“Arthur, just the man I want to see. You alone?”
“Yes. Stay there, I’ll cut you out.” The preferred alternative being to attach a chain to his leg and pull him out with the tractor. He retrieved long-handled clippers from the toolkit behind the tractor seat, and on returning found DiPalma squatting, lighting a cigarette.
“Saw you pitching hay, needed a place to park where I wouldn’t be seen. What a tinpot car, no traction, I kind of slid in there. You look peeved, Arthur, I don’t blame you, but I had to see you about Zachary Flett — they have him down as some kind of ringleader.”
“We’ve figured that out, Ray.” Arthur was close enough now to take in the smell not of nicotine but of cannabis, with an underlying base of Makepeace’s cheap rum.
“There was a crew working him over all weekend — he’s tough. So the deal is this: I was assigned to nose around here on Garibaldi. I told Crumwell, my handler, that I’d been in your apartment, that I’m infiltrating you guys — I had to, in case it got out. He congratulated me, he thinks I’m doing a masterful job. I’m back onside with him.”
Arthur gave him a hand, pulled him to freedom. “Am I to understand that this Crumwell fellow has sent you here to spy?” Arthur’s relationship with DiPalma was threatening to become a comedy of errors. Or no comedy at all, something dangerous. It was hard to believe DiPalma’s superiors were so dull as not to know he was in a state of near collapse. If indeed he was, if it was not a pretense.
Arthur led him to the tractor, where he kept a first-aid kit, and brought out ointment and Band-Aids. “Crumwell thinks you think I’m on your side. Which is true. The last part, I mean. I am on your side, but he doesn’t know I’m actually a double agent. In other words, he thinks you think I’m embittered because of the way I was treated over that lost computer … It’s a little complicated.” Lost in these spiralling convolutions, he settled onto a hay bale, began wiping his glasses.
“This is my home, Ray, my sanctuary. It is not a place where I make a habit of entertaining spies. Please reserve the next flight back to Ottawa.”
“Whoa, Arthur, you’re my lawyer, trust me the same way I trust you. I mean, you’re like a … like a mentor, a father figure.”
That was something Arthur dreaded hearing. He unhitched the hay wagon. “I had better pull your car out of there.”
“Arthur, please listen, this is our chance to feed the dogs of war at CSIS. Throw them a few bones, send them off on a wild goose chase. To make this work I’ve got to be seen as cozying up to Savannah and Zachary. The more confidence Crumwell has in me, the more he’ll share with me, and the more likely I’ll get inside access about who did what to Abzal Erzhan. That make sense?”
Arthur had to still a deep unease. Was DiPalma working from a brilliantly conceived script? For now he would stick by his earlier diagnosis: a nervous breakdown, complicated by resentment toward his superiors and by his new, greener Weltanschauung. And by excessive intake of ill-advised substances.
“So they’ve created a legend for me, as we call it, a fake biography. I’m one of those anti-American Americans who come up here to escape from the evils of capitalism. I’m an environmentalist, I’m looking for land, and I stumble onto Zack’s group and let them know I’m a friendly. You saw the way I can meld into the community, hang around, play a little poker with the boys, share some hooch and a toke or two. I met a pal of yours named Stonewell, by the way, he gave me a sampler.” He gestured with the joint, then pinched it out.
“I will not introduce you as an anti-American American land buyer.”
“I implore you, Arthur. As we speak, Zack Flett is on a train heading for Revelstoke. An agent is sitting behind him. Others will follow the VW van that’s going to pick him up. With me in deep cover, they’ll pull these agents out — as I told you, they’re stretched.”
“I fail to grasp how this double-agent business can work if you don’t confess your role to Zack and Savannah.”
“But then it could get out on the street.”
“It will be on the street as soon as they look you up on the Web. You were outed by the Toronto Star.”
“Sure, but that was a few years ago. You didn’t recognize me right away … Okay, you have a point, there could be blowback. Maybe I have to be more up front.” He stood, paced. “By the way, where’s the nearest bank machine?”
“Garibaldi Island isn’t blessed with bank machines, I’m pleased to say.”
