Snow Job

by William Deverell

  The Opposition leader and prime minister in waiting, Claude McRory — known by all as Cloudy — was in his seat glaring at nothing in particular, a short morose man of pensionable age with a caustic manner and a deficient sense of humour.

  The tribal rituals of the House were under way, Orders of the Day, bills introduced, the welcoming of constituents in the gallery. Today’s lot included a championship Saguenay bowling team, a young woman from Southern Ontario who’d rescued twelve cows from a burning barn, and the winner of the Prince Edward Island Monster Potato Contest.

  Here came Margaret, bending the ear of … yes, that must be the separatiste Chambleau, young and dapper, a ring in his ear. Arthur could remember when that used to mean gay, but these days it was anybody’s guess. A Green sympathizer, très vert.

  Question Period opened with Opposition Leader McRory rising to a standing ovation from his members: a form of silliness that both sides of the House engaged in for the TV cameras. Arthur was constantly amazed at the puerility on display here; it reinforced his disdain for politics.

  McRory seemed unable to frame a question, contenting himself with a blustery speech about “an exponential rise” in home foreclosures. Clara Gracey had numbers at her fingertips and taunted the Liberal chief for relying on an aberrant statistic — in fact, foreclosures had held steady in the last quarter and were projected to fall. Tory backbenchers rose like marionettes in furious applause.

  She and Lafayette were the bright lights of a lustreless cabinet, a patchwork group chosen more for regional interest than keen intellect. Arthur found the Liberal Opposition no more impressive, while the smaller parties of the moderate left, the New Democrats and the Bloc Québécois, were relegated to the role of irritants. The country was in a sorry state.

  A question from the NDP leader about a stalled bill to control gasoline prices was quickly parried by Prime Minister Finnerty. “I recognize that the honourable member has a serious problem with gas …” The rest was drowned out by laughter, shouts of derision, applause, table pounding.

  Awaiting her call, Margaret looked serene and confident in a smart tailored suit. Arthur was finding it hard to bring back a picture of her in muddy jeans pitching hay at Blunder Bay. Constant in her vows, committed to her ideals, quick as a whip — how unlike his first wife, Annabelle, from whose perfidy he’d found escape in a bottle.

  “Recognize the member for Cowichan and the Islands.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Speaker. Will the Honourable Minister of Foreign Affairs inform the House why he is proposing an exchange of ambassadors with the so-called Democratic Republic of Bhashyistan, a tyrannical regime whose jails are bursting with dissidents, people of faith, and homosexuals, and which makes virtual slaves of half its remaining population — those unfortunate enough not to have been born with penises?”

  Gerard Lafayette, who had been conferring with the prime minister, looked up, seemingly startled at the bold mention of the male reproductive organ. There was a stirring in the House, some gasps — was this beyond the pale, unparliamentary? — but also some laughter.

  Lafayette quickly regained composure. “I hope it will not offend the honourable member if I frame my response in more delicate language. While it may be true that Bhashyistan has suffered some growing pains, we on this side conceive it as our democratic duty, indeed an international imperative, to help bring this young republic from isolation into the world of free nations. To that end, we propose not merely to give their visiting delegation a big-hearted Canadian welcome but also to demonstrate the blessings of democracy and the rule of law.”

  Well spun. Though Lafayette had a good mind, Arthur felt he put it to suspect use. He was a darling of the conservative think tanks for his attacks on “the fuzzy-brained liberalism” that in his view had too long prevailed as the Canadian ethic. “Make the Right choice” had been his slogan at the leadership convention.

  Margaret stood again for her supplementary question. “Does the minister deny that the prospect of a multi-billion-dollar concession to an Alberta oil company is the real reason for this big-hearted showering of affection?”

  Lafayette spoke sharply. “The answer is no, and I would advise the honourable member that such rhetoric may compromise delicate foreign negotiations.” Boos from the Opposition. Applause from the other side, shouts, catcalls, heckling — a rowdiness that seemed more befitting of a high school mock parliament.

  Arthur sat through Routine Proceedings awhile, but when Margaret left the chamber he made his way out too, down to the foyer. She was already behind a screen of microphones, a couple of Opposition critics looking on, glum, jilted at the dance.

