Image Decay

by Mark Lisac

  “You may not be living in the Fifties. Frank may be, to some extent, as much as he prides himself on keeping current with culture. And there was one more thing. Hesperia was rumoured to be very close friends with George Manchester’s wife. No one ever claimed to have proof as far as I know, but they were thought to be affectionate with each other. Certainly Mrs. Manchester would have been looking outside her marriage for real affection. She would have got little enough from that conceited old goat. The thought of that rumour becoming sniggering common currency would drive Frank to do anything he could think of to stop it.”

  “Still....”

  She broke into a slim smile. “Oh John. You really don’t understand, do you? Despite all your years living here. It isn’t even a question of someone’s attitudes being formed in the Fifties when people were desperate for a return to normal. It’s about this land and about the people who built an admirable community here. Frank’s ancestors settled here in the 1890s, nearly as long ago as mine. When mine arrived, the buffalo had just disappeared four years earlier. The Natives were trying to stay alive without them and not always succeeding thanks to meanness among government officials. The Hudson’s Bay Company still had a fort here and there was still some beaver trapping. But then very quickly there were cattle ranches and lumber mills and stores run by independent business owners. And railways. And courts and schools and churches. And all those things were built by people who wore long woolen coats and voluminous dresses on top of their corsets. But that wasn’t all. They wore probity and rectitude on their sleeves. Haven’t you seen old photographs? Their clothes symbolized their rectitude. Never mind the stories you’ve read about saloons, and brawling mayors and councillors. The real people who made this province were the ones who could always stand in front of a crowd of their peers and be acknowledged not only as builders of commerce but as moral leaders in their communities. That’s not the stuff of the half-baked TV documentaries your department encourages. It’s not anything those people who keep coming here from the East or from other countries for jobs will understand. It’s something rooted in the soil and passed on from generation to generation. We don’t need anything to show us or remind us what we are. We know. We can’t leave that even if we wanted to, and most of us don’t. And a lot of us can’t accept letting anything sully that image. We’ve moved on from corsets but we still need the rectitude. That’s why Frank is fixating on those old photos. It’s even more important for him because his family were marginal farmers and members of one of the stricter churches. He doesn’t want even suspicions to break out.”

  “And there’s never been any change? Never any failure to keep living the past? Not by anyone? I can’t believe it. No place produces people who are all the same.”

  She looked out the window, considering what to say, narrowing her eyes again to see better in the coarse morning sun.

  “No. We’re not all the same. We’re not all obsessed with appearing flawless. Maybe even Frank is different than what he wants people to think he is.”

  He stared, looking for any trace of change in her expression.

  “It’s hard to be different,” she said. “When you grow up in one place, not having a lot of communication coming in from the rest of the world, you end up believing what you’ve absorbed from the people around you. It becomes more than belief. It’s knowing. Belief is what you rely on if you are confronted with contrary facts. You can believe yourself all the way into knowing. Then you can’t admit there even are contrary facts.”

  She looked at him again. “That’s why Frank would want to suppress any questionable photos of Hesperia Tindall. He wouldn’t want any question about who we are. Or who he is. It doesn’t matter if we know there are cracks in the façade. What’s important is what the rest of the world sees, and what the next generation here grows up knowing.”

  She continued to search his face in the ensuing silence. Then she said, “I always thought you might be able to understand someday. That’s why I had such high hopes when you told me you were going into Energy. You could see the bedrock there, the foundation, not just the business but the people. Do I still have reason to hope?”

  “Well,” he said, “you’ll be seeing me sworn in this afternoon. Tell me this evening if you see I’m different now.”

  He rose from his chair and took his dishes and cutlery to the dishwasher. He turned to go upstairs for a shower and a change into his business suit.

  She said, “What do you know? Absolutely know? You never talked much about Wisconsin even when we were first getting to know each other. What I remember you talking about more than anything else was your friend and some kind of revenge or payback for him.”

  “That’s more a case of what I don’t know,” he said. “By the way, I haven’t seen that young Latin American around. Did he fail his visa application as far as you were concerned?”

  “He finished the work. He isn’t useful here anymore.”

  He climbed the stairs. She poured another cup of coffee and picked up the morning newspaper, looking for the political page, the business pages and the obituaries.

  The drive into the city passed quickly. He listened to the political talk episode on the CBC. The commenters were trying to make more of the expected cabinet shuffle than there was. He thought he could do a more effective job than his predecessor. Other than that, the only real effect would be to enhance Becker’s status and give him more weight with other cabinet members and caucus. He could also expect a few campaign donations from drilling and exploration companies; donations were always welcome even though he probably would not need the extra funds.

  He parked at the side of the Legislature Building and walked up straight to his 10 a.m. appointment with the premier. Morehead was all smiles. Waschuk was half-smiles and appraising, but Becker knew Morehead was doing just as much appraising of his new cabinet luminary. The other two new appointments were minor in comparison.

