by Mark Lisac
“It doesn’t have to happen.”
Veins bulged on Karamanlis’ forehead. His breathing sped up. He waited until his body returned closer to normal but his voice was raspier than usual when he spoke. “So that’s it. A business deal. Okay, I’m good with that. I’m all ears. I know you won’t be asking for money, or not just for money. Go ahead, I’m interested in hearing what this is worth to you.”
“No money. You’re calling a news conference tomorrow and announcing that you’ve decided the premier’s job isn’t for you. You’re resigning immediately, and your faithful chief of staff Gerald Ryan will be leaving with you. You’re sorry, but your talent and interests lie in running a restaurant. You’ve decided to make the move now to give the party time to elect a successor and prepare for the next election.”
“Gerald told you to go fuck yourself. He had less reason than I do.”
“You quit and I see to it no one ever knows. It’s that or the story comes out. Along with the story of how you tried to cover it up. And once that much comes out, maybe the rest will start oozing out too.”
“Don’t be so sure that you can hide the evidence and arrange to have it pop up somewhere,” Karamanlis said. “Don’t be so sure that your friends can help you. Like that goofball engineer and his wife in Rosemont.”
Asher persisted. “I always figured you had your feet on the ground even if you were a politician. You know you can’t keep control of stories like this. Stuff comes seeping up out of the ground after decades and you think you can put a lid on it now? You can plug an oil or gas well that blows. This is like stopping that underground seep from the oilsands operation up north — a whole field covered with sticky oil that just keeps coming up because the dirt is a like sponge that can’t hold any more. The mess and stink has been buried a long time, but it won’t stay hidden forever.”
Karamanlis was almost laughing now. “You’ve been reading too many books. I’m talking about real life.”
“This is as real as it gets, Jimmy. You’re quitting.”
“I’m quitting. Just like that. You know better. I spent fifteen years dreaming about the day I could walk into the premier’s office and sit behind that desk. It’s incredibly tough getting there. It’s even tougher making things happen the way you want once you do get there. But I can do it. I’m not walking away from it after two years. It’s the only thing in my life.”
“That’s why you’re going to quit. Tomorrow. Because that’s the one thing that will hurt you as much as you’ve hurt other people. And because guys who get away with the kind of stuff you want to get away with, guys who have that much lost sight of what’s right and wrong, will end up doing worse things later.”
“There’s no worse. There’s nothing else as big as Tractor Tom Farber. What else would I have to protect?”
“You’d find something. But you’re not going to. You’ve already gone too far.”
Karamanlis smiled broadly again. “Gone too far? Come on, Harry. The lawyer setting himself up as judge and jury? Who’s going too far?”
“You’ve hurt people. You have to pay.”
“Oh, I get it. I get it all right. You’re not Mr. Law now. You’re the budding star hockey player. The university player who beat up the enforcer in the exhibition game with the pro team and had all the scouts suddenly looking at him. I remember that. I couldn’t forget. You didn’t beat him because you were trying to make a name for yourself with the scouts. You did it because he’d run your top little winger into the boards real bad. Mr. Justice on Skates. Mr. Right and Wrong. Your right and wrong.”
“Everybody’s, Jimmy. Right and wrong is all we’ve got.”
“And you think you’re still the unofficial enforcer. With a bad arm and too many years of desk work behind you.”
Karamanlis swung his left arm up in a short arc. Asher had been expecting him to attack the injured jaw first and was ready for it. He ducked inside and pounded Karamanlis’ ribs, unable to get a straight shot to below the breastbone or to the head.
They grappled in the confined space of the landing. Asher knew that Karamanlis was even stronger than he looked, and that he regularly used the gym in the legislature basement. He was still surprised at how little he could move in Karamanlis’ grip.
Karamanlis suddenly let go with his right hand and started pounding on Asher’s left kidney. Asher shifted his weight to reduce the space for the swings. Karamanlis started grinding his knuckles into the kidney instead. His knobby knuckles dug into the thin layer of flesh that Asher carried — he wished now he hadn’t kept his fat percentage under control — and into the soft organ. The pain was not debilitating but was getting his attention.
They were both gasping for breath now. Asher used his left arm to try a few swings at the back of Karamanlis’ head. He couldn’t get much behind the punches and they both knew it was his weak arm.
Asher tried to twist enough to get the knuckles off his kidney. The fight was coming down to a brutal test of strength. They struggled for control of weight and leverage. Asher concentrated his strength into pushes against Karamanlis’ body. He felt Karamanlis resist, then give ground by millimetres with each shove. He knew it was luck rather than strength. The deeply grooved rubber soles of his low-cut hiking shoes were holding the wood surface better than the leather soles of the patent slip-ons that Karamanlis liked to wear. Asher tried to push Karamanlis back to the landing’s edge, hoping to gain leverage by forcing him to move down a step.
