Asylum

by André Alexis

  Walter looked at her and smiled, his head to one side.

  – Do we know each other? he asked.

  – I think so, Mary answered. But I can’t remember how.

  Walter was about to politely echo her thought when, as if a light had been turned on in a dark room, he had a vivid and precise image of her: her hand on his arm, as she asked him to listen to the story of her…what was it? Someone in her family?

  – We met on the Alexandra Bridge, said Walter.

  – Oh, yes, said Mary. What a good memory you have. When was that?

  – I’m not sure, said Walter. Two years ago?

  When had he tried to jump from the Alexandra? A long time ago, it seemed. And yet, yes, though she clearly did not remember, this was the young woman who’d stopped him from jumping. She had saved him, perhaps it was natural he remember her more than she remembered him.

  Louise reached back to put her hand in Walter’s and asked

  – You two know each other?

  – No, said Walter. But we’ve met before.

  – That’s wonderful, said Louise.

  Their collective causerie lasted no more than five minutes, after which François suggested they should all meet on some other occasion. Then Walter and Louise walked out of the Khyber Pass, bodies close, a sight that unexpectedly saddened the two who stayed. Mary and François finished dessert in distracted silence, trying to recover the thread of their own conversation. François was sad at the thought of how perishable love was while Mary was saddened by how elusive love seemed to be.

  When they returned to their conversation, both were slightly more formal.

  – Would you like to walk for a while? asked François. It’s still early.

  – Yes, that would be good. I can work some of these calories off.

  – You certainly don’t need to, François said.

  In the moments that followed his payment of the bill, as they rose from the table, François heard (as if it had suddenly flared up) the music that was playing on the restaurant’s stereo. It was something ineffable, like a Middle Eastern blues, the perfect accompaniment to the wistful pleasure this evening had become.

  – Please, what is the music? he asked the waiter.

  – “Gol-e Yakh,” the waiter answered.

  It was said quickly, as if merely to jog François’ memory, though this was, in fact, the first time he’d heard it.

  – Oh yes, said François. Thank you.

  As if his memory had indeed coughed up what was needed.

  They walked at the edges of the Market: from King Edward to St. Patrick, St. Patrick to Dalhousie, Dalhousie to Clarence and Clarence to Majors Hill. They did not speak much, but they recovered an ease in the surrounding quiet of the evening. At one point, Mary thought to mention her grandmother but did not. François recounted how he’d broken his thumb playing street hockey on Guigues, an admission that made her feel suddenly protective of him or, rather, protective of the boy he had been when he had broken his thumb.

  When they came to Majors Hill Park, they gazed at the Parliament Buildings and over at Hull and then, as if the walk had loosened their tongues or triggered a need, they began to talk. About nothing in particular, at first, and then about themselves: parents, homes, and childhoods. And when, after an hour or so, it was time to go their separate ways, they shook hands and kissed each other’s cheeks, awkwardly, and agreed they would see each other again, there being so much left to say about home and childhood.

  {42}

  A TROUBLED LUNCH

  On the afternoon Franklin was to have met François Ricard, he and Edward had a long lunch at the Mayflower. They often ate lunch together, often at the Mayflower. The food was passable and it could be eaten away from parliamentarians, most of whom ate in the Market or on Bank Street or in the (God grant their senses reprieve) cafeteria.

  For the first while, they spoke of MacKenzie Bowell. Rather, Franklin spoke. Cabinet seemed certain to reduce Reinhart’s design to such a shadow of itself, it seemed to him the penitentiary would be more valuable for the bricks and copper used to build it than for the effect it would have on anyone, let alone its inmates. But it hadn’t come to that yet. And a great idea, as this penitentiary was, would surely find its way into the world.

