by André Alexis
In any case, it was obvious that Simone had been the one most affected by the occasion. She never again listened to Glenn Gould as they had that evening, but during her adolescence he became a kind of shibboleth for her. She bought all of his records, wearing out several copies of the Goldberg Variations and The Well-Tempered Clavier, listening to them alone in her room, dressed all in white as was, in those days, her predilection.
Simone had assumed her father knew nothing about her passion for Glenn Gould. When she thought about it, when she considered that for years none could pass her room without hearing Gould playing, it was clear he’d have had to have been deaf not to know. Still, she’d thought her father too busy to notice her predilections. So, it had been enchanting, at the reading of his will, to discover that he’d kept this time in her life in mind. That said, it had been years since she’d listened to Glenn Gould. She’d worn out his recordings ages ago.
But if the Gould was proof of her father’s memory, the painting was something else. It was, at first glance and obviously, a depiction of the Emperor Nero Germanicus. But her father was teasing her. Simone, with her doctorate in history, could not have felt anything but amusement on seeing the violin in Nero’s hand. Nero, as the popular saying went, had ‘fiddled’ as Rome burned. But, of course, the fiddle had not yet been invented in Nero’s time. Nero, however, was not the most striking subject in the painting. Beside the emperor stood Marcus Valerius Messalla Corvinus. Corvinus’s likeness was fanciful. There were no faithful portraits or statues of the man in existence, but he was identifiable by the large raven perched on his shoulder. The raven was particularly well done, each feather clear from its pinions in. The bird was at rest, but it was also as if on the verge of flight. Obviously, it was a clue to something or part of a clue, Corvinus being the Latin for raven and Marcus Corvinus – known as Consul 58 – having assumed his consulate in Nero’s reign.
Of all the children, Simone was the one most likely to know these details. So, one could have said that the painting was as personal as the music, that it was meant for her. But the portrait of Marcus Corvinus was so obviously a clue to something, the painting became, in her mind, a thing not quite meant for her. The clue – the number 58 – was there for anyone to see or grasp, for anyone to use.
For anyone? No, not really. It was as if her father were playing a game not with her but through her, a game meant for Willow. She could not help resenting this evidence – she took it for proof – that Willow had been dearer to their father than she had. The painting being a clue, it turned the music into a clue as well: The Well-Tempered Clavier is, among musicologists, known as ‘the 48.’ So, her father’s memento could be reduced to numbers: 48, 58.
This teetering between the intimate and the impersonal was unpleasant. It made her feel unsure of the painting’s personal significance – as if her childhood had been ransacked for numerical correlatives – and, so, slightly unsure of her father’s affection. Each of the mementos must have aroused something similar in her siblings but, of course, each of them took it in his or her own way.
Willow, for whom the whole charade existed, had been enthralled, the proverbial optimist digging in horse manure to find the horse. Gretchen ignored the clues in her model of Fallingwater. She knew they were there, knew their significance, but she held to what was personal: she and her father in Pennsylvania. Alton, the eldest, was amused by the whole business. He took it as one of their father’s strange ideas, a flight of fancy. And though the poem he inherited bristled with personal significance, Alton refused to take it personally. Finally, there was Michael, whose memento – a bottle of aquavit – was a kind of rebuke.
A kind of rebuke? No, it was a rebuke pure and simple. Before going teetotal, Michael had gotten blackout drunk with some wealthy friends – or wealthy idiots, if you like – who’d got him on a private jet to Oslo and abandoned him there: naked, with a bottle of aquavit and a beach towel for succour. The experience was so traumatic that Michael gave up drinking for good. You could say his so-called friends inadvertently cured him of his drunkenness. Robert Azarian certainly thought so. But the bottle of Linie Aquavit he left his son was as much a reminder of humiliation as it was of salvation. Was there aquavit in the bottle? Was it meant as temptation? Michael never opened the thing to find out. And Simone was convinced he would not care if Tancred stole the bottle from him.