  “What do you know about this oil deal, Ms. Blake?”

  “That’s a question you should ask M. Lafayette. Ask him if he’s going to open the books on this deal. Let’s find out just how far into bed they’ve crawled with Alta International.”

  She went on like that, tying the Conservatives to Alberta oil, expanding her thesis, accusing them of encouraging a fossil fuel economy while most of the modern world was turning green. “Oil slicks,” she called Finnerty and his cronies.

  She ducked away, took Arthur’s arm. “Let’s grab a sandwich.”

  As usual, grabbing a sandwich meant returning to her office, where there was usually a platter of them. Somehow she’d wangled a thousand square feet in the Confederation Building, not quite on the Hill, but in the Precinct, on the river side of Wellington. Most rookie backbenchers were barracked in commercial spaces across the street, but Margaret, as parliamentary leader of an emerging party, had won her case for special treatment.

  Stepping out into the grounds, she closed her eyes and raised her face to the warm afternoon sun. “Grade me.”

  “Eight and a half in the scrum and a full ten in the chamber.”

  “I got Lafayette going. Did you see his face turn red?”

  “I was too busy admiring you.”

  The compliment went nowhere. She was still in Bhashyistan. “This thing really stinks. We have to move fast before the Libs steal it — they’re desperate for an issue. We’re getting some quiet help from the Bloc.”

  “Julien Chambleau. The word is all around the Hill.”

  “Really? Well, he’s an activist, a brother. Sierra Club, Rainforest Coalition.”

  “Attractive young man, looks quite bright. But a separatist. Makes for odd bedfellows.” An unfortunate expression, and he made it worse by trying to recover. “Not in the literal sense of course.”

  “His bedfellow is a guy.” She gave him a hard look, accusatory, making him feel like a closet bigot. “Separatist or not, we have common ground.”

  The blocky Confederation Building loomed, another neo-Gothic structure whose spires and fortresslike walls spoke of God and the British Empire. Beyond was the brooding, portentous Supreme Court of Canada, an art deco monster glowering over the Ottawa River.

  “Standing Committee on Global Warming Initiatives tonight. I have to be there.” Apologetic. “We’ll go somewhere for dinner first.”

  Another late night alone.

  Unlike the official parties, the Greens had limited funds and minimal full-time staff. But they didn’t lack for young, clever volunteers, and today, as usual, the outer offices were abuzz, bodies in motion, loud chatter, phones ringing, printers humming, a radio on, C-SPAN, piles of newspapers and magazines, the walls swathed in charts and maps.

  All hail the queen as Margaret swept into their midst. Applause for her jabs at Lafayette — they’d seen it on the internal TV feed from the Commons. “Okay, folks,” she said, “I think this thing has legs.” A young woman hiked up her skirt and got laughs.

  Arthur was feeling, as he often did these days, like a useless artefact, a rickety piece of furniture. The youthful energy in this room rattled him. The cheery, bright-eyed idealism. Here was Margaret peaking in early middle age, leaving him in her dust. Arthur had peaked decades ago, had felt in steady decline ever since. Eheu fugaces labuntur anni.
Alas, sighed Horace, the fleeting years slip by.

  There was no role for him here, that was the trouble. Maybe he should rethink his proclaimed intention to retire, and do what he did best. A good old-fashioned murder case. He wasn’t vying with Margaret for notice, not at all, it was his situation he found demeaning, the male escort, attendant to the star, a ceremonial figure. In a major role reversal he had become the little woman.

  “We’ve got a jump on everyone, we’re the unofficial opposition on this one. Let’s get everything we can on Alta International. Who’s doing freedom of information?”

  A hand rose from behind a laptop computer. “I’m on it.”

  “Alta beat out the competition with the bigger bribe,” Margaret said. “That’s why we’re grovelling to a despot. Anything more on Bhashyistan?”

  The slight, nubile lass who’d shown off her legs handed Margaret a binder. Pierètte Litvak, her parliamentary assistant. A sharp-witted wag, but serious now. “Unemployment sixty per cent. Soviet-style bureaucracy, shitloads of red tape. Active underground economy. Transparency International has them fighting for top spot on the corruption scale. North Korea is the only country lower on the press freedom index, but on overall individual liberty rankings, the Bhashies are at the bottom, one point eight out of a hundred.”

