Al finally switched themes from the scary and airy-fairy to the tried and true, the venerable Christian teachings. But he’d lost his audience, was aware of that, and was running out of steam. He finally gave up, and he and Zoë led the congregation in “Peace, Perfect Peace, in This Dark World of Sin.”
§
Arthur stayed back with Al and Zoë as the congregation dispersed. He’d thought about telling Al about the Government Whip and the dominatrix, asking for his take on it. But speaking to anyone about the matter, even a dear friend, would be incautious.
Al was sullen, muttering about his muddled sermon and low turnout, proclaiming an intention to go home and get stinking drunk. Zoë reprimanded him, saying there would be none of that, put her arm around him, and led him to their car.
§
Arthur ascended Sproules’ Hill on Centre Road, the Fargo’s muffler roaring, warning him of its impending death. He had lost the contentment he’d felt a few hours ago; the familiar grumpiness had reclaimed him.
Did he dare render the Fargo to Stoney’s mercies and risk losing possession for the summer? Should he instead sneak it off the island to a Speedy Muffler? He wouldn’t be able to face Stoney if he did. Somehow, Arthur had found himself in thrall to his long-time, lackadaisical mechanic. Garibaldians had a strict tradition, almost a religion, of loyalty to one another, however perverse its effects.
At the valley bottom, he found himself slowing by a driveway with a cluster of signs on a post. “Stonewell Pre-Owned Auto Sales,” “Rob’s Towing and Taxi,” “Loco Motion Car and Truck Rentals” — unlicensed businesses all. Plus a couple of Stoney’s legitimate trades: vehicle and small engine repairs and “Island Landscraping.”
Arthur pulled over on seeing Stoney up by his lopsided wooden garage, waving as he climbed behind the wheel of one of his working vehicles. His stubby little cohort, a fellow stoner known locally as Dog, also jumped in.
They pulled over beside him, and Stoney leaned out the window. A scrawny fellow with long, unkempt hair, a roll-your-own between his lips. The smell of cannabis. “Just the man I needed to see, Queen’s Counsel Arthur Beauchamp, fighter for the little man. They’re trying to deny my free enterprise rights — it’s the first creeping step to communism.”
Stoney passed to Arthur a grime-stained letter from the strict new constable, Irwin Dugald, warning Mr. Robert Stonewell to shutter his several illegal businesses.
It wasn’t the first time Stoney had been put through this. With every new cop, he received a flurry of summonses and fought each one in court, sapping the energies of the law enforcers, who would finally, wearily, turn a blind eye to the operations of Loco Motion Auto Rentals and its allied unlimited companies.
Arthur reminded Stoney of his courtroom prowess: no lawyer could do better. But Stoney shrugged that off, passed his joint to Dog. “In return for your services, Padrone, I’m gonna replace that piece of rust you call a muffler, disbursements only.”
Arthur was unmoved. “It must have slipped your mind, though I have repeated it countless times — I am officially, irreversibly, and for all eternity retired from the practice of law. I shall pay the going rate.”
“Guess I’m on my own once again,” Stoney said sourly. “Okay, counsellor, I’ll put the muffler near the top of my list because I got no hard feelings about you leaving me stranded. Meanwhile I got a emergency to fix up an used tractor the Transformers bought.”
A tractor. So much for Silverson’s boast: no mechanized shortcuts, no exhaust-spewing engines.
Stoney retrieved the joint, took a last toke, and squished the remains. “Them pod people don’t even know how to tighten a nut on a bolt. Could lead to bigger things, they’re spending loot like water. Transformation Mission, that’s a front, eh. It’s a pharmacy. Some kind of love drug, MDA, ecstasy.”
“No way,” Dog said.
Stoney looked shocked. “No way what?”
“I been there. They believe in loving all things.” A major effort for the laconic squat.
Stoney’s mouth hung open. “They got to you.” To Arthur, annoyed. “Now I gotta deprogram him.”
