by André Alexis
Moosonee and his assistant brushed past her on their way to the restaurant, leaving a whiff of toothpaste, the rumps of their grey suits rumpled. No, it was the attitude she disliked. It was not the accent. Franklin, whose office was across the hall from hers, spoke with an unplaceable accent and she was not put off; but then, Franklin never raised his voice. He looked at you, not through you, and he listened. It was rare that anyone listened, and listening itself was an intimacy. There was something feminine about him, and gentle. She could speak to Franklin about anything, about her grandmother, her family, her thoughts on this and that…and always: he listened and asked thoughtful questions, and although he was not at all her type, much older, she found him appealing.
Older…a little older? How old was he? He rarely spoke about himself, but he was older than she was: twenty-one, her light brown skin unblemished, her figure slight and beautiful. Not too young and besides, the years between any two people are insignificant if there is understanding, yes?
It was two o’clock. She’d been invited to lunch by the Member from Athabasca, but he and his secretary had, at virtually the same instant, remembered a call they could not miss and they had rushed back to their offices, leaving Mary to dine alone but on Athabasca’s card. On offer was something called Lobster Newburg.
– Le homard s’il vous plaît.
– Okay, d’abord, mais j’sais pas s’il me reste du pain.
Unfortunately, “il en restait” and it was toasted, or had been toasted. It was now chewy, with blackened edges. Beneath its Newburg glue, the lobster had the consistency of soft plastic. Yet it was good, or good enough, because Mary was, after a year, still captivated by the restaurant itself, an inner sanctum where, occasionally, you found yourself sitting beside men and women who mattered. She knew that habitués found the fare uninteresting, and she herself had taken to complaining about the meals, though she seldom dined there and, really, she was captivated.
She ate the lobster in silence, leaning over her plate, one hand in her lap. She did not notice the entrance of Franklin and Rundstedt. They sat by a pillar on the other side of the restaurant. It was not until she got up to leave that she saw them. She approached their table.
– Franklin, she said. Do you know if Mr. Boudreau is going to be in the office this afternoon?
– I don’t think so, Franklin answered.
– Busy, busy, and darned busy, said Rundstedt.
– He decided to meet Mr. Simard at the Château, Franklin continued. He didn’t know when he’d be back.
– Oh, said Mary. That’s what I thought. Okay. See you in the office.
Looking down, she saw that the side of her skirt had brushed the table as she spoke. There was dust on it and as she walked away from them she distractedly hit at the skirt, to the side and behind her.
As if he were a ladies’ man, Rundstedt said
– Now that is admirable.
– What is? asked Franklin.
– Oh, the skirt, the skirt, said Rundstedt. I’m a married man. I didn’t notice the woman in it.
– Is it a sin to notice? asked Franklin.
– Only if you’re Catholic, son.
– Yes, that’s great, said Franklin. But you were saying?
They’d been talking about prisons, about the upcoming elections, about the solitude of electoral campaigns, and, most important, about Rundstedt’s chances for re-election, a subject of interest to Franklin.
– Hard to lose when there’s no opposition, said Rundstedt.
– No one’s running against you?
– Not unless you count the Liberal.
He would have his fourth term, then, no doubt about it. He was, by his own reckoning, a wonderful Member of Parliament: balm for his constituents, balm for Calgary. The only cloud, as far as he could see, might be Mulroney himself, because Rundstedt had, as did most Westerners, an almost inbred mistrust of all Québécois. Perhaps Brian was the exception, but it would take some convincing and it was possible Rundstedt’s constituents would resent the Conservatives’ turn to Quebec. Then again, the Liberals were saddled with John Turner, the Bay Street nudist.
– He’s a nudist?
Rumours were a dime a dozen, these days. What hadn’t people said about Turner? Still, what one wouldn’t give for a clear photograph of the man and his shortcomings. The very idea filled Rundstedt with glee, not that he wanted to see Turner’s short arm, you understand.
– Of course not, said Franklin.
Really, there was something immaturely carnal about Rundstedt.
