“Mon Dieu,” Lise said.
“Et c’est pas tout,” he said.
She waited while he chewed the last slice, noticing his mouth was completely closed.
“When I was staying at the PM’s, Martha noticed I was down and she asked me about it,” he began, watching his mother’s face.
“Okay.”
“I told her about what I saw happen to Taylor, without mentioning he’d been avec sa mère.”
“Okay,” Lise said.
“She became very upset. She told me she had her own relationship thing with Taylor.”
Lise nodded.
“She’d fallen in love with him, even though he only had one leg. She’s a strong Christian. And one thing led to another—”
Lise kept nodding.
“—to a baby, then to a therapeutic abortion that her mother kept secret from her father, and then Martha—she confessed this to her dad.”
Lise reeled. More than she’d wanted to know, more than anyone would want to know. And definitely more than she wanted her vulnerable son to have to deal with. Her mind didn’t know where to go next. She focused on pretending to be serene. “Did Martha tell her father before or after the Gory Horror?”
“Avant. That was when I started thinking Taylor had probably been killed for making the Prime Minister’s daughter pregnant and also fooling around with his wife. But I didn’t know how to tell you. Or how to tell anyone.”
Lise crossed over to him and put her arms around him. “I’m so sorry, Niko. I’m sorry you had to carry this.”
She felt him relax in her grip. “Maman,” he said, “it was so hard to live there.”
She soothed him. She told him she wished she’d never left him, which was true. She really wished she hadn’t over-guessed herself and let him stay there under Becky’s wing, and it was because Becky had seemed so secure, grounded, and had been the superior manipulator.
“And I’m afraid Taylor’s dead,” Niko sputtered.
Lise felt so helpless. This had everything to do with Niko’s deceased father, and how people he looked up to, adored and admired tended to disappear off the face of the earth.
“Niko,” she said, “I’m sure Taylor’s just fine.”
He wouldn’t look at her.
“Look at me.”
He did.
“I want you to have faith that Taylor’s okay. Will you do that for me?”
“Why should I?”
“Because you don’t really know what’s going on.”
“Neither do you.”
“No, I don’t.” She couldn’t tell him about Lieutenant-Colonel Aisha K. It was an official secret, part of her oath; it was a Big Deal. She said, “But I can say that I find it incredibly unlikely that anything like that is going on with Corporal Shymanski.”
“He has one leg. You didn’t see them beat him up, Maman.” He pointed dramatically toward the window. “Là-bas.”
“Niko, I’m telling you, giving you my word, about Corporal Shymanski, and you didn’t hear it from me.”
“Mrs. Leggatt doesn’t sleep with him.”
“Pardon?”
“Madame Leggatt doesn’t share a bedroom with the Prime Minister. Martha told me. She sleeps on a different floor of Gross-Piss-Off. Twenty-four Sussex. They barely talk to each other—well, they talk to each other now, but Martha told me they didn’t even look at each other for days and days.”
“Niko, listen to me. Do this for me. You just selectively forget anything that did or didn’t happen while you stayed there. Do you hear me?”
Niko looked away.
“Do you hear me? And never ever speak of this again. To anyone. Not even to Dr. Pelletier. Have you told Dr. Pelletier?”
“Non.”
“Jamais, tu m’entends?”
“What are you going to do, Maman?” Niko pinned her with his stare. “Are you going to prorogue? For him?”
To Lise, he might as well have been asking, Are you going to be his bitch? Then he made the face. The one that Becky had described. As if he had a very bad, dead-rat taste in the middle of his life.
15
RENÉ STORMED IN THE Rideau Hall side entrance after ten p.m. He’d been detoured due to the candlelight vigil being held by Conservative staffers, blocking Sussex Drive in the freezing December night. Lise was so relieved to see him that she skipped down the stairs and slid herself into his embrace.
He wasn’t a muscle man, but he leaned in to her, and his spine was Ben Kingsley steel, and he edged his hip between her legs and then dipped, almost raising her off her feet with the force and girth of his quadriceps, and it felt ooh-la-la. His neck, his sweet scent, his lips holding her earlobe.
