Then Lise was levitated, lifted and carried by her own security. The sensation of being captive and legless while realizing she’d probably never see her sister alive again.
Margaret Lee was in her face, telling her they had to fly back to Ottawa immediately, there was a crisis, no it wasn’t Niko, Niko was fine, but they must leave, it wasn’t negotiable. She foisted her cellphone on Lise. “It’s Clark,” she said. “The Privy clerk.” As if Lise might have forgotten.
Lise hit disconnect as her own cell rang.
“Put me down,” she said to her security. “I’m answering my fucking phone.”
They complied.
She punched the button. “Allo.”
There was a long pause because cellphones worked that way in Africa.
“Traitor,” Solange said.
décembre 2008
14
BIEN SÛR, she returned. By the time the Challenger had looped the Central Experimental Farm, swanning over Promenade Paul Anka near the Ottawa Hunt and Golf Club, following the dirty white zipper of the Rideau Canal, banking at Beechwood, the country’s largest military cemetery in the backyard of Her very own Hall, it was high noon in Ottawa, minus-four Celsius, overcast. The fairy-tale Château appeared to be, like the city itself, frozen in time. Except for the mob that ranted and chanted, morphing on the Hill.
Lise had not even dozed on the flight from Africa. After a long meditation above the Sahara, she’d finally flung herself into action over the Canaries, creating a war room with herself as Commander-in-Chief, which, as she reminded herself, she was.
When Margaret Lee told her they were receiving copious amounts of e-mail about the parliamentary crisis, Lise drafted a message to comfort citizens, essentially saying: she had this. Margaret Lee wasn’t happy with the reference to “reserve powers” and she had some queries re the tone, and threatened to vet it with the PMO. Before the PMO even received it, Lise granted an interview to the CBC reporter on board, shared the draft, and the draft went viral. She watched Monsieur Triste’s coalition address to the nation, which looked as if it had been taped in a jungle bunker in 1970s Nicaragua and beamed into the future, and listened to excerpts from Greg’s constitutionally unsound responses to the opposition in the Commons.
Margaret Lee, on the satphone to the PMO, kept glancing at Lise as if she were committing treason.
After exiting at a private gate, Lise was met by protesters with white war paint and human proboscises exploding into fat red maple leaves. Her security made certain nobody came into contact with her, but did she sense a dose of laissez-faire about their mob handling? The press too cleared customs in record seconds, allowing them to join their peers covering Lise’s highly anticipated return. They also seemed to know many of the placard carriers; she witnessed hey-bro and high-fives and saluts below the bobbing signage: Non au coup! WE VOTED ALREADY! Gouvernement par élection SEULEMENT! Do the RIGHT Thing!
Lise scuffed over the standard-issue red carpet in her stylish sealskin mukluks. Although she smiled graciously, that thick lick of fear kicked in, and she was relieved to see her limo move into position and idle outside the glass doors. As she stepped into the frigid air, which body-slammed her with an impact like a bomb, she heard a shot, at close range, and was suddenly seized by Corporal Robard and pitched into the rear seat of her vehicle, headfirst into a Tory blue goose down coat and the violent grip of leather gloves.
“Go, go, go, go, go,” shouted Becky. “I’ve got her.”
“Get off me,” said Lise. “C’était des feux d’artifice! C’est tout!”
“Shut up,” said Becky, “stay down,” and she executed a backstabbing fold-down on Lise that was so excruciating that Lise’s rib chopsticked her own lung—or that was the sensation.
“The security code is cancelled,” the driver said.
“I told you,” said Lise, though she hadn’t quite articulated that, sitting up and pushing Becky off.
“Take the Airport Parkway,” Becky ordered. “To Riverside.”
The driver grimaced. The limo was already at sci-fi warp speed, with RCMP squad cars front and rear.
“I’d still prefer you switch to Riverside,” Becky said to the driver. “And then the Vanier.”
“Becky,” said Lise. “You can’t commandeer my car.”
“I’m sorry,” said Becky.
“What’s going on?”
“We need to talk.”
“About—”
“Your boy. I didn’t want to wait.”
