“I’ve yet to receive a set of keys from the lawyer’s office, Joan. Do you think you might leave me yours?”
Mrs. Dubois stopped what she was doing and gave Catalina a begrudging look.
“They’ll likely arrive sometime this afternoon, but I can’t be asked to wait around for them after you’ve gone for the day.” None of this was true. She’d arranged for the keys to be couriered to the hotel, and they were probably already waiting for her there, but this would take care of the invading secretary and free up her afternoon for something more pleasant than waiting for a locksmith. After tardiness, waiting was a close second on her list of dislikes, and when they coalesced, she could not be held responsible for her actions.
“Oh, that won’t be necessary. I have an extra set in my desk.” Mrs. Dubois scurried out of the study to get them, and Catalina picked up her briefcase and followed, closing the door behind her.
As Mrs. Dubois rifled through her desk, Catalina looked out the bay windows at the street below. The few people coming and going were well dressed, though not fashionable, and generally older. Women in skirt suits and designer dowager dresses were walking small, fluffy dogs or carrying large colorful bags with the names and emblems of stores frequented by the privileged class. A town car idled before a silver-haired man in a deep-blue suit—it would deliver him to his office or more likely to his mistress’s apartment, Catalina imagined. The man checked his cell phone several times, then handed the uniformed driver a small jewelry bag from Birks, which he placed on the front seat. No one seemed to be in any kind of hurry, which was unusual for Montreal. Catalina supposed men like him had enough money to hire others to hurry for them. Mrs. Dubois, on the other hand, was starting to seem frantic as she pulled out file folders, notebooks, and crumpled plastic bags from her desk drawers, desperate to find her extra set of keys so she would not have to hand over her own.
Then, as if finding a lost lottery ticket with the winning number, Mrs. Dubois held up the keys in triumph and gave a little cheer. “Here they are!” She jangled them in the air and huffed a sigh of relief.
“Brilliant,” Catalina said, taking them from the secretary and dropping them into her briefcase. “And the list?”
Mrs. Dubois handed over a few sheets of paper with names and phone numbers typed in columns, and the letter P handwritten next to the clients who would have to be called. As Catalina flipped through the list, mentally counting how many phone calls she’d have to make, she remembered a joke that she’d heard at a conference: How many hysterics does it take to screw in a lightbulb? None, because they’re all afraid of the dark. She couldn’t recall who had told it, but she refrained from sharing it with Mrs. Dubois.
“I’ve also printed out copies of the letter and addressed the envelopes,” the woman said brightly. “Our regular courier is on his way—I could wait for him if you’d like to go for lunch.”
“That won’t be necessary.” From her briefcase, Catalina extracted a red leather card wallet and handed one of her newly minted business cards to the secretary. Dr. Catalina Thwaite was printed in raised, elegant black longhand on a thick and crisp white bond. The phone number beneath it belonged to an answering service she’d hired to create a barrier between herself and her clients. She knew that other therapists provided their clients with their cell phone numbers, or—God forbid—their home numbers. But Catalina had no interest in granting such unfettered access to anyone.
“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off and do something nice for yourself, Joan? And if you don’t hear from me in the next few days, give me a ring and I’ll tell you how I’m faring here. We can then discuss setting up some appointments—first with the referrals, then with the transfers who have not yet jumped ship.” Or off a building or bridge, she thought, but kept to herself, since she was sure the old woman wouldn’t find it funny. She would laugh about it after Mrs. Dubois left.
The secretary’s brow lifted, her eyes narrowed, and Catalina could tell she was displeased but knew enough to keep her tone neutral, her words measured. “Might it be a better idea to resume with old clients first? They have so much to process—losing Dr. Schmidt under such tragic circumstances, having their therapy cut off so abruptly.” This time her voice didn’t crack. She had been handling Dr. Schmidt’s clients for a long time, and in this she felt confident, perhaps even superior, in her judgment. She wore a self-possessed, almost smug expression as she awaited a reply.
“No,” Catalina said with no further explanation, and watched the old woman’s confidence slowly deflate. After a moment, Mrs. Dubois began to sweep the papers and other detritus on her desk back into the drawers with no thought of order. Slovenly, thought Catalina, though her face showed no distaste. Mrs. Dubois would soon cease to offend her senses altogether.
“If you’re sure there’s nothing else I can do . . .” She picked up her brown handbag and threw her keys in it.
“Nothing, nothing at all,” Catalina replied pleasantly, and escorted her to the door.
