by Ann Lambert
“Pauvre petite.” She returned the photo to Roméo. “I don’t know her. But it’s hard to tell them apart. Chuis pas raciste, moé. I’m not racist. It’s just that they all have black hair and brown eyes, and when I see them…Let’s just say they’re not at their best.”
“You seen anyone in the bar lately, any of these guys—been especially aggressive? Likes to prey on women? Especially Indigenous women?”
This time her eyebrows did actually lift. “You are kidding, right?”
Roméo didn’t respond.
“There’s always these slimy guys—almost always white—who just know how to get to them, you know? There’s one—I mean, I know he’s some kind of pimp. And the cops know about him, too. But no one does anything. Why didn’t they take him out years ago? I mean, what is wrong with you guys?”
A customer had joined them at the bar and was obviously trying to listen in.
The bartender removed her glasses, delivered a beer to him, and reminded him to mind his own business. Roméo scrolled through his phone to the photo of Hélène taken from the dead woman’s pocket.
“Do you know this woman? Her name is Hélène Cousineau.”
Once again, she took the phone and peered more closely. “Oui. I seen her. Maybe. three…No, maybe six months ago? It was like August, September maybe? She used to come in here once, maybe twice a week.”
“Are you sure? This woman?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
“Did you ever see her with the woman in the other photo?”
“No. Like I said, I never seen that one. But this one,” she tapped the photo with a very long, red index nail. “Not a big drinker, but she was a really good tipper. Which means she probably worked at a bar, too.”
Roméo pulled two twenties from his wallet and left them on the bar. “Listen. If you see her again, can you please let me know right away?” He placed his card by her hand.
“Can I give you a call even if I don’t see her again?”
Roméo smiled and took the last sip of beer. “Merci, Madame.” He put on his coat, turned up the collar and headed towards the door. It was time to call Ti-Coune Cousineau.
Seventeen
Thursday night
“HERE YOU GO, BOY. Wait! Let me get it all out—there you go. You’re such a good, good boy.” Christian squatted by Hamlet as he emptied the last tiny bit of kibble into the dog’s bowl. Hamlet swallowed the food in a less than a minute, but he didn’t beg for more. He knew from experience that that was all there was. For now. Christian gently scratched the dog’s head and crawled back into his thermal sleeping bag. Hamlet curled himself up tightly beside him and the two settled in for the night in the recessed side door of St. Edmund’s church, directly across the street from Westmount Square, where the very cheapest of their condos went for two and a half million bucks. But St. Edmund’s days were numbered. Once a home to a thriving community, it was about to go the way so many churches had in Quebec—it had been recently deconsecrated, sold to developers, and would be transformed into more condos. Christian pulled his sleeping bag over the top of his head and tried to stay warm. He concentrated on his breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Stay in the present. Stay in the present. What I am feeling is scary. But it is not dangerous. Look at something specific. Concrete. He stroked Hamlet again. He was here, with his dog. He would be okay. He would be okay. Although he had finally taken his medication as promised, he was struggling to control the panic that was rising up in him and ready to implode. Where was Nia? Where was Nia? Where was Nia? He hadn’t seen her since yesterday morning, when she went off to the housing office, and he was supposed to get a spot at the squat on Berri Street. He did manage to secure a place for them, but Nia never showed up. He had spent all that day looking for her. He and Hamlet went to all their usual haunts—the Sherbrooke metro, then the Berri/UQAM station, and finally Christian had headed west along Ste. Catherine street towards Cabot Square and Alexis Nihon. They didn’t tend to wander over that far west too often, but it was really his last hope. No Nia. He had spent the day panhandling at the Atwater metro, and made $18.50—not bad at all. A regular at that spot had agreed to watch Hamlet so Christian could run to the IGA to buy a few bananas, a jar of crunchy peanut butter, and a loaf of bread. That combination was Nia’s favorite, and he was looking forward to surprising her.
