Seven Days

by Patrick Senécal

  Of all Bruno’s dark musings, the worst was the thought that six days earlier, Jasmine had called to him for several unbearable minutes and he hadn’t come. She had died without understanding why her father hadn’t kept his promise. Suddenly dizzy, he sat down on a bench, put his head back and took a few deep breaths.

  At eight o’clock, Bruno returned to his car to get the rest of the money. He went to a seedy hotel nearby and went up to room 27. It was squalid and stank of drugs and sex. The pimp was there, but he wasn’t alone; a giant black man was standing off to the side, his arms crossed, his expression sour.

  “Okay, man,” the pimp said, “you got the other two grand?”

  “I want to see them first.”

  The pimp smiled slightly and motioned to his sidekick. The giant took an automobile license plate from his jacket and threw it on the bed.

  “You’re sure it’s clean?” asked Bruno.

  “You won’t have any problem with it, man.”

  Then the giant took out a revolver and put it on the bed. Bruno nodded and handed the other two thousand dollars to the pimp, who counted it with a satisfied look. He gave Bruno a little lesson, explaining how to load the revolver and take off and put on the safety. Impressed, Bruno carried out each of the operations. He never would have guessed a revolver was so heavy!

  “Try aiming it now.”

  Bruno raised the weapon and, not knowing what to aim at, pointed it toward the window.

  “You see the little sight at the end of the barrel? It has to be right on your target. You aim and then you pull the trigger.”

  Bruno aimed at a point on the window, but the weapon shook slightly in his hand. He saw a face appear in the glass, ghostly but vaguely familiar, with long blond hair and a scruffy beard, and an unchanging mocking smile. The revolver stopped shaking in Bruno’s hand, and his finger pulled the trigger. There was a click.

  “You’re a natural, man!” laughed the pimp.

  The giant gave him a dozen bullets. Bruno put the license plate, the revolver, and the ammunition under his coat.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  The pimp just nodded. As Bruno was leaving, he said, “I don’t know what you’re planning to do, man, but let me warn you, it’s easier than you think.”

  With a little smile, he took a puff on his cigar.

  Back in Drummondville, Bruno left the old Chevrolet in the parking lot of the seniors’ residence where his mother, a widow, had been living for two years. Only residents or visitors with permits were allowed to park there, but he knew from experience that the police never checked and you could leave your car there without any problem, even overnight.

  He put the revolver, the ammunition, and his purchase from the sex shop in the trunk and put on the new license plate. Then he walked back to the bus station, where his Saturn was waiting for him.

  At eight forty, he got home. Sylvie was in the living room watching TV.

  “I had an emergency surgery tonight,” he explained.

  “You could have called,” she said accusingly.

  He didn’t say anything and his face remained impassive. She looked at him for a moment with a sad, perplexed expression. But Bruno was staring at the television screen because he had just seen Jasmine on it. Sylvie had been watching a video they made, and Bruno recognized it; it was from his birthday, last May. Sylvie had filmed Jasmine reading a poem she had written for him for the occasion.

  “I know it’s masochistic,” sighed Sylvie, “but I can’t help it. I’ve spent a good part of the day watching these videos.”

  There was a celebration on the television screen—bright lights, colored balloons, red and yellow party hats. But to Bruno, all the colors were dulled. Only Jasmine shone brightly, with her yellow dress, her long chestnut hair, her intelligent hazel eyes, the little beauty mark near her right ear, her mischievous smile.

  She was holding a sheet of paper in her delicate hands and shifting from one foot to the other. She ended her poem in a clear, confident voice:

  Of all the papas in the world, the very best is mine!

  Happy birthday, Papa, have a happy time!

  The guests applauded enthusiastically while Bruno, moved and proud, hugged his daughter and kissed her hair, which had smelled like honey ever since she was little.

  A terrible pain seized Bruno’s throat. He felt tears coming and a sob rising in his throat, yet he didn’t cry. He hadn’t cried once since the darkness came.

  The telephone rang. After four rings, Bruno decided to get up and answer it in the kitchen so as not to disturb Sylvie.

