Image Decay

by Mark Lisac

“That’s not really the issue, though, huh? He’s happy to concede ownership. What he wants is to be granted certain owner-like rights of review and editing.”

  “Substantially correct. He feels that is his right. But he is also willing to offer certain other items in exchange for the review rights and for a sum of money he feels more accurately reflects the value of his collection than the token sum he originally received. He suggests the extra items may be worth that amount on their own.”

  “You’re serious about trying to convince me you don’t know what they are?”

  “I am telling you seriously that I don’t know.”

  Becker studied Rabani’s face. He wasn’t prepared to make a final judgment. His preliminary estimate: he was looking at a reasonably smart lawyer, possibly a tough negotiator, but an innocent. Here is someone, he thought, who knows that people can be stupid or deceitful or cruel; but does not know how they can hurt one another through carelessness, does not know the bottomless capacity for any given individual to act selfishly, either out of greed or out of the instinct for self-preservation.

  “George, are you willing to be a party to blackmail?”

  “That’s a word that needs to be justified. I have no information that would lead me to think it’s appropriate.”

  Becker paused again, mentally filing Rabani’s ability to stay calm.

  “Let’s forget that then. Let’s say simply that Jack Ostroski thinks we can be pushed into a decision without regard for consequences. And let me tell you what some of the consequences are, the ones that we can see at the moment.

  “First, he is offering some items but we have no idea whether he may be holding more items in reserve and will try to squeeze more money out of us at a later date.

  “Second, anything we pay him will go on the public record along with other spending. We would have to justify a large sum of money going to buy art, presumably more photos. That’s a dangerous area for us now. The budget is tight. We’re cutting spending on important services and can’t be seen indulging in frills. And most important, the government endured a truckload of abuse a few years ago when it spent six hundred and fifty thousand dollars on the Anthony Briller photo collection. I’m sure you remember that. It was supposed to be an important documentation of world leaders, popular celebrities, and exotic locations. None of them had anything to do with this province. As far as I could see they reflected Briller’s relief at getting out of the place where he was born and into a lifestyle that fit his tastes. And no one looks at those pictures now. We can’t afford to repeat that experience. That was a disaster. Repeating it would be a fiasco.

  “Finally, we have no idea what he wants to take out of the collection, or at minimum set aside in a vault somewhere. We don’t want to risk reducing the value of the collection. And we don’t want to set a precedent of allowing people what amounts to ownership rights after they have sold us something.”

  Rabani took it in. He was ready for the first and third items but hadn’t thought about the Briller angle. He had still been in law school when that controversy broke out. It didn’t seem worth remembering but he allowed that politicians might have their own gauge of political value.

  “Well, you’ve put things in understandable form. I still need to clarify one point. Are you saying no? Or are you saying you might reconsider if the price came down considerably?”

  “There isn’t much happens here based solely on what I want. The operative word is we. I have to consult.”

  “May I ask: consult your colleagues or consult the premier?”

  “All cabinet discussions are confidential.”

  “When do you think we may have an answer?”

  “Days rather than weeks.”

  “That’s a step forward. I will advise my client that we wait until Friday. After that, all bets are off. I can only advise him. He’s rather headstrong.”

  “Setting headstrong clients on the right course is part of a lawyer’s job. At least that’s my understanding.”

  Becker paused and studied the face in front of him again. “It’s also my understanding that you attended some party conventions when you were part of the university club. There was even some talk of you as a candidate prospect someday. I expect you to do your best for your client. But I wonder if you, aah, keep in mind the, aah, utility of balancing private interests with the public interest.”

  “Serving private interests is a way of serving the public interest. I would have thought anyone in this government would believe that.” Rabani looked aside at the small bust on the mantel over the office’s marble-framed fireplace. He had dredged his memory after first noticing it and been reasonably sure it was a likeness of Adam Smith. More than likely, given Becker’s background in economics, he thought. “Anyway, that’s what I believe,” he went on after a few seconds’ silence.

  “You can’t run a dairy farm without putting up with some manure,” Becker said. “You can’t have politics without compromise. Compromise is just another word for balancing interests. The point is to end up with some milk. But okay. I’ll count on you to do the best you can making your client see reason. Please let me know as soon as you can, preferably by tomorrow. Can we agree on that?”

  “I’ll have to talk with my client but I think we can likely proceed on that basis.”

  “Good then.” Becker rose from his chair, wished Rabani a good day and saw him to the door. He returned to the desk and read recommendations for routine appointments and renewals of regulations until the top of the hour. Then he cleared the desktop, locked papers in a drawer, and left to see Waschuk on the third floor.

  He had already arranged the time and walked in without having to wait. Before he began outlining the situation he said he thought the premier would want to hear at least some of it directly. “Are you sure?” Waschuk said.