Suddenly, Karamanlis’ feet slipped off the edge. His head hit the two-by-four that served as the railing and he slipped further down the stairs. Asher heard a couple of solid bumps as Karamanlis’ weight dragged him down. He hit both his head and his knees. He stopped sliding after the first two steps and lay still.
Asher felt his stomach coming up to his throat as he quickly moved to Karamanlis’ side and called in a low voice, “Jimmy, Jimmy!”
First he heard a rough breathing. He hoped the breathing would continue and was relieved when it did. He felt an instant shame that a good part of his relief did not stem from Karamanlis still being alive; he was relieved at not having to face the thought of going to trial for the manslaughter of a premier.
Karamanlis was dazed but not unconscious. Asher listened for the footsteps of the two security men but heard nothing. He was thankful that the struggle had been relatively quiet. He kept his voice down as he said, “Can you hear me?”
“I can hear you, you bastard.”
“What’s your phone number?”
“What?”
“What’s your phone number?”
“You don’t need to know. And don’t hold up your hand and ask me to count how many fingers you’re showing either. I’m not seeing stars. Just let me get my breath back.”
Asher backed off but positioned himself so as to maintain his height advantage if Karamanlis wanted to catch him by surprise. He waited for what seemed like more than a minute and then saw the face with the rounded eyebrows turn up towards him, with the mouth spread into a wide grimace.
“It was all accident. Apson wasn’t supposed to die. Devereaux wasn’t supposed to die. God knows those idiots that Gerald hired weren’t supposed to blast anyone with a shotgun. I meant to hurt people. I’ll admit that. Killing? No. It’s been eating at me. Harry, have I ever lied to you? Have I?”
“No.”
“I’m not lying now. No one was supposed to die.”
“They did and it was almost more.”
“Yeah. Okay. Okay. It happened.”
They were silent for another minute, their breathing growing slower and quieter. Karamanlis looked out into
the night and finally pulled himself up into a sitting position. The light was poor but Asher thought the grimace was gone from the bearish face.
Karamanlis looked at Asher as if he were a coffee vending machine. “All right,” he said. “You’re a rotten, sanctimonious bastard. But I trust you to do what you say. You never breathe a word of what you found to anyone, never let it leak out in any way, and you destroy the evidence. I’ll announce I’m quitting. But it’s not because I think I did anything wrong. I’d do it the same again, except I’d make sure everything was done more carefully — no killing. And if I couldn’t ensure that, I’d still do it all again. I was right. I was right.
“I’m not quitting for any of that. I’m quitting because of what happened right now. You. I never meant to hurt anyone badly, but I meant to hurt you. I would have thrown you down the stairs if I could have. If you’d broken your skull, I’d have told them you slipped and it was too bad. If you’d got on your feet again, I don’t know what I’d have done. That’s why I’m quitting.”
Asher decided to leave it there. He saw no point in trying to explain why he understood.
Karamanlis lifted himself up and started climbing up the stairs. He sagged after the first one. Asher put an arm around him to help him up. He used his left arm, keeping his good right arm free in case he found himself in a fight again. He made sure he kept in a position to have leverage on Karamanlis all the way across the first landing and up the top flight of steps.
They emerged above the top of the bank. The security men saw something was not right and came running.
* * *
At noon the next day, Asher turned on the small television set in his office.
He watched as Karamanlis approached a lectern with a single microphone that fed into a media soundboard. Karamanlis was neatly dressed as usual, but sported a lump on one side of his head. His dark-haired wife, still attractive but starting to put on weight, stood near his side, at the edge of the screen. Asher remembered their wedding day — their flowery wreath-like crowns, the burning candles, the incense smoke, the Greek Orthodox priest with the massive beard and glistening robe intoning the words of the ceremony.
Karamanlis looked sombre and waited a moment. He looked like someone determined to go for a swim but pausing as the cold waves slapped against him. He took a breath and plunged in.
“Some politicians make up their minds about their future after a walk in the snow. I made up my mind last night while I was falling down the wooden steps in the river valley below the government mansion.”
It was a vintage performance. He spoke for four minutes and turned quickly and left without taking questions, holding his wife’s hand.
Late that afternoon, Asher’s telephone beeped. He answered and heard the familiar reedy, rasping voice.
“Don’t say a word, you son of a bitch. Not one word.
“I expect to be getting some appointments, but I’m going back to the restaurant business. I know Poulos wants to sell. He’d like his son to take over but his son wants to start something of his own. I’m going to make him an offer, and it will be generous enough that he’ll take it.
“I’m going to tell you three things.