  Although every voice had sounded the same to him in the past few days, he immediately recognized the soft, hoarse tone.

  “It’s Detective Sergeant Mercure, Dr. Hamel. I’m calling to tell you Lem—”

  “I don’t want to know his name,” Bruno interrupted quickly.

  The detective sergeant didn’t show any surprise. He explained that the preliminary hearing would take place the next Tuesday, the 18th. In five days. Bruno mentally did some quick calculations.

  “Could you explain exactly what the procedure is? Where will he leave from, at what time, and so on.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I have no intention of going to the courthouse. I don’t want to see him. But here, at home, I want to picture every step as it happens. Do you understand?”

  Mercure said he understood. Slowly, in an almost reassuring tone, he explained that the accused would leave the detention center in a police car at around nine o’clock to go to the courthouse. The hearing was set for ten o’clock. The judge and the lawyers would speak, and then the date of the trial would be set. The whole thing should last at most a half hour, or an hour if there was a delay. After that, the accused would be taken back to the detention center, where he would stay until the trial.

  “And are you still sure it was him?” asked Bruno.

  “The DNA tests confirm it.”

  Bruno closed his eyes.

  Mercure said he would continue to keep Bruno posted, and before ending the conversation, he said without sentimentality, “I hope you and your wife . . .”

  “We’re not married.”

  “. . . you and your partner are finding the strength to get through this, Dr. Hamel.”

  Bruno didn’t answer, and the police officer hung up.

  Bruno went and got a beer from the fridge and took a long swig, leaning back against the counter. The kitchen was dark, with the only light coming from the fixture in the hall.

  Sylvie came in and asked who had called.

  “It was the police. The preliminary hearing is next Thursday.”

  He was barely aware that he was lying about the day. He added that the DNA tests had been positive. Sylvie put her arms around Bruno. Taken by surprise, Bruno hesitated for a moment, and then returned her hug.

  “Oh, Bruno! Last night I dreamed they hanged the guy! They hanged him outside in front of a screaming crowd! Like they used to do a century ago. I was in the crowd, and I . . . I was shouting with joy!”

  Bruno’s face hardened, but he remained silent.

  “You were with me in the dream,” continued Sylvie, “and you were shouting too. It was . . . it was completely crazy.”

  “Why is that so crazy?”

  She thought about it, blinking. Why was he asking such a rational, analytical question, while she was so emotional? A bit reluctantly, she answered, “Well . . . it’s just that . . . you and I have always been against the death penalty, and . . .”

  “I’ve always had questions about it, you know.”

  “Yes, but . . . but you were still opposed to it . . .”

  He grimaced in annoyance. After thinking for a minute, he asked, looking into her eyes, “And now, what do you want? Do you want Jasmine’s killer to die?”

  Sylvie kept staring at him, taken aback by his tone, his questions, his intensity. She gave a long, painful sigh, leaned her head on his chest again, and answered in a s
mall, breaking voice, “I wish our little Jasmine could come back to us.”

  They stayed entwined for a long time, but Bruno’s face remained hard.

  The next morning at nine, two cars left Grand-Mère, one following the other closely. The first one was a green ’92 Chevrolet, and the one behind it was a pickup truck filled with tools, lumber, and metal parts. After about a half hour, they drove through Saint-Mathieu-du-Parc, continued along Pioneers Road, and turned into the lane leading to Josh’s cottage. Bruno got out of the Chevy, wearing his disguise. Morin got out of the truck and looked around admiringly.

  “Nice little place! Have you had it for a long time?”

  “I thought I was clear . . .”

  Morin shrugged apologetically. Bruno, a travel bag slung over his shoulder, led him into the house, to the guest room. The room was now completely empty and the drapes were drawn. Bruno had removed all the furniture and hidden it behind the house.

  “Here it is.”

  After a quick look around the room, Morin gave Bruno a rather fearful look, but didn’t say anything. Bruno started to explain in detail what he wanted. Morin listened attentively, making notes on the plans Bruno had given him. From time to time, his eyes widened, but he kept on writing, asking technical questions, examining the walls and ceiling, and going back to the plans.