Lise’s BlackBerry buzzed; she ignored it. “What about him?”
The driver butted in. “Your Excellency? Security is copying that Mademoiselle Yeung requests you answer your BlackBerry.”
Lise answered her phone. “What?”
“Your Excellency, I’m in the limo directly behind you,” Margaret Lee said. Lise did not turn. “The coalition leaders demand a sit-down with you.”
“Yes, absolutely,” Lise said, aware that Becky was listening. “This afternoon.”
“I’ve already refused them,” Margaret Lee said.
“What?”
“As your secretary, I must advise that a parley such as that would tarnish the office of the Governor General of Canada.”
“That’s my decision, not yours.”
“It’s not seen that way, Your Excellency.”
“By whom?”
Becky crossed her legs and pulled out her own phone. She was tapping.
“I have read the history.” Lise couldn’t stop herself. “In French and in English. I have studied every single one of those dusty books. Governor Generals everywhere talk to whomever they want, whether they’re serving in Australia or New Zealand or Jamaica or Belize or wherever tiny island. Even Tuvalu. I want to consult with the opposition leaders today. In camera. Do it.”
“The Privy Clerk says that he will meet with you. He’s on his way from Langevin.”
Lise’s voice rose. “Lord bloody Byng met with Arthur Meighen.”
“Look what happened when he did,” said Margaret Lee.
Lise sensed Becky looking out the window. If she was tapping a message on her phone, she couldn’t possibly be taping too, could she?
“What happened with Lord Byng had everything to do with the actions of the Prime Minister.”
“That is debatable,” said Margaret Lee.
“Look at Australia’s ‘Dismissal.’ Governor General John Kerr. He obviously met with the Leader of the Opposition, and arranged a double dissolution behind the PM’s back. Before lunch at Yarralumla!”
“Yes. I know. Very 1975. But that GG went behind the back of a corrupt and incompetent Labour government.”
Lise bit her tongue.
Becky nudged her.
Lise said to Margaret Lee, “Attends une minute, s’il te plaît.”
“Just FYI”—Becky leaned in closer to Lise; she couldn’t be any closer—”my take-away from Australia was that the PM came second.”
“How so?”
“If the PM had phoned the Queen first, Kerr would have been the one packing.” Becky winked. “Just saying.”
Lise filed this factlet as she clicked Margaret Lee back on. “I’ll talk to you later.” She clicked off and turned to Becky. “Niko.”
“I am so sorry to spring this on you,” Becky said. “And I apologize for overreacting like that at the airport. Please first let me say—welcome back from beautiful A-Freaka.” She air-pecked Lise on both cheeks. “Did you have fun?”
“No.”
“We heard that it was quite emotional.”
“Yes.”
“Look,” Becky said. “Our country’s in crisis. There has been nothing as dire as this since the Liberals almost internally nuked us with the 1995 referendum. And I appreciate your job is to make sure there’s a functioning government. Period.” She paused. “But we’re both moms. Premièrement.” She said prem-yay-meant.
“So tell me,” said Lise. “Please.”
“He was oka
y at first,” Becky said. “But lately he’s been behaving quite oddly.”
“How so?”
“Reclusive. Remote. And not just with me and Greg. Even Martha’s noticed and been upset by it. She thinks he’s depressed.”
“Has he mentioned Corporal Shymanski?” Lise watched Becky closely.
“No. Not to me.” She looked surprised. “Nobody’s mentioned him since you and I talked.”
“Niko’s been upset since Corporal Shymanski, uh, disappeared …” Lise left this deliberately vague.
Becky didn’t blink.
Lise didn’t either.
Becky tucked her phone back in her purse in a case-closed gesture. “The other thing about Niko?”
“What?” coached Lise.
“He keeps making these faces. I’m not sure he’s even aware of it. But Greg will be talking, or Peter, and Niko’s lower lip is stretched right down to Brazil, you know. Like he’s not quite on the planet. And whatever’s in his mouth—spaghetti, sushi …”
“Did you say anything?”