“Don’t ever try to talk to me or send me a message in any way.
“Don’t expect whoever follows me to give your firm any business or ever again to appoint Morley Jackson to anything, no matter how much he knows or how worse a job someone else would do.
“And don’t ever see me again except by complete accident. If you’re stupid enough ever to walk into that restaurant or any other place I end up owning, expect to find some ground glass has unfortunately fallen into your meal.”
The line went dead. Asher wondered what cemetery people buried their friendships in.
38
THE DAYS WERE GROWING NOTICEABLY SHORTER, BUT THE autumn coolness hadn’t yet arrived. The early summer rainy season was over. Asher took three weeks off from work and decided to forgo his usual long trip. He also put aside the usual thoughts of visiting famous graves. He had thrown out the list of locations he had kept around as possibilities.
Driving through the croplands — the bright yellow fields of canola and burnished gold of wheat and barley — he still found himself on the way to a cemetery. He told himself this would be the last one, but he also told himself that this one was different. This one wasn’t famous. It was warm and sunny enough that he listened to the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds album. Then he called up Jr. Gone Wild’s “Day of the First Snow.” The title didn’t matter. The song felt like summer to him.
He turned the green Jaguar into the parking lot of the old white church near Rosemont. He got out and walked across the gravel, enjoying the crunching sounds beneath his shoes. At the opening in the hedge, he looked across the small cemetery and saw Kathleen Sommerfeld waiting for him. They walked to Angela’s grave. Asher looked at the arrangement of artificial flowers in front of the tombstone. He was glad they were artificial. Real flowers would be preferable but would not last long in the glare of the late summer sun.
After silent moments at the grave, they walked slowly over to the edge of the coulee and started back to the parking lot, taking the long way around. They looked out at the open tan landscape, broken here and there with brown expanses of fallow, all underneath the vast, cloudless, reassuring sky. It was quiet except for an occasional robin’s call.
Sommerfeld asked him if he believed in religion.
No, he said, he did not believe in any particular faith or in religion generally.
“Do you ever feel like you’re missing something?” she asked.
“No. I think all I’m missing is somebody trying to tell me how to live and to look down on people who don’t live the same way. Maybe worse.”
They walked on.
“My parents died young,” he added. “When I was about twelve, after they died and I was living with my foster parents, things got confused. My real parents were Jewish. Not particularly observant, but they kept some traditions. My foster parents were Lutheran. They didn’t press it on me but I went to church with them sometimes — I guess I felt it was showing them respect. Once we were visiting the home of a minister they were friends with. He had a collection of Martin Luther’s writings. There were a lot of volumes. I picked one at random and opened it at random. I started reading and couldn’t believe what I saw. It was narrow-minded anti-Semitism, straight out of the gutter. I don’t know if there was anything else like it in all those volumes. I never tried to find out. All I knew was that something people were supposed to trust had betrayed me.”
“Most people try to be good to one another,” Sommerfeld said. “They do fail sometimes. When that happens, I turn to the land. There are places where you feel something. It’s always there, doesn’t let you down.”
They stopped to watch the immovable land and sky. Then they walked along the hedge back to the parking lot, looking at the headstones along the way.
She said, “Is this the same as visiting all those famous graves you’ve seen? I’ll bet this cemetery seems small. Or does it?”
“Cemeteries come in all sizes. A lot of famous people in Europe aren’t even in cemeteries. They’re buried under the floors of churches. I thought I could understand something about those people. All their movements and evasions had stopped. There was something else, though. They all meant something to me, but they were remote. They weren’t people in my own life, like my parents or like Angela. I didn’t have to face the reality of someone I cared for leaving my life, leaving their life, forever.”
“You can’t really trust people because they leave.”
He let that stand without replying.
“More than anything.”
“But she won’t be ten years old very long, or eleven, or twelve. She’ll be with you, but she won’t be the same and in a few years she will leave, maybe even live in a different city.”
“She’ll always be there in my heart — the way she is now.”
“You could say that about anyone. Moments are all we have. If you have any time at all with someone you love, you’re lucky to have that much happiness.”
Asher left it there without answering. They got into their cars and drove to the Sommerfelds’ house in Rosemont. Gary Sommerfeld was coming back home in about two weeks. Kathleen had decided to visit the Jensens at their cabin in Elk Springs for a while. They had agreed that Asher would drive her there and stay in a local motel for a few days to visit with them and see the hills where Elk Springs was located. He and Sommerfeld didn’t talk much along the way. As they drove up into the hills she said they could stop at a scenic lookout he might like.
The vegetation and some of the animals were unique in the province. The hills had been just high enough to escape being covered by the last glaciers ten thousand years earlier. Asher liked the smell of the pines when they reached the lookout.