Simone sighed.
– I suppose these mementos are proof of my father’s brilliance, she said. All this: the things he left us being personal at the same time as they have some other use. It may not lead to much but it’s oh so brilliant.
– Willow …, said Tancred.
But Simone would not let him continue.
– No, she said. Willow was obsessed. I’m sure she was thinking about the treasure hunts we used to have as kids. Dad hid really great gifts. Alton found a gold bar one year. So, I think Willow just assumed these clues Dad left would lead to some fantastic thing. Poor Will. If she hadn’t been so messed up with drugs, she’d have got all the clues as easily as the rest of us. If I ever thought about doing heroin, all I’d have to do is think about Will and that’d be that.
Simone rose from the bed.
– So, she said. I’ve got to get going now.
– Thank you, said Tancred.
– Don’t mention it, said Simone. And good luck stealing my painting.
They were at the bottom of the stairs when Tancred said
– I’ve taken it already.
Simone turned her head back toward him, uncertain she’d heard him correctly. She was about to say, ‘What’s that?’ when she walked into the middle room and saw that her painting was gone. She stopped, almost mid-stride. Far from being upset, she was delighted. It was as if she were witness to some extraordinary legerdemain.
– How did you do that? she asked.
– I’m not sure, said Tancred.
– You have trade secrets! How wonderful! I still can’t see you stealing anything from Michael’s condo but – do you know? – I’m not as sure about that as I was a few minutes ago. I’ve got to report this theft of yours, Tancred. I don’t want my husband or my siblings thinking I’m in cahoots with you. I’m going to go out for a run. Then I’m going to call the police. I won’t tell them anything about you. But I expect my painting back and I expect it back soon.
Simone let him out the back door, locking it behind them.
– You’re an interesting young man, she said. I can see why my sister trusted you. She must have wanted to. But remember, Tancred, I’m not my sister.
4 Mandelshtam Suspects
And so, as Detective Mandelshtam was staring at the place where the portrait of Nero and Marcus Corvinus had been and an officer from 53 Division poked around the kitchen, Simone Azarian-Thomson brought Errol Colby in.
It would be difficult to say who, of Mandelshtam and Colby, was the more surprised.
– He’s working for charity, said Simone. Just like the man I was telling you about. Maybe they work for the same charity.
Mandelshtam said
– Tell me about this charity of yours, Errol. I’m fascinated by the new leaf you’re turning over.
Colby’s mind worked furiously to come up with a credible story. Any number of doubtful things came to him: that he was in the wrong home, that he had an appointment elsewhere, that he had only just begun this charitable work and was no good at it, that his conscience had led him to charitable work and he sincerely hoped he’d done nothing wrong. But then a kind of dignity overcame him. What had he done wrong? Nothing. He’d come into a woman’s home asking for money. Big deal. He hadn’t forced his way in. No money had changed hands.
– There’s nothing to tell, he said. I’m interested in buying this house and I was wondering about the price. I might have mentioned a charity so I could get a look around. But I didn’t do anything wrong. What are you going to do? Arrest me for house hunting?
– But my house isn’t for sale, said
Simone.
– Well, now I know, said Colby. Thank you.
He turned around and left the place, surprised that no one tried to stop him. He heard Willow’s sister say
– But ...
By which time he’d almost reached the front door.
Behind him, Mandelshtam lightly touched Simone’s arm.
– Is he the one who was here yesterday?
– No, answered Simone.
– Then don’t worry about him. I know where he lives. Let’s get back to the painting.
There were a number of reasons why Daniel did not mind Colby’s quick exit. To begin with, Colby was right. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He’d been invited into the home. Then, too, Daniel did know where to find Colby if he was needed. Finally, there was Simone Azarian-Thomson herself. Something was off where she was concerned. She had done everything she was supposed to do. She’d reported the theft and mentioned that her sister’s model of Fallingwater had also been stolen, suggesting there might be some connection between the thefts. It was thanks to this mention – and her status as an Azarian – that Daniel had been sent to investigate, though Rosedale was out of 14 Division’s district.