§
At home, Arthur changed into jeans and a work shirt, made himself a sandwich. He rarely used his fancy new smartphone, Margaret’s gift, finding it too complicated, so regularly checked messages on the house line. Today brought an offer for a quick and easy loan and an opportunity to earn millions of dollars working at home. Margaret hadn’t called yet, as promised. She was still at the WWF conference. Maybe in her hotel room huddled with advisors, in deep debate over Farquist, their sleeping bomb. But was she not on some kind of panel today?
He idled by the desktop computer awhile, finally turning it on. He had some rudimentary skills with search engines, and managed to find a link to the agenda of the WWF conference.
He scrolled down to the Sunday afternoon agenda. An interactive session this afternoon, the Green leader and her cohorts fielding questions. Other political parties had also been given platforms, but none would feel as comfortable as Margaret with this crowd.
Arthur felt a niggling discomfort. A name had flashed by during the scrolling, a name he hadn’t wanted to see. Dr. Lloyd Chalmers, “Climate Change Denial: A Mental Disorder?”
Margaret was staying at the St. James. Arthur couldn’t bear to learn that Chalmers was also booked in there, so he didn’t check. He felt a little queasy.
BAD NIGHT, WORSE DAY
Margaret was frantically trying not to feel frantic. Had Pierette not called her half an hour ago, arousing her at mid-morning, she would be ridiculously late. She jumped from the shower, dried off, attacked her hair with dryer and brush, then dove into the outfit she’d set aside last night.
She’d been awake until the wee hours, wired on espresso, her head buzzing with images of the Chief Government Whip and his dominatrix, wrestling with the moral dilemma of sweet vengeance versus fair-mindedness to a man who’d known unhappiness in early life. But surely forgiveness ends at bribery . . .
Somehow, she’d polished off the bottle of Malbec before finally falling into a tossing sleep.
Arthur had unsettled her as well during last evening’s tense phonathon, first with his unaccountably mirthful mood, then quizzing her like she was a reluctant witness. Add to that his blithe assumption that she was prone to reckless acts.
And then the room phone ringing and ringing. And half an hour later ringing again. Thank God he never came to the door — he was just down the hall.
Earrings, necklace, a touch of colour on those pallid lips, and she grabbed her coat and shot out of her room, hung over, unready, feeling beastly. She was beyond grateful that Jennie Withers would be beside her, backed up by their two other MPs. But it was the heiress apparent who would get the starring role — Jennie would relish that. Pierette would be there too, to help with the tough questions.
It was a Q and A, so they had to be ready for anything. At least they’d be playing before a home crowd. The other opposition parties had already done similar events, but the governing Conservatives, anticipating catcalls and walkouts, had declined the WWF’s invitation, with some blather about the event offering undue prominence to “extremist” views.
She had not looked out her draped window, so found herself blinking as she stepped outside into warm sunshine, mists rising from puddles. A pleasant turn in the weather seemed a good omen.
Pierette was waiting anxiously outside the conference room, its doors open, the room filling. “Honey, you look like you just stumbled out of a clothes dryer.” She took her aside, found a comb, and attacked a few askew wisps. “For God’s sake, what have you been up to? Your meeting with Sabatino — was it a disaster?”
“Anything but.”
They were interrupted by two young autograph seekers. Margaret tried to be bright and bouncy as she engaged these eager supporters. They admired her for telling it like it
was. They wanted to campaign for the Greens. Margaret told them they could run for the Greens. There were still holes to fill among the 338 ridings, they might enjoy the experience.
Pierette led her inside, where the podium table stood empty, with six chairs. There was Jennie Withers at the coffee bar, exchanging pleasantries with her two fellow MPs . . . and with Dr. Lloyd Chalmers. Him laughing, bestowing on Jennie that boyish grin that claimed, “I’m harmless.”
Margaret hurried toward the front, up a few steps, and plunked herself down at the end of the long table. Pierette slid into the chair beside hers, leaning in, asking how Margaret’s meeting had gone.
“Wow,” Margaret said.
“Wow?”
“Emil Farquist. The sanctimonious prick, he’s into S and M.” She got what she wanted, a totally stunned look, mouth agape.
Pierette struggled for words, finally recovered: “S and M. I got it. It’s a metaphor. As in Sour and Malicious, right?”
