He takes a mere second. “Don’t look for obscure motives.” He puts his cup down, yawns. “Well, I wish I could offer more hospitality, but it is getting on. These old bones demand some respite.” Unruffled, calm in the storm.
We rise with him. We have no right or power to do anything more. The rest is up to the authorities.
“Oh, let me not forget. Would you do me the honour, Arthur, of signing this lip-smacking inverse argumentum ad hominem? In the jargon of the pop critics, unputdownable.”
I open A Thirst to the title page and inscribe: .
Dermot’s face crinkles into a wry smile. The words are Greek to April, and he interprets for her: “Plato. The unexamined life is not worth living.”
He holds the door for us. April has the last words, and speaks them first in Cantonese, which she must translate in turn. A Confucianism: “Do good, reap good; do evil, reap evil. Thank you for the tea.”
“You are most welcome. Adieu.” There is desolation finally in his aged, weakened eyes as he closes the door.
As we walk by, Morg barely looks up from her task, raking the leaves that escaped the blower. We carry on toward the beach, through the woods, and find Marie and Kestrel perched on a shoreline rock, close and confiding in the dying sunlight. We let them be, and my passion cools in the crisp evening air.
I play with my cellphone awhile. I’m at a loss as to whom to call. I have Hollis Wotherspoon’s home number, and it would be pleasant to ask the senior prosecutor how soon our appeal court panel could be called into emergency session. I look forward to seeing Martha Schupp, C.J., fall all over herself, to watching Ram Singh struggle to find something funny about this outcome.
There will be reparations for Gabriel, of course. Many millions – the state must pay for what it stole. I ought to call my travel agent. I hope Kestrel and her mother have passports. But maybe Gabriel can be persuaded to meet us here, in the country of his former persecution.
Marie cries out, “Look!”
April and I turn. She starts running along the grassy verge above the high-tide line, but I can’t see why. Twilight has set in. I search the dimness, the rocky beach where Marie and Kestrel are pointing.
A skinny naked figure is wading into the ocean. Dermot Mulligan. His clothing is sitting in a clump on a barnacle-encrusted rock. He is up to his thighs, his hips. April is clambering across the rock-strewn shoreline. Now I am running too, all of us are, including Morg, who is thundering toward the water.
But Dermot will have his suicide after all. The wind has risen and the tide is up, a big tide, and a wave quickly catches him. He may have been caught in a swift current, because he is swept off, disappearing, a sandaled foot rising from the chop, vanishing.
April is hesitating at the water’s edge, contemplating a treacherous rescue. “Don’t even think of it!” I shout.
Even Morg has stalled, up to her knees. She slips and makes a great splash, flounders a while, then crawls back to shore, wailing. Neighbours are out by now, and two young men rush a skiff into the water, clamber in, lowering its thirty-horse engine. But darkness is enshrouding the strait as they take off, and the only living creature bobbing in the water is a curious seal.
April has just finished calling 911 when I catch up to her.
“Goodnight, Irene,” I say softly, staring at the voracious sea.
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 12, 2011
“I wish I could join you in court,” Margaret says. “Sorry to miss your big day.”
“You didn’t. My big day was November 18, 1994.”
“I only married you then because you’re such a great bullshit artist.”
We came off the Queen George a short while ago and are heading to the airport by taxi. She has already extended her Thanksgiving weekend and can’t afford to miss her spot in question period tomorrow.
I will continue on to Vancouver but return forthwith, after my duties in court. I left my Fargo in the lot at the Garibaldi ferry, not chained to anything, a ripe target for the trucknapper whose Mustang has been impounded for bad brakes and bald tires by a newly installed constable, determined to restore law and order on the island.
I’m feeling rather pillowy after the long weekend – meals with the Nogginses, the Sproules, and an event at the community hall. I had a dream last night about being pursued by turkeys, and I woke Margaret up by going, she claims, gobble, gobble.
“Let me try this on you.” Margaret has her Blackberry out and is thumbing words onto the screen. “Question for the Honourable Minister of Energy. How much longer does he plan to be giving blow jobs to the oil bosses?”
“Too subtle.”