“I had a bad run at that game, I think I got hustled. Any chance I could borrow a stake to get by for a day or two?”
“I can advance enough to put you on a ferry.”
“Darn it, I can get some dynamite stuff if we do this right. Rumours are flying around at Ogilvie Road that Erzhan was abducted.”
“Ogilvie Road?”
“CSIS. Nobody talks details, or maybe they don’t know any. You’ve got to friendly up with that landlord, Zandoo, he knows something.” He looked about, as if suspecting listeners were behind every bush. “Do you know them well enough, Zack and Savannah? Would they backstop me on this?”
Arthur would not play falsely with Savannah and Zack — their militancy often made him uncomfortable, but they were friends. At the same time he didn’t want to discourage DiPalma — if reliable, his information could ignite a political firestorm.
“Okay, let me reassemble the pieces here. If you were to carefully explain the situation to Savannah —” DiPalma broke off, quickly slipping behind the tractor as Constable Pound’s van came down the road, slowing as it reached the blackberries.
The engine cut and a door slammed. “Is that you, Arthur?” Pound was barely visible on the other side of the tangle.
“Yes, Ernst, I’m bringing in the late hay.”
“Well, this here has the look of an infraction. Driving without due care and attention.”
“The gentleman was parking, Ernst. He slid into the bushes.”
“He a friend of yours?”
Arthur sighed. “Yes.”
Dear Hank, Katie, Cassie, Jessie, Mom.
I don’t know where to start. All I know is we’re half a world away from Saskatchewan, and we’re hiding out at a farm, a Bhashyistan version of a B & B that seems to be held together by staples. They call it a yurt. (It’s COLD in here. And the smells! It’s lined with sheep fat!)
I can’t imagine Exotic Asia Tours Inc. hasn’t got word out that we have disappeared from the face of the earth, and what I don’t want you to do is worry, if you even get this letter, because we’re being looked after. This craziness can’t last forever. The story we get, from the local radio as translated by our hosts who thank God speak Russian, the husband at least, is Canada is being blamed for shooting down a Bhashyistan plane with a whole load of its politicians on board, though I’m not sure if we’ve got it all straight, especially the business about a declaration of war.
But here’s what happened. I won’t go into detail about how we got here because that’s in an earlier note I mailed from the Igorgrad airport (and God, was that a task!). Anyway, there was no connecting flight to Almaty because all the Air Bhashyistan planes were grounded and the airport closed.
Maxine, Ivy, and I were taken into this office at the airport, where the head of immigration said we’d have to go to jail for not having visas, and we were just petrified, and then he said instead of jail we could pay him “the regular fine,” he called it, of two hundred dollars each, and fortunately we had enough in rubles but not much more, and of course try to find a bank machine in this place. The official seemed insulted when we asked for a receipt, but he let us go, and we got our bags and headed outside.
That’s where we met Mr. and Mrs. Babichov, they were holding up a sign offering lodging, in English, German, and Russian, a kind of farm stay, which given Maxine and I were born on a farm looked like a better deal than some of the hotels which also had people out there jostling for our business. Plus they seemed like kind folk, which they have proved to be. Abrakam and Flaxse
ed (I call her that, I can’t pronounce her full name). He comes from Omsk in Siberia, she’s more local. They’re in their seventies, their children have all flown the nest.
Anyway, we jumped into this decrepit old Lada and headed off away from the city about thirty clicks out, rolling hills, pine forests, meadows, sheep, sheep, sheep, and we get to this paint-peeling frame farmhouse, which isn’t much, sort of like Bob Slotznyk’s dump down by the Yorkton highway, in a permanent state of falling down.
Back of it, next to their barn, is their rental quarters, our yurt, our home for the last four days. (Yurts get rented out around here so tourists can get a taste of local colour.) Two beds in a makeshift loft, where it isn’t so stinky as below plus you get more heat from the barrel stove but also more smoke. So Ivy because of her asthma sleeps on the cot below.
But mostly we stay in the main house, where I am now, writing this. Abrakam and Flaxseed seem to be more than happy with the little we can pay them, and their home is our home, sort of thing. They’re not letting on to anyone we’re here except for a few trusted neighbours of their faith, which is Baha’i, not Muslim like most around here, and they’re really not supposed to practise their religion. We explained we’re from a religious minority ourselves, Doukhobors, even though we’re not all that observant.