  Arthur worked his way listlessly through a multigrain tomato-and-lettuce sandwich, feeling as square and dumb as a block of cement as Pierètte recited this off the top of her head. She was young enough to be his granddaughter. Hers was the vigorous new generation, humankind’s last chance. His was the dying one that had buggered everything up.

  “Population seven million. The capital and largest city is Igorgrad. Three-quarters Muslim, but Mohammed plays second fiddle to Igor Muckhali Ivanovich, Mad Igor, who has named himself National Prophet and renamed the days of the week after himself and various favoured relatives, the months after dead sultans. His face is everywhere, billboards, statues, currency. Total cult of personality.”

  Mad Igor had assumed the reins fifteen years ago after his father, the former ex-president for life, Boris Mukhamed Ivanovich, was fatally shot in Vancouver. A long-range rifle was found and a partisan of the Bhashyistani Democratic Revolutionary Front was arrested trying to slip across the U.S. border with a false passport. This much and more Arthur knew, for the winning defence counsel was his friend of many years, the scapegrace Brian Pomeroy. Who, if reports were to be believed, had got off booze and drugs and gone native in the Arctic.

  Margaret went to her inner office to field some media calls. The others turned to the task of organizing a protest. “Let’s do something cool. Street theatre.”

  Arthur headed for the door, leaving word that he’d be enjoying the sun. He wandered to the riverbank, stared morosely at the currents boiling from the Chaudière rapids. As if pulled by some Circean magnet, he found himself passing between the statues of Truth and Justice that guarded the steps of the Supreme Court building.

  He stood for a while on the glistening Italian marble of the Grand Entrance Hall, a fine example of fascist interior design with its flags, heads on pedestals, doors panelled with threatened species of hardwoods.

  Then he was in the chamber of the court itself, empty now but for the usher and a lawyer packing up his briefs. He smiled at a memory of ill-tempered Justice Robichaud getting so balled up he stomped from court. That duel with Liebowitz, C.J., on the Charter of Rights, that was a high point. Fuelled by a four-martini lunch at the Rideau Club, he’d won him over, the swing vote, five to four.

  Tragger, Inglis, his old office, had been phoning incessantly. Maybe he should return the calls, maybe they had a juicy murder … Forget it. He was happily retired.

  Out of principle, Margaret preferred to walk or take public transit, but used a leased Prius on occasions like this evening’s, one of their rare dinners together. The restaurant they were looking for was in downtown Hull — they’d dined well there once — but they couldn’t remember its name. Portuguese, informal, intimate.

  They found a parkade and walked around, finally spotting the restaurant halfway down the block. “Pause for a moment, Arthur.” Margaret pretended interest in the offerings of a dress shop window. “I think we’re being followed. Don’t look.”

  But Arthur did, without thinking, stepping around her and almost bumping into a tall man in a long black coat. Light brown hair, dark glasses. Spectral, sharp featured, gawky. “Pardonnez-moi,” Arthur said.

  The stranger continued on in silence, then started shuffling across the street and was nearly hit by a swerving, shouting cyclist. “Watche-toué!” That persuaded him to remove his dark glasses before continuing to the opposite curb.

  “He was behind me in a blue compact. He drove into the parkade just as we walked from it. I don’t know if he’s drunk or what.”

  Arthur had picked up tobacco breath, but no alcohol. As they reached their restaurant, the man stopped at a well-lit brasserie directly across the street and studied the posted menu.

  “Just one of those odd coincidences. He was going to that restaurant.”

  Margaret didn’t seem so sure. “Works for the Alberta oil lobby. His assignment — get the dirt on Margaret Blake. I’m with my husband, you creepy idiot.”

  The supposed spy took an outdoor table, lit a cigarette, donned wire-rim spectacles, looked quickly at them, then hid behind a menu.

  Margaret asked the head waiter for a table by the window.

  “With pleasure, Madame Blake, we are honoured.” He held her chair. “Madame will accept a complimentary champagne?” Arthur was Mr. Invisible.