The two thefts almost certainly had something to do with each other. But about this connection, Simone Azarian-Thomson was, in person, strangely vague. It was as if on second thought she no longer found it significant that her and her sister’s mementos had been stolen. Though he couldn’t have said why exactly Daniel was convinced Mrs. Azarian-Thomson knew more than she was letting on. To his mind, it was even possible she knew the thief.
And there it was: another reason Daniel did not mind when Colby fled. Colby’s presence had immediately brought Tancred to Daniel’s mind and he suspected, without of course being certain, that Tancred had something to do with this Azarian business. It was an upsetting prospect: after his five years in the force, he might have to deal with Tancred in an official capacity. He might have to deal with his friend as he would any thief – impersonally, ruthlessly. It was not clear to him that he would be able to do this.
Had there been more to Mrs. Azarian-Thomson’s story, Daniel might have questioned her further. If he’d believed her story, he might also have explored her house more carefully. But he did not believe and, on top of that, her story was ridiculously basic: she had been in her room preparing to go out for a run. That was not three hours gone. She’d come down the stairs and noticed that her painting was missing. Nothing else had been taken. She was adamant about it. The painting and the painting alone.
She’d seen nothing, because she’d been on the second floor.
She’d heard nothing.
– You’re sure no one in your family ...
– I told you, Detective, my husband’s in Ann Arbor seeing a specialist. My sons are away at school. Sam’s at Columbia and Robert’s at Stanford. Anyway, none of them has ever cared about my painting enough to steal it or have it stolen. Someone broke in to take it and I was very lucky that whoever did this wasn’t interested in me or in anything upstairs.
– And you think it could be whoever stole your sister’s memento?
– How would I know that, Detective? It’s your job to tell me who took it.
– You don’t think there’s any connection?
– It’s not that, Detective. It’s that I don’t know. All I know is that someone stole my painting and someone stole my sister’s model of Fallingwater. If you think there’s a connection, I believe you. But I’m just telling you what I know. I was upstairs. I came down and my painting was gone.
– Thank you, said Daniel, for your time.
It wasn’t difficult to tell when someone was not being honest. Daniel had had a great deal of experience with liars. Though he could not exactly pinpoint a lie, he could feel its presence. It was like knowing there are mice in the house, though one hasn’t seen any, nor even their droppings. Occasionally, however, class complicated things. Certain members of the upper class behaved as if candour were something they hadn’t mastered. In those cases, it sometimes happened that a man or woman was not lying, though everything in their demeanour and tone suggested they might be. As Simone Azarian-Thomson was upper class, there was some doubt in Daniel’s mind. Was she hiding something or was she peremptory and defensive by habit?
Mrs. Azarian-Thomson had seemed determined to report a crime and she’d tried to do this with minimal involvement. She hadn’t been supercilious exactly, not like some in Rosedale who treated the police like liveried servants. But it felt as if she’d resented his questions, resented the small details he’d got out of her, resented the whole business, though she was determined to carry on. Her attitude had so struck him that Daniel decided to speak to his wife about it. Fiona – posh, London-born – might, he thought, have some inkling of why Azarian-Thomson had behaved as she had.
As it happened, that evening they had guests who helped bring the question up: Miguel Ferreira, his wife, Nira, and, unavoidably, their dog. Daniel had forgotten the Ferreiras were coming, but then they were not his friends. Nira and Fiona were close, having been at Cambridge together. He and Miguel, who worked in television, got along fine, but if it had not been for their wives there’d have been little incentive for them to hang out. Their interests were too different. Then there was the dog: a black poodle. Nira was as attentive to the creature’s moods as if it had been a close cousin or an old friend. (She had first named the dog Jim but, after a time, its ‘real name’ – Majnoun – had come to her. Or so she claimed and, to his credit, even her husband rolled his eyes at this.) Daniel found Nira’s attitude toward the dog pretentious. But the dog itself was impeccably well-trained.
