by Mario Bolduc
Headlights flashed straight ahead. The driver guided the group toward Peter’s car.
Max had to act, and now. Once they reached the car, it would be too late. As soon as they had Sacha, he and Kevin were dead. What could he do? Max could easily neutralize Laszlo, whatever Marineci might think. And the MP wouldn’t be too hard to handle, either. But if he acted now, then Kevin would be as good as dead. Marineci had made it clear: if Kalanyos realized there was a fight going on, he’d beat it. And then who knew what would happen?
Max had never felt so powerless.
When they finally reached the car, the front door opened. The driver stepped out; he was one of the men who’d pummelled Max in Granada. Inside the car he could make out two passengers in the back seat: Peter Kalanyos, still in his leather coat, and Kevin, head bent over his chest. He was practically unconscious, in pretty rough shape. Perhaps he’d been drugged.
Another car appeared on their left and stopped near them. Laszlo guided Sacha and Marineci toward it, and they climbed in the back. The car’s driver moved to the passenger side, and Laszlo got in behind the wheel.
The child didn’t even glance at Max; for Sacha, Max was already in the past tense.
Kalanyos lowered his window. “I was right to trust you, Max O’Brien.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You didn’t really think I’d make the mistake of meeting you in Ferentari?” The Hungarian laughed. “I know you more than you think, O’Brien, and I know when you’re trying to con someone.”
Behind Max the car with Sacha and Marineci was disappearing into the night. As he’d feared from the beginning, Max and Kevin were at the mercy of a killer.
Kevin raised his head in the back seat but didn’t seem to recognize his friend.
“You have the child. Now let him go.”
Kalanyos showed his teeth. “And give you a chance to call Amnesty International, or the police, or who knows what?”
“I’ve got no credibility, you know that. If I speak to the authorities, I’ll be arrested. Now come on, give me Kevin!”
Max felt the barrel of a gun pressed against the back of his neck. Kalanyos got out of the car. The driver gestured for Max to climb in and take Kalanyos’s still-warm seat. Max whipped around, knocking his assailant’s gun out of his hand and twisting his arm. Kalanyos tried to get back into the car, but Max kicked the door closed. The Hungarian was trapped between the door and the frame, with Max leaning against the handle.
Neither of them could move now. Max looked up and saw the driver rush back toward him. Punching the man in the face, Max followed that with another in the stomach, while Kalanyos caught his breath. Max then threw the driver against the car and struck his head against the frame several times. The driver collapsed.
When Max turned around again, Kalanyos had a weapon drawn on him. “End of the road, O’Brien.”
Kalanyos’s finger squeezed, and a shot ripped through the night and the falling snow. A man’s body flew backward while Max dropped to the ground. They hit the pavement at almost the same time, one bloodied, one not.
Max heard tires screeching and doors slamming shut. He got to his knees and saw Marilyn Burgess offering her hand. “Clearly, you can’t be left without supervision for even five minutes.”
Burgess’s men flooded the scene, neutralizing the driver.
“Sacha’s with them,” Max told her as he leaned into the car to check on Kevin, who was regaining consciousness, the sound of gunshots shaking him out of his torpor.
“Actually, Sacha’s with us,” Burgess said. “We have him safe and sound.” She helped Max pull Kevin out of the car. “We got in touch with Laszlo last week and offered him a choice — he could work for us or spend the rest of his life behind bars. What would you have done?”
Max smiled. “So you knew about Marineci?”
“We had our doubts. As soon as Kalanyos’s name came up, we spoke with our Hungarian counterparts. Marineci had been seen with him a number of times over the past few weeks. It became clear he’d played a role in this whole affair. We didn’t know the extent of it just yet. Laszlo told us the plan. About the trap here in the parking lot.”
Max glanced at Kalanyos’s body on the ground, Burgess’s men already at work cleaning up the scene.