“I dismiss you,” he said to Corporal Robard. “Begone all ye aides, ye lackeys, ye serfs, ye butlers, ye yeomen, ye maids—on second thought, the maids may stay. No, they must go. I dismiss you, for it is now I must have sweet concord with my dame, my ruler, my liege, my representative of the King, my wife.”
The PMO had summoned René, so that each and every Canadian voter could rest assured that the Governor General would be supported by a calm and rational husband.
“Your Excellency, I’ll just take your bags—” Robard said.
“Begone!” roared René.
Robard bowed away in mock subservience and René and Lise headed upstairs. Bedward.
But it was quick, businesslike bliss, as Lise experienced it. Afterwards, they lay cozily enough in their matching bathrobes on top of the king sheets, brocade curtains drawn against the now-sinister vista of the Hill, the lamps as low as possible.
When she felt ready, she told him the story of her day with Niko: the King–Byng incident in class, the suspension, her incredible conversation with Niko about Shymanski et al., with the twists and turns of Sussex Drive domestic life, including the fact that Niko had never taken the antidepressants in the first place. She ended with the face Niko had made.
René reacted immediately. “The boy knows too much.”
“I know.”
“And it’s also dangerous for him to know what he does.”
“I told him he couldn’t talk to Dr. Pelletier about it.”
“D’accord.”
“Oh my God, René. What can we do?”
“The only thing I can think of is if we take him out of the city. Even out of the country.”
“I can’t—not right now, with—the prorogation, the Prime Minister.”
“I have looping in LA.”
“When?”
“Next week, but I could go earlier and take him.”
“Demain?”
“Oui. Demain.”
“Bien.” After her son was safe, she’d worry about how she could hold the country together by herself. And handle la Noël.
He rose abruptly from the bed, hit the floor for push-ups, stood, put his glasses back on and adjusted them, although she loved when they slid down his nose. “After I check in with Niko about California, we need to talk about Romania. Toi et moi. Foreign Affairs.”
“Vraiment?” But she thought, Enfin.
“Absolument.” He headed off to dress. “Sans aucun doute.”
And she thought, Pourquoi?
Downstairs hummed.
Margaret Lee asked if she’d like to view the petition that had just arrived. Lise did, and was handed seven original pages signed by 169 Members of Parliament from all the coalition ridings: Bonavista, Cardigan, Kings-Hants and Beauséjour, represented by the dear son of deceased Governor General Roméo LeBlanc; Miramichi, Rimouski, Chicoutimi and Toronto-Danforth; Ottawa Centre, Ottawa South and Sault Ste. Marie; Nickel Belt, Guelph, Wascana, and Vancouver East, South, Centre, Quadra, and all the way north to Nunavut, un pays avec les sons d’un poème. Des mots—très simples.
They asked the Governor General to not prorogue the Parliament and permit them to exercise their vote as they had been elected to do by the Canadian people. All original signatures—scrawled, emphatic, illegible, anally
neat—cleanly dated. She knew how hard it was to corral these kittens even to sign a birthday card to their kid. She stared at the pages.
Back in Margaret Lee’s office, the windows were shuttered and one sole halogen light illuminated her desk, occupied only by a Mac laptop and a nineties phone. A whiteboard exposing Lise’s present and future dominated the wall. “I may have located a constitutional adviser,” Margaret Lee said. “You don’t know him.”
“That dog won’t hunt,” Lise said. “I want one I know.”
“They’re all in the Caribbean.”
“Right,” said Lise. “And last September they were in Muskoka.”
“They get around,” said Margaret Lee.
Lise walked out. She wanted to review her Eugene Forsey, perhaps even to call one of these experts directly herself. She ducked across the first-floor corridor, the fragrance of a lovely new bouquet, overstuffed with lilies, choking her.
René was in her study. “Oh, here you are,” he said.
“How did your talk go with Niko?”