– Anyways, said Rundstedt, what about Boudreau? Harder for a Conservative to win in Qweebec than Alberta. Course, Boudreau’s not a real Conservative. I don’t think they make ’em in Qweebec. They’re all busy sucking federal tit, doesn’t matter what party. No offence.
– None taken, said Franklin.
For a time, they ate in silence. Rundstedt dipped pieces of crust into the Lobster Newburg, as if he were eating the yolk of a softboiled egg. Franklin nudged the Newburg with his fork, risking a mouthful only after due consideration. He didn’t care for food doused in cream.
– You ran for election a while back, didn’t you, Frank? Ever think of running again?
– Not really.
– Why not?
– Gun shy, said Franklin.
Rundstedt was about to deliver his speech on courage, hard knocks, and the remounting of horses when, reaching for a glass of water, he noticed the time. He rose from the table, put a hand on Franklin’s shoulder, and said
– You know, if Boudreau doesn’t make it, you can come work for me. I can use a good assistant.
– Thank you, Franklin said.
– Even if Boudreau does make it, come work for me. It’d be good for you, Frank. Gotta go.
Then, he left.
Despite his brave words, Rundstedt was worried about the election, and Franklin knew it. Rundstedt was worried about the slip-ups that marred the best campaign: an uninspired platform, a sullen wife, unmanageable children, unintended revelations of private matters. No election is won before votes are counted. Still, Rundstedt was as secure as a politician could be. He was a conservative in Alberta, than which, none is more secure.
Franklin sat at the table alone, distractedly pushing pieces of lobster to one side of his plate. This was a fateful moment, for him. Or so it felt. Here was a chance to re-enter politics through a different door than the first he’d taken, with someone who understood and appreciated Franklin’s opinions and ideas.
A man touched Franklin’s arm.
– Je regrette, monsieur, mais nous fermons.
– Comment?
– Le restaurant est fermé.
It was the chef himself, or perhaps one of his assistants. The man’s whites were dirty and the cap on his head tilted to one side, rakishly, you might have said if it were possible to be rakish in kitchen whites and a toque.
– Monsieur n’a pas aimé le homard?
– Si, mais j’avais moins faim que je n’pensais.
As he walked back to his office, Franklin found himself thinking of Mary Stanley. It struck him, not for the first time, that the young woman had an “interest” in him. He felt about her “interest” a kind of confusion. He was not handsome, and he knew it. He did not think himself particularly witty and he was not physically prepossessing. So what was there in him to attract the interest of a young woman? The thought made him smile, as at some subtle humour he couldn’t really grasp. Himself, attractive? How strange. And yet, her “interest” made her more interesting to him as well. For instance, he found he could listen to the particulars of her life – her conflicts with her mother, her strange grandmother – without boredom. Given how few women had attracted his attention since Alexandra had abandoned him, it sometimes felt as if he were, again, in Mary’s company, awakening, again
, to the world of sentiment.
And it was with this thought in mind, as he walked back to his paper-filled office, that Franklin resolved to accept Rundstedt’s proposition. He would work for the man, if, that is, Boudreau allowed it, and perhaps bring something of himself to bear on the work they hoped to do: prisons, prisoners, law and order…
– Franklin?
On hearing his footsteps (and then his key jiggling in the lock of 641), Mary had got up to show Franklin a letter they’d received from one of Mr. Boudreau’s constituents. She had called his name from within her own office, but when she reached the door, she saw that Franklin hadn’t heard. He was bent over the doorknob, keys in hand, a look of intense concentration on his face.
– F…, she began again
but changed her mind, not wishing to disturb his thoughts. She withdrew from the hallway, returning to the letter she’d left on her desk:
Cher Monsieur le très honorable,
Je ne sais pas écrire et je suis aveugle. C’est ma fille Micheline qui écrit pour moi. Aussi j’ai perdu les doigts de ma main droite lors d’un accident de chasse. Comme vous voyez, ma vie n’est pas facile ces jours-ci et mon mari est en prison.
Je n’aime pas me plaindre parce que je sais que Dieu va s’occuper de moi. Mais j’ai des enfants. J’en ai quatre. J’avais six mais deux son morts pendant l’hiver, dont Roger et Georges, mes plus jeunes, et il n’est pas facile de voir ses enfants mourir même quand on ne voit plus.
