by Rana Bose
“I could approach one of the local French-language newspapers, especially the ones that cover the crime scene—talk to one of their well-known journalists, help them with the investigation.”
“Sure, and then get shot up in a parking lot for having gone public. What you need to do, if you’re serious, is to flush this woman out, get her to make mistakes in public. She’s not that sharp. There must be a way under her skin.”
“She’s been getting under mine. She appears at the foot of my bed at regular intervals.”
He laughed and lit his pipe and then released the smoke slowly in front of his face. “Big crimes always leave silly errors. Someone loosens the bolts on all the wheels when it takes only one loose wheel to spin the car at high speed. He is caught on CCTV. The DNA is found in the gloves in the garbage can in the alley. Strychnine traces are left on the bar counter. The flaming tower collapses but traces of fire excitants are discovered in the parking lot below. There are always inadvertent slips and careless conversations which can throw the game open.”
Conan Doyle and Le Carré. He continued to brood behind the smoke. He was convincing me to get with it and not cower. That was his style. If I were a nerd, he wouldn’t tell me. I was his only grandson. “Come to think of it, it’s very perplexing that she mailed the package herself, instead of sending a hired hand to do the job. She may have thought that the fewer people involved, the less potential evidence available. Is that why she did it? Stupid move, I’d say. Comme ils disent autour d’ici, merde happens!”
After refreshing his thoughts with a gulp of some Mortlatch that he tucked away in the bookshelf, he looked me in the eye and winked. “You know,” he said, “we could work on this together.” The idea had occurred to me at about the same time.
I nodded slowly and began to tell him what I had learned from scouring the net, having delved into the corporate reports and online magazines, reading the press releases and tracking the enormously confounding network of holding companies, intertwined operations, and controlling trust funds. Aside from the diamonds and the pulp and paper interests, they had a company that offered ‘secure transaction services’ for managing ‘difficult assets.’ Registered offshore, the company also provided legal advice on ‘mature asset management.’ Corinthe Gabriel-Jacops appeared on the board of seven companies, while her brother Cornell appeared on seventeen. Her brother was the one, apparently, in charge of the mining operations in Africa, as well as the security company. They had companies registered in Mauritius, others on the Cayman Islands, and still others in Florida; yet all were linked with the head office in Montreal. I summed it up: “They’ve managed to blend the private with the corporate, and the personal with the global.”
He asked, “But why did she do it? Why didn’t they simply go public with their affair? Why was she in a rush? The super-rich have no need to bump off anyone for insurance money. So why did this happen? And why in such a spectacular manner—blowing up a plane?” He paused before adding, “Had Linda been a part of their operations? And had turned whistle-blower?”
That night I opened my diary and went over my notes carefully, only closing the book in the early hours of the morning.
A month passed and I hadn’t seen Myra. I was sitting on my front steps reading the newspaper when she appeared.
“Hello! Thought I’d say hi!”
“So, who are you now? Or who do you want to be, Myra or Malia?”
She didn’t say anything but squeezed herself into the tight space next to me. She lifted her shoulders, took a deep breath and ran her fingers through her hair. She looked at me sideways, sighed, and then looked out at the houses across. I returned to reading my newspaper.
“I ran into my father recently,” she said.
“Yes? That’s good. I didn’t know he was around.”
“I’ve been seeing him often.”
“How about Nat? Seeing him as well?” I infused the word “seeing” with necessary spite.
She again pushed her fingers through her hair. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, then opened them. “I wanted to see you, but you weren’t going to believe me anyway. I want to explain to you that after talking with my father . . . that something broke inside me. Can I talk about it?”
I moved over on the steps, allowing her to sit comfortably.
“Chuck, listen, you gotta hold off before shooting from the hip, you know what I mean?”
“I’m listening,” I replied evenly, wondering why she was talking about her father. All the time we’d known each other he hadn’t existed. Her mother did, and was sometimes seen in the vicinity, but her father had neither form, image, nor voice. Suddenly, here he was making a grand appearance. A father-bereft girl was now regularly encountering him.
