The Hidden Keys

by André Alexis

  – If, said von Würfel, you call me next time you see him and you keep him busy till I get there, I’ll give you two hundred dollars. Would that make it worth your while?

  – Oh, yeah, that’d do ’er, for sure, said Delmer.

  And the following afternoon when Tancred returned to get another look at the mausoleum in case he’d missed a mark or sign, Delmer was there to meet him. Well, not meet, exactly. Distract is more like it. No sooner did Tancred leave the mausoleum than Delmer was at his side.

  – G’day, g’day, said Delmer, it’s good to see you again, buddy. I spend most of my time here, eh, and you don’t see the same person twice. Not wheres I’m concerned.

  Politely, Tancred said

  – I don’t have time to stay and talk.

  – Oh, Delmer said, no one’s got time for oldsters these days. It’ll happen to you one day, son. You’ll be old and grey and good luck gettin’ anyone to pay attention t’ you when you’re on your last legs.

  – You’re dying? asked Tancred.

  – Yes, sir, son. I’m goin’ t’ be six feet under in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. That’s why I’m spendin’ time around here. A man’s got to be down in the worst dumps to hang around here, I’ll tell you. I’m dying for sure, son, and it won’t be long now. Six weeks is all they give me. And I can’t help wonderin’ what it’s goin’ to be like when I’m gone and all this is goin’ on without me. You ever thought about that, son? I’m not sayin’ you should be thinkin’ about it. You’re still wet behind the ears. But the time’ll come for you, too, and young people won’t want to hear about it any more’n you do.

  Tancred was not convinced Delmer was dying faster than anyone else, but he would rather have been played for a fool than to have been cruel to someone in need of company.

  – If you don’t mind my asking, he said, what’re you dying of?

  – Oh, I can’t say’s I mind you askin’, son, if you’re sure you want to hear about it.

  Delmer left him no time to consider the matter. Before Tancred knew it, a half-hour had gone and Delmer had only just got to the story of how his father – Bruce McDougal – had inherited a piece of land in Renfrew. Well, just outside of Renfrew, actually, a ways beyond where the Walmart now stands, not that there was a Walmart when Delmer was young, because when Delmer was young what there was was mostly cows and fields, and winter was for seeing how far you could fling cow patties if you’d been drinking, which, be it said in passing, was not a good thing to do outside in winter, because a man could freeze to death in the blink of an eye, if he’d been drinking and throwing cow shit around without a warm place nearby.

  Tancred felt almost palpable relief when, as Delmer was wittering on about ‘the Valley,’ an older man approached and touched Delmer’s arm.

  – How’re you doing, Delmer? the man asked.

  – Well, Mr. van Warmer, said Delmer, I’m not doin’ so well, eh?

  Alexander von Würfel turned to Tancred and introduced himself.

  – I know we don’t know each other, he said, but could I speak to you a moment?

  – I don’t have time, said Tancred. Your friend here’s been telling me all about his childhood.

  As if offended, Delmer said

  – You’re the one who asked about it, son, but I know when I’m not wanted. You don’t have to say nothin’ twice for my sake.

  He turned his back and walked off in the direction of the office, though he didn’t go that far. Rather, he theatrically examined a few of the graves just beyond the Weidens’.

  Von Würfel turned away from Delmer and quietly said

  – It’ll only take a minute. I’d just like to ask if you’re looking for the same thing I’m looking for. I mean, where the Weidens are concerned.

  – What are you looking for? Tancred asked.

  It felt – to von Würfel – as if he were suddenly obliged to irrevocably choose between a discretion that would keep doors closed and an honesty that might open them too wide. His inclination was to secrecy, always, and even here it occurred to him to keep certain details to himself. But he had closed the door on Willow Azarian and that had led to this impasse. If he were to go further, he needed to know about the fifth piece of the puzzle. He did not know if Tancred could tell him anything about it, but secrecy and discretion would lead him precisely nowhere.

  – I’ll be honest with you, he said, because I don’t want to waste your time. I think there’s some sort of secret mixed up in these graves. I’ve put some clues together and this is the place they lead to. Of course, I could be wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  For a moment, the men looked at each other. Then, Tancred said

  – So, you got Delmer to keep me here till you came?