Malgré ma mauvaise fortune, je ne vous aurais pas écrit si ce n’était pas pour mes enfants. Étant aveugle, je ne peux plus travailler à l’usine, et on menace de m’enlever les petits.
Alors, Monsieur le très honorable, vous voyez que ce n’est pas pour moi-même que je vous demande un peu d’argent.
Nous n’avons pas besoin de beaucoup. Si vous pouvez trouver en votre honorable soi un peu de pitié pour une aveugle et les quelques enfants qui lui restent, cinq mille dollars (5 000) nous protégeraient surement du loup à notre porte.
Bien à vous,
Nicole Lévesque1
It was this letter she had meant to show Franklin. It was a hoax. There was no Nicole Lévesque, no blindness, no children. And although someone had taken the trouble to write the letter by hand, it was accompanied by a folded, stamped manila envelope whose address was typed: Nicole Lévesque c/o Merci Des P’tits in Chicoutimi.
It wasn’t the address that gave it away, however. Mary had read it in good faith, rather moved by the thought of a fingerless woman and her daughter, until she came to the “cinq mille dollars” and the “loup à la porte.” Five thousand bucks and a wolf at the door? She had heard that before. This same letter, in English, had only recently made the rounds of Parliament. It may even have elicited contributions, until a secretary had actually looked for Mrs. Lévesque and discovered that Nicole did not exist, that “Nicole” was, in reality, an Algerian national who was not of sound mind.
Although Mary had not been gulled, it was infuriating that a thing she’d taken for naive and ill bred (the handwriting) was meant to look naive and ill bred, its naiveté part of a design. Someone had practised that hand, had practised it with her, or someone like her, in mind. But the most disturbing thing was that, despite herself, she had been moved, moved by what she assumed was the desperation at the root of the letter, moved by the idea of a family in crisis.
Of course, the tensions in her own family were much on her mind at the time, and something in the letter’s tone (aggrieved, threatening, touching) reminded her of her grandmother, Eleanor. Eleanor, old and lonely, had begun to lose herself, and it upset Mary deeply to think about her grandmother’s mortality.
Not that Eleanor was what you’d call a grandmotherly grandmother. No, she was intricate in ways Mary could not fathom and she could be prickly. For instance, she seemed to dislike her son, Stanley. No, not “seemed.” Eleanor clearly disliked her son; though, whenever Mary was with them, Eleanor tried to disguise her feelings. (At such moments, it seemed to Mary her grandmother was like a dog that growls at a stranger until someone from the house comes in.) What made the situation even more difficult to understand was the love Mary felt for both of them, her father and her grandmother.
The love she felt for her father was uncomplicated. It was love for one of the most agreeable men she had ever met. He was so easygoing, it hadn’t always been clear her love was reciprocated, wasn’t clear until she was old enough to understand and appreciate his unflappable good nature. And this understanding deepened the mystery of Eleanor’s animosity. How could she dislike such a loving man? There was no obvious answer, so, after years of wondering, Mary had finally got up the nerve to ask her grandmother if she loved Stanley.
She hadn’t asked directly. Though she and her grandmother were very close, Mary chose to come at the matter from the side. She’d asked
– Gran, do you love Dad as much as you love me?
Eleanor had looked at her coldly, as if exactly sizing the degree of her offence and then, offended, had answered
– Of course
and refused to speak to her for a week.
It had been a sad, guilt-addled week for Mary. She’d felt ashamed at having broached a subject she’d suspected was sensitive, but the week’s dénouement was disturbing. After seven days, her grandmother had called her to her bedroom and had chided her for being an unworthy grandchild, not because Mary had questioned her affection for Stanley, but, rather, because Mary had been “avoiding her.” For some reason, Eleanor had mistaken her own unwillingness to speak to Mary for Mary’s indifference. It seemed uncalculated, as if her grandmother had genuinely forgotten both their contretemps and her refusal to speak.