He had forgotten to get more dog food and felt furious with himself. “I’m sorry, Buddy. We’ll find Nia tomorrow and get you a good bone. She knows all the best places for that.” At the sound of Nia’s name, the dog opened his eyes and became more alert. He watched Christian for a few seconds, and then resumed his position, his nose buried deep in his tail. Christian covered him in the flannel blanket Nia had found on the street—some mom must have dropped it off a baby stroller. It was covered in cartoony flowers, birds, and butterflies. Hamlet began to snore quietly. He was exhausted. Christian stared up at the Dawson College dome, glimmering in the evening light. He could just make out the statue of Mary, holding her baby, Jesus. He kept breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Christian tried to think of the things that made him feel happy and peaceful. Hamlet. He was right here. Nia. Nia’s not here, though. What happened to Nia? What if Nia had an accident? What if Nia was dead? Stay in the present. Happy. Peaceful.
He thought of St. Léon’s, a beautiful church a few blocks from where he was right now, where he and Nia sometimes hung out in the afternoons because there was never anyone there. They loved to watch the sun playing with the colors of the stained glass windows. They were so rich, so heartbreakingly beautiful. But there was Adam and Eve—Eve raising her arm and covering her eyes in shame. For eating from the tree of knowledge? Why was that a bad thing? Why were they driven out of the garden? Why was sex shameful? Why were people punished for it? Why did anyone care about who had sex with who and why? Nia always told him not to get so worked up about it, and just appreciate the skill of the illustration, the passion of the colors.
A blast of frigid air suddenly came rocketing around the corridor from Atwater and de Maisonneuve. Christian tucked further into the doorway to protect himself and Hamlet from the wind. That sandwich guy who showed him this spot was right. What was his name? Ishmael? No. Isaac. Abraham’s legitimate son. The sacrifice that God, in the end, did not demand. He just wanted proof that a father would murder his son for Him. This was a great place to bunk in for the night. If only Nia were here with him and Hamlet. Something must have happened. No. She was okay. Nia knew how to take care of herself. She was okay. Breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth. Christian was very grateful for the couple of Ativans the sandwich guy gave him—gave him—to calm him down and help him sleep. He thought he’d take one and keep the other for later, in case. But in the end, he’d swallowed both. They were already kicking in. Satisfied that Hamlet was warm enough and feeling like he had to close his eyes and rest, Christian fell into a profound sleep.
As he expected, the dog, Hamlet, woke up as soon as he approached. It got immediately to its feet and growled softly. It was afraid. In his pocket was the treat, which he removed and pulled from its plastic wrap. It took a bit of quiet coaxing, but the dog finally, tentatively pulled the food from his hand and swallowed it whole. He spoke softly, tenderly to it the entire time, until it, too began to succumb. Poor thing. Although they had fashioned a dog coat for it, it was mostly in tatters, and the dog had patches of mange that must be agonizing. After a few minutes, he crawled over to the sleeping man, but it wasn’t easy to get close. His layers of clothes reeked of the street, and no matter how many showers he took, that couldn’t be washed off. He looked around quickly to make sure no one was out for a very late walk with their dog, or some random student leaving the college after a night of cramming. He turned the man gently on his back, trying not to inhale too deeply, and straddled his chest.
“I will help you. Don’t be scared.
Help is coming. Help is on the way.” It didn’t take very long. Within four and a half minutes of his first approach, it was all over.
Eighteen
Friday night
February 1, 2019
MICHAELA CRUZ EMERGED from the metro station, pulled her hood over her head carefully so as not to wreck her hair, and began to trudge up the hill towards the Place d’Armes square. The neo-Gothic façade of l’église Notre Dame rose before her, illuminated garishly against the evening sky. She was trying, rather unsuccessfully, not to be too excited to be attending the Diamond in the Rough party at Jean Luc David’s house. Although she had abandoned her family’s Catholic faith many years earlier, she still crossed herself quickly before the church’s towers and said a little prayer for this evening to be everything she was hoping for. Michaela’s mother had watched her get ready for the party, but she did not tell her parents where she was really going. They were Italian over-protective and would not approve. She was their only child, and they lived intensely and vicariously through her achievements. Her mother reminded her a crop top was not appropriate for the winter weather and that she had too much makeup on. Michaela ignored her. She worked weekends at her parents’ bakery, and they were constantly bringing Italian boys to the store to meet her who still sported faux hawks and soccer jerseys. Her parents had gotten married as teenagers, and they fretted about Michaela’s love life—she’d never had a boyfriend and didn’t really want one just yet. She had much more important plans.