“I tried to make eye contact, like, ‘Hello, anybody home?’ but no answer.” Becky gave Lise’s shoulders a quick squeeze, then: “Drop me off here,” Becky commanded Lise’s driver.
Lise muttered, “Vingt-quatre promenade Sussex.”
Her driver pulled up to the gate, which wasn’t quite as impressive as the U.S. embassy’s fort-like stanchions. Becky dug back into her purse as if looking for a tip. The exterior Christmas decorations were already up: a manger with Wise Men, and shepherds, and—hark!—caribou, and buxom angels with longish, bouncy curls who resembled country and western singers, an Indo Santa wearing a bright red turban and bearing a sack of what looked like dolls and plastic deep-sea oil rigs, and a massive unlit menorah centre stage.
“Here’s the note from Niko’s school,” Becky finally said, producing an envelope. “As acting guardian, I took the liberty of reading it. Not good. And,” she added, “he totally stopped taking his meds.”
“What?” Lise croaked.
“He refused to take them.”
“For how long?”
Becky shrugged.
The gate opened and she disappeared.
She had Niko’s school schedule on her phone; this block was PE. She ploughed through the doors and inhaled boy BO, which smelled wonderful to her, so healthy, hormonal and full of life, and also the weirdly comforting aroma of cafeteria cheeseburgers. The boys were in blazers, trousers and ties, and pranced through the halls like jeunes multicultural captains of industry; they were the sons of ambassadors and deputy ministers and IT lone rangers. Lise had emptied her afternoon, ditching Clark.
In the gymnasium, a basketball drill was under way, and she spotted Niko—she always did. He didn’t seem to be in the regulation uniform; he was wearing voluminous swim trunks under his T-shirt and purple pinny. She couldn’t follow what special play they were practising, darting in and out of the key, making shots, but Niko was involved, participating, and how good was that?
She climbed up into the bleachers and sat down in the same row as a hunched, engrossed parent, a father who looked as if he’d just come in from shovelling the driveway. Flushed cheeks, bright eyes. And she realized it was Monsieur Triste! She remembered that his son had transferred to this school from Sherbrooke in order to be able to spend more time with his dad. Monsieur Triste was probably picking up his son too. Indeed he was, he was waving to the boy, who was not paying a whit of attention—chattering away to his teammates in broken English. And then Niko was benched, it looked like. Sullen, glowering at his phone, perhaps reading her earlier message about a rendezvous and pickup.
Monsieur Triste eventually recognized her. “Ah,” he said, “here you are.” As if he’d been expecting them to hook up at their sons’ gym all along.
“Oui,” said Lise. “Enfin.”
“The Prime Minister has lost the confidence of the House of Commons,” he leapt right in with excellent English. “He cancelled the Opposition Day so that we wouldn’t be allowed to hold this non-confidence vote. Now he wants to deny the right of 169 elected Members of Parliament, whose job it is to vote on behalf of Canadians. He wants to lock up the House of Parliament.” Monsieur Triste was definitely more pissed than triste. “Tomorrow he will ask you to prorogue.”
“I am here to pick up my son,” Lise said.
“I too am here to pick up mine.”
An announcement blared over the loudspeaker. “Niko Neeposh, please report to the office.” And again, en français.
Niko barrelled toward the double doors, giving them a kick as he orbited out of the gym.
Lise stood, trying to distract from his exit. She was caught between flying after him and finding closure with Monsieur Triste.
“Excellency, I’ve just learned that you refuse to meet with the coalition.”
“That is correct.”
“Would it be fair to ask why?”
“No.”
Triste’s body wore this heavily. “We so wanted to give you the opportunity to understand our agreement.”
“The Governor General has her own advisers.” She paused, feeling the rise of nausea. “It will be a long night.”
He nodded grimly. “As it should be.” Then added, “I hope, though, that you will read the letter which contains the agreement. The coalition’s strong and united, and it is the viable alternative. The Prime Minister’s position is a perversion of our democratic principle.”
Lise raised her hands. “Enough.” But then she had to say it. “I respected your words last evening.”
“Oh,” he said, and she was disarmed by his surprise. “Seen but not heard.”