As we get to know our hosts better, they’re opening up, giving us clues that they’re not very sympathetic to the national government, which is a dictatorship. We’ve taken to helping them with the chores, but when they see anyone coming up the driveway (you can spot them easily, three miles down the hill) we have to hide. Abrakam says we could be in great danger, being Canadian. We’re so relieved our saviours are so protective, so wise to the ways of this strange land.
Well, we’ve finally got used to the fatty mutton and sheep’s milk and some weird kind of curd as part of our daily diet, and we have our cribbage board which I play with Abrakam in the evenings, and there’s some old Russian novels — you wouldn’t believe how the language is coming back. It’s actually quite pretty around here, the valleys and the far snowy mountains, but it’s getting really wintry, the snow sticking, and the little river down in the valley is into freeze-up.
No phone here, and I wouldn’t trust it anyway. Abrakam says he’ll try to find a safe way to mail this letter, but I told him not to take any chances. We heard some Canadians are in jail in Igorgrad, big wheels, oil company executives, and with their clout, if they’re in trouble, we’ll stay right here, thank you.
Meanwhile, I hope nobody in Ottawa does anything stupid to make matters worse. We’re about five hundred miles from the Russian border, Siberia actually, and it’s way the hell over the mountains, so we’re sticking it out until peace has been declared.
Take care. Don’t worry. Be strong.
Gobs of love,
Jill XOXOXO
13
Finally, at sundown, Savannah’s visitors left — a boisterous bunch from Vancouver Island this time, foes of fish farms — and it wasn’t until they were prepping dinner (unfarmed salmon, local) that Arthur told Savannah about DiPalma. She took it as a joke, naturally, when he asked if she’d mind being infiltrated, and continued merrily cutting up lemons. “Hey, invite him for dinner.”
“I’ll summon him from his B & B.” The Lovenest, Emily LeMay, prop., specializing in season in honeymooners, anyone who dares during the rest of the year.
Finally convinced he was serious, she demanded a trustworthy witness, not just Arthur, before she would consort with “a fucking CSIS agent.” Reverend Al Noggins was their choice, three times winner of the Garibaldi Upstanding Citizen Award, and he arrived almost simultaneously with DiPalma, bringing several bottles of his prize-winning fall fair wine, misunderstanding this as a social event.
For three hours, over barbecued salmon, then apple pie, they listened with incredulity to DiPalma, his words flowing out as copiously as the prize wine flowed in. He seemed unconcerned about confiding in Reverend Al — the priest might be Protestant but he was a man of the cloth, and that was enough for this God-fearing secret agent.
Savannah decided to play along with “whatever’s going on,” as she put it. But after the guests left, she expressed doubts about DiPalma that echoed those of the local member of Parliament. “I’m going to watch and wait and see.”
“I have some people checking him out. Nothing to lose.”
“I wonder.”
Though it was nearly midnight in Ottawa, Arthur chanced a call to Margaret, whose line had been tied up earlier, and got her out of bed. “He’s here.” Breathless, low, he wasn’t sure who might be listening.
“Who?”
“You know.”
“Not him.”
“Yes, on Garibaldi.”
“Arthur, you have to back off from him. This isn’t good. Damn, don’t do anything bizarre. I have an early interview. I’ll call when I can.”
Arthur felt like a resentful child, unfairly spanked. He retreated to the non-judgmental solace of his old club chair, opened a book recommended to him, Empires of the Steppes.
He was three hours into its eight hundred pages, halfway through the history of Bhashyistan, when he nodded off, and soon he was playing lead actor in the theatre of the subconscious. This time, not a sweaty nightmare of the carnage on Colonel By Drive, starring instead Ray DiPalma, sneaking up on him, or jumping from behind a door or tree, morphing from clown to evil genius to mad Hamlet, frightening Arthur with his intimate disclosures. “I love you like a father.” Weeping, clutching him.