To Mary, this was mystifying. Her grandmother had always been a woman in control of her faculties. Eleanor often insisted on her own frailty, but, in all the time her grandmother had lived with them, Mary had seen little sign of it. She’d wondered if, in chiding her for her “absence,” Eleanor were being unfair as well as unkind and then, after reflection, put the whole thing down to “age” (such a small word to hide so many cataclysms) and that had saddened her even more. The time would come, wouldn’t it, when Eleanor needed her as much as this fictitious “Nicole” needed her “Micheline”? Yes, it would. And that is why, when she discovered the letter’s dark intent, the hoax at the heart of it, Mary took it personally, as if she herself had been betrayed. She had thought to tell Franklin of her distress when, seeing him hard at work, or just about, she suddenly felt abashed at the thought of sharing so much; and so, she buried her feelings and got on with the business of the day.
1 Dear Honourable Sir,
I do not know how to write and I am blind. My daughter Micheline is writing this for me. Also, I lost all the fingers on my right hand in a hunting accident. As you can see, my life is not easy these days and my husband is in prison.
I do not like to complain, because I know the good Lord will take care of me. But I have children. I have four of them. I used to have six, but my youngests, Roger and George, died this winter, and it’s not easy to see your children die, even when you’re blind.
Despite my misfortune, I would not have written you if it weren’t for my children. Being blind, I can no longer work at the factory, and they’re threatening to take my children away.
And so, Your Honour, you can see that it is not for myself that I’m asking for money.
We do not need much. If you could find it in your Honourable Self to take pity on a poor blind woman and the children still left to her, $5,000 would surely keep the wolf from our door.
Yours truly,
Nicole Lévesque
{9}
A FAMILY DIVIDED
Mary’s family was divided against itself. Mary’s mother, Beatrice, disliked and resented her mother-in-law because of the way Eleanor treated her (with indifference) and because of
the way she treated Stanley (with barely hidden contempt). Mary’s father had feelings for his mother that were complex. They were a constant sifting of love and wariness. And then, finally, there was Mary’s younger brother, Gilbert, whose feelings for his grandmother consisted of dislike and affection. He disliked Eleanor but remembered a time when she was fond of him and, for this, he could not entirely dismiss what love he felt.
And Eleanor’s feelings?
Eleanor had been living with her son’s family for three years. She had convinced her son to take her in because, she said at the time, she feared the onset of senility and death. It had not taken much convincing. Though she had never been a loving mother, her son was a dutiful and kind man. He would have taken her in whatever her condition.
Mind you, he could not afford her. The house on Spadina was too small. There had been just enough room for himself, his wife, their daughter, and their son, so Eleanor’s intrusion had caused hardship. To begin with, Beatrice was not pleased to have Eleanor live with them. Throughout the years, Eleanor had treated her and Stanley with unsheathed scorn. Because she loved her husband, Beatrice reluctantly allowed the arrangement, but there were times you could almost hear her grinding teeth. And then, their son, Gil, had had to give up his room outright and now slept in the basement. But what was hardship, weighed against duty?
Yes, but there were things the family did not know about Eleanor. For instance, they did not know she actually owned the beautiful house on MacLaren that overlooked Dundonald Park, a house with five bedrooms, a sitting room, an accommodating kitchen, a library. When she moved in with her son, she rented out the rooms she had occupied in this house, a house that would have suited them all much better than Spadina Avenue did. But she’d kept her ownership secret from everyone save her lawyer, Mr. Bax, pretending to be a mere occupant, a poor woman dependent on her late husband’s army pension.
Nor was the house on MacLaren her only asset. Though she’d spent most of her life crying poor, living in her own house as if she were a tenant among tenants, Eleanor Stanley was a wealthy woman. She held bank accounts in Paris, Indianapolis, Naples, and Edinburgh. (She had also, at one time, owned property in Athens, Potsdam, Princeton, London, and Evora.) That is to say, her net worth was in the millions, a fact she kept to herself. This was certainly mean of her, but because she intended to leave her money and her estate to her granddaughter, this pettiness did not trouble her conscience. She would end her life with an act of generosity that would, to her mind, absolve her of any sins she might have committed.