  During what was, in effect, Franklin’s effort to boost his own spirits, Edward contributed what encouragement he could. He asked the occasional question

  – Is the prime minister behind the penitentiary?

  and made the occasional point

  – Maybe Cabinet doesn’t get it

  but, in fact, his mind was on something else. He did not quite take in Franklin’s words or mood, because he was himself upset. Why? Because, a week gone, he had met with Mickleson in the Gatineaus.

  Actually, Edward was to have met St. Pierre. Franklin had asked him to take new pictures of MacKenzie Bowell’s site when St. Pierre called to arrange an exchange: he had an envelope for which he wished to exchange money. What was in the envelope, Franklin never said, but as the prison’s site was halfway between Ottawa and the place where St. Pierre and Mickleson were “at work,” he suggested Edward take the photos and make the exchange.

  All might have gone well too, save that St. Pierre’s mother had died suddenly and he’d left the vicinity to attend her funeral. So, it was Mickleson who met Edward in the Gatineaus, at the site of the penitentiary, alone, in midafternoon.

  To Edward, the landscape was unnerving. He found it unlikeable and antagonistic, as if the ground, a living being, after all, reciprocated his dislike. The day itself was filled with short, sharp sounds, the rain was persistent and cold, and then there was Mickleson himself. You could feel he was a peculiar man. It wasn’t his looks, though he was not handsome, but his being.

  Edward arrived at the appointed time, but at first Mickleson was nowhere to be seen, and Edward cursed him, sotto voce. Then, as he was about to return to his car, Mickleson suddenly appeared and said

  – Nice day for it.

  Edward jumped backwards, into the branches of a spruce, bringing a shower’s shower on them.

  – Jeez, you scared the heck out of me, he said.

  Mickleson looked him over and smiled. He patted Edward on the back, as if to say “that a boy,” and pointed in the direction of a car that, Edward now saw, was parked near his own. Without another word, Mickleson preceded him, opened the car door for him, and, after he himself had climbed in, handed over an envelope.

  It all seemed so very odd. Edward was in a Volkswagen with a man who intimidated him, yet he was relieved once he’d taken the envelope and handed his over. Although the day had been too dark and wet to take any clear photos, he had accomplished this one useful thing, at least. He felt a little petty for having cursed Mickleson’s lateness. He now tried to be considerate.

  He said

  – Thanks

  and then, after a pause

  – So…must have been quite the job getting the owners to sell, eh?

  It was none of his business what Mickleson and St. Pierre did and, moreover, Edward did not want to know any details. He had simply asked the kind of question one asks to be polite. He expected no more than a perfunctory answer, after which he would have left Mickleson’s car in a good mood. His question unexpectedly upset Mickleson, however. Who knows why? Perhaps Mickleson was upset by his partner’s loss, or Mickleson hated the sight of Edward Muir, or Mickleson disliked the weather. Whatever it was, when Edward said

  – Must have been difficult…

  Mickleson thought

  – Fuck you, you ugly little time-server.

  For Mickleson, Edward was part of a world that pretended he and St. Pierre did not exist, until they were needed, that is. These were the people who treated them like dogs. Mickleson had a mind to hurt Edward Muir, to break a few of his fingers. Instead, he
did something thoughtful. He described, in lurid detail, the damage he and St. Pierre had done to the McAllisters, their dog, and their home. It gave Mickleson pleasure to feel Edward’s horror and to make an accomplice of him, to warn him that if word got out about the McAllisters, if he (Mickleson) heard any of his own stories back, he would have to damage Edward and Franklin and everyone who worked in the office with them.

  Edward fully felt Mickleson’s malevolence, but he had no idea what he’d done to deserve it. He understood Mickleson was an unpleasant man, but he could not quite understand the story he’d been told. It didn’t seem possible for St. Pierre to shoot a dog. He looked to be too proper a man. So it seemed unlikely Mickleson had told the truth. On the other hand, unless Mickleson were insane, it made no sense to invent such an elaborate story and then threaten retribution if Edward should breathe a word of it. The threat was as ridiculous as the story. Mickleson and St. Pierre were shadowy. The last thing they wanted was the light of a public inquiry, an inquiry that would certainly follow an attack on Franklin or Rundstedt. Mickleson was not making sense. He was being absurd. So, Edward did the only thing that seemed right. He laughed.