“It was okay. Given everything. He’s in crisis.”
“He’s inconsolable.”
“Yes, and scared. He’s on for California except he wants you to come, too. I explained to him why you can’t. Not right now. He gets it.”
“Je t’aime.”
“Hold that thought.” He led her to the couch. “Lise, we need to discuss Romania.” They sat down in unison. “On the Ceremonies Route, on the way to the Speech from the Throne, I told you I’d done some extracurricular work for DFAIT when filming was on hiatus.”
“Yes,” Lise said. “You told me you did it for me. To improve my relationship with the PMO.”
“Exactement. I was still mad at them for that low trick of playing the Lévesque cleep on the Apoonatuk show. Trying to frame me as a separatist.”
“And twisting my elbow so that I’d allow the writ to be dropped for an election that wasn’t scheduled.”
“Yes, and I guess I thought, let bygones be bygones. That our time in office would flow more smoothly if I played the game. So they approached me, DFAIT. They already knew I had some free days, I don’t know how, and that it wasn’t enough of a break for me to come back to Ottawa or go to Paris or London. They wanted me to do ‘detailing.’ Detailing, they called it. I told them I wouldn’t do anything I disagreed with.”
“Black ops,” Lise said, nodding. Romania was known for that.
“So this was wine and dine. I met these Romanians, businessmen, being courted for a private–public partnership, something with natural gas. Their reserves are diminishing, and we have the technological companies that can maximize their capability. And we’re at this fantastic restaurant, French, and before I know it, the restaurant’s closed, it’s turned into a private gathering, and out come the drugs, very good drugs—from the look of them, you know—and the girls, also very nice—from the look, for sure—and I’m out of there.”
“Where were your bodyguards?”
“Nada. Because I wasn’t on official business in Europe. And I tell DFAIT what happened, why I left, and they apologize for putting me in that position. And I wanted to tell you about it, but everything was so crazy. A few weeks later, I’m back on the shoot, and it was my big scene, ma chère, big, the DFAIT deputy shows up on set, can you believe? And he’s got this photo, can you believe—”
Lise could.
“—and there I’m standing under the Romanian flag with this drug lord, convicted drug trafficker, in a big embrace.”
Lise held her face in her hands. “So they’ve set you up again.”
“Oui, ma chère.”
“What did you say to DFAIT?”
“Fuck off.”
A silence.
René continued, “We are here tonight on the cusp of history. I don’t want to burden you with this when you must have all your wits for this monumental deliberation. I can’t tell you not to prorogue.”
“Shut up, René,” Lise said.
“But if I were you, I wouldn’t let the PM prorogue.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m finished with this regime, Lise. I’m done with this particular minority government, and if they’re still running the country tomorrow, I’m done with Rideau Hall, and with serving as your consort.”
Lise fastened her hand on his heart.
“C’est tout. C’est fini.”
“What about our marriage? Our boy?”
“You are free to follow your conscience. I love you now, and I’ll love you tomorrow, whatever happens, and I’ll wait for you to leave the office. I’ll never leave Niko. He is my son now too. But if this government continues another day, I cannot stay. And if I stay with you, your days in government will be numbered.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your life may be in danger.”
From: “Rebecca Leggatt” < [email protected] >
To: “Lise Lavoie” < [email protected] >
Sent: 4 December 2008 2:33 a.m.
Subject: Toi
Dear Lise,
Thinking of you. Try to get some sleep.
Your BFF,
Becky;)
From: “Lise Lavoie” < [email protected] >
To: “Rebecca Leggatt” < [email protected] >
Sent: 4 December 2008 2:35 a.m.
Subject: Re : Toi
Whatever.