Michaela left her coat and boots with a different greeter from last time—a young woman who barely looked at her as she handed them over. Then she made her way directly to the bar, where no cocktails were being poured, but there was wine and beer she could help herself to, and a giant cheese plate with some fruit gracefully displayed. This was not a star-studded party like the last one, and everyone looked to be under thirty. This time, though, no one was dancing. The guests were huddled in small groups talking quietly, with an occasional burst of forced laughter, but Michaela could tell they were not really listening to each other. They were glancing around the room furtively, perhaps wondering if and when something would happen. Michaela suddenly wished Brittany was there with her. She didn’t know anyone here, and it felt too weird to just insert herself into a conversation. But Brittany hadn’t been invited.
After what seemed like an endless amount of time devoted to small talk with a gaggle of young women who had all just graduated from a prestigious theatre school and starred in plays Michaela had never heard of, she noticed the energy in the room shift. Jean Luc David appeared, looking very casual but distinguished in a salmon-colored shirt, perfectly tailored blue jeans, and an expression of avuncular amusement. He slowly worked the room, greeting each circle of wannabees. Every one of them broke into wide, perfect smiles as he bestowed his momentary attention on them. His presence was electric. Michaela found it a bit nauseating. He had not even looked at her yet.
She felt a hand gently touch her shoulder. She turned to meet the striking green eyes of a woman who looked to be in her late thirties. She had a generous mouth outlined in bright burgundy lipstick, and a delicate golden nose ring. She tucked a swath of her jet black hair behind one ear, and held out her other hand.
“Hi! I’m Gennifer Moran, Mr. David’s personal assistant. You’re Michaela Cruz, right?”
Her voice was quite deep and pleasant. It made her sound older than she appeared to be. Michaela nodded and let her hand be shaken.
“Mr. David asked me to contact you to attend the party this evening—I tried to reach your agent first, but—”
“I…I don’t have an agent. Yet.” Michaela stammered.
“Well, that’s not a problem—Oh! You don’t even know what I’m talking about, do you?”
Michaela could feel dozens of eyes watching, trying hard to hear this conversation.
“I knew as soon as I saw you that you were the one.”
Michaela was mortified to feel herself blushing. “The one what?”
“We are looking to cast a new ‘girl,’” Gennifer Moran gestured in inverted commas, “even though at eighteen years old, she’s really a woman.”
Michaela felt her heart pounding.
“We think you might be her.” Gennifer scrolled through her phone’s files. “I see you did a lot of acting in high school, but not much after. That’s okay. We’re looking for fresh. Raw. No one who’s been around the track a hundred times by the time they’re twenty-one years old.”
Michaela found her voice and offered, “I am mostly a writer now. I’ve written two screenplays—I won best screenplay award two years in a row at my college, and I’m waiting to hear if I get early acceptance at Concordia film school.”
Gennifer Moran held up her hand to quiet her. “I’m sure you’re very talented. But for now, Mr. David would like to discuss this possibility with you. It’s not a big role right now, but it’s not an SOC, either—”
“What’s an SOC?”
Gennifer laughed. Michaela could see the bones of her shoulders sticking out from her clingy black dress. “It means Silent On Camera. No lines.” She checked her phone again. “I’ll be back for you in a few minutes. Have another glass of wine. Eat!”
Michaela watched as the woman strode away in impossibly high heels that she made possible. She moved to the bar, poured a glass of wine, and immediately texted Brittany.
“omg !!!!! might get a role on NW !!! meeting JLD. how much do you think they pay?”