We’re nearing domestic departures, and she tucks the device into her bag. “Try to come to Ottawa before Christmas. Not for a few weeks, though; I’ll be pretty cramped.” Her friend Les Falk has split up with her boyfriend, will be batching awhile with her. “You should really treat yourself to a holiday.”
“I have an invitation for Costa Rica.”
“Brian Pomeroy? Oh, I don’t know, he’ll just get you in trouble … What the hell, do it.”
A kiss, a hug, another kiss, declarations of love, and I proceed away, wondering what’s going on with her and Les Falk. I laugh at myself for falling prey to suspicion. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous …
I have plenty of time to stop at the office and pick up my court gear. Gertrude isn’t here; she’s off to Hawaii with her daughter and grandkids (and why shouldn’t I go to some similar tropical clime?). Bully is here, though, who denounces holidays as wasteful exercises in indolence. As he escorts me out I make my standard declamation of final retirement.
He scoffs and offers to bet a hundred thousand dollars, then laughs when I fail to take him up on it. “Junkie,” he calls after me.
I fear there’s something to that. I still get an irrepressible thrill on entering a courtroom with all my senses on alert. I am indeed a junkie – for the theatre, the clash of minds, the play of language, the exquisite intricacy of ancient rules and routines. Even the foolishness and the flaws, the false assumptions of unfailing justice.
There’s a crowd outside the Law Courts’ main entrance: a mix of media, lawyers, academics, local politicians, prominent aboriginals. A dozen members of the Squamish Nation, in traditional blankets, have formed a ceremonial circle. An elder is speaking solemnly, as if reciting a prayer or, more likely, giving thanks. Several drummers, in a smaller circle, await their turn.
They are here, of course, to honour Gabriel Swift, who by now must be en route from the airport, escorted by yet another welcoming group. The appeal is set to resume at eleven – time enough for him to arrive, to play his central role in this act of redemption.
He was to have been here yesterday, but there was a snafu at the stopover in Los Angeles – the immigration authorities of Fortress America sought to detain him as an undesirable. After high-level intervention he was sped on his way to Seattle but missed his connector to Vancouver.
He will have met Kestrel Dubois and her parents by now, torch-bearers for the airport greeters. Gabriel and the Dubois are sharing a ride to the courthouse, so Kestrel will have her chance to commune with her hero. He will be staying in Green College at UBC, where tomorrow he is to give a lecture hurriedly organized by the Vancouver Institute.
As I enter the courthouse, my gown bag over my shoulder, the circle opens and the drumming begins; voices are raised in enthusiastic, chant-like song. I am slowed by tributes as I head to the robing room, my self-effacing responses spurned. A small media scrum descends, which I smilingly, silently skirt.
In the changing room I am required to pose for a photo – a pair of young barristers I’ve never met, with their arms about me. I am distressed at being treated as such a hero, given my unworthy role forty-nine years ago. I’m reluctant to harbour any illusions that Gabriel will show similar warmth when we meet.
I escape to the bank of Tragger, Inglis lockers, remove my suit, and change into pinstriped pants, waistcoat and wi
ng collar, then draw my robe from its bag. Not my black silk one, but the fur-trimmed nobility robe I’ve kept since its purchase from Celia Swift, well maintained and mothballed. I settle it over my shoulders, proudly and shamelessly, as if I’ve earned the right.
I am stared at, of course, as I stride off to the Great Hall; I don’t care if onlookers suppress giggles. But most of them are focused on the assembly outside the wide glass doors. The chief of the Squamish Nation is making what seems a vigorous speech, which he concludes as a sedan pulls up. The ceremonial circle quickly closes. A roar goes up as Dr. Gabriel Swift alights from the back seat.
He is seventy, bronzed and lined, has kept his hair, and is scarred in a way that adds to his handsomeness. He is casually dressed: slacks and a handcrafted Bolivian sweater. Turning, he extends a hand to Kestrel, who emerges from the car in the dress of her people, the Cree of Lac La Ronge. Samson and Marie get out too, and all engage in a flurry of greetings. More drumming, but it’s silenced as Gabriel speaks – words of appreciation obviously, during which he looks about as if seeking someone. I have a feeling that someone is me, but I stay rooted at the top of the stairs. The sheriffs are out there now, urging everyone inside. It’s eleven o’clock.
