette said nothing, so he went on.
“I hope he makes it through. Sincerely.”
Hallmark Plus.
He coughed. “I realize this is a delicate moment, but you may be getting a visitor …”
“Visitor?”
Roberge turned to Béatrice, looking for encouragement and getting none. “We have good reason to believe that Max O’Brien will soon be back in Montreal,” he went on. “He’s sure to know his nephew’s in a coma from the media. We think he’s bound to show up.”
Roberge was stickhandling, so Béatrice came to his rescue: “Sergeant Roberge is from the Economic Crimes Squad.”
“I thought I’d already mentioned that.”
“They want to arrest Max. End of story.”
“We’ve been after him for fourteen years.” He seemed strangely proud of this sorry record, adding, “My team is convinced he’ll get in touch with one of you.”
“Why me?” asked Juliette. “I’ve never even met him.” This was true. David had only mentioned the name a few times in passing. She knew David’s uncle had been wanted by the police for several years: a crook who was not involved in her life, or David’s, for that matter.
“All I’m asking is for your cooperation. He is brilliant, but sneaky and manipulative. You mustn’t believe a thing he says, ever.”
Béatrice waved his business card. “Message received, Sergeant. If he ever does show up, one of us will call you, right, Juliette?”
She nodded.
4
As he parked the Taurus on the third floor of the Montreal General parking garage, Max suddenly realized he’d come without even making a plan. He’d driven back to Canada on a whim, abandoning the most elementary caution. Why had he come anyway? David was in a coma and couldn’t speak, and even if, by some miracle, his nephew recognized him and allowed him to stay, what could they possibly talk about?
Your father asked me to keep an eye out for you, but while you were getting blown up on the other side of the world, I was in Manhattan swindling a banker — again! I’m so sorry. Max sighed. His presence seemed increasingly pointless, wrong, in fact. Never mind. He wanted to be with him, and he ought to be with him.
Max slammed the car door, cast a quick look around, and made his way to the hospital. No cops anywhere. Not surprising, really — terrorists never finish off their victims. They leave them to suffer right to the end. Why not do as much damage as you can? No journalists, either. He learned later that they’d been corralled in a smoking room on the ground floor, and there weren’t that many anyway. The operation was over, and the radio was saying that David had survived … just barely. Now he was stable.
Max did spot a security detail, though, but not the usual hospital agency, which struck him as odd. At the entrance, the regular guards’ uniforms were burgundy. These ones wore navy-blue jackets. They were also armed and looked all ready to play commando.
“Can I help you?” An agent had appeared behind him with two more hanging back, and before Max could answer, the man added, “Journalists aren’t allowed here.”
“I’m family.”
The guard looked him up and down. Max realized right away that something was off. Two more agents ambled up in case they were needed as backup. There was no time to lose, and Max tore off down the corridor, looking for stairs to get him out of there fast. Already, he was cursing his carelessness.
He bumped into a nurse, who dropped her tray of meds with a howl of fright. First he tried the door to the stairway, which he opened without looking, but other agents had been called in and were swarming up from below, cutting him off. Max jumped over the handrail, delivering a few punches as he went, but it wasn’t enough. He was being held firmly, his head hurting, against the bars of the railing. He’d stumbled upon some real pros.
“What are you doing here?”
“I came to visit my nephew.”
The men looked at one another. One pulled out his cellphone and stepped away to make the call while they took Max back to the corridor. The nurse was crying, and a well-intentioned guard was helping her pick up the things she’d dropped.
Max was taken to a windowless room that must have been where the on-duty doctors came for a rest because it had lockers, a washbasin, and a toilet with the door half open. Someone offered him a coffee, which he refused with a grunt. Then they left him alone with one guard. What was this setup for? Why didn’t they hand him over to the cops? Maybe that was next. A few moments later, he imagined Luc Roberge showing up with an evil grin. After all these years, I finally get my hands on Public Enemy Number One! Luc Roberge. Max had practically forgotten him till now. Of course, it was his turf he’d stepped onto, straight into the cop’s waiting hands. What a screw-up!