He woke at an hour uncertain with a painful thud: Empires of the Steppes had fallen on his foot. He massaged a sore toe, then a creaky neck, then switched off the lamp and manoeuvred toward the stairs, finding his way in darkness relieved only by a glow from the kitchen.
He looked in — the fridge door was open, and Savannah, in a frozen state of unconscious indecision, in pyjama top and bikini bottoms, was staring blankly at the leftover macaroni. She’d been dieting, but the unaware self had not paid heed. Averting his eyes from her bent-over bottom, he sought to gently wake her, speaking her name. She was unresponsive.
When he sought to pry her hand from the fridge door, she jumped, looked wildly about, stepped quickly back, the fridge door swinging shut, darkness enshrouding them.
“Who are you?” she cried. “What are you doing?”
“It’s just me, Savannah.”
“Who? Arthur? Where are we?” She took some time to orient herself, even after Arthur found the light switch. She blinked, looked about, breathing heavily. “I should be in bed, I’m sorry.”
Arthur followed her there, settled her in, made hasty retreat upstairs.
“Breakfast!” Savannah hollered from downstairs. Coffee’s seductive aroma, the sizzle of bacon. No vegan she, unlike her stringy, over-healthy partner.
“Coming!” He padded off to his bathroom. Normally, he shared kitchen duties, but somehow he’d over-adjusted his inner clock to West Coast time, slept in till almost nine on this first day of December.
Wet-haired and gleaming from his shower, he found Savannah cheerily breaking eggs into a pan, listening to the CBC, no residual damage from last night. Rarely did she discuss her sleepwalking, shrugging it off as a minor life nuisance, and she didn’t mention it this morning. She greeted him with a bold hug, however, a full body press that threatened to arouse (he was ashamed to admit) an inappropriate physiological response. But she drew away in time.
“What’s on the news?” he asked.
“Bhashyistan. This thing looks like it’s subsided into a phony war, world leaders huddling, Security Council in no hurry to meet, NATO sitting on the sidelines. Nobody seems to be taking this seriously but you, me, and the Ultimate Leader. And maybe that freaky geek you saddled me with.”
Arthur got tied up in the early afternoon because Papillon, the adventurous nanny, got stuck in a fence attempting one of her miraculous escapes. When he returned to the house, a dozen locals were already in se
ssion debating strategies against the developers of Starkers Cove.
Among them was Ray DiPalma, who had penetrated the Committee to Save Lower Mount Norbert Road. He was squatting on the floor, polite, unobtrusive, a newcomer though well enough regarded, especially by those who had a little acreage to sell to an anti-American American. Savannah was guiding the debate, a facilitator more than agitator. One begins by politicizing people locally, she’d instructed Arthur, with issues that affect them just down the road, issues they can grasp.
Scraps of conversation, overheard as Arthur washed up and puttered about the kitchen: “We had a lovely view of that beach, and now this.” “So what if they go around buck naked — somebody tell me what’s the big deal.” “Well, we’re appalled, aren’t we, Desmond, at the prospect of seeing … well, everything.” “Yes, dear, if you say so.” “Some folks got a bug about nudity, not me. The body is the temple of the … whatever.”
Savannah: “I thought we were fighting a road widening and a clear-cut.”
This was politics in the raw, as it were — a livelier debate, how-ever, than any Arthur had witnessed in Ottawa.
During a refreshment break (Maud Miller’s muffins, Zoë Noggins’s biscuits, Blunder Bay’s goat cheese), Ray shuffled up to Arthur, who was outside plotting his escape. “This is working, Mr. B., I’m getting in with the locals. What great people. Straight shooters. I could really dig living here.”
Arthur didn’t encourage him. “I feel quite uncomfortable about this, Ray. I almost feel I’m betraying my friends.”
“I’m on their side on this Norbert Road campaign. Keep Garibaldi green. Save the trees, save the planet. The nudity issue, personally I don’t care. But I do have some experience in that area, Janet and I having frequented a naturist club in Quebec, though just out of curiosity.”
“Janet? I thought she was Janice.”
“Why did I say Janet? Anyway, I’m thinking of doing a little fact-finding mission, check out this Starkers bunch. Maybe pretend I’m interested in investing.”
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