“I had incidents happen to me as a child and I was never sure what they meant. I never talked to anyone about them. They remained closed inside me until I recently met my dad. My childhood—the summers in the Townships—were difficult. I absorbed a lot of stuff from my parents that I wish I hadn’t.” She lowered her head, as if to think things through.
“Myra, I don’t want to fight with you. Nat spoke to me and I’m at peace. It doesn’t matter. You don’t have to explain yourself.” I wasn’t sure if I was being too blunt, too conciliatory, or missing the point altogether.
“It’s not about Nat.”
“Oh?”
“My father explained why he and my mom split up. He didn’t know I had seen so much of everything. It hurt him, knowing. I was too young, even though all I saw were images, like watching a movie. But it did me in.” Her voice started to break. “I always wanted to be someone else. Like my mother was two people, acting as if she were in a trance, like it was natural to sometimes take on another character. And then, suddenly, I did, too—I became a different character and it was special, so special.”
I had some idea where she was headed. I remained silent. She stared ahead. She wasn’t trying to lie. There was a story unfolding within her and I was there to listen. I had heard and known enough about childhood trauma to know that living a dual life doesn’t come from a schizoid personality; it’s enactment, role playing, the thrill of theatre.
“She lived a second life.”
“You can tell me what happened, but I find it hard to believe that you’d let it go on for so long, over so many years. Why didn’t you do something about it?”
She took my hand and held it in her palm. “I didn’t see it as a problem. It was simply who I was. If it weren’t for my father, I’d still be doing it. I really believed I could live two lives, as well.” She said that staring at the pavement. “My mum was sharing her life with a man, who came by the barn in the country house on Thursday nights. Yes, he came on horseback from some adjoining town. And they would screw their brains out and a friend and I watched from a crack in the window, like it was a TV show. My mother was like a flamenco dancer and the man’s chest glistened with sweat from the heat in the summer barn. They did things I could not imagine, and then he would get up and leave. My mother went back to the cottage, turned on a lamp, and started reading a book. The woman in the barn. My mother. The woman in the cottage reading a book, with satisfied composure. My mother. And one day my father turned around and came back early on a Thursday. He would normally come back on Sundays. Until then I thought it was normal, what my mom did.”
I looked at her sideways and she raised her head to meet my gaze, eyes glistening. I didn’t feel sorry for her. I didn’t want to feel sorry for her, either. I was still upset. There would be small mercies only. “So, did you feel attracted to Nat as Myra? And was that all a charade between Malia and me?”
“No!” She looked pained. “I have no attraction to Nat.” Then she took a deep breath and, still holding my hand, said, “If I hadn’t seen my father, I would never have understood what was going on. You know what I’m saying? What I saw my mother do . . . it
was like something that boiled over from time to time, and I couldn’t distinguish what was real from what was a dream. But now it’s slowly coming clearer. I feel I’ve been living a phoney existence my entire life. She lived a dual life and I thought that was quite normal. She had flings every weekend with this guy on horseback. I was just eight or nine. They split eventually.”
We sat on the stairs in silence. I was convinced that she wasn’t lying, that she had seen things that scarred her, but I was having a hard time reconciling that new information with my old anger.
I offered to walk her back to her house. At the doorstep I said, “I don’t buy it, not entirely, but I would like to meet your dad someday.”
“Why?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” was all I could say. I guess I was working on instinct. “But there’s no future, if I have to deal with two minds in one body.”
Chapter Fourteen
Shadow Pictures
The Commodore is a 100-seat diner located two blocks away from the Jean-Talon market. Myra had chatted up the co-owner of the Commodore without telling him that she’d been fired from Dr. Roberge’s quite a while ago. When she told him that the doctor had decamped for a Caribbean island with the missus, he chuckled. Everyone in the right circles knew that the chiropractor had married into a wealthy family after his first wife died in a plane crash.