When the door opened, it wasn’t Roberge he saw but Béatrice, and the guard had disappeared. Béatrice stood apart from other women her age, thanks to her long years in the diplomatic corps, her manners, and her attitude: lofty, very erect, and impeccably elegant. She was radiant, even in this naked, cold, and impersonal room. Max hadn’t seen her for years, ever since the death of Philippe in 1990, when he’d shown up incognito — thanks to all the “wanted” notices — to be with his brother’s remains. He’d taken a big risk then, too, but he’d trusted Béatrice, who, du
ring the night, had smuggled him into the funeral home on O’Connor Street in Ottawa. While she stood lookout at the back of the hall, he’d gently made his way through the floral arrangements, as though he had the place to himself. Philippe with the discreet and modest red maple leaf pin on his lapel, for which he’d given his life in El Salvador. Max didn’t know how long he’d spent beside the coffin, looking but not crying — he’d already done that. When they were outside in the parking lot, Béatrice announced majestically, “From here on, I never want to hear from you again. Don’t write or speak to me or David. Nothing at all. You no longer exist.”
Then Max had shown her the International Herald Tribune, the paper Philippe had used to communicate with him once upon a time. Béatrice tossed it in the street. “Never, you hear me? Never.”
So this was to be a double mourning. Her husband was dead, and Max was shoved into the shadows. The idea was to protect David now that Philippe was no longer around. What galled him the most was not this decision; that was hardly unexpected. It was her intransigence … and all with that bedroom voice of hers. Max knew seduction; it was the basis of his craft, and he could only admire the finesse and subtlety of hers. The outcome was the same, but oh, how she said it. Max had gone from being a necessary evil to just plain evil.
A century later, here she was again, standing before him, attractive as ever. She looked disappointed in him, as though his appearance only meant more bad news, just another rock in the avalanche of the past twenty-four hours.
“How is he?” Max asked.
“The doctors are confident; in fact, downright encouraging.”
After long pause, Béatrice said, “I knew you’d come.”
Max smiled sadly. He couldn’t tell if she meant it or if it was just her way of saying it was too late again, that it was time to lay a wreath and choose a picture for the card.
“I want to see him.”
“He’s in a coma. He doesn’t recognize anyone.”
“I want to see him,” Max insisted.
“What’s the point?”
Before she could stop him, Max stepped around her and continued down the corridor. The teary-eyed nurse was gone, and the mercenaries were clogging the coffee machine, leaving only one guard at the door on the other side. He rushed Max to keep him from going in, while others moved in to back him up. Then behind him, Max heard Béatrice: “Okay, it’s okay.”
The man hesitated, then stepped aside. Max glanced across the hall at Béatrice and opened the door. The room was in shadow, but his eyes easily spotted the bed in the corner behind a curtain. He approached and pulled aside the curtain. The bed was empty.
David was actually on the next floor up. Dennis Patterson’s idea, Béatrice said. “It’s for his security,” though someone seemed to have forgotten to give his change of address to the doctors, who were conspicuous by their absence, until Max noticed shadows behind glass at the opposite end of the room. The patient was intubated and plugged into various respirators, monitors, intravenous drips, and luminous dials. David’s eyes were closed, of course, his hands by his side as though at attention.
Max spent a long time staring at his nephew, his face thickened with bruises, probably with medication too. The boy had aged since the last photos Max had seen in CanadExport, the Foreign Affairs newsletter. Max was confronted with a young adult; in fact, an adult, period.
“Are you Max?” a voice came from behind him. A young woman holding a piece of chocolate was sitting in a straight-back chair by the door. She had blond hair and blue — very blue — eyes, practically an ad for Lufthansa. This model was tired, though, worn out by long hours in front of the cameras. He went over to Juliette and held out his hand. She smiled weakly, but her hand was burning hot. He could easily see David falling for this one’s charms.
So, the family was all here: the dignified but grief-stricken mother, the devastated wife, and the unconscious son-and-martyr. And, oh yes, the American uncle. The mysterious uncle who always shows up unannounced, the one they only talk about in hints and whispers.
“I suppose the armed guards were Patterson’s idea?”
Béatrice nodded. “No point in taking chances.” She glanced in the direction of Juliette, who had her back to them and was contemplating Montreal’s buildings massed against the river, which looked like a distant grey sliver blending with the sky.
“If you had an ounce of decency, you’d go straight back where you came from. You’ve seen him. Now go.”
“I want to know what happened, the whole story. I want to find those bastards and make them pay!”
Juliette turned to look at the newcomer. This man was the first thing to make any sense since it all happened. When he’d come in, he looked like a loser in that worn raincoat. Worn out like him. Still good-looking, but oldish and running on memories and bygone days. Some globe-trotting con man hunted by the police for the last fourteen years! Somebody had it all wrong.
The conversation was starting to interest her, and she drew closer. Finally, something was happening. Strangely, though, Béatrice said, “What’s the use? Do you think that will bring him back?”
