“What are you doing here?”
“I came to visit my nephew.”
The men looked at one another. One pulled out his cellphone and stepped away to make the call while they took Max back to the corridor. The nurse was crying, and a well-intentioned guard was helping her pick up the things she’d dropped.
Max was taken to a windowless room that must have been where the on-duty doctors came for a rest because it had lockers, a washbasin, and a toilet with the door half open. Someone offered him a coffee, which he refused with a grunt. Then they left him alone with one guard. What was this setup for? Why didn’t they hand him over to the cops? Maybe that was next. A few moments later, he imagined Luc Roberge showing up with an evil grin. After all these years, I finally get my hands on Public Enemy Number One! Luc Roberge. Max had practically forgotten him till now. Of course, it was his turf he’d stepped onto, straight into the cop’s waiting hands. What a screw-up!
When the door opened, it wasn’t Roberge he saw but Béatrice, and the guard had disappeared. Béatrice stood apart from other women her age, thanks to her long years in the diplomatic corps, her manners, and her attitude: lofty, very erect, and impeccably elegant. She was radiant, even in this naked, cold, and impersonal room. Max hadn’t seen her for years, ever since the death of Philippe in 1990, when he’d shown up incognito — thanks to all the “wanted” notices — to be with his brother’s remains. He’d taken a big risk then, too, but he’d trusted Béatrice, who, during the night, had smuggled him into the funeral home on O’Connor Street in Ottawa. While she stood lookout at the back of the hall, he’d gently made his way through the floral arrangements, as though he had the place to himself. Philippe with the discreet and modest red maple leaf pin on his lapel, for which he’d given his life in El Salvador. Max didn’t know how long he’d spent beside the coffin, looking but not crying — he’d already done that. When they were outside in the parking lot, Béatrice announced majestically, “From here on, I never want to hear from you again. Don’t write or speak to me or David. Nothing at all. You no longer exist.”
Then Max had shown her the International Herald Tribune, the paper Philippe had used to communicate with him once upon a time. Béatrice tossed it in the street. “Never, you hear me? Never.”
So this was to be a double mourning. Her husband was dead, and Max was shoved into the shadows. The idea was to protect David now that Philippe was no longer around. What galled him the most was not this decision; that was hardly unexpected. It was her intransigence … and all with that bedroom voice of hers. Max knew seduction; it was the basis of his craft, and he could only admire the finesse and subtlety of hers. The outcome was the same, but oh, how she said it. Max had gone from being a necessary evil to just plain evil.
A century later, here she was again, standing before him, attractive as ever. She looked disappointed in him, as though his appearance only meant more bad news, just another rock in the avalanche of the past twenty-four hours.
“How is he?” Max asked.
“The doctors are confident; in fact, downright encouraging.”
After long pause, Béatrice said, “I knew you’d come.”
Max smiled sadly. He couldn’t tell if she meant it or if it was just her way of saying it was too late again, that it was time to lay a wreath and choose a picture for the card.
“I want to see him.”
“He’s in a coma. He doesn’t recognize anyone.”
“I want to see him,” Max insisted.
“What’s the point?”
Before she could stop him, Max stepped around her and continued down the corridor. The teary-eyed nurse was gone, and the mercenaries were clogging the coffee machine, leaving only one guard at the door on the other side. He rushed Max to keep him from going in, while others moved in to back him up. Then behind him, Max heard Béatrice: “Okay, it’s okay.”
The man hesitated, then stepped aside. Max glanced across the hall at Béatrice and opened the door. The room was in shadow, but his eyes easily spotted the bed in the corner behind a curtain. He approached and pulled aside the curtain. The bed was empty.
David was actually on the next floor up. Dennis Patterson’s idea, Béatrice said. “It’s for his security,” though someone seemed to have forgotten to give his change of address to the doctors, who were conspicuous by their absence, until Max noticed shadows behind glass at the opposite end of the room. The patient was intubated and plugged into various respirators, monitors, intravenous drips, and luminous dials. David’s eyes were closed, of course, his hands by his side as though at attention.
Max spent a long time staring at his nephew, his face thickened with bruises, probably with medication too. The boy had aged since the last photos Max had seen in CanadExport, the Foreign Affairs newsletter. Max was confronted with a young adult; in fact, an adult, period.
“Are you Max?” a voice came from behind him. A young woman holding a piece of chocolate was sitting in a straight-back chair by the door. She had blond hair and blue — very blue — eyes, practically an ad for Lufthansa. This model was tired, though, worn out by long hours in front of the cameras. He went over to Juliette and held out his hand. She smiled weakly, but her hand was burning hot. He could easily see David falling for this one’s charms.
So, the family was all here: the dignified but grief-stricken mother, the devastated wife, and the unconscious son-and-martyr. And, oh yes, the American uncle. The mysterious uncle who always shows up unannounced, the one they only talk about in hints and whispers.
“I suppose the armed guards were Patterson’s idea?”
Béatrice nodded. “No point in taking chances.” She glanced in the direction of Juliette, who had her back to them and was contemplating Montreal’s buildings massed against the river, which looked like a distant grey sliver blending with the sky.
“If you had an ounce of decency, you’d go straight back where you came from. You’ve seen him. Now go.”
“I want to know what happened, the whole story. I want to find those bastards and make them pay!”
Juliette turned to look at the newcomer. This man was the first thing to make any sense since it all happened. When he’d come in, he looked like a loser in that worn raincoat. Worn out like him. Still good-looking, but oldish and running on memories and bygone days. Some globe-trotting con man hunted by the police for the last fourteen years! Somebody had it all wrong.
The conversation was starting to interest her, and she drew closer. Finally, something was happening. Strangely, though, Béatrice said, “What’s the use? Do you think that will bring him back?”
“Look, Béatrice, I’m sick of getting here too late.” He headed for the door without even a glance at Juliette, who was still intrigued and shocked by what Béatrice had said. Angry. Before she had time to catch him, he was gone. Juliette turned to Béatrice.
“Why did you —?” but Béatrice was already on the phone “— what are you doing?”
“My duty … hello, Detective Roberge? This is Béatrice O’Brien …”
5
Here Greek Avenue turned into Little India, and flags with the crescent moon or the spinning wheel replaced the blue-and-white. On Hutchison Street, a right-turn at the Al-Sunnah Al-Nabawiah Mosque, and Max was stuck in traffic taking in the scenery: a veiled woman at the bus stop, mustachioed men in conference in front of the Ratha Driving School, other men farther off buying lottery tickets. Hmmm … I thought the Qur’an forbade that. Next, a left turn onto Ogilvy. On either side, there were Sri Lankan grocery shops selling products “direct” from Colombo. The beginnings of turbans, saris, and traditional shalwar kameez, in front of a video store specializing in Bollywood films.