by André Alexis
The temperature had fallen. It was now so cold that even Ollie, who did not like to acknowledge the seasons, wore mittens.
Of course, it was also possible that Ollie was wearing mittens because they were the last pair his mother had made for him. Mrs. Mallay had been a persistent but indifferent knitter and, all his life, Ollie’s mittens had looked like hybrids of tuning forks and pot holders. Not that this had ever made the slightest difference to Ollie. His love for his mother being, as he called it, ‘unexceptional,’ his affection for her ‘by-products’ could not be considered exceptional either. Though many had tried, it was impossible to tease him about his mittens or any such thing.
Runnymede was like an abandoned street as they walked, without destination, toward St. Clair. The Christmas lights on the houses and evergreens made it seem as if the world were quietly confident of some great thing. But to Tancred, the many lights – blinking in sequence or constantly shining – stopped time in its tracks, one Christmas being like any other.
– I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, he said. It depends what I find. A week, most likely.
– Freud decided to shoot you, Ollie said. I understand you running at him. I’d have done the same thing. Why not face death if it’s coming? It just happened to be Freud’s death, not yours. What could you do about that, Tan?
– It’s not like I ran over a dog, Ollie.
– It’s not like you killed anyone. Freud did something unexpected. The gun did something unexpected. You did something unexpected. And he died. Nine times out of ten, you run at someone with a gun, you die. This was time number ten. It’s okay to feel guilty, because you are who you are. But you’re wrong to think you caused Freud’s death, even if you did cause it.
– That doesn’t make sense, said Tancred.
– Sure it does, said Ollie. You were the instrument, that’s all.
– Whose instrument?
– No one can say that, Tan. If there’s a god, you were god’s instrument. If there’s no god, you were chance’s. I don’t know why people don’t worship chance. It’s as powerful as any of the gods and it doesn’t need money, doesn’t punish, doesn’t care what you eat on Friday. I’m not a believer, but if I was going to be, I’d worship chance. You could have churches that look like dice.
Despite his mood, Tancred smiled. He briefly imagined a white, square church with a on its side. The idea was absurd, incongruous and maybe unholy, but it was also appropriate. It was exactly the kind of church Ollie would frequent.
– I’ll keep an eye on your apartment, Ollie continued. And if you think you’re not coming back for a while, I’ll just bring everything here.
– You sure your dad’d be okay with that?
– My dad? My dad’s waiting to die.
– That’s terrible, said Tancred.
– Why? Ollie asked. He loved my mom. It’d be weird if he didn’t want to die. Anyway, all I’m saying is he’s got other things on his mind. He wouldn’t notice even if I put all your stuff in our kitchen.
4 A Palace in Montreux
The man who walked the streets the following morning was not the man who’d spent hours drinking tea with Olivier the night before. For one thing, it occurred to Tancred that he did not know who, if anyone, was after him or what they might be after him for: questions about Freud’s death or Colby’s arrest or even the theft of the black diamond. Although he was booked on a flight from Montreal to Geneva – as close as one could get to Montreux – he wasn’t sure it was wise for him to leave.
The biggest change in Tancred was that he now knew for certain he was not a man who could kill without remorse. Or was it, rather, that he could not kill Freud without remorse?
His flight left from Montreal at six in the evening.
At six in the morning, he left Ollie – his friend nodding off in an armchair – and went down to the lake, walking along the shore in an effort to recover some sense of normalcy, the lake being a good companion in troubled times. It was its winter self – gunmetal grey, the water quietly shushing as it brought its small warmth to shore. Tancred suddenly wondered what it would be like if he never saw Lake Ontario again. Not just its water, waves and stone breakers, but all the ways the sight of it made him feel, the things it evoked. This morning, for instance, walking by the shore was like biting into a hard apple while someone held open the door to a fridge full of rotting plants.
But he saw the lake again that same day.
He had decided sometime before to take the train to Montreal, there being no direct flights to Geneva from home. He had his train ticket already. So, he went by rail. Five mournful hours. His views of the lake were a kind of peekaboo: the water – ruffling, greyish-blue with smooth stones beside it – disappearing behind buildings or towns, appearing again briefly here and there, in the distance, before going away for good somewhere east of Kingston.
A curious coincidence: the train from Geneva to Montreux seemed, at times, an iteration in a different key of the trip to Montreal. For long stretches, the train ran beside the greyish water of Lake Geneva. The lake would disappear, then reappear farther along. Despite the similarity, however, the trip from Geneva to Montreux was like the beginning of an erasure. The ‘old world’ – its buildings, the Alps beyond the shore, the houses like chalets – was unlike anything he knew. It was, in theory, beautiful, but it did not move him. It obscured – in his mind – the place from which he’d come.
On his arrival in Montreux, the world seemed endlessly grey, not just because the sky was overcast but because he could barely stay awake. And although he wanted nothing more than to open box 742015 at the Crédit Suisse, he went straight to his rooms on the sixth floor of Fairmont Le Montreux Palace and slept for ten hours straight, waking too late to visit the bank.