LL
16
IT WAS FOUR A.M. IN OTTAWA. She should have slept; she couldn’t sleep. Her thoughts pinged: what had happened to Corporal Shymanski, and where was Lieutenant-Colonel Aisha K., and poor Martha, poor young girl, and Becky having to deal with such a crisis while living at Sussex Drive. And ponged: how stupidly Roman Catholic could Shymanski be; and wasn’t Martha exposed to sex education, and why didn’t Becky pick up on their romance; and, mon Dieu, her own husband was threatening to resign from Rideau Hall and abandon her. Which would be disastrous for her son. And if René didn’t resign, he’d bring down a scandal upon them. Also not good for Niko. She was devastated; she didn’t know where to put her emotions. She had to stash them, along with what the anglos call le baggage, and so she did.
They were brisk at Buckingham Palace, but they connected her with Sandringham, which was where the King happened to be. “In a spot of trouble over there, are you?” The Governor General coordinator was wry.
“Yes,” Lise said. “I, of course, understand that the Governor General of Canada is independent, as all Governor Generals are. However, I’d like to be able to consult with His Majesty, if necessary, later in the day, specifically five or six hours from now. Would He be available?”
“Excuse me, Your Excellency, I’ll put you on hold.”
When he returned, he was quite chipper. “His Majesty says it would be lovely to converse as long as you’re aware that he’ll be chatting unofficially. All to be kept on the q.t. Ta-ta.”
He really did say that.
6:00 a.m.: she checked on Niko in his room. She loved his cranky snore and the little bit of fuzz on his upper lip, which made the acne stand out. She snooped around his desk and took his defaced juice-sticky student directory; the number she needed was in it.
6:06 a.m.
She called Stornoway.
“Allo,” said Monsieur Triste. It was clear he hadn’t slept either.
“Préparez-vous.”
“Pourquoi, madame?”
“Vous allez former le gouvernement.” She hung up.
She opened the shutters in her study. The old-fashioned Christmas lanterns decorating the driveway offered an inkling of deceptively sweeter Victorian times. She thought she could hear the Canadian anthem being sung by live human beings. It was faint and it was close by. The demonstrators must have spent the freezing night parked at her gate.
She lay down on the couch, the one serially graced by Charles de Gaulle, Winston Churchill, JFK, Nelson Mandela, the Dalai Lama, Václav Havel, Salvador Allende, Lech Walesa, and pulled up the
gift quilt from the President of Kazahkstan, which smelled of fields and rutting goats and winter and meat cooked till it fell off the bones over a fire, and drifted to the refrain, which seemed to be on repeat, “We stand on guard, we stand on guard.” She’d never known until now that it was a lullaby.
She didn’t dare think about Solange or her Samuel, or even if they were still alive. She was too spooked even to check the Internet.
“The PM’s coming,” René said, waking her up.
Lise rushed across the hall to Margaret Lee, also still wearing the same outfit as yesterday. “Constitutional advisers,” Lise said, like ordering doughnuts at Tim’s. “Who’ve you got?”
“I told you,” Margaret Lee said. “Nobody’s available.”
“Akinfemi?”
“He’s in Nigeria, international court.”
“Thomson?”
“The Hague.”
“I don’t think you really tried,” Lise said.
“I am truly sorry you feel that way,” Margaret Lee said. “We’ve had short notice and are making best efforts. In serving you, I serve the government of Canada, and it’s crucial, Your Excellency, that you are well supported and believe you are, today.”
Lise retreated.
She showered, and then sorted through what the valet had chosen: skirt by Paprika, blouse by Neige, jacket by Diplomatic, hose from Hue. She stood there in her lingerie, chilled. Brain from Fried. Nerves from Scrambled.
“I’m sorry about last night.” René was at her dressing room door.
“I am, too.” She waited for him to say that he’d slept on it, thought about it, had changed his mind.
He came over to her and pulled her into his arms. His scent made her weak. “I haven’t changed my mind, Lise,” he whispered.
“Okay,” she said. That was all she had left in her.
“Do you want to know the polls?”
“I can guess.”
“You’ve guessed right. Karp-Deem and Rippo—average 85 percent in favour of prorogation.”
“What about the other poll? The Standard?”
“It doesn’t matter. The other poll didn’t make the headline.”
She hugged him back. “Niko?” she asked.
Sussex Drive: A Novel Page 17