  Becker accepted a coffee, brought in immediately so that it must have been ready. Morehead said, “It will be good to have you taking over. You know we’re in tough with the price drop. I don’t know when oil is going back up. The economists in the department say gas is a better bet but it could take two or three years for its price to recover. The job in the meantime is to keep up public confidence and keep the companies from trying to suck more money out of us when Treasury is already dry. And keep the Opposition from making any headway with the situation.”

  “It may be a long slog,” Becker said. “We’ll get out of it.”

  “I know I can count on you.”

  He smiled beneficently. “John, how’s that deal with the photograph collection coming along?”

  “Wrapped up as far as I know. We have all the negatives in our hands now. There’s no reason to think any prints are floating around out there.”

  Morehead’s smile faded a touch. “I ask because I hear there’s still some friction with that cranky photographer. Something about him maybe taking a few pictures out of the collection, or you pressing him for some pictures that weren’t found in the review.”

  “You seem to be well informed about some pretty insignificant details.”

  Waschuk cleared his throat, but his voice still sounded paper dry: “We’re hoping that’s what they are, insignificant. Frank Jeffries seems to think there’s still potential for trouble.”

  “Frank watches for trouble like a Kansas farmer watching for tornadoes. He expects it. I grant that’s kept him out of the soup through most of his career. I won’t say he’s approaching paranoia. But sometimes he worries about things not worth worrying about.”

  “Is that the case here?” Morehead said. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I’m still curious about a couple of items. But they’re nothing that could affect the government. I’ll talk to Frank about it.”

  “That’s good. That’s all I need to know.”

  Becker doubted that Morehead was completely satisfied. He was sure Waschuk would not be. B
ut he had breathing room. He went to his office and phoned Jeffries to arrange a short meeting later in the day. The next few hours passed boringly. He played his role at the swearing-in, noted Arlene’s genuine look of pleasure, smiled when the cameras were on him, and chatted politely. Late in the afternoon, still in his old office before the moving crew arrived, he welcomed Jeffries and apologized for the disorganized look left by the packing,

  “That’s fine, Minister,” Jeffries replied. “I’ve become used to seeing members of cabinet come and go. One adapts.”

  “Good to hear,” Becker said. “Let’s see how quickly we can adapt to this business of the photographs. I understand there are some in the Ostroski collection that you want—not necessarily for the government and not necessarily for public viewing ever.”

  “True. And I understand there may be some that you want.”

  “Then why are we working almost at cross purposes?”

  Jeffries smiled with slightly raised eyebrows. “I don’t know that I would say we are working at cross purposes. I would characterize the situation more as us working independently toward similar ends.”

  “But you’d be happy to see me out of the way while you pursue your ends.”

  “Not necessarily. I don’t see why we should continue on separately. We’re after essentially the same thing. A little pressure applied from both of us in combination could make us both happy.”

  “I don’t see it that way,” Becker said. “There’s no equivalency simply from the fact that we’re both interested in some old photographs. I’ve become convinced that the ones I’d like to see have never been in the collection. The ones that Ostroski seems to have removed recently were still in the collection by his own choice. That suggests he never saw them as particularly meaningful.”

  “That’s just the point. The photographs I would like are meaningful to me. They are meaningful to the province. They can have no particular meaning to him. Why is he holding out? The only reason I can imagine is that he thinks he can squeeze us for yet more money.”

  “I don’t have that impression of him,” Becker said. “Not that he would turn down money. But I don’t believe that is his primary motivation. He may not have a motivation other than pure mischief. Maybe he just has an instinct not to co-operate when he feels he is being forced to do something. In this case, it may be worse. He may still have a grudge against us and especially against the Culture Department.”

  Jeffries sighed. “He has no valid complaint. It’s true we had a disagreement but that’s been resolved. And he is fifteen thousand dollars richer as a result. Do you know how often I look at my budget and wish I could find fifteen thousand dollars somewhere?”

  “Let’s not pursue this any further. The whole situation has to be put to rest. I’d like you to drop whatever you’re doing.”

  “Hardly a directive considering you have not been my minister for the last hour.”

  “Call it words of advice, and a respectful request.”

  Jeffries stood. He glared in a way Becker had never seen before and said, “There’s only one problem with how you view this situation. I don’t give a rat’s ass. Minister.” He walked out.

  Becker began considering next steps before the door closed. Jeffries already had next steps in mind. He was prepared to act alone. He was not prepared for rapid breathing and heart palpitations that assaulted him on the way out of the building and back to his office, or for the beginnings of tears that had him looking down as he walked so that others could not see his distress.

  23.

  ALEX RABANI’S FUNERAL TOOK PLACE IN BRIGHT SUNSHINE at a cemetery east of the city. Puffed clouds, white on top, grey underneath, floated slowly across the wide sky’s magisterial blue background. The grass had faded from green to autumn tan on the slight rise where the Rabani brothers’ mother was buried. Alex was laid to rest in an adjoining plot. A handful of people joined George for the ceremony: friends from the office, Dominic Sandro, Adela Morales. George gazed at the casket as final words were said over it and it was lowered into the ground. Afterward, he glanced at the sky. It was filling up with the kind of clouds that herald snow. He felt lightheaded. Adela put an arm through his as the group walked back toward the parking lot. His awareness of sights and sounds began returning at the feel of her next to him. They rode together in the funeral home’s limousine. Then he drove her back to the camera shop before going to his office. He read files there.

