by André Alexis
– But how do you choose something like that? How do you choose to be a father? Then how do you choose it day in, day out for the rest of your life? You can’t be a nihilist dad, you know.
– You only have to choose until it becomes a habit, said Tancred.
– That first step’s a big one, though.
– Are you worried you’re not going to be a good dad?
– Yes, I am, said Daniel. I’m glad it’s happening and all, but I don’t exactly feel mature.
– Baruch was about your age when you were born, wasn’t he? He did a pretty good job.
– It might surprise you to hear it, said Daniel, but Baruch wasn’t perfect.
Their conversation was cut short by the 63’s brakes: a strangled whinny.
– Later, said Daniel as he climbed onto the bus.
– Later, said Tancred.
He’d thought to walk straight home, but Daniel had reminded him about Ollie, and the thought of Ollie had brought thoughts of Willow. He had not seen her in days, but he was now willing to be convinced there was something about the mementos Robert Azarian had left his children. Willow had rented a storage space on Winnett just north of Vaughan. No, not a storage space – a well-lit, thousand-square-foot loft not far from a school. On a whim, as he watched the 63 take Daniel north, he decided to go to the loft. Perhaps, he thought, Willow would be there herself, examining the model of Fallingwater. He waited for the next 63 and when it came he sat by a window at the back.
Was it true that the city resembled its mayor? No, that was an exaggeration. The Victorian houses along Shaw, the grounds of the mental-health facilities (‘Queen Street Mental,’ as he’d always known it, though it was now camh), the restaurants and businesses on Queen then Ossington – they resembled no one man, no one group, no one place even. The city had been built by people from innumerable elsewheres. It was a chaos of cultures ordered only by its long streets. It belonged to no one and never would, or maybe it was three million cities in one, unique to each of its inhabitants, belonging to whoever walked its streets. Whatever the case, as Tancred watched it go by, he could not imagine himself anywhere but here. It did not disturb him to think that this was the only place he loved. It was home. But he did wonder whether it was the people or the place itself that made Toronto his. Or was home something stranger still – an idea or a feeling within him, one that could only be expressed by pointing to people and places?
Having walked to Winnett from Dufferin, Tancred turned on the lights in the loft. Willow was not around. Her screen was open to its fullest length. The model of Fallingwater was where he’d left it: beside the screen, on a wooden table Willow had bought for it. (The only furniture in the loft: three tables, an expensive easel, a futon, a fridge, a chair.) Seeing the Japanese screen and the model of Fallingwater side by side, Tancred at last understood why she believed they added up to something. They were odd in similar ways. You could feel that Mr. Azarian meant something by them, though what he meant was not possible to say. Not yet.
For a time, he stood looking at what he now thought of as two pieces of a map. There were three more to go.
4 An Unwanted Trip to Etobicoke
Colby and Freud had been spooked by Mandelshtam’s presence. Without a word, the two had walked by Tancred’s home and circled back to King Street. They hadn’t given up on talking to Tancred, though. They’d returned twice that day and then again in the evening. On all three occasions, they’d rung his doorbell and the doorbells of the other apartments in the house. No one had answered.
Colby knew of Willow’s death while Tancred, who was used to going days without hearing from her, did not even suspect it. Colby was afraid that Willow’s death left Tancred as the only one who knew as much, if not more, about the Azarian mementos as he did. Willow, in various phases of intoxication or sickness, had shared with Colby her conviction that a reward was there for whoever could interpret the mementos properly. He’d believed Willow’s story, and because he believed, he needed to know everything Tancred knew.
The following noon, Colby and Freud rang at Tancred’s door.
Seeing who was there, Tancred felt a wonderful calm. He could, he thought, take both men: Freud first, then Errol. He would have to inflict real damage in the quickest time possible. But if he did, he would not discover why they were there. No one had ever come for him like this before. Something was up and it was probably best to let them tell him what it was before breaking limbs or having limbs broken.
He stepped out.
– What do you two want? he asked.