“Wrong. As in ‘Spank me, Mother, I’ve been a bad boy.’ Weekends with a Russian dominatrix. Svetlana something. Farquist likes giving her pony rides while she swats his ass with a riding whip.”
“Freak out!”
That was loud, and was heard by Jennie as she strode toward them. “Hey, you guys, be careful.”
Margaret hadn’t paid heed to the nearby table microphone, and was startled to see a small LED light glowing green on it. Green. Jennie flicked a switch, and the light faded.
Margaret felt her guts heave. She glanced behind her, at the simultaneous translation booth. A young woman and an older man, neither in headphones, just chatting. Wireless headphones were also available to conference-goers, but she saw no one using them. No stricken looks coming her way. Just smiles.
Then she spotted a blonde, curly-haired imp rise from the press table, quickly gather up her phone, notes, and bag, and slip from the room. A pair of headphones remained, hooked on the back of her chair. Margaret had duelled with the imp many times: Christie Montieth, a political blogger and columnist for the Ottawa Sun. No friend of the Greens. She exchanged a glance with Pierette, who’d also seen Montieth leave. Probably a bathroom break. Early for that. A quick cigarette?
Jennie was hovering with a puzzled frown. “You guys look like kids caught stealing from the candy shop.”
“I had a bad night,” Margaret said. “You’re going to have to save my ass in here, Jen.”
Jennie nodded — she couldn’t have missed seeing Margaret’s red and tired eyes. “I’ll do my best.”
The moderator had joined them, and was urging them to take their places mid-table. Margaret could not avoid the encouraging gaze of Lloyd Chalmers, front row centre. She returned a tired smile. She was going to get through this if it killed her.
Christie Montieth returned to her seat just as the session began. No expression. Must have been a smoke break after all.
§
It was warm outside, the late afternoon sun beaming down on the three women sitting at a cloth-covered table on the patio of a small restaurant below Vieux-Port. Lebanese. Lamb on skewers. Pickled veggies. Flatbread. Pierette and Jennie were drinking wine, but Margaret was sticking to tea.
She had checked out of the James, reserved a room near the airport. She would catch an early morning flight to Ottawa, in time for the day’s sitting.
Jennie had quickly been brought into their confidence in a few whispered words at the end of their Q and A: “Farquist. It’s explosive.” Margaret had withheld the details until they were safely in the privacy of the great outdoors. Even their hotel rooms felt unsafe — Margaret worried they may have been bugged. She was growing more paranoid by the minute, ever since doing that near backflip when she noticed the glowing green light.
The session had gone well enough, Margaret summoning the strength for a ten-minute opening and a five-minute closing, leaving Jennie and the other MPs to slug it out. Tar sands, wetlands, the Coast Mountains Pipeline, dying fisheries — so many issues, so little time, no cheap fixes. They were corralled for a long while afterwards, people seeking answers, hope. Margaret straining so hard to smile she thought her face might crack.
The Lebanese restaurant was by a waterfront park and looked over the island city’s great river, the St. Lawrence, high with runoff swirling under the Concorde Bridge. A tug was maneuvering a freighter upriver, toward the industrial docks, where corruption had flourished. Waterfrontgate.
Jennie had a mild cigarette habit, but chain-smoked while listening to Margaret’s account of her encounter with Lou Sabatino and his purloined video. She had been appropriately shocked, at one point coughing out smoke.
Good old Pierette — she’d tried to cop a plea to the flopola with the hot mike, but Margaret insisted on owning the blame. She had expected a few chilly comments from Jennie, but her response was reasonably forgiving, though regretful. “We’ll know from the morning press.” Working up a bright smile. It could not have been lost on Jennie that Margaret’s gaffe could mean her leadership was in peril, maybe her seat.
Pierette had learned, to their great relief, that the sessions were not being taped. But they were concerned that Christie Montieth may not have run off to pee or for a cigarette when she so suddenly left with her phone. Was it to call her editor? Had she recorded Margaret’s words? Was that possible, from headphones? Yes, with a phone wedged between ear and earpiece.