  The next day he arrived at the usual time and found Becker waiting to see him. With no urgent business on his desk he invited the province’s new energy minister to sit in one of the brass-studded red leather chairs meant to make clients comfortable but impress them at the same time.

  “I came in person rather than calling because I wanted to be sure you understand the importance of what I’m going to ask,” Becker told him. “I also wanted to see your response. I apologize for coming in so soon when I hear you just buried your brother. But I assume your coming into the office means you’re ready to take on work matters.”

  Rabani leaned back in his leather armchair. “Go ahead.”

  “It’s come to my attention that Mr. Ostroski took some photographs out of his collection as he reviewed them. As you know, that breached the terms of our agreement with him.”

  “Come to your attention? How do you know he took anything?”

  “Let’s not waste time. He took some photographs. I’m not interested in pursuing the matter because I don’t think he took anything materially important. Nor is the premier’s office interested in dragging this matter out any further. However, I believe Mr. Ostroski holds other photographs that were never part of the collection and that I have a strong interest in seeing. That is, I have a strong interest in taking possession of one or more of them. I’d very much appreciate your intervening to persuade him to turn them over to me, or at least allow me temporary access, and possibly a chance to make copies. He knows which photographs I’m talking about. If he does not comply, there will be repercussions. No one wants that. But he has to know the seriousness of the matter. I’ve tried talking with him personally, with no result. I’m hoping you can get him to see sense.”

  Rabani looked out his window at the office building across the street, wondering if he would see signs of life through the dark windows set into the dull concrete.

  “I don’t think I want to be involved in this. My engagement with Jack Ostroski has been completed. He’s old enough to take care of himself in non-legal matters.”

  Becker leaned forward. “He’s old enough but not reasonable enough. If he’s not a client anymore, then please consider this pro bono work, a contribution to the public good. I’m not speaking lightly. If he won’t co-operate, the consequences will be serious.”

  Rabani turned back to Becker looking as if he’d just tasted something he would like to spit out. “At every turn in this business I’ve encountered something that sounds suspiciously close to blackmail, on both sides. I’m fed up with it.” He knew he should stop there but gave in to curiosity. “And what could possibly be so important about some old photographs?”

  Becker considered the right words. “The ones I want represent things from the past that were never adequately resolved. That’s how I would describe them. The ones he took from the collection may fall into the same category. I can’t vouch for that. I do know all the photographs are important. The ones I’m interested in are more important. You know how crucial bits of evidence can be once they come to light. Think of them that way—pictures that can determine the course of justice.”

  “What if he wants money?”

  “I’m prepared to be reasonable.”

  “You’re willing to pay only for the photos you’re interested in, I assume. Not for the ones that were part of the collection and that he may have removed.”

  “That’s correct. The ones that were in the collection are secondary. No longer my concern.”

  Rabani sighed. “I thought that people in positions
of responsibility here were mostly honourable. Business conducted on a high plane. I’m starting to think it’s all pretty grubby.” He sighed again. “I’ll see what I can do. But I’m not going to let this turn into a never-ending back and forth. One shot.”

  “Thank you. You have my best wishes. Please do not characterize anything I’ve said as a threat when you talk to him. But keep in mind the situation is serious. It’s not a whim. On a scale, it’s closer to life and death.”

  “You’ve made your point. I’ll look into it. Please close the door behind you.”

  Rabani watched him leave. He swivelled his chair and looked out again at the concrete block with windows that reminded him of sightless eyes. He had never seen people through them. Then he walked out to the reception desk and asked if Morley Jackson was in and could be interrupted. In Jackson’s office he took some comfort from the alert, benign countenance of the veteran to whom most of the young members of the firm usually came for advice or encouragement.

  Rabani sagged into the chair facing Jackson’s desk and said, “I’m back to that Ostroski business. When I thought I was finished with it. It seems there are more photographs kicking around and they are sensitive for some reason. Ostroski probably nabbed a few out of his old collection while he was reviewing it. But he may have more that he never put in with the others. John Becker just asked me to try to pry those more mysterious ones out of Ostroski’s hands. I’m not happy getting dragged back into whatever quarrel they have but it sounds like something serious could happen to Ostroski if he doesn’t co-operate. Besides, I’m more curious than I probably should be to find out just what could be important about some old snapshots.”

  “Hmm. Did he give you any idea why they’re important to him?”

  “Something about justice being done. Some unresolved matter from the past. Probably a fair distance in the past. Ostroski hinted to me about a disagreement over some photographs but he wouldn’t tell me anything about it. All I know is the new energy minister thinks the matter is important enough to ask me to intervene. He also talked about unnamed serious consequences if Ostroski keeps being stubborn.”