– Oh! said Colby. It’s good to see you, Tancred. You know Freud, don’t you? And just so we’re on the same page: we all know how much you hate people bothering you at home. But we’re not here for ourselves. We’re only messengers. Mr. Armberg would like to see you. You know John Armberg, don’t you, Tan?
– I do, said Tancred. I’m surprised he sent dogs to fetch me.
Colby took this well.
– I wouldn’t say we were dogs, he said. Just messengers.
Tancred hesitated but curiosity again got the better of him. Given Colby’s presence, this get-together could only be about Willow, and he was perplexed at the thought that Armberg could be involved.
– I hear you, he said. So, let’s go then.
Mr. Armberg called himself a businessman but he liked to say that what he did was none of your business, even when it was your business. A friend of mobsters, bikers and pushers, he had a bit of a name but he was not as powerful as he imagined. He was what you might call middle management, and this rigmarole with Colby and Freud was proof of it. Powerful men didn’t send dealers for people like Tancred. There was no need. Tancred was a known commodity, someone whose services could be used: a man good at what he did, one who kept his word. Had Armberg been really dangerous, Tancred would have been more careful. Still, Armberg was connected enough that it was worth at least hearing what he had to say.
Then again, had he known the meeting was in Etobicoke, he’d have resisted. Etobicoke was soulless and shiny, an encroaching wasteland, a tree-barren edge of the world. Tancred sat unspeaking in the back of the car – a Volkswagen – beside Freud, who listened to Drake at such volume that ‘Headlines’ bled from his earbuds. Colby drove along Etobicoke’s version of Dundas: malls, tar, cement and glass.
Somewhere around Kipling, they turned onto another street and then into the parking lot of a tall building. It occurred to Tancred, as they were buzzed into the building, that they had entered a mausoleum: the fountain in the lobby a scene from some gruesome mythology – a dragon spraying water upward as a knight plunges his sword in the beast’s side – the lobby itself so pungent with chlorine his eyes stung as they crossed it.
As they entered Armberg’s apartment or office or whatever it was meant to be, Tancred was momentarily bewildered. The place was beyond crass. It was a Rona-catalogue version of luxury. To begin with, the floors were covered in white shag carpeting.
– You should take your shoes off, said Colby.
Then, all the tables in view were silver and glass – that is, soldered, silvery frames on which heavy panes of glass rested. On the walls there were paintings, their wooden frames carved into patterns of leaves. The paintings were reproductions of religious subjects: putti cuddling the infant Christ, angels hovering above the Virgin.
Colby led him into an office where, mercifully, the floor was varnished wood. They sat in silver-frame chairs with clear plastic backs and white cushions for seats. Before them was a desk – silver-framed, of course, with a thick glass desktop. Behind the desk, a chair very like the ones they sat in.
– How you doing, Nigger? said Armberg as he came into the office.
The man was somewhere under six feet, not particularly fat, though you could have called him paunchy if you were being critical. His skin was pale with reddish blotches beneath his chin and on his forehead. His hair had receded, but only a third of the way up his scalp, leaving something like
an inlet. Nor did he comb his hair over to hide where he was balding. His hair was cut short. What was not short was his moustache: a full walrus that was darker than the hair on his head. In principle, he was well-dressed – dark-blue Hugo Boss two-piece suit, white shirt, orange silk tie – but everything on him looked about half a size small, save his shoes – oxblood Hush Puppies – which looked incongruously wide. Overall, there was an off-kilter stylishness, a not-quite-style that Tancred found surreal.
– You’re Tancred? Armberg asked. Strange name, eh? Never mind. I heard you’re a stand-up guy. Even Nigger thinks so and I can’t tell if Nigger even likes you. You like him, Nigger?
– I haven’t had any trouble with him, said Colby.
– Well, it’s a start, said Armberg. Okay, that’s enough small talk. I invited you here, Palmieri, because we maybe have an interest in common. I’m saying, maybe, because now Willow Azarian’s dead, maybe things are changed.