  – Yes, I did, said von Würfel. Yes, I did. He’s been keeping an eye out for me, to see if anyone would come around. But no one has. No one but you. Not even any Weidens.

  Tancred did not trust von Würfel, but he felt sympathy for a man who was, it seemed, going through a similar struggle to understand Robert Azarian. Then, too, he wanted to know how von Würfel had come to the Weiden mausoleum.

  – We might be looking for the same thing, he said.

  So it was that the two men, both warily honest, stood in Mount Pleasant, yards from where some sort of thing was meant to be hidden in some sort of way.

  Von Würfel lived on Seaton Street not far from Dundas, in a Victorian house, part of a row of Victorian houses. It’s here that he took Tancred, rather than to his shop.

  In contrast to Von Würfel’s Animals and Birds, his home was unremarkable. It was spare, almost Spartan. Here the walls were pale yellow, the trim pale green. The furniture was both rough and elegant: darkly stained wood with white cushions (sofa) or (for the most part) no cushioning at all. Von Würfel’s back was too temperamental to take soft surfaces. Even his mattress was hard to the point where, inevitably, the women who slept with him complained about it in the morning.

  – Would you like some tea? asked von Würfel.

  And having brewed a pot of lapsang souchong – the smell of it like a damp dog by a dead campfire – he brought Tancred to the dining room where, on a long wooden table, the plans for the four pieces he’d made for Robert Azarian were laid out. Beside each of the plans was a version of the object it delineated. Looking at the table, Tancred briefly felt as if he were dreaming. The model of Fallingwater was identical to the one he’d stolen. The painting of Nero was as if altered – its colours more vivid, the smell of the paint more pungent, Nero taller, the raven fatter, Gould’s piano softer – but it was remarkably similar to Simone’s original. And, of course, as far as Tancred could tell, the bottle of aquavit and the setting for the poem were identical to the originals, both having been done to specifications Azarian had set out.

  As if to allay any doubts, von Würfel said

  – These are as close to the originals as I can get them.

  He then told Tancred the story of his involvement with Azarian and how, after a visit from an albino and a limping, unpleasant man, he’d accepted what he’d suspected from the moment Azarian had commissioned the mementos: the pieces were meaningful. They had significance as a group. Together, the four meant something. More lucidly than Simone had, von Würfel went through the significance of each object, explaining each one’s numerical correlative. For his solution, von Würfel had unwittingly ordered the mementos according to the Azarians’ ages, from the poem meant for the eldest (Alton), down to the aquavit meant for the second youngest (Michael). When Tancred told him so, the man was delighted. It was, he said, further proof of Robert Azarian’s subtlety.

  Faced with such candour and enthusiasm – and accepting the fact that von Würfel knew at least as much as he did – Tancred was in his turn candid. He told von Würfel all that he knew, including the personal significance of Simone’s painting and Willow’s screen. He also told von Würfel what the siblings thought the pieces meant: that they, Robert’s children, should rem
ain close, that in Babylon it is the idea of home that brings comfort.

  – Do you think that’s what the mementos lead to? von Würfel asked.

  – I’m not sure what to believe, answered Tancred.

  – If we go by what’s written on the floor of the mausoleum, that solution makes sense. But it feels to me there’s more to this. For one thing, it’s a game a father’s playing with his children.

  – Mostly for Willow’s sake, said Tancred.

  – Yes, said von Würfel, but it’s a strange game for a father to play. I think it tells you a lot about Robert Azarian. He must have loved each one of his children, if each of these things has the same kind of meaning the painting has for Simone. But why would he want to keep something valuable from them? Why withhold money or jewels or what-have-you? You can’t be generous and miserly at the same moment, can you?

  – It would be hard, said Tancred, but isn’t it strange that Simone let me take her painting?

  – That’s not so strange, answered von Würfel. It means there’s at least one more who isn’t convinced the solution is what’s written in the mausoleum. Do you think I could see the ones you have, Tancred? Especially Willow’s screen. It’s the missing link, for me.