“Adrian Pavlenco has been informed of what’s gone on,” Burgess continued. “In a few minutes, his agents will find the body of Kalanyos in an abandoned building in Ferentari.”
“And Marineci?”
“Officially, he’ll resign for health reasons. In fact, he’ll stand trial before a Kris romani. I think you can guess the verdict.” Burgess watched her men load Kalanyos’s body into the trunk of the car. “Everything Marineci owns will be confiscated and he’ll be exiled for life from the Romani community. There’s no more heinous punishment for a Rom. Worse than death.”
41
Amsterdam, March 24, 2007
Spring, at last. The weather warmer, passersby smiling at one another after a long winter of heavy coats and grey skies. In the taxi driving him into the city, Max felt as if he were waking up from a long night filled with dark dreams. He had the strange impression of walking along a precipice in the dark on an uncertain road and coming out, mostly by good fortune, unscathed. In a way, he, too, had been saved. Every new day was an opportunity to tidy yesterday’s mess. Each new life could erase the horrors of past lives. A feeling that wouldn’t last — probably not, anyway — but still, today, optimism filled him.
Three months earlier in Amsterdam Max had taken Kevin and Sacha to the airport, where Josée waited for them with the adoption papers and other legal documents necessary to bring the child back to Canada.
Max would take his own flight back to New York, though he’d pursue a meandering way home, with a few stops here and there so as not to raise suspicions. The media weren’t talking about him anymore, or Kevin. The Romanian police had concluded that Peter Kalanyos had tried to pin Laura Costinar’s death and the Zăbrăuţi Street fire on Max and Kevin. The two men had been exonerated, but Max didn’t want to run any unnecessary risks: he was still the subject of an arrest warrant from both the Canadian and American authorities for his previous activities.
As Josée Dandurand had adjusted Sacha’s small backpack, Kevin took Max by the arm. “I thought he’d be here with us.”
“He’s a shy old man who doesn’t want to impose himself,” Max said.
Kevin seemed disappointed.
Max led him to a newspaper stand so he could grab something to read for his trip. As they riffled through the French-language newspapers, a man dressed all in grey had appeared, leaning on a walker.
Toma Boerescu.
Kevin recognized him immediately. Shocked into silence, he could only gaze at the old man — a small, stunted, fragile figure who, through sheer misfortune, had been caught in nearly every storm of the twentieth century.
“Nice to meet you, Kevin,” Boerescu finally managed to say, his voice breaking.
Kevin glanced at Max, as if asking what he should do, how he should react. “You’re returning to Romania?”
“Soon.”
Another moment of silence.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Kevin said. “I wish I could have known you earlier.”
The two men looked at each other, uncomfortable. Max felt like a third wheel. He was searching for an excuse to get out of there and leave them alone. But a glance from Kevin told him he should stay and offer his friend support.
“Alina took good care of you?” Boerescu asked Kevin.
“She was the perfect mother.”
Boerescu nodded. “Poor Alina …”
A flight was called over the public-address system. It was time for Kevin, Josée, and Sacha to board.
“You know what makes me happy?” Boerescu asked, smiling. “Having had wonderful children
, the greatest gift Eugenia, your mother, could ever have given me.”
Kevin stood silent, unable to say anything.
“I think of her often, you know. And I think of Alina, as well.”
Kevin nodded.
“I saw you just now with Sacha. I didn’t want to interrupt. I … I’m proud of what you’ve done for him, Kevin.” Boerescu, too, fell silent, moved to tears. “I’m proud to have you as my son.”
Words Kevin had never heard before.
Max looked away.
“I’m proud of you, too,” Kevin finally said. “Proud that you’re my father.”
Kevin, Sacha, and Josée had landed in Montreal late in the afternoon of December 24. They picked up Gabrielle and drove directly to Refuge Sainte-Catherine, where a Christmas table was being set. Volunteers were out in strength to serve a meal provided by sponsors. Earlier that week a high-ranking elected official had even come to put on his chef’s hat and an apron to cook for the less fortunate — in front of television cameras, of course. A public-relations ploy the refuge’s board was only too happy to accept, especially around Christmas, when the most help was needed.