This was the moment Tancred learned of Willow’s death. He showed no emotion but he briefly saw – of all things to recall – Willow raising a hand to cover her mouth as she bit into a chocolate doughnut.
Armberg continued.
– Nigger here’s told me everything about Willow Azarian, especially the business with what her father left her. I got to be honest: to me, it sounds like a fairy tale. But Nigger thinks it might be real. I heard a lot about Robert Azarian when he was alive. He wasn’t that cute, you know what I mean? Not the treasure-hunt type. So, I’m on the fence about all this. But the man had more money than chinks got Chins and if he didn’t leave all of it to his children, who else did he leave it to?
Tancred said nothing because there was nothing to say. Armberg was so obviously insincere, it would have been ridiculous to take him seriously. This was all a performance for his benefit, but it was not good, more comic than threatening. Armberg pulled out a cigar and lit it. He seemed to contemplate something as he drew on his Schimmelpenninck. He was not a gangster, thought Tancred. He was somebody’s idea of a gangster.
– We’re going to be partners, Tancred, you and me. It’s like we’re on an expedition, like looking for a sunken ship. You like that idea?
– Of course, said Tancred.
– You do? said Armberg. If you don’t mind me asking, why do you like it?
– Now that Willow’s dead, said Tancred, it’s good to know I’ve got someone who’ll put up the money I need to start my expedition.
– Money? said Armberg, What money? I’m not giving you money. Who knows if there’s anything to all this? This could all be a wet fart. Why am I going to give you money for that? You’re out of your mind.
– Then we’ve got nothing to talk about, said Tancred. Without money, I’m done.
Armberg again fell into a sort of reverie, puffing on his cigar. After a moment, he said
– I looked into you, Palmieri. I know what you’re about and I get it. This was a long shot, anyway. To tell you the truth, a man like me doesn’t have time for fairy tales. I’m only talking to you to keep Nigger happy. But I’ve got a sense of adventure. And I see your point about investment. You’ve got to give something to get something. I get that. So, just out of curiosity, what would it cost to start you off? Keeping in mind this could be pennies in a jar we’re talking about, this treasure.
Tancred looked the man in the face: crooked nose and large, brown eyes, the kind that must have been lovely when he was a child but now made him look as if he were part doe. Tancred was not for a moment interested in Armberg as a partner or associate.
– Fifty thousand dollars, he said.
Armberg took this in and thought about it.
– Is fifty thousand enough, he asked, or do you want to fuck my wife, too?
Behind Tancred, Freud and Colby laughed. But Armberg didn’t.
– That’s too much, he said. Too much.
– Without money, said Tancred, I’ve got no interest in this. And I’m not going to use my own.
– I think you do have an interest, said Armberg. And if you’re going to keep going, I want to be part of the expedition. So, I was thinking we’d just go old-school on this one. I was going to have the boys bring your friend … What’s his name?
– Olivier, answered Colby.
– That’s the guy, Armberg said. You two are always together. So, I’m guessing you wouldn’t want Freud here to slap your friend around. Am I right?
– You’re right, said Tancred.
– Good, said Armberg. We’re on the same page. So, let’s put it this way: of course, if you need a reasonable amount of money as a get-out-of-jail-free kind of deal, I’ll help out if I can. In exchange, whatever you find with this Azarian business, half of it’s mine. And because Nigger knows the story, I want you to consider him my emissary. You know what that means, right? From now on, he’ll be close to you. You find nothing, I won’t be disappointed. Things don’t always work out like we want. We’ll be all square, if you’ve been square with me. You understand me?
– I do, said Tancred.
– Good, good, said Armberg. Let’s shake on it.
– No, said Tancred, rising. I see where you’re coming from. That’s enough.
Armberg had already risen and put forth his hand.
– Shaking hands means we came to terms, he said. Haven’t we come to terms?
– I’ll let you know when I’ve got something to show you.
– Well, happy hunting then, Palmieri.