  Tancred hesitated.

  – I made a promise, he said. Anything I find, most of it goes to Willow’s brothers and sisters. I’m only entitled to Willow’s share, however much or little that is.

  – I see what you’re saying, said von Würfel.

  He drank his tea, quietly contemplating his options.

  – Do you know, he said, by this point, I’m mostly interested in the solution to all this, the real solution, if there is a real solution.

  Tancred was now at yet another impasse. On his own, he was unlikely to solve anything. He had returned to the cemetery out of frustration as much as anything else. But if he were to show von Würfel Willow’s screen, and if von Würfel solved the puzzle, the man might well keep the solution to himself. On the other hand, if there was a convincing solution to the puzzle and von Würfel found it and shared it, it would free him from the second part of his task.

  – I can give you some of my share, said Tancred. The rest isn’t negotiable. If you agree, I’ll show you the screen.

  Von Würfel smiled, recognizing himself in Tancred’s dilemma.

  – It’s hard to take on a partner so late in the game, isn’t it? he asked. But I don’t want much. How does 10 percent sound? I mean, if we find anything. I’m beginning to think this could all be a lot of fuss over nothing. I’ll have a better idea once I’ve seen Willow’s screen.

  But Willow’s screen did not give up its secrets so easily.

  Von Würfel had built the thing up in his mind. He assumed that this piece would make sense of all the others. It had to. Willow’s screen, the final piece, had to take you to the ‘treasure’ or, at very least, reveal the hidden significance of the Weidens’ resting place.

  From Tancred’s description, von Würfel had anticipated the look and feel of the screen. He’d assumed it would feature a poor painting of a bridge, done by some amateur or other. But the thing itself was breathtaking, as if it had come straight from the seventeenth century: the willows’ leaves a delicate cascade of pale green (in the first panels), turning darker (in the last panels); the golden bridge gleaming over waves of silvery water in which golden stones clustered; the golden shore, above which a coppery moon. It was proper meisho-e, the painting of a famous scene – in this case, the bridge that joined Kyoto and Nara, a bridge on which von Würfel himself had once stood.

  The screen was not from the seventeenth century. It would not have gleamed in quite the same way if it had been, and the orange paper backing would not have been quite so crisp. But whoever had done it knew what they were doing, had mastered the style of Japanese painting. In and of itself, the screen was valuable, easily worth thousands of dollars. Von Würfel found it disappointing that anyone but him should have done it so well, but he comforted himself with the thought that, whoever the artist had been, he or she was almost certainly Japanese. As well, he could not help thinking that Azarian had purposely gone about it so that no one artist had access to all the pieces, no one artist had access to the solution.

  He’d been staring at the screen for some time when Tancred interrupted his reverie.

  – Does it tell you anything? Tancred asked.

  – Not really, said von Würfel. It’s a lovely piece of work. I’m sorry Robert didn’t ask me to do it. But yes, it obviously points to Psalm 137. Still, what aspect of the psalm are we supposed to think of? What’s the connection between the psalm and the bridge?

  – The river and the willows, said Tancred.

  And because he knew it by heart, he spoke Psalm 137 aloud:

  By the rivers of Babylon there we sat down, yea we wept when we remembered Zion.

  We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.

  For they that carried us away captive required of us a song and they that wasted us required of us mirth saying sing us one of the songs of Zion.

  How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?

  If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning.

  If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth;

  if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy,

  Remember, O Lord, the children of Edom

  in the day of Jerusalem who said Raze it, raze it, even to the foundations thereof.

  O daughter of Babylon, who art to be destroyed;

  Happy shall he be that rewardeth thee as thou hast served us.

  Happy shall he be that taketh and dasheth thy little ones against the stones.

  – The river, the willows and the stones, said von Würfel.

  – And then there’s the number 137 to think about, said Tancred.

  – That, too, said von Würfel. There’s that, too.