But the cameras were gone today. Back to the routine, the usual procession of broken and unfortunate souls looking for a warm meal and a bit of conversation.
While Josée and Gabrielle stood a bit behind discreetly, Kevin walked into the cafeteria holding Sacha by the shoulder, his hand on the nape of the neck, right over the red mark. Caroline was serving a young man with a Mohawk when she noticed them.
She walked toward them indecisively. Kevin lifted his hand, revealing the mark on the child’s neck. Caroline burst into tears. She hugged Sacha against her tightly, too tightly. The child seemed confused, unsettled by this stranger’s emotions. As if these past four years had made him not only a stranger, but a little strange. This was their son, yes, but different.
In time, Max was sure things would settle down.
For the last few weeks, according to Gabrielle, Sacha had gotten increasingly comfortable in his new environment. What the teenager told him about her mother had filled him with hope. Kevin and Caroline were living together again — in Grande-Vallée, in the renovated country home. The house had become their own refuge, their shelter, their den. They had felt the need, the four of them, to remove themselves from the world to try, amongst themselves, to catch up on lost time, to find new ways to live together. Max had respected their wish and made himself scarce, calling rarely, or sending an email, but never insisting.
Sacha was learning French with Marie-France Couturier, progressing rapidly according to Gabrielle, whom Max spoke with more often than her parents. She and her little brother were inseparable. Sacha would be going to school in September, in Montreal most likely, since Kevin wanted to teach again.
Every day Kevin ran along rivière Saqawigan. He crossed the fateful bridge — which now had a lane reserved for cyclists and runners — made a loop at the end of the bridge, and jogged back to his family. Kevin took a moment every now and then to think of his adoptive father, trying not to judge him, though never excusing his behaviour. Raymond had been a victim of both circumstance and pride, a dysfunctional father for whom Kevin had never really been a son, but the keystone of a business contract. His real family, besides Sharon and Josée, had been his employees, those who worked for him and who’d contributed to his fame and fortune. Kevin had never been part of that, and he swore to himself he would never act toward his son as his father had toward him.
And then, one day, an important piece of news: Caroline was writing for a local newspaper, the Matane Weekly, which mostly ran pieces on hyper-local affairs, like threats to the local shrimp population or the reconversion of the old fishing port into a cruise ship terminal. Max was glad to learn that she had found her desire to live again, to write, to wake up in the morning with something other than dark thoughts on her mind.
Serenity at last.
Kevin and Caroline had come out of the shadows. Life was giving them a second chance.
Max walked into the lobby of Hotel Estheréa in the heart of Amsterdam. From his room he could see the crowds of tourists straggling along the Singel and other canals, taking advantage of an early spring. A barge honked its way up, slowly drifting toward the other end of the city.
Since his meeting was scheduled for the next day, Max took a quick nap, then went out to eat seafood at Lucius, a restaurant near his hotel. He wandered around the neighbourhood, just another tourist with a bit of free time.
The next day Max rented a car and drove out to Nieuwe Ooster Begraafplaats. He recognized the guard at the cemetery gates, the same man who’d sent him after Paola Landermann months before. The poor man had his hands full today: a group of children ran around the cemetery, weaving and bobbing among the tombstones. And there were families, as well, laden with flowers, looking for the resting place of an aunt or cousin. The guard was both disciplinarian and guide.
Max parked his car near the entrance and walked among the crowd of visitors all the way to Werner Landermann’s mausoleum, still as gaudy as ever. A man stood right next to it, lost in thought before Christina Landermann’s tomb. Toma Boerescu. Frank Woensdag had driven the old man to the cemetery, and around noon he would pick him up so the two of them could get a bite to eat at a pub near the flower market. For Toma and Woensdag, this was a ritual repeated every time the old man visited Amsterdam. Every year, on Christina’s birthday.