The restaurant serves French and Italian cuisine, mostly a wide selection of square-plate pizzas and homemade pastas and sausages, all accompanied by superb sauces, white or pesto, garnished with fresh herbs. They also serve Champagne, oysters when in season, sharp cheeses that gently dissolve without sticking to your teeth or the roof of your mouth, and a prudent offering of light wines. They make the greatest salmon tartar in Montreal, with chives, shallots, chopped cilantro, red onions, olive oil, and a dash of lemon and hot pepper. People fork the bounty into their mouths, roll their lips into a wondrous circle, half close their eyes and express their pleasure with whispered, kissing sounds. Even I do it sometimes.
Design-wise, it’s faux Mediterranean cool all around, with single roses in crystal vases on each table. There is no hint anywhere of murder, mayhem, or sabotage. There is no hint of disquiet, concern, or even wariness. Smiles abound.
Myra and I ordered a square pizza with white sauce, this time sprinkled with minute pieces of prosciutto, and waited for the co-owner to turn up. Myra knew him. She also knew that Dr. Roberge would slip away at lunch and meet Corinthe Gabriel-Jacops here.
People in this neighbourhood hang out on street corners like rockers. High-end fashion statements—de rigueur. They gather around large concrete flowerpots that the borough has placed on the road to tame the traffic. In fact, everything is forced to slow down here. Fast is not hip and you need to make yourself visible while taking time to acknowledge others. Greetings are mandatory. Even the spit-polished red, black, and yellow Italian cars roll by slowly. Windows roll down and smooth salutations follow. The Ducatis are parked at wild angles, often with engines still running, their colours bursting with summer energy.
The Prada shades, the soft leather boots with the brass buckles, the strapless black gowns, the flaming red stilettos, the white slacks and the striped shirts—all so casual. The shaved heads or GI cuts of the men emphasize the neighbourhood’s youth. Hormones, pheromones, adrenaline all nudge, leap, and lunge in blustery confusion down the sidewalks before settling into one of the pricier dining spots. A gentle tip of the head or a long drawn out “Eiiihhhh!” is inevitably followed by fists connecting in the air and then an equally elongated riposte that never concludes in the expected affirmation or question, but rather a general observation on everything that is going down or coming up in the hood. Then follows a casual, “by the way, how’s the boss, eh?”—a fleeting inquisition about the missing other half.
Across the street, the man running the espresso bar has faded colour pictures of himself on the front page of a local daily with a now-dead mayor referring to him as a Montreal landmark. It’s pasted up on the wall opposite the bar, which is more often run by his bejewelled, heavily tanned, sizable blond daughter. She’s in her forties, wears a chiffon black blouse with a plunging front to reveal an acne-scarred cleavage. Once, I remember Nat chatting her up and leaving a fat tip right there. I was taking my time, adding the hot milk slowly to the espresso, writing notes in my diary. When Nat left for the pool table, she asked if he was still doing films. I replied, “Yeah, when he wants to,” giving him more credit than he deserved.
Yes, stereotypes abound but the waiters are friendly to the point that you don’t know whether they’re joking or being grimly serious. There is a deadpan approach, menacing at times, but these guys have it down like they all went through the Joe Pesci and Roberto Benigni School of deadpan emotions: a readymade scowl followed by a wild laugh and a prod into your ribs that makes you double up either in laughter or pain. They are all brilliant actors, capable of long conversations at the slightest provocation. If you ask them to recommend a dish they might begin their answer by describing a specific tamarillo tree in a village in Sicily. If you ask them a personal question, they ask if you’re a cop or a lawyer. “What! You a flic or somethin’?” If you select an item they recommended, they announce to everyone around that your wife has just declared her unconditional love for him. Since your wife or partner is with you, you feel like a veritable stuffed bell pepper. Other tables respond with howls and cries of their own. Like an operatic movement. Sometimes the chef is hauled into the restaurant by the waiter and accused of serving a fly in the linguini. The waiter insists that the aggrieved patron should not take this lying down. Everyone looks uncomfortable and confused. The chef, however, promptly announces he is ready to do battle with this nuisance fly, pulls out a swatter and whacks the waiter on the head. The show rolls on.