  1 Errol Colby Goes Too Far (Conclusion)

  The encounter with Detective Mandelshtam had ended in Errol Colby’s favour. Or so Colby saw it. He’d had a narrow escape, and other men might have taken the slightness of the escape for proof that more caution was warranted. But Colby was encouraged by his victory, enflamed even. He felt as if his escape proved his cause was just and, feeling justified, he was incensed that Tancred had forced him to try to steal from the Azarians, outraged that his plan had not worked, offended that he’d been condescended to by a rich woman and questioned by Mandelshtam, one of Palmieri’s friends.

  But, just cause or not, Colby found himself in the same place he’d been: on the sidelines as Tancred went about the business of finding a reward that belonged to him, Errol Colby. Spurred by his recent good fortune, he resolved to do what he now felt he should have done at once. He – with Freud – would administer a beating on Olivier Mallay. They would send a message to Tancred: co-operate or your friends will suffer.

  Having made the decision, Colby thought of a few modest constraints. They could not, for instance, kill Mallay. It was important that Tancred should co-operate, not seek revenge. So, he would, he thought, have to keep watch on Freud. The man so enjoyed hurting others it sometimes went to his head, especially if he thought he was being inconvenienced. Colby had seen him kick a junkie so often and so hard the man had ended up in hospital for weeks. Why had Freud gone at him? Because the idiot had complained about his count, a count that had been short. And what use was there for a hospitalized junkie? None, none whatsoever. And Freud’s reaction to his own carelessness? A shrug.

  – Shit happens, Nigs, he’d said.

  It would be his duty to see that, at least on this occasion, shit did not. Once they’d got what they needed out of Tancred? Different story. He could think of few things that would please him as much as helping to cripple Tancred Palmieri. Still, best to save that pleasure for its proper time. First things first: get Tancred’s attention.

  The easy part was finding Mallay’s home. A number of peop
le – well, a number of regulars at the Coffee Time – knew Tancred’s friend and found him memorable because they’d often seen him with Tancred. Knowing his first name and that he worked at a bakery in Bloor West Village, it took Colby and Freud little time to find the man’s home. How? A woman at the third bakery they tried said

  – Olivier? Why don’t you try his home?

  – Do you remember his address? Freud asked.

  She did remember his address. And gave it to them! The man lived in a house on Runnymede with his parents, fifteen minutes from the bakery itself. Once they’d found the place, however, things got progressively more frustrating.

  To begin with, Colby and Freud rang the doorbell and were answered by a woman with thick glasses, her hair dark with a skunk-like streak of white.

  – Who is it? she asked

  as if mistaking her front door for a telephone.

  – Is Olivier there? said Freud.

  – Olivier? said Mrs. Mallay. No, Olivier’s not home.

  From somewhere inside the house, there came a faint voice.

  – Qui est là, Mathilde?

  Almost to herself, Mrs. Mallay said

  – Je n’sais pas, moi.

  And then asked who they were.

  – We’re Olivier’s friends, said Freud. Where is he?

  – I don’t know, she said. Il n’est pas nourrisson quand même.

  With which words she closed the door, leaving them on the front porch.

  Freud was put off by her curtness. But the real irritant was the weather. It was cold. They had come in the Volkswagen Colby habitually borrowed from his sister. They’d parked across the street from the Mallays’ home and they’d been prepared to wait for hours, but they hadn’t reckoned on the cold or on how eccentric the Volkswagen’s heating could be. When it was on, it scorched the air in the car, threatening to drive them out. They were comfortable neither in nor out of the car. After four hours of this irritation, Colby suggested Plan B. They’d waited for the man. It was time to rough up Mom and Dad a little and call it a day.

  If the suggestion had come from Freud, Colby would have rejected it. He might even have suggested they return some other time with a better car. But in his own mind they had done the honourable thing, waiting for hours so they wouldn’t have to hurt Mallay’s parents. And given that Olivier’s parents were older, it was less likely that Freud would allow himself to lose control. It was one of Freud’s virtues that he deferred to the elderly. This was no doubt because Freud’s own parents were ancient. His mother had had him, her only child, at fifty. To his mother and father, he was a miracle and they doted on him in a way Colby found amusing.