  To anyone but Arthur, a two-bedroom apartment with a sunset view over parkland and lake would be anything but a prison, but that’s how he’d come to see it. Before he’d made the great leap forward to Garibaldi, he’d been a city dweller, but on a capacious lot, with garden, lawn, and trees.

  Now he was relegated to four pots of frostbitten gardenias on a balcony ten storeys above what soon would be a frozen wasteland. The half-century-old blocky building, befitting the suburbs of Moscow, was near Carleton University and full of noisy students. Apartment 10B was on loan to Margaret from a fervent Green, now a visiting professor at Oregon State.

  “We can afford better,” he’d argued.

  “We can’t disappoint him,” Margaret insisted.

  Muffled rock and roll from the flat below, disjunctively married to an obscure Handel opera from 10C — one of a pair of grad students there was working on a thesis about the prolific composer. On weekends, the squeaking-gate atonalities of her preadolescent violin students had Arthur rushing for earplugs.

  Arthur watched the sun die over the Rideau Canal and the lake it fed, a wash of purple and pink. This was the day’s highlight.

  He went in, slumped onto a hard sofa, fiddled with a book. He wasn’t used to reading the classics without a roaring fire of alder and fir. Instead, apartment 10B featured that most abhorrent of modern fixtures, an ersatz fireplace, flames flickering around imitation logs. He missed his old club chair that over the years had ungrudgingly accommodated itself to his former rangy shape. The joyous chores of bringing bounty from the land had burned the calories, and when he’d donned his robes for the occasional trial he’d been as fit as Spartacus, ready to take on the Roman legions.

  Perhaps, he thought wishfully, some crisis had newly occurred at Blunder Bay that would demand his return. For instance, Stoney and McCoy jailed for packing Purple Passion into the Berlin-bound sculpture.

  He was hesitant to call Zack and Savannah during evenings, he always seemed to be interrupting something: dinner, a quarrel, a meeting. They were forever holding meetings. Savannah picked up.

  “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

  “Not at all,” she said, good natured, used to his fussy intrusions. “A few friends are over from Vancouver. Coastal Forest Coalition.”

  He could hear loud conversation, sounding of more than a few friends. “Nothing to report, I take it?”


  “No, everything’s going wonderfully. How’s Margaret?”

  A little paranoid, he wanted to say. The klutz in the black coat had finished a wine, then wandered away without another look at them. “Splendid. Tireless in the struggle. Animals are well? The garden?”

  “We’re eating from it. Everything is lovely, Arthur, we’re so glad to be here.”

  Arthur found himself more depressed than ever. From the flat next door, a stagy roar: “I will never retire! I will never give way!” Ibsen, Arthur suspected. The male partner of the Handel scholar was studying theatre, and could often be heard emoting through the thin walls.

  Dear Hank, Mom, Katie, Cassie, Jessie,

  Well, I finally got a chance to put my feet up. Those dogs are tired! We just got back from touring the old market of Samarkand. Some people in our group dropped out, went back to the bus. All terribly ancient, the Silk Route, it goes back to the second century BC, silk, perfumes, spices and incense and gems. Pretty bleak here, though, in Uzbekistan. Tomorrow Tashkent. Almaty in Kazakhstan after that. (Don’t worry, Exotic Asia Tours doesn’t stop in Afghanistan!) I hope you girls are doing your homework and not keeping your grandma from her nap with your screaming guitars. Love you, Dr. Hank. Love you, kids. You’d do really well here, Mom, your Russian is so good, here it’s like everyone’s second language. Maxine and I get by. Back in a week.

  Love, Jill XOXO

  4

  Clara Gracey told her driver to pump up the heat. Winter had come in late November with a frigid blast from somewhere north of Baffin Bay. But her prayer for a traffic-snarling snowfall hadn’t been answered, so she lacked a credible excuse for skipping tonight’s bash for the Bhashies.

  The visitors, eight large, ruddy-faced males, had arrived yesterday on an old Ilyushin 62, trooping off in identical bear coats and bear hats. They were ready for the weather, unlike Clara, who hadn’t brought a sweater or jacket, just this flimsy coat. In the political life, fashion rules, style over comfort and warmth.