(He dreamed the same dream over and over. He and Freud Luxemberg were on a train from Geneva. They were having a conversation about sugar, a conversation so vivid that, each time Freud said the word sugar, Tancred’s mouth watered as if he were biting into the pith of a sugar cane. As they spoke, Tancred found it unsettling that Freud’s head was in such darkness that it was, effectively, hidden. Then, when the train stopped in Gare de Montreux, Freud refused to get off. It was only then Tancred saw that Freud’s neck was broken and his head lay almost sideways, his temple flat on his shoulder. Embarrassed to see Tancred looking at him, Sigismund Luxemberg retreated to the shadows and said
– See you later, Tan.)
That night, Tancred ate a hamburger at the hotel’s American-style bar before returning to his room, turning on the television and falling into a deep sleep punctuated by bursts of jazz.
Montreux was, for all intents and purposes, a way station. From the window of his room, he had what might be called a magnificent view: the grey lake, the snow-topped Alps, the clean streets of the city. Yet it felt to Tancred as if he were stuck in a postcard. It was all repulsively quaint. He felt the heaviness of his body. It was a relief to do his one duty: go to the bank, extract whatever was in box number 742015 and go somewhere – not home – for a time.
At the Crédit Suisse, there were no difficulties. He was shown to the safety deposit boxes. The key fit perfectly, and from the narrow, silvery compartment he took five black-leather envelopes, each bound to a white envelope by a coppery clasp. Tancred chose not to open the envelopes in the bank. He put all of them in the pocket of his coat and returned to his room where, on a desk at which a famous writer had, it seemed, written famous books, he opened each of the envelopes in turn.
He was surprised by what he found, neither pleased nor displeased. In each of the black envelopes there was a bank book and in each of the five accounts there were one hundred million American dollars. Along with each bank book, there was a bank card and for every bank card a pin printed on a square of thick yellow paper. In each of the white envelopes, there was a letter addressed to one of the Azarians by their father. Willow’s was the only letter of any length, though. It was three pages long,
written in an almost conspicuously precise hand.
Willow had reckoned that the amount her father left his children had been short a billion dollars. She’d been wrong, but Tancred imagined she would not have cared about her overestimation. By coming to Montreux, Tancred had inherited a hundred million dollars, an almost inconceivable amount to one who had little interest in money or possessions. Even minus the ten million he would give to Alexander von Würfel – if von Würfel wanted it, the amount being awkward to declare or to hide – it was more money than Tancred knew what to do with. Out of curiosity, he went down to the lobby of the Fairmont Le Montreux Palace, put Willow’s bank card in an automated teller and withdrew five thousand Swiss francs. The machine dispensed his money, then asked if he wished to do anything else. When he did not, it returned his card with an officious click.
Not knowing what to do with the money but needing some proof that it was real, Tancred bought a cup of coffee and a croissant at the hotel’s café. He left a twenty-franc tip for the waiter and returned to his room. Numb from all he’d been through, he did not know what or how to feel. Relieved? Perhaps. Happy? No. Happy for Willow then? Yes, because although she was not there to live it, Tancred’s discovery meant that of all Robert Azarian’s children, she’d been the one he had trusted most, despite her addiction.
Robert Azarian admitted as much in his letter:
My Dearest Willow,
Though I am no longer with you as you read these words, I want you to know that you have always been in my thoughts and that I love you. None of your siblings will take this treasure hunt as seriously as you. I’ve taken pains to see that they do not. I have written this letter to you, confident that you will be the one to find the funds in these five accounts.
I imagine you will have a number of questions for me. Nothing would make me happier than to answer them all. But I will limit myself to the ones you may not be able to answer on your own.
Why have I created this final hunt?
Because, my poor Willow, I have been worried about you. I know you have done your best to hide your sickness, but how could I not know my daughter is dependent on drugs? We have spoken about these things. There is no need to rehearse our conversations. In the end, I did all of this because I hope it will take your mind off your heroin or your alcohol or whatever it is you have turned to. If you are reading this letter, then you have found the clarity I have hoped you would attain.
Why have I left so much money?
These past few years, I have seen that my children have all done well – even Michael – and that they have all the money they need. Alton has been a great success. I am proud of him. But I have long felt that more money would only give you all more headaches. I am proud of what I have accomplished, Willow. But I have made more money than any man needs and I worry that all of this will make you children miserable.
I have given much to charity, because I believe those who have have a duty to those who do not. We’ve spoken of this, you and I. But the funds in these accounts represent money about which I cannot come to a decision. I have hesitated between charity and my children.
Your brothers and sisters would, I believe, take the money without thinking about the consequences. But money has never mattered to you. That is why I want you to decide what to do with it. If you are thinking straight enough to find these accounts, you will be thinking straight enough to decide how they should be dealt with. I have no preference. If you decide to give your brothers and sisters their share, I will be happy. If you decide to give some their share and leave others without, I will be happy. If you decide to give everything to the grand-children, I will be happy. If you decide to give it all to charity, I will be happy. I have left letters for Alton, Gretchen, Simone and Michael to the effect that you are the only and final arbiter of the five hundred million dollars in these five accounts.