  Mickleson, surprised, also laughed.

  At which, Edward stopped laughing just long enough to say

  – I’m sorry I asked.

  After which, Mickleson, not all that amused, grunted.

  And Edward got out of the car.

  For Edward, the encounter had been disturbing, but as it had ended in laughter, he was inclined to dismiss it. Then, two days after meeting Mickleson, he got a call from St. Pierre.

  – Edward Muir? It’s St. Pierre. I want to apologize for my partner. Mickleson loved my mother more than I did. Her death was very hard on him. Anyway, I want to apologize for him. He told you things he shouldn’t have. I think it’d be better all around if you both forgot your conversation, okay?

  – Sure, okay, I…

  – That’s great. It’s been a pleasure.

  In some ways, this brief conversation with St. Pierre was more troubling than the episode with Mickleson had been. Edward had convinced himself that Mickleson’s story was not to be taken seriously. And he had, in so doing, almost overcome the horror he’d felt at the thought of Mickleson and St. Pierre violently unhousing the McAllisters. Discounting Mickleson’s account of little dogs and pistol whippings, he was able to imagine more lawful transactions: persuasion, an agreement in price, or a slightly fraught accord. However, St. Pierre’s apology and his sinister insistence on forgetting made it clear that Mickleson must have told some version of the truth, that Mickleson and St. Pierre had killed a dog and tormented its owners, in order to secure a drab piece of land in Quebec.

  He had not seen the assault on the McAllisters, but it was possible for him to imagine the most vivid torment, possible to imagine the dog’s death in brutal detail. Actually, it was difficult to imagine it in anything but brutal detail. In his mind’s eye, the dog was always petite, a Yorkie, say, or a Bichon Frise. It was possible for him to imagine the McAllisters getting “what they deserved.” It was not possible to imagine the same for their dog.

  He had kept the apprehension he’d felt since the call from St. Pierre to himself. He’d kept it to himself for some time, before he felt he had to say something. He’d been rattled by Mickleson’s threat to keep him quiet if he spoke a word of what he knew, but his apprehension also had, in part, to do with Franklin. He was certain Franklin knew nothing of St. Pierre and Mickleson’s methods, was certain Franklin would be horrified when he heard about them. But what if Franklin, on discovering the truth of St. Pierre and Mickleson, assumed Edward must have known about them all along and, worse, approved? It was mortifying to think Franklin might take him for someone who would recommend thugs capable of such violence, as if he (Edward) were indifferent to the suffering of others, indifferent to the suffering of the McAllisters, for whose fate he felt responsible.

  When they had eaten and Franklin had finished talking about MacKenzie Bowell or, at least, paused long enough to make it seem he had, Edward delicately ventured that there was something he wished to talk about, if there was time.

  – What is it, Eddy?

  They had taken the booth farthest from the front of the restaurant, a booth beside the waiters’ station, one that looked onto Cooper, not Elgin, across from a slightly morose apartment building: volutes, plinths, stone work from the Thirties. In a low voice, Edward described his meeting with Mickleson: the dark and the rain, the look on Mickleson’s face, Mickleson’s presence in the small car that smelled of cigarettes and pine cones, and then the curious threat to keep Edward quiet. You could almost feel the pride Mickleson felt in recounting what he and St. Pierre had done, the pleasure in threatening Edward’s life, as if Edward’s life were of no more consequence than the rain, the cigarettes in the ashtray, or the scented and yellowing paper pine tree than hung from the rear-view mirror. It had been frightening to be in a car with the man, as frightening as contemplating the details of St. Pierre and Mickleson’s methods, which had come with special emphasis on the fate of the dog.