  When Bruno finished, Morin scratched his head uncertainly.

  “Listen, I want to be sure that if you get into trouble because of . . .” He motioned to the plans. “You won’t give my name.”

  Bruno swore he wouldn’t, but Morin laughed.

  “Come on! What guarantee do I have?”

  “What about me? What guarantee do I have that you’ll keep quiet?”

  Morin thought for a moment and then agreed that was fair.

  “And you say it will be finished for tomorrow afternoon?”

  “It should be, if this is what you want.”

  Bruno explained that he’d be back in late afternoon. Morin was to go ahead with the work, and was not to leave before his return. He also told him not to call anyone and not to leave the house, or at least not the property. He took two wrapped sandwiches, a beer, and a chocolate bar out of his bag.

  “Here’s your lunch for today. Tomorrow, bring your own lunch.”

  At eleven thirty, Bruno was back in Drummondville. He ate lunch at the Charlemagne and went to Sainte-Croix Hospital at around one.

  The hospital felt unfamiliar. He could hardly believe he’d been working there for the past seven years. The walls were so ugly, the patients so shrunken, the lighting so harsh. He managed to avoid meeting any of his colleagues in the halls.

  He went to his office and got two empty medical bags. He went to the surgery department, but when he saw the two doctors that were there, he turned back and went to the pharmacy instead.

  As he had expected, Martin, the pharmacist, was alone. He was surprised to see Bruno back so soon, but Bruno said he was still on leave and had just come to pick up a few things.

  Martin thoughtfully asked how Bruno was doing. He was young, good-natured, and brilliant, but like everyone, he had his weaknesses. That was precisely why Bruno had chosen him. Cutting the discussion short, Bruno said he needed some nitroglycerine patches. But not ordinary ones.

  “I want them very, very thin . . . so thin you can hardly feel them.”

  He specified the type and the exact thickness. Martin listened, puzzled, and gave a questioning chuckle. What was this order that was so special? What treatment could require this kind of thing? When Bruno said it was personal, Martin became uncomfortable. He couldn’t make it without a prescription . . . After all, Bruno knew how things worked, didn’t he?

  “Your friend three years ago didn’t have a prescription either,” Bruno said.

  Three years earlier, Martin had illegally sold a friend certain substances and Bruno had found out. Martin, desperate, had said he had had a lot of debts but that everything was resolved now and he would never again get involved in that kind of thing. Bruno hadn’t turned him in. Because he had believed him, because Martin was a good pharmacist, and because, dammit, you don’t destroy someone’s life for one little mistake! So he had kept silent. Since that time, whenever Martin ran into him in the corridors, he was so friendly and nice that it was embarrassing. Bruno had never mentioned the incident to him again. He would never have dreamed of taking advantage of the situation.

  Until today.

  Martin reddened, but he adopted a conciliatory tone.

  “Bruno, right now you’re . . . you’re upset by what happened . . . and that’s normal. Maybe you . . . should get some rest and re—”

  “Listen, Martin, if you don’t make me up those nitro patches for Sunday, I’ll reveal that old story.”

  He should have been ashamed of using blackmail like that, but he didn’t feel anything. Nothing at all.

  Martin went from scarlet to white. Bruno, unperturbed, said he wanted thirty of them, black.

  “Black?” stammered Martin. “I . . . I’m not sure that’s possible.”

  “As dark as possible, then. Do the best you can. And I also want some of these antibiotics and these sedatives,” he said, handing Martin a list. “Give them to me with the patches. And I swear to you that the patches won’t be used to kill anyone.”

  Martin tried to find out more, but in vain. Bruno said he wanted the drugs in two days. He told Martin to meet him on the little bridge in Woodyatt Park at ten o’clock. If he brought the police with him, Bruno would bring up the past. Martin, defeated, practically whimpered, “Shit, Bruno, what’s the matter with you?”

  Bruno held his gaze for a moment. He licked his lips as if he were about to say something, but changed his mind and walked away.