She surveyed the room to see where the women she’d been chatting with had gone and noticed that at least half of the guests had already left. A few crestfallen-looking ones slumped on sofas, and the rest seemed to be heading for their coats. Michaela wondered when Gennifer Moran was coming back, and just then, she did.
“Come with me.”
Michaela followed her down a flight of stairs, past what she remembered as the kitchen, and then to the same Hollywood walk of fame corridor. The assistant opened a door, and ushered Michaela into the huge office she had only glimpsed before. It had wall-to-wall windows overlooking the city. An enormous shelf lined with books, the trophy table with all the Emmys, and a stunning Persian carpet dominated the room. Jean Luc David was seated in an old-looking armchair, facing out the window towards the river.
“Merci, Gennifer.” He swiveled around and addressed Michaela. “Gennifer has a few things to take care of with the others. Can she leave us alone for a few minutes?”
Michaela smiled cautiously. “Of course.”
“Please sit down.”
Michaela had the choice between an uncomfortable-looking chrome and plastic chair, or a sleek, low-slung sofa. She opted for the chair. There was a longish silence while he just looked at her.
“As my assistant mentioned, we are looking to cast a new character—for next season—and you’re pretty much perfect. Our girl is seventeen, the daughter of Middle Eastern refugees who is caught between the two cultures of her old and new home—”
“I’m mostly Italian and a bit Portuguese, Mr. David. Not Middle—”
“You read as exotic. Spirited but vulnerable. Very intelligent but naïve. That’s who we’re looking for.”
Michaela smiled awkwardly. “Um. Okay. If that’s what you’re seeing. Thank you.”
“Can you stand up, please?”
“Um. Okay. Do you—how do you want me to stand? This feels weird.”
He tilted his head at an angle. “Could you let your hair down, please?”
Michaela reached up and slowly pulled the clip from her hair. She had just washed it, so it tumbled full and shiny onto her shoulders.
“Lovely! Now, this might seem like a strange request, but would you just go into the washroom over there and remove the makeup from your face. We just need to know how you read unadorned. Unenhanced. It’s very critical to this character.” He turned away
from her and back towards the river view. She hesitated, and then got up from her hard chair and headed towards the bathroom. She locked the door behind her and stared at herself in the huge mirror. She pulled out her phone and saw that she had a text from Brittany.
“a shit-ton of $$ !! am at home call me xoxo”
Michaela began to wash the makeup off her face. When she felt that she looked as “unenhanced” as she could, she unlocked the door and pulled it open. Jean Luc David was standing in the threshold. He had removed his glasses, making him look much older somehow. Michaela could see the crow’s feet around his eyes, which were no longer bemused. He surveyed her face. Her entire body, from her hair to her breasts to her legs and back again. Then he stepped into the bathroom and ran his hands through her hair until he had it firmly entwined in his fingers. Suddenly, she understood what she was really doing there.
Nineteen
Saturday evening
February 2, 2019
IT HAD BEEN A GLORIOUS DAY. Marie had gone for a long and arduous cross-country ski on the network of trails that started right out of her back door. It was perfect weather for it—about fifteen degrees below zero, not even a sigh of wind, and a cloudless, sunny sky. She had climbed the mountain that rose up directly behind her house and descended into a little valley, then up again to a spectacular lookout that offered a view of Mont Tremblant in the distance and the hills that gave way to its summit. On the way there she had almost impaled with her ski pole a spruce grouse who was buried in the snow and startled it into frantic flight. Marie loved looking at the tracks of the animals who also made their way up and down her trails. The dead-straight line of red foxes, the wide band of a beaver tail, the giant back feet of the snowshoe hare in frenetic patterns, and the deeper but delicate step of the deer. Once, Marie had practically ploughed into a couple of moose who were clumsily getting to their feet from the crib they’d made in the deep snow. For a few moments they both just stared at each other, their breath suspended in the frozen air, and then Marie turned around and skied off as fast as her legs and arms could take her.