Boerescu ignored the families and children around him. He wore his usual coat, though without the fake medals this time. He no longer needed to pretend for Max, no longer needed to make him believe in a long if not very illustrious career with the Bucharest police.
Very little else had changed since last winter, except for the walker. During his last trip, when leaving Amsterdam to return to New York, Max had passed an orthopedics store on his way to the airport. He had called the number posted on the window and ordered the most expensive walker they had, then had it delivered to Woensdag’s house in Zutphen where Boerescu was staying at the time.
By the time Max had reached Schiphol Airport and headed to security, his cellphone had rung.
“Thank you, Max!” Boerescu had cried out.
Max had smiled, showing his passport to the desk agent.
“It’s wonderful. It’ll be the most beautiful walker in all of Bucharest, I’m sure of it.” Then Boerescu had said, “Safe travels, Max.”
Latcho drom.
Kevin and his father had met up in February, with Frank Woensdag. All three had gone to Zurich to make Kevin the sole beneficiary of Christina Landermann’s succession, once Toma Boerescu passed away. On the same occasion, Kevin had ceded to the World Romani Congress control over the funds, as long as they were only used for health care, literacy, and the defence of Romani rights. Christina’s objective all along.
Since then father and son had remained in touch. Boerescu had watched Sacha’s progress from afar, glad to hear he was adjusting to life with his true family. For the first time since Christina’s death, he seemed to have found a certain form of peace, of serenity.
Toma Boerescu turned slightly toward Max as he neared. The old man seemed more fragile than the last time Max had seen him, which had been at Christmas. Sickly. Victor Marineci had been right: Boerescu wouldn’t live through the year.
He looked at Max. “I’ve had this cough for weeks. The doctor wants to give me more pills. I feel like I could open my own drugstore.” He went for a smile, but it faltered before it reached his eyes. “Six months, a year maybe. The doctor isn’t very optimistic. I let myself imagine the worst.”
He sniffed, tapped his chest. “A little coal left in there from Vorkuta, apparently.” Boerescu coughed again, as if to prove what he’d just said. “I spent my life running from death. I don’t have the strength to run away this time.”
Max gestured toward the old man’s walker.
“Magnificent, you were right,” he said, trying to change the subject.
Boerescu’s face lit up. “All the old folks in Bucharest speak about it behind my back. They look at me sideways when I go by!”
“They’re just jealous.”
Boerescu chuckled, then coughed again. He pointed at Christina’s tomb, covered in buttons. “The Roma who travel through here come at night, jump over the fence.”
“And the mulo?”
Boerescu darkened. “As if we needed a bogeyman to fear! The world is horrible enough as it is.”
He looked at Christina’s tomb again. “I was at her side when she died. I felt completely useless. An old man, incapable of stopping her cancer from destroying her. She saved my life three times, and I couldn’t even save her once.”
Boerescu wiped his eyes. “She told me, ‘You’re wrong Emil. Every day you saved my life. Every day over all these years.’ She said that knowing I existed somewhere helped her go on each day to repair a little of what her family, her father, her husband, and the others had destroyed. That I had saved her life a million times over.”
The old man fell silent, gathering his thoughts, leaning against his walker. “Christina held on to my hand until the very end. I closed her eyes after her last breath. That’s all I managed to do. And then her hand fell out of mine.”
He turned to face Max full on. “I was beaten. I was tortured. My whole life was pain with a few moments’ respite in between. They killed my wife, mutilated my children. But that dead hand falling from mine, Christina’s hand, that was the most painful moment of my life, the most horrible torment inflicted on me. That hand falling for the last time, that hand that had caressed my face in Auschwitz. Her declaration of love.”
Boerescu straightened with difficulty. Painfully. As if every inch of his body was in pain. With sudden energy, he ripped a button off his coat and threw it onto Christina’s tomb.