As he, Colby and Freud drove back to Parkdale, Tancred was not amused. Colby, who now sat in the back with him, would not stop talking. He was, it seemed, filled with enthusiasm for their project.
– We should stick to Willow’s idea, he said. We steal her brothers’ and sisters’ things and then we can figure this out. I feel good about this, Tan. No reason we can’t work together. Just tell me what you need.
Tancred kept quiet. He had wasted his time, learning nothing, save that Willow was dead and Armberg and Colby had no idea he’d already taken the model of Fallingwater. Then again, how would they know that? They were not the kind who had access to police reports. Armberg was – and here he remembered the man’s shoes – a clown.
– I’m sorry we had to do things this way, said Colby. But I knew you’d listen to John before you’d listen to me. Yeah?
– I need to think, said Tancred, about Willow.
– Oh, sure. No problem.
For a moment as they passed the Humber Bay Arch Bridge, Tancred wondered what his duty to Willow was, now that she was dead.
But Willow’s death changed nothing. If anything, it strengthened his resolve. He’d given his word. In the absence of any who could speak for Willow, in Willow’s absence, he had no choice but to keep it.
Beyond that, there were vaguer impulses and curiosities. He truly wondered about what lay at the end of Robert Azarian’s hunt. He did not think it could be money. Azarian’s children already had pots of cash. (Nor was he himself interested in it. Baruch had taught them to think of money as ‘the spoor of the ruling class,’ and some part of him still thought of it that way.) So what was it that Robert Azarian had sought to pass on?
His curiosity did not mean he’d leave Ollie hanging, however. As they drove along the lakeshore, Tancred decided to move into the loft on Winnett and ask Ollie to stay with him for a while.
5 Von Würfel Almost Deciphers Azarian
One of the many unusual things about Alexander von Würfel was that, technically speaking, he did not exist. He was the creation of Alex Luck, an artist born in London, England, in 1941. Coming to Toronto in 1968, the twenty-seven-year-old discovered a city in the throes of what was called a ‘youth movement.’ It was a time of explorations in poetry, art and music, a time when reinvention seemed not only possible but desirable. So, the young man from south London became a German artist who’d fallen on hard times. He wandered around Yorkville in a progressively rattier three-piece suit and a scratched-up monocle. He referred to himself as Alexander
von Würfel III, formerly of Mainz.
Alex Luck – who, at the invention of von Würfel, ceased somewhat to exist – had no idea he was an artist, but his alter ego took to the role with pleasure and passion. In the early seventies, von Würfel became what was called a performance artist, known for his ‘happenings.’ For instance, for two hours a day (from noon until two in the afternoon) he would hold up a large, freshly hand-painted sign that read
Wer sind Sie?
that is, ‘Who are you?’ in German – a language he did not actually speak. Von Würfel would hold the sign above his head whenever he was addressed or whenever a bus of tourists chanced to stop near him or, at other times of the day, when women in whom he had no interest asked him to say a few words so they could admire his accent – an English accent that he had, he said, acquired while studying at Oxford.
By dint of thinking about art and talking to other artists and living the life of an artist, Alexander von Würfel became an artist. Beginning with an awareness of how he painted cardboard signs, he progressed to the study of painting and sculpture. In the end, he finally saw in himself something that was there all along: great skill as a draftsman and the ability to stick with a project until it was done to his perfect satisfaction. By 1980, he had graduated from the Ontario College of Art, his paintings and installations were in group shows around town, he was respected by his peers and, of course, he was on the verge of starvation.
Ever practical – and having fathered four children (all girls) with four different women – von Würfel began to take commissions: portraits, landscapes in the style of A. J. Casson, still lifes in the manner of Lubin Baugin, canvases painted in colours that matched a living room, here, or a dining room, there. As he was good at this work and as he had no scorn for canvases done shocking orange (meant to set off the blue eyes of their owner), he soon had more work than he could manage. For a while, it even became fashionable to have von Würfel ‘do a little something’ for your home.