Author of the blog View from the Hill, the five-foot-tall Goldilocks also wrote a weekly column in the Ottawa Sun, a daily tabloid that viewed the Greens as anti-growth ideologues. The paper would not hesitate to publish a scoop like this.
Jennie lectured them about defences to defamation suits. Only one offered victory: the truth — clear proof that the plaintiff was indeed a bad, bad boy. The only other recourse would be a quick apology that might mitigate damages.
Margaret was shocked. “Apologize? I would jump off a bridge first.”
“Then get that fucking tape.”
Don’t call me, I’ll call you. But when would that be? Margaret had Lou’s cell number, for emergencies. This was an emergency, and she found herself probing in her bag for her BlackBerry.
“Can’t we hang fire until the morning?” Pierette said. “If the story doesn’t break, then it was just a close call.” Sounding too brave. “Did anyone see Christie with headphones on? No. Did anyone see her madly scribbling?”
Jennie said, “I was too busy being chatted up by Lloyd Chalmers.” Margaret wondered if she had guessed about the fling. Probably. Pierette certainly knew.
Lloyd had embarrassed Margaret by vigorously applauding all the points she’d scored. He’d lobbed a couple of easy questions to Jennie about the role of First Nations in preserving habitat. After the session broke up, he gave her his card. Margaret got ignored. Good.
Their decision was to do nothing before tomorrow. When Lou Sabatino learned that the Farquist bomb had ignited, surely he would immediately contact Margaret. There could be no question that he would make the tape available. He respected Margaret, the honest politician, the straight shooter. He would not want to see her sued for millions.
Meantime, Pierette would seek confirmation that Farquist owned a log chalet somewhere in the mountains and make discreet inquiries about Svetlana Glinka.
They huddled over espressos, sharing conjectures about the secret life of Emil Farquist. No, not that, Mother, I beg you! Clearly, he’d been emotionally damaged by his mother’s suicide. She was twenty-two when she gave birth to her only child. Quite pretty, in the old photos they had seen. A grade-school teacher in Calgary.
Jennie lit another cigarette. “Betty and Kavindar — should they be in the know?” The other two Green MPs.
“Betty . . .” Margaret hesitated. “I don’t want to be unkind, but . . .”
“She has a big mouth.” Jennie smiled. “Right. Let’s keep it to the tightest possible circle
for now.” She grasped Margaret’s hand. “What’s done is done. Stop obsessing about it.”
Margaret proposed they tell one other person: her husband, that rock of support. Jennie had no problem with that; she adored Arthur.
But Margaret, it turned out, couldn’t do it. When she phoned Arthur that evening, she didn’t mention the live microphone, or how Montieth had scrammed out of there. She was afraid it would upset him. His wife, being reckless again.
BANGLES AND BEADS
It was Arthur’s recurring dream: being immobile, bound — often with rope, tonight with thongs — helplessly watching his faithless former wife rutting with some faceless, nameless lover. But on this Monday morning, on awakening, he remembered a twist at the end: Annabelle had been wielding a strap, the kind once used by the private school headmaster on dreamers like Arthur, and he was the receiver, not the observer. “Hurt me, please,” he’d said. So polite.
Such dreams, in their early kink-free form, had been less frequent since his marriage to Margaret, but occasionally ill-repressed memories sneaked back. Triggered by irksome happenings like a seducer’s name popping out at him from a WWF web page. A minister caught on camera en flagrante, or en flogrante.
Arthur couldn’t help feeling a vague empathy with Emil Farquist. Annabelle’s whippings had been a less dramatic but more painful form of the art, directed at the heart not the rump. Her glaringly open affairs over their twenty-five years of marriage had been emotionally crippling, until she finally abandoned him for a flouncy Wagnerian maestro. Margaret was a far cry from her. Just one little fling. Apologized for.
She had sounded weary on the phone last night. The world on her shoulders. As to Farquist, no precipitous action would be taken. Pierette would make discreet background inquiries. Lou Sabatino would be prevailed upon to give them a copy of the tape, on the assurance his name would not be mentioned. Arthur would be consulted all the way.
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