Through the bay windows she watched the old secretary shuffle up the street. Every few steps she looked over her shoulder, as if desperate for a last glimpse at her world before it disappeared.
“And to die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier,” Catalina recited in the empty office, grinning. Her favorite line from Whitman never failed to infuse her with equanimity and resolve. Death had always been lucky for her. She was not certain Dr. Schmidt felt the same when his time came, though Mrs. Dubois might feel fortunate to finally join him. She looked through the secretary’s desk, searching for an address. Tomorrow or the next day she would drop by her flat to settle the matter of her future at the practice once and for all, the bottle of Dr. Schmidt’s sedatives resting in her pocket like a love potion, like a sleeping snake.
Suitcase Man
by Martin Michaud
Notre-Dame-des-Neiges Cemetery
Translated from French by Katie Shireen Assef
Montreal, January 1993
An old man bows against the wind, making his way among the frozen headstones of the Notre-Dame-des-Neiges Cemetery. A heavy suitcase dangles from his fist, leaves a trail of blood on the snow. The man’s eyebrows are white with frost, and his eyes shine with the conviction that drives those who have made grave decisions, carried out irreversible acts. When he finally reaches Florence’s headstone, he knows he’s come to the end of his journey, and he’s determined to watch his life leave him like a dark ship disappearing into the horizon.
Under the weight of his years, but especially his suffering, the old man’s knees buckle and cease to carry him. When he staggers and slumps forward, arms open, he looks as if he’s trying to grab ahold of the clouds rolling across the sky.
Then his body collapses, shooting crystalline snowflakes up into the air. The old man is named Arthur Zourek, but it’s been years since anyone has heard his name.
* * *
The smell of fast food filled the front seat of the patrol car, its windows frosted over. One of the policemen, whose name tag read Robitaille, shoved a handful of fries into his mouth and, chewing, said, “It’s terrible. You’d think my daughter walks around the house in lead boots! She had an exam at the university this morning. When I got up in the middle of the night to take a piss, she was still studying. Can you believe it? Every damn light in the apartment was on. Just like her mother. I spend my whole life turning off those friggin’ lights!”
Robitaille burst out laughing, shaking his head while his fingers closed down on his dripping hamburger. With his mouth full, he continued: “Me and Michèle, we haven’t fucked for weeks. The kids’ rooms are practically on top of ours. I think we’ll have to move. Now that Justine and her brother are older, we’ve got zero privacy. We need some more space or we’re gonna go crazy . . .” His greasy fingers stroked the ends of his graying mustache. “How ’bout your son? How old is he now, your little guy?”
The man who’d been absently listening to Robitaille�
�s grievances raised his head, worked his jaw for a moment, and fixed his green eyes on his partner. “Martin? Six months.”
Robitaille slurped up the last of his Coca-Cola through a straw. “And? How’s it going?”
“He’s so little, so fragile—it’s a miracle, life.” The young policeman looked out the window into the deserted Saint Joseph’s Oratory parking lot. The patrol car was parked in front of the lot, on Chemin Queen Mary. “You don’t want anything to happen to them. You want to protect them from anything that could harm them. From . . .” The cop’s eyes gleamed as he choked back tears.
Robitaille, who’d seen a thing or two in his day, suspected his partner was a tormented man, that an immense rift had torn through his childhood like a long and painful scar burned into flesh.
“You want to protect them from others. And from yourself.”
Robitaille noticed the rectangular plastic box his colleague held on his knees, containing a sandwich, carrots and celery sticks, a piece of cheese. He ate slowly, chewing each bite carefully as if he were savoring every flavor.
“Your wife packs your lunches, eh?” said Robitaille. “Enjoy it, son. It won’t last. Pretty soon she’ll start nagging you for not talking enough about your emotions, if she hasn’t already.”
The young policeman lowered his head, embarrassed at suddenly being the center of attention. Robitaille crumpled up the wax paper that had covered his hamburger, chewing the last bite. “Besides, it’s not as if you were much of a chatterbox to begin with.”
On the radio, they listened to a hockey match between the Canadiens and the Bruins. When the sportscaster announced a Boston goal, Robitaille banged his fist on the dashboard. “Goddamnit, Roy! Another fast one! Better trade him while he’s still worth something. We’ll never win the Cup with that moron in the net.” He turned the heat up all the way and sighed. “Thirty-three below. Shit, it’s freezing—”
He was