Entering, Gabriel hesitates upon seeing me, adjusts his glasses, then carries on up. And we are face to face. His intense dark eyes betray little weariness. I am probably looking as numbed as I feel.
“It’s been a long journey,” he says.
“You look well, nonetheless.”
“I meant our journey, Arthur.” He adjusts my robe. “Wear it with pride.”
I recall from the 1962 trial the clerk looking aghast at Ophelia in her pants, but his present-day counterpart just smiles at me in my nobility robe. Hollis Wotherspoon demands to be informed about its provenance. “Comme il faut in the court of the Salish chiefs of yore,” I explain, then usher my client to a seat at counsel table.
“Order in court!”
Entering, Martha Schupp widens her eyes on observing my unorthodox dress, then redirects her look – as if she’s noticed nothing amiss – to the overflow gallery. It includes, standing at the back, Wentworth Chance, who came panting up the stairs late and must have cajoled or bribed the sheriffs to be allowed in. Near the front, with the chiefs, is the Dubois family. Mulligan didn’t prepare a will, I’m told, so what he left goes to them, his nearest kin.
Dermot’s body wasn’t found until the morning, washed up just outside the town. There will be a funeral, of course, more solemn and better attended than that of the foot. On a bizarre note, the Vancouver Transvestite Association is planning a tribute, presumably farcical in intent.
Bill Webb smiles at me, happy at my success, doubtless relieved that he won’t have to grapple with denying my appeal. Ram Singh looks too hungover to care much about what is going on.
“We have read the material newly submitted,” Schupp says. She still won’t look at me. “The appeal is allowed and the verdict set aside on the ground that it is unreasonable, pursuant to Section 686(1)(a)(i) of the Criminal Code.” Then she finally abandons her ritualistic façade. “Dr. Swift, I can only hope that you will find forgiveness in your heart for the grievous wrongs you have been subjected to. You are free. Is there anything you wish to say?”
Gabriel stands and speaks a few phrases in the Squamish tongue, then translates: “Madam Chief Justice, I have always been free, in my mind and my heart, and I can only pray that those of your tribe will one day find the compassion, strength, and humility to share that freedom.”
The Chief Justice is flustered. “Yes, well, thank you. We will adjourn.”
Outside the Law Courts the media demand audience with Gabriel. They obviously want him to hunger for vengeance, but he’s calm and reflective. “I’m merely one of the lesser, luckier victims of the grand experiment to crush, like a defeated enemy, our aboriginal societies. Fortunately, history has a bias for truth and rebels against the received wisdom of the times, the lies told, the crippling intolerance. That I’m here today, free, is merely incidental proof of that, but proof hard won.” He goes on to laud Kestrel and her parents, who stand by beaming, and even mentions his “accomplished and dedicated counsel,” without whom he would still be a homeless wanderer. “But I have come home.”
Gabriel spends some time with his supporters, who reluctantly disperse upon being advised that he and I have lunch plans. Wentworth is harder to escape from, making his move as we head to the taxi rank. “I am dying to meet him, Arthur.”
“Not literally, I hope.” I make the obligatory introductions. “Wentworth is my biographer. Be careful he doesn’t ask to do one of you.” I signal a waiting cab.
“Maybe you’ve heard, Dr. Swift, I’ll be at Mulligan House this November, writer-in-res. It’s been pretty well restored to the way it was in sixty-two, in case you want to see it one last time. I can’t imagine it will survive all this – I’ll probably be the last funded writer.” He rambles on, blocking our entrance to the taxi, and we’re not allowed to make our getaway until I promise Wentworth I will meet with him at length. Gabriel wisely makes no such promise, though he accepts Wentworth’s card.
In the car we exchange brief remembrances of Jim and Grace Brady. They faced hard times after Mine, Mill got taken apart, and couldn’t afford a trip overseas to visit him. They died within a year of each other, after the Wall came down and the system they believed in failed. I let Gabriel know I attended their funerals, that I was one among a thousand others who mourned. “I heard you were there,” he says, “and that you honoured them with some thoughtful words. I’m grateful.”
He volunteers that he broke down and read A Thirst last month – several friends had mailed him copies. “It caused a rethinking of events that I’d tried, often successfully, to forget.”