  This time when Bruno went to the surgery department, it was deserted. He quickly chose a number of things: surgical instruments, syringes, IV bags, bandages, and disinfectants. He put everything in his two bags and left.

  On his way out, unfortunately, he ran into Jean-Marc, the chief of the department, who said the appropriate things for the situation: poor Bruno, how are you managing, how’s Sylvie doing, we’re thinking of you, and so on. He asked if Bruno had decided when he would come back to work.

  “I don’t know yet,” Bruno said in an emotionless voice.

  “Take all the time you need,” Jean-Marc said reassuringly. “We’ve scheduled your urgent surgeries with Benoît and Peter. There’s no hurry. You and Sylvie need time together.”

  He seemed curious about the two bags, but he didn’t ask any questions.

  A half hour later, Bruno left the bank with a briefcase containing twenty thousand dollars in cash.

  He went to the supermarket and bought two hundred dollars’ worth of food. At the last minute, he added two cases of beer.

  At four o’clock, he was back at Josh’s place, wearing his disguise. He went directly to the guest room. Morin barely stopped working to say hello. Bruno looked at the work. It was taking shape. It was progressing nicely.

  “Can you guarantee me that you’ll finish tomorrow?”

  “Yup.”

  Bruno brought the bags of groceries in and put everything away in the cupboards and fridge. Morin appeared in the kitchen. Although he was now more at ease with this character in his grotesque disguise, he still seemed nervous occasionally. He said he was finished for today. Since he knew the place, he would be back tomorrow at nine thirty. Before leaving, he asked, “So . . . would it be possible to have a small advance?”

  His tone was close to begging, and he suddenly seemed almost like a drug addict in need of a fix. Bruno gave him an advance of five thousand dollars. The other twenty-five thousand would be for tomorrow after the job was done. Morin was so pleased, he almost flew to his truck.

  Bruno opened a beer and took it to the guest room, where he drank it leaning against the wall looking at Morin’s work.

  At five thirty, in Drummondville, he parked the Chevy in the parking lot of th
e seniors’ residence, where his Saturn was waiting. He left the two bags in the trunk of the Chevy.

  He got home at five forty. He went directly to his office, a small book-lined room with a computer and printer. He put the briefcase containing the money in the closet.

  Sylvie was in the kitchen cooking, and she was glad to see Bruno come home at a normal time.

  In the dining room, which was almost too bright, they ate pasta, speaking in very low voices as if there were someone asleep. Or rather, it was Sylvie who spoke, with Bruno answering in monosyllables. He had an odd feeling, as if he weren’t really in the room and his body were just a dummy going through the motions. Because his mind was very far away . . . in a little cottage a hundred kilometers away.

  “I went to work this afternoon,” Sylvie said, “but I left after two hours. It was . . . too hard.”

  She smiled apologetically. She was forcing herself to be strong, but she wasn’t quite succeeding. Her face, framed by her long hair, looked gray and old.

  “I wonder how you manage to work,” she added.

  He didn’t say anything, but took a mouthful of food for the sake of appearance. She smiled again, with real pleasure this time: “Anyway, tomorrow’s Saturday. We’ll be able to spend the day together.”

  Uncomfortably, he explained that he had to work the next day. When Sylvie expressed surprise, he said she knew perfectly well he sometimes had to work on the weekend. Sylvie’s jaw dropped and she put her cutlery down.

  “What is it, Bruno? You’re escaping your pain by working, is that it?”

  For a moment, he thought of telling her the whole story, but he stopped himself. It was too risky. She might not understand. Later, yes, but it was too soon now. He just shrugged.

  Sylvie replied in a quavering voice, “Listen, I know things weren’t that great between us before . . . but now we have to . . . we have to try, because . . .”

  “Sylvie, I . . .”

  He tried to find something gentle and reassuring to say, but gave up and said impassively, “I just don’t feel like talking.”

  “What’s happening to you? In the first three or four days, you were so gentle, so caring, so there, and now, since the day before yesterday, you’re . . . you’re different, more distant, more . . .” She gave a little sigh. “And why did you go back to work so quickly?”