  He was. Waschuk made a call to ask if Morehead’s current meeting could be cut short and hung up looking placid. He was using his silence tactic. Normally talkative, he could wait with either a hard or amused stare rather than jump in with an obvious question. Becker was just as happy with that. He didn’t like the flat, dry sound of Waschuk’s voice. It always reminded him of wasps and their nests—layers of dry paper with a potential nasty surprise inside. He used the next few minutes to talk about a sensitive upcoming board appointment while waiting for Morehead. The premier arrived quickly and Becker picked up where he had left off, with a warning that Ostroski now wanted more.

  “He has damaging material that he’s willing to trade. He’s passing messages in code but I’m sure about what they mean. He’s willing to trade items—almost certainly photos—involving a poodle and a German shepherd.”

  Morehead wasn’t in a mood to play the same waiting game as Waschuk. “What the hell does that mean? Are we wasting time here?”

  “It means a Frenchman and German. And for all I know maybe others. Japanese would be worse because they would take it more seriously. Do you know about Roussel’s house?”

  “What house? Roussel who had the Industry job before you?”

  “Yes, him. By the look on Henry’s face I’d say he knows something about it.”

  “Just a rumour,” Waschuk said.

  “Spill it.”

  Waschuk took a second to arrange the story into brief form. Then he said, “Roussel had the department buy a house about half a dozen blocks from here. It was meant for the entertainment of visiting investors and occasional foreign politicians looking for a little rest and relaxation. With women. There weren’t many what you’d call high-class hookers available here. But there were just enough hookers with ambition, a clean bill of health, and some sense of style to keep the place running. Besides the upkeep for the house there were payments made to them. There were also bills for caviar and cognac, smoked salmon, wine and other kinds of booze, you name it as long as it cost a lot. Roussel believed if the government was going to entertain, it should entertain in style. He managed to hide the costs in a combination of hosti
ng expenses, infrastructure spending, and export development budgets.”

  “Yeah, so?” Morehead said. “That export agency has always been a rat’s nest. I know that Billington has a couple of whiz kids in there who line up women and booze for him when he’s away on official trips. The agency isn’t even in his department. He thinks there’s no point in being a minister if you can’t enjoy the perks. I haven’t stepped on him because I need him. Plus, if it ever gets out, I can cut him loose without losing too many of his constituency people.”

  “This is different, Premier. You’ve got major foreign figures. Most of them are still important to us and would be extremely angry about being embarrassed in public. You’ve got government money in essence funding a brothel. You’ve got the fact that the house ran for four years before I heard about it and had it shut down, which is not only a long time but raises questions about how well the government controls itself. You’ve got the fact that it started in Manchester’s time and Roussel managed to keep him in the dark. I don’t know what he’d be more angry about—the fact that it happened or the fact that one of his ministers was able to keep an operation like that secret from him. Worst of all, you probably have photographic evidence. Maybe worse.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Ostroski was the official government photographer when all this was going on. He could have taken pictures of the house without anyone’s knowledge. He was just enough of a rogue operator that he could have taken pictures of visitors and women going in. A worse case is that he was inside it himself.”

  “What? Why would he be in there? He was a nothing staffer.”

  Waschuk decided to spill the whole story: “Just before I had the place shut down a Hollywood producer came up here to check locations and try to wangle some money and production help out of us. I remember that he was tickled to see Ostroski. The two of them had been pals when Ostroski was hanging around the studios in the late Forties and the producer was starting out as some kind of script assistant. They spent time together after the meetings about the movie deal. And the producer was a real Hollywood specimen, a guy who thought women were recreation.”

  “Then what we’re looking at is some pictures from the outside with important foreigners going in. And possibly some pictures from inside showing who knows what people, and maybe a firsthand witness account.”

  “That’s it. We could take the hit some other time. But right now, with all the flak over the spending cuts....”

  “What do you propose to do about it, John? I don’t see what’s wrong with letting this idiot go through the photo collection as long as he does it fast. We can always find a way to hide a payoff in some budget or other.”

  “That’s one possibility,” Becker said. “It may also be wise to lean on him instead. He’s a blackmailer now. You know that if he gets away with this he may hold some material back and come after us again. He’s crazy enough that he may send something to the papers anyway.”

  “What do you think, Henry?”

  “Don’t let it fester. Make the guy happy. Don’t interfere with him. If he comes back at us some other time we’ll probably be in a better position to tell him to shove it.”

  The conversation played out largely as Becker had expected. He kept a suitably co-operative expression on his face. Morehead and Waschuk were satisfied with seeing that. It was about the most they had learned to expect from him. They looked at Becker’s pallid cheeks and the dark, flat circles around his eyes and the shock of black hair perpetually hanging over his forehead. There were only a few touches of grey showing at the temples. Morehead wondered if this was a minister who used a little help to keep a relatively youthful hair colour, which would indicate ambition. He was happy that he and Becker merely had to do business together, and never socialized except for about thirty seconds at the annual Christmas party. Talking with him over a drink would have been a chore.

  Becker wished them a good evening and walked out of the executive suite.

  Morehead asked Waschuk, “What do you think? I mean about Becker.”

  “He’ll get the job done. He wants back in.”