I don’t press him on that. He muses, “I’ve had several approaches for the rights to my life; I’ve toyed with the idea of doing my own. Then I remembered the impulsive, arrogant young refusenik who acted without a lawyer on his sentence appeal.”
It wouldn’t be fair to frighten members of the Confederation Club by taking Gabriel there, and it has been years since he’s had sockeye salmon, so we have chosen a little seafood place near Fishermen’s Wharf. He tells me he’ll stay in Vancouver a few days, long enough to visit his parents’ graves and those of Jim and Grace, and then will return after he finishes his work in Bolivia.
He has already had approaches from academic headhunters in Canada, and hopes to take one up. “Politically I want to be a part of what I’ve missed. There is movement here – not fervent, a little too cautious for my taste – but movement nonetheless. A healthy abundance of land claims. A push for self-government. I want to push it harder.” Smiling. “I’m not too old to be a troublemaker.”
I admit to envy, recall how he made me feel, so many years ago, as a man of settled convictions – tame, orthodox.
“And, if your biographer is right, a man of too much rectitude. He has persuaded me that the lawyer I foolishly fired embodies the four great virtues: justice, prudence, fortitude, and – though I gather it was some time coming – temperance.”
The cardinal virtues of ancient Greece, which Gabriel mocked in our youthful jailhouse debates as flabby philosophizing. He has me smiling. I realize I have never before seen him relaxed.
He adds, “And a man of enough compassion, I hope, to forgive my unrelenting impoliteness over the years.”
It is I who must confess, and I do, to my lack of confidence as his counsel, to my lack of ancient Greek fortitude. Everything Ophelia Moore said was true. Old Smitty reeled him in like a fish. A quote that prompts just a shrug from Gabriel. It’s the past.
After exchanging more mea culpas and forgivenesses, we jointly pledge there’ll be no more apologies. I am relaxing too, finally, feeling relief and a threatening wetness of eye. I find a diversion: tales of Garibaldi, the supposedly bucolic island where I am in supposedly relaxed retirement.
Gabriel
commends me for my good sense in finding such a partner as Margaret Blake, and expresses the hope she has knocked some of the conservative stuffing out of me. He broadly supports her agenda. Like most thinking members of this besieged planet, he is of a view it ought to be preserved. Progress is a word he abhors; it’s synonymous with destruction, not only of the environment but of the earth’s fragile cultures.
He no longer sees a panacea in old-style communism. “My Rome was too despotic, too top-heavy not to fall like Humpty Dumpty. Gods have failed, though ideals survive. What I was, I no longer entirely am. But that is the way of growth. Maturity comes slowly, arrives too late. And then we are old, my brother.”
“Si jeunesse savait, si vieillesse pouvait.”
He laughs. And we carry on about this and that and everything, close and lively – comrades finally, the brothers we were meant to be.
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 2011
Stoney tuned up the Fargo last week (he was under my watch throughout) and did a competent job of it. Like a housebound dog finding freedom, she is enjoying a long gallop up the Sea-to-Sky Highway. The Stawamus Chief looms forbiddingly through the mist; the Howe Sound fjords are grey and gloomy. I drive past the Squamish Nation’s Totem Hall, a proud, imposing structure, and ease off on the gas as I enter the town. Its economy is now based as much on tourism as resources, a way station for hikers and skiers. A modern police station, modern provincial court, malls, and microbrewery.
It is Remembrance Day weekend, all too appropriate for my return to the Squamish Valley after these many years. I’ve been to the town proper for the odd preliminary hearing, but until now have never ventured north of it – my camping days are long over. A sense of guilt brings me here, after a month of dithering, to honour my pledge to Wentworth Chance to record sound bites for his revised Thirst, soon to be available in quality paperback.
Leaving town, I head up the narrow asphalt road that leads into the Cheakamus Reserve, Gabriel’s childhood home, and along the east bank of the Squamish River. Where the reserve ends, the wealthy have taken root: large landholdings by the river with rambling showpiece homes. I stop at the driveway that once led to the hardscrabble farm of Buck and Thelma McLean, since pulled down, and now pastureland for several grazing horses. The driveway to Mulligan House has been paved. The little barn is still there, with a fresh coat of paint, and the A-frame and its once modern protrusion seem untouched by time. The river is timeless, though, and rolls past with a weary majesty.
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