That’s not to say that the Ferreiras’ company was a burden. It wasn’t. Nira, copy editor that she was, was a fount of stories about writers and, above all, poets. It was amusing to imagine that poets might be, as Nira called them, the country’s ‘unacknowledged legislators.’ It brought to Daniel’s mind the curious idea that Toronto might have been different if it had managed to produce different poets. What would the city have been if it had made Robert Frost or Emily Dickinson? Could it have elected Rob Ford if it had been home to Sylvia Plath or John Donne? Then, too, what was Toronto that Gwendolyn MacEwen should be its legislator and conscience?
(Daniel had seen her once when he was a boy. Baruch, who’d admired poets since reading Mayakovsky when he was a boy, had pointed MacEwen out to him: a thin woman, birdlike, riding a clunky bike along Brunswick, her face pale, her hair greying. To Daniel, she’d seemed both noble and mysterious. Did his city derive its secret sense from her? But what remained most vivid, what moved him now that Baruch was gone, was the surprise he’d felt at his father’s belief that poets meant something. And although, even in reverie, ‘poet’ was too fussy an occupation for him, he wondered if it was not from this fleeting encounter with MacEwen that he began to imagine what it might be like to write novels, say, or a memoir.)
After Nira had told a story about a poet and after Miguel had quipped his usual quip about copy editors being the unacknowledged legislators of the unacknowledged legislators, Daniel said
– What about some of the acknowledged legislators?
– Like who? asked Fiona. Politicians?
– No, said Daniel, the rich.
– You sound like your father, Fiona said.
Which was true, as Baruch could never resist talking about the rich.
– There’s no such thing as ‘the rich,’ said Nira. What rich are you referring to? Those born with money? Those who are wealthy through enterprise? The wealthy from Hong Kong? From Russia? How about the criminal rich? Those who are rich on the black market and have to hide their money? Toronto has all of them.
– Yes, said Daniel, but I’m trying to say that someone like Robert Azarian had more real influence than someone like Margaret Atwood ever could.
– I’m not sure that’s true, said Nira. Money does what it wants to, irrespective of who owns it. When Mr. Azarian di
ed, his money went on without him. Anyway, Atwood is rich, isn’t she?
– I know you have trouble believing this, Fiona said, but the rich aren’t that powerful.
Miguel smirked but held his tongue. They’d had this conversation before, any number of times. He and Daniel inevitably ended up arguing for the authority of the rich, while their wives – both born into wealth – pointed to the political influence of the poor.
– Allie Azarian was in my class at uts, said Nira.
– You knew her? asked Daniel.
– I know her, said Nira, even if I don’t see her as often as I’d like.
– Was Robert her father?
– No, Alton’s her father.
– What’s the family like? asked Daniel.
Nira thought about it before answering. Her poodle sat up beside her, tilting his head to one side, staring at Daniel.
– I like them, she said, but they’re very intense. They play old-fashioned games like Botticelli and they used to have incredible treasure hunts, but they’re super-competitive. The first time I was at Allie’s, Allie and her brother got into a fight because they lost to their mom and dad at Botticelli. They were shouting at each other because Allie didn’t know who Telly Savalas was. I still remember it. Allie was red in the face, she was so angry. I never would have guessed. At school, she never raised her voice. But she hated losing to her brother or her parents. On the other hand, they’re the most generous people I’ve ever met. Once he knew I was Allie’s friend, Mr. Azarian was very kind. He invited me for Christmas Eve one year, and they’d bought a present for me so I wouldn’t feel left out: a gold necklace with a ruby pendant, because ruby is my birthstone, apparently. Very thoughtful and extravagant and sweet. I miss them, actually.