Triste’s son, now loaded with a heavy backpack, thin spectacles, not cool, very non-Niko, leapt up the steps and plunged into his father’s wide arms with huge tenderness. Monsieur Triste scooped him up while Lise stole away to find her boy.
Lise found Niko in the principal’s office, which was bright and overwhelmed with student art, much of it verging on porn. The school was much vaunted for its fostering of creative expression. The jet lag was starting to swamp her; the despair—it wasn’t far behind. The principal, Mademoiselle Lebrun, who, like all Niko’s teachers, resembled a character from The Simpsons whether Lise could identify them or not, provided the synopsis, in case Lise hadn’t been aware of how her own life, and that of her son’s, was going. Niko’s behaviour in class had been borderline, she told Lise. The school was aware that Lise and Niko’s stepfather had been abroad and that Niko had been staying with close family friends.
“Not friends,” said Niko. “Definitely not.”
In Niko’s social studies class, there had been a discussion of current events, and apparently many students believed that the Governor General would have to cave and do whatever the Prime Minister asked because that’s what GGs generally did. Niko had raised the King–Byng constitutional crisis, wherein Viscount Byng of Vimy, the then Governor General, overruled Prime Minister Mackenzie King and refused to call the election, and then asked the Leader of the Opposition to form a government. Niko’s classmates thought that Byng’s move, essentially, sucked. Niko became quite voluble and insolent in his remarks, and even rather derogatory of both prime ministers. As a result, for Niko’s own protection, as well as that of his peers, the school was asking Lise to consider a break for Niko.
“A suspension,” Lise said.
“You could call it that,” said Mademoiselle Lebrun.
“Is that what’s contained in the letter?” Lise held it up. She hadn’t had a chance to read it yet.
“Pretty much.”
Niko slumped beside her in his bathing suit, his face aching with acne and acrimony and his own defencelessness in this monstrous pickle of academic proportion.
“Niko and I will reflect with René,” Lise said. “On this suspension. And also on whether this school is serving his needs.” She folded her hands in elegantly loud viceregal deliberation. “We will reflect tonight and
talk to you tomorrow.” She turned to her son. “Niko, do you have anything to say to Mademoiselle Lebrun?”
“Yes,” he said, “I do.” He crossed his legs and tilted himself toward her. “This is a pussy school.”
Lise and Niko had a quiet dinner together. She asked the cook to prepare a simple thin-crust pizza marguerite with butter lettuce salad, Diet Cokes, and they ate in their private family dining room with Pirates of the Caribbean on Blu-ray. Johnny Depp and his swordplay made everything better, really. Niko was voracious and she ended up ceding her slices to him.
“I appreciate you defending me in your class,” she said when he was done.
“De rien.”
“Niko, I have to know. Why did you stop taking your medication?”
“I never took it.”
“What?”
“I faked it.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want to be drugged.”
“Does Dr. Pelletier know?”
“Ask him.”
“No. You tell me.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t he tell me?”
“You’d have to ask him.”
Lise drained a whole glass of Diet Coke. Yes, she’d be asking him. Given that she was supposed to be on a statutory update. She fumed.
“It’s better if I’m not on SSRIs, Maman.”
“Not if you’re acting like a terrorist in the Senate. Not if you’re holding your mouth open wide with sushi in it comme un fou and calling your school pussy.”
He took the remote and paused the PVR. “It’s a defence, Maman.”
“Tell me why you need it. Please, Niko. Why do you need a defence?”
“Taylor,” he said.
Corporal Shymanski, encore. Niko started to describe what he’d witnessed at the Gory Horror.
“I know this, Niko, you’ve told me before.”
“I didn’t tell you that Taylor was being held by Becky.”
“Held,” Lise repeated. “How held?”
“She was kissing him.”
Lise’s breath stayed in her lungs.
“In that way.”
Lise knew right away what way he meant.
Niko couldn’t talk about it without becoming breathless, agitated. “And then he was seized by Special Forces. He was probably taken abroad to a black site. Waterboarded for fooling around with the Prime Minister’s wife.”
Sussex Drive: A Novel Page 16