There is no way you can disappoint me. Do as you see best.
It is my hope, Will, that you’ll have enjoyed this little puzzle. I can just imagine you annoyed when you realize you could have solved this without the help of your siblings’ clues! Did you discover the meaning of my a(ա)? It was redundant. So, I am willing to bet you did not!
(Here is another hint: the ա rhymes with origin!)
I want you to know, my dearest Will, that I have worried about you, as any father worries about a child in need. I never wanted my worries to be a burden. Perhaps I was wrong to keep them to myself. In my life, my only regret is that I have not been a better father to you.
All my love,
Dad
On reading this – and after looking at the notes Robert Azarian had left for his other children – Tancred was overcome by disappointment. How banal that at the end of his (and Willow’s) search there were dollars: no enlightenment, no truth, nothing noble. What a tiresome way to learn again that all earthly journeys end in earthly things. Then, too, what was he to do with a hundred million dollars? The amount was overwhelming to someone who knew how to live without much. It might as well have been play money.
Willow’s wishes had been clear. He was to give whatever he found to her siblings. Would she have felt the same after reading her father’s letter, he wondered. He could see the truth of her father’s thinking: Alton most certainly did not need another penny. And he understood why Robert Azarian had discouraged his son from looking for more of it. More complicated was the thought of what might happen when he sent the money to Willow’s siblings. In his letters to Alton, Gretchen, Simone and Michael, Robert Azarian let his children know that he had deliberately left the decision about their inheritances to Willow, that her decision about it was his. But they would question the disappearance of Willow’s share, wouldn’t they? Alton had got himself in knots over the money Willow had left him in her will: fifteen million, the amount he’d seen on her bank statement. Alton’s knots would have more gnarls and ramifications if he knew that Tancred would decide what to do with Willow’s share.
But Alton’s feelings were none of Tancred’s business. He’d done everything Willow had asked of him. He would do this, too, and deal with Alton – or any of the others – later, if he had to. For now, there was only one question: where to go. When he thought of destinations, the word débousollé came to him – literally, to be without a compass. Not only confused or disoriented, but with no direction.
For days, he stayed in Montreux, staring at the mountains, trying to imagine a place – a place other than home – that would suit him, a place from which he might find the way home.
5 Antæus
Tancred chose Key West for two reasons. First, he remembered Willow’s stories of being a child on Grinnell Street. So, Key West, at least, was connected to someone he’d cared for. Then, too, Key West was in North America. He could eat the things he was used to.
But he was in exile and it was even more painful than he’d thought it would be. He longed for his friends, for places, for a host of things: roti at Ali’s, the fairgrounds of the cne, the feeling of being on the 504 and on the way home, standing where King, Queen, the Queensway and Roncesvalles converged and trying to guess which would come first, the King car or the Queen car. A thousand memories and impressions came to him. Toronto became more real to him, more vital, the longer he was away.
Why stay away, then? Why not return and face the consequences of his actions? He hadn’t murdered Freud. Freud had tried to murder him. Why should he end up in exile for doing what any creature would have done in his place?
That was the question and he could not answer it.
He could not answer it and then, while walking toward the ocean one day, he remembered the voice of Mrs. Luxemberg calling her son home from her doorway, her accent, the lilt of it.
– Siggy! Siggy! Komm Heim, mein Schatz!
It was a terrible thing to recall, but it brought Tancred to the edge of an understanding. He and Freud were connected not only by Freud’s death. They were connected by something deeper – anger, resentment. But whereas
Freud had attacked and hurt people face to face, he had buried his frustrations. In silence and darkness, he had got back at those he could not see, who could not see him.
The worst of it was that, for all these years, he had hidden his own emotions from himself with noble ideas, with ideals he had inherited from Baruch and from the shady world he’d found hospitable: the rules of his trade, the desire to defend those he could, a code of honour. He had used strong principles and fidelity to blind himself.
In killing Freud Luxemberg, he had, from a certain angle, killed a version of Tancred Palmieri.
And yet he was not dead.
One night, he was sitting at a restaurant called Azur. He’d just got the menu when he heard the couple at a table beside his speaking French. There was a man and a woman, both in their thirties, not much older than he was. The woman, in particular, looked familiar, and it was a moment before he realized she resembled Anne Sylvestre, the singer. But her hair was short, where Sylvestre’s (on the cover of J’ai de bonnes nouvelles, one of his mother’s favourite albums) was long, and this woman’s eyes were dark beneath dark eyebrows. Her companion was tall and handsome, his hair combed back, grey at his sideburns. He spoke French with an American accent and his voice was deep.
– Comment était la salade? he asked.
– It was good, Harry, she said. Goutes-donc ma langue. Il doit y rester un soupçon.
They kissed and then Harry laughed.
– Tu as raison, he said. Il reste la saveur de ciboulette et lavande.
Slightly embarrassed, Tancred asked about the menu, in French.
– Oh, said the woman, you speak French!
– I’m Canadian, said Tancred.
They invited him to join them and, over dinner, he spoke to them about his homesickness. In that way, his home came flooding back to him – whole, a gift, not lost but waiting.