  “Yeah? You know, most of the trouble I have with ministers—and the backbenchers for that matter—starts with them thinking they’re geniuses because five thousand people voted for them. And then they get to rub shoulders with business executives and NGO directors who really are smart. They start thinking they’re in the same league. I’m lucky to have three I can trust to do their jobs efficiently. Becker’s always seemed more modest, and smart. But he worries me. That’s the real reason I put him in the Culture job. With the others, I can guess what they don’t tell me. They don’t have enough imagination to have real secrets. With him I have to be more careful.”

  Becker walked down the hallway and down to his office happy to have received firm direction on how to handle the situation. He had no intention of following it.

  9.

  THE WOODEN STAIRS LOOKED AS SOLID AS TREE TRUNKS. ALL the dimensions of the steps and the railings were big. The faint green tinge left by the preservative added to the impression they could stand up to both weather and a constant pounding of training shoes. Even a pounding from guys carrying a little extra weight, like Rabani.

  He was moving slowly on his second trip back up from the road on the river valley bottom to the top of the steep bank. His breath came in sharp bursts that raked his throat. The coolness of the air kept off fatigue but added to the hoarseness of his breathing. He was feeling good despite the scraping sensation in his windpipe and lungs. Other things were going well, too. The flow of work in the office was manageable and predictable for a change. And he’d been able to tell Ostroski that the government was amenable to a settlement. They would let him cull the photo collection and they would pay him fifteen thousand for what they termed the adjunct collection.

  Rabani arranged to let the two parties carry out that transaction by themselves, on their own terms. He did not know what was involved and wanted no part of it. He knew only that Ostroski now had a way out of a sticky situation and could calm down. No more threats involving dogs. Now he could get out of his own sticky situation, too, no longer have to be an agent for implied threats. Best of all, he had a dinner date with Adela Morales.

  He did not bother deciding whether she was the reason for another renewal of his off-and-on exercise campaign. The question was hypothetical. He had talked himself into doing the stair runs—partly walks in the early stages—on other occasions. He might have talked himself into it again without the extra motivation. The only certainty was that he had nearly left resuming the workouts too long. Getting started again was tough. He could feel the phlegm in his chest, collected in his lungs the way that dust collected in furnace vents. His leg muscles were halfway between sore and numb.

  The violent effort of the fast climb contrasted with the tranquility of the brush-strewn hillside and the river below. He knew the impression of surrounding peace was deceptive. The river was fast-flowing and dangerous. Its bottom was betrayed by potholes and channels deep enough to drown the careless. The tan-coloured grass and dry shrubs on the steep banks covered the trails of foxes, rodents, coyotes, and other small animals condemned to a never-ending bloody struggle for survival.

  He breathed the cool air more steadily now, no longer gasping. The nearly still air would yield to an arctic blast sometime in several weeks. The cold would thicken it. Soon afterward, snow would bury the shelters of the handful of homeless people living hidden in the underbrush; they would have to either move or, if they were stubborn, clear their patch of ground like the small birds that toughed out the winter here. It isn’t just the animals, Rabani thought. Everyone is in a struggle for survival. The miracle is that most people last as long as they do.

  He dragged his legs up the last of the stairs and began plodding down again to the club and its warm shower room. The climb back down took less overall effort but was more awkward and involved more danger of a fall. When
he was showered and dressed he got into his car and drove to the pawnshop.

  His brother was walking around the lot trying to find little bits of cleanup or straightening to do but was doing so mostly to keep the chill off. They talked for several minutes. Alex promised to dress warmly as the weather grew colder. He said he had gathered a few quotes for his literary arcades project. George said he was glad to hear that and encouraged him to keep working.

  He said goodbye and drove to his condo to put on fresh clothes. Then he drove to the restaurant. Adela had said she would meet him there instead of getting a ride with him.

  The restaurant was filled with ferns. The differing shades of green complemented the white tablecloths. George wondered how often the staff had to spray the leaves as the air grew steadily drier through the fall and into the winter. Their problem, he decided. He was happy with the illusion of living in a warmer climate.

  A hostess wearing black and a smile showed him to a table. He studied the menu for several minutes. He looked up as he saw Adela approaching. Her dress was plain enough to be inexpensive but had enough style to say it was meant for going out. She smiled with a look more of quizzical amusement than of pleasure but that was good enough for Rabani. When she ordered the sole he did the same. He usually ate something more substantial for dinner but he thought having fish with her would make ordering wine easier. She warned him that she could not promise to drink half the bottle. That was fine with him. He might want more than half, depending on how the evening went. He wasn’t sure what would make him likely to drink more—a good time or a bad time. He wasn’t sure about the wine but was wise enough to ask her preference. Anything but a heavy chardonnay, she said. He filed that in his memory.

  They spent two hours in the restaurant. He was happy that they managed not to fall into awkward silences. She asked him about his name: “I can’t tell if it’s Italian or Arabic.”

  “Maybe both,” he said. “My family’s from Sicily. We’ve been Italian for a little over a hundred years and Sicilian for hundreds before that. But the island was overrun with waves of invaders over the centuries and Arabs were among them. I’ve wondered whether the name comes from them. Not enough to try to find out.”