“Look, Béatrice, I’m sick of getting here too late.” He headed for the door without even a glance at Juliette, who was still intrigued and shocked by what Béatrice had said. Angry. Before she had time to catch him, he was gone. Juliette turned to Béatrice.
“Why did you —?” but Béatrice was already on the phone “— what are you doing?”
“My duty … hello, Detective Roberge? This is Béatrice O’Brien …”
5
Here Greek Avenue turned into Little India, and flags with the crescent moon or the spinning wheel replaced the blue-and-white. On Hutchison Street, a right-turn at the Al-Sunnah Al-Nabawiah Mosque, and Max was stuck in traffic taking in the scenery: a veiled woman at the bus stop, mustachioed men in conference in front of the Ratha Driving School, other men farther off buying lottery tickets. Hmmm … I thought the Qur’an forbade that. Next, a left turn onto Ogilvy. On either side, there were Sri Lankan grocery shops selling products “direct” from Colombo. The beginnings of turbans, saris, and traditional shalwar kameez, in front of a video store specializing in Bollywood films. Posters in strident colours featuring Hrithik Roshan, the latest heartthrob, and his star-struck leading lady Kareena Kapoor, had replaced the purple curtains announcing the Cretans’ Association — long gone, along with the pastry window displays — piles of baklava engorged with dripping honey.
Max parked the Taurus near Athena Park on Jean Talon. Soulless blocks of grey concrete with fake windows just for decoration, called the Labyrinth to please its former Greek tenants, now served an Asian diaspora. Here were the offices of immigration lawyers, temp agencies, schools that taught languages, a tae kwon do academy, and Thai restaurants, and, naturally, import-export agents. Among them was the workplace of Dennis Patterson. Max had tried calling him, but he was at lunch, his secretary said. Max would not take no for an answer and was told Patterson always ate at noon in the ground-floor cafeteria.
“I’m sure he’ll call you as soon as he gets back.”
Those who worked in the Labyrinth could eat their way around the world every lunch hour. The kitchen had a fast-food version of just about everywhere, with steaming vats standing out in the open for those in a hurry. You could go from China to North Africa to Mexico to Italy without jet lag, just some heartburn. Behind the counters, caterers in colourful costumes bustled constantly. A long lineup could cost them faithful customers who might not come back to New Orleans once they’d been to Polynesia and its sauces. You had to shake a leg, get excited, and convince the customer he was getting some serious effort.
Max scanned the room: the white spots of tae kwon do outfits everywhere — the students ate there, too — and in front of the Mughal Palace, advertising vegetarian food, a young Indian woman was barely managing the daily specials. Dishe
s of masala vada and roti orbited her under the menacing eye of the turbaned boss, who was stationed behind, making the lemonade. Two other employees, both male, did hardly any better. Sooner or later, all three of them would probably be shown the door by the lemonade-maker.
But Max wasn’t here with the hungry throng to feel sorry for the immigrant proletariat. He’d just spotted Dennis Patterson sliding his tray along in front of the Indian girl. The former diplomat had aged, and his breath probably smelled of Scotch, as usual. They’d first met when Philippe brought his classmate from the University of British Columbia home with him. Patterson had drunk all night long, even then, and Max recalled Philippe mentioning it. He even overheard a conversation between them years later. Philippe was warning Patterson about his habit, saying it could hurt his career.
His brother had predicted correctly. Philippe had charged up through the ranks in fourth gear, whereas Patterson, after a distinguished beginning, had marked time. Parked in Ottawa behind a desk on Sussex Drive while his friends were posted around the world, he had left Foreign Affairs mid-career and wandered from one law firm to another — he’d trained as a legal adviser — before opening a consultancy in international relations in the basement of his bungalow in Repentigny.
That was the best decision of his life. There was a real, concrete need for Canadian companies just waking up to the opportunities of “emerging markets,” as the jargon had it. There couldn’t be any gaffes or approaches to the wrong people. In this blind uncertainty, Patterson was their seeing-eye dog. It wasn’t his job to tell them which country to go to, but simply how to get there with as few problems as possible.
Though a poor bureaucrat, Patterson turned out to be a dynamic entrepreneur; he hired other defrocked functionaries from the department and unceasingly developed his manic attention to significant details: You’re invited to visit a Japanese colleague. Do you wear a tie or not? Jacket? By virtue of his effort and eighteen-hour days, he became indispensable in his domain, and now he employed twenty people on the eighth floor of the Labyrinth, drove two Mercedes — one sport, one not — and owned a summer home in Sutton. All this did not stop him from enjoying the chicken curry special at $5.99, soft drink included.