  All of this had been unnerving but slightly incredible, until the final thing, the thing that had disturbed Edward most: a brief phone call from St. Pierre, proof, it seemed to him, that Mickleson had been telling the truth. Otherwise, why should St. Pierre have bothered to ask him to forget Mickleson’s words? More than anything else, Edward wanted Franklin to understand the enormity of that phone call. These men: he was now sorry he had recommended them. They were ruthless and dangerous and their attention was on him.

  Edward spoke in whispers, stopped speaking when the waitress was near, fidgeted, nibbled at the remains of his salsa burger, and repeated himself until Franklin said

  – My God, Eddy. That’s terrible. I had no idea.

  – What if, said Edward, they’re killers?

  Franklin rubbed his nose.

  – No, no, Eddy. From what you say, they put down a dog. They’re not really killers.

  – Will that be all? asked the waitress.

  – Why don’t we have a drink? Franklin asked. I have an appointment at two. That gives us a few minutes.

  To the waitress, Franklin said

  – Two Zombies. And make mine without pineapple, please.

  Once the waitress had brought their Zombies, Franklin said

  – I understand you feel bad about this, but you feel bad about something you couldn’t have known. I’m glad you told me all this, Eddy. I certainly didn’t know anything about St. Pierre and Mickleson, so it’s as much my fault as yours. But we all make mistakes, and I think we should just move on from this one, eh. Just move on.

  When they had finished their drinks and Edward sat staring at the life on Cooper Street, Franklin said

  – We should be getting back to the office, but I want you to take the rest of the day off.

  – Why?

  – I think you deserve a few hours off. You’ve had a difficult few weeks. Anyway, I want to think this through on my own for a while.

  Edward nodded and said

  – Okay, Frank, thanks

  then added

  – I worry about St. Piere and Mickleson, you know? I wish there was something we could do.

  Franklin looked down at his watch, his face in shadow.

  – I’m late, he said.

  Franklin did not return to the office. He was too preoccupied for that and his walk home was sobering. There were three matters to make him thoughtful. First, there was Edward. Then, there was the question of St. Pierre and Mickleson. And finally, there was Rundstedt.

  He took things in order, Edward first.

  How upset Edward had been. He had cause, of course. Mickleson had threatened him. Mickleson’s presence was off-putting, at the best of times, no doubt about it. Franklin himself found the man disturbing, the kind of man of whom one susp
ects the worst even before talking to him. A military man, a Catholic, had once told Franklin that men who have killed, no matter the reason (duty, self-defence, whatever), lose something of themselves, become slightly dead inside, freezer burnt. So it was with Mickleson. It was not surprising Edward should be intimidated. But frightened people are unreliable. He had calmed Edward down and Edward was, whatever else he might be, loyal. That was something, at least.

  This is not to say Franklin was remorseless where St. Pierre and Mickleson were concerned. He had assumed the men would have to use a certain force to clear the cottagers off, but he had called on them because he’d believed in the perfection of Alba and that the site on which it was to stand should be inviolable.

  The irony was that once he’d read François’ estimates, he realized there would have to be compromise of some sort. There would be no perfection. François had put the price of MacKenzie Bowell Federal Penitentiary at $225 million. A quarter of a billion. Reinhart’s pure, unsullied vision might have stood a chance with the Liberals in power, but no self-respecting Conservative government would put up that kind of money for convicts. Among other things, this meant that the violence done the McAllisters had been done in the name of a purity that could not be achieved. St. Pierre and Mickleson had been used for what now looked like groundless optimism. In retrospect, Franklin regretted his haste, realized he should have known better, and felt slightly stricken for what he had provoked.

  The third thing that preyed on Franklin’s mind as he walked home had been on his mind for a week: a conversation he’d had with Rundstedt. The minister had returned to Ottawa for a few days and they had spoken after the government’s own quantity surveyors had sent official estimates of MacKenzie Bowell’s costs, estimates that were slightly higher than François’: almost $226 million.