“Heh! Heh! Heh! Smart guy, that chiro!” said Leo, the co-owner. “What can I do for you, Ms. Myra?”
“Leo, this is my boyfriend, Chuck.”
“I can see that, very clearly, from his eyes and yours. No make any mistakes there!” I was amused that she had kindly placed me on her list of known acquaintances. “You like-a your dinner?” he asked me.
“Yes, I loved the pizza. Special!” That was my genuine response.
“You wanna go sit at the bar and chat?” he asked.
We went over to a vacant corner. The barman was cleaning glasses. “Dinner was great. It always is,” Myra added with exuberance. “My friend, Chuck, is doing a piece for the newspaper on chiropractors in the city and the type of clientele they have.” I was amused by the silly story idea, but also alarmed by how easy it was for her to spin a lie.
Leo left and soon returned with two light dessert wines in tall champagne glasses. “Yeah, your boss, the doctor, came here often. Now, not so much. Sometime for lunch, sometime for dinner.” Leo began to expand on his own—“always with that Gabriella woman. They know many of my customers. She comes from a rich family so everyone likes to hang around her, you know? Long before, his first wife, the painter, died in that crash. When she died everyone here already knew he was going to marry this woman. Sometimes God makes life too easy for some. But the poor woman, the painter, she was sort of well known, too, no? One time, we have an incident here, did I tell you?”
“No, what happened?” Myra was all ears.
“Well, she catch them here a-having dinner together. She walk in and stand right at the table. A quiet argument start. Everyone look, so they walk out into the street. Then a big sound and screaming. The painter slap her hard and she, Gabriella, fall to the ground. Dr. Roberge try to help her up and the painter kick her twice in the ribs and walk away to her car. The doctor pay the bill and they leave.”
“So that is, like, real! Wow! Did Roberge come back with her after?” Myra asked.
“Sure, many times! After a month they come back. They like my Ossobucco Milanese!” Leo rubbed his chest. W
e were silent. I wasn’t taking any notes, but it occurred to me that an incident like that might be enough motivation for retribution.
“Linda St-Onge,” I started, “yeah, she was famous. People knew her well in Quebec art circles. The other one, the one who fell, Corinthe Gabriel-Jacops”—I corrected Leo on her name—“can you tell us more about her? Did she ever come with other friends?”
“Yes, yes. She come here mostly with the doctor, you know, but sometime she come here with friends. Maybe I have picture of her. You see on the walls? Like Pacino there, De Niro, Mr. Big, Angelina, all kinds of people come here, you recognize them? Sometime not good people, though. Yeah. Maybe I find some pictures. You write a social column?” He asked me.
“I just write about the neighbourhood.” I, too, could come up with a quick lie, but one at least rooted in some truth.
Leo left for the back office while we sipped our wines, looking at each other and smiling. Myra rested the palm of her hand on mine and I felt she was relaxed. He came back dusting a laminated picture with a napkin. It looked like it had never been hung on the walls. Myra and I pretended not too be too interested, but it took me a hundredth of a second to spot Corinthe sitting at a table laughing with others. My blood went cold.
“Funny, I thought I had a picture of the doctor, but no. None. Just the lady. There she is with Normand St. Maurice, the TV host, and Carolyn St-Jean. And here is someone from the Orlando Cheese family—what’s his name? He owned part of a soccer team?”
It was Myra who answered. “Leo, I don’t know, but can we borrow this picture? We’ll bring it back soon.”
“Yeah! Yeah! Sure! Sure! But bring it back, my friend, in the same condition. And don’t use in any piece, okay? ”
We thanked Leo, finished the wine, and returned to Myra’s apartment. I didn’t stay long. She kept the picture. She said she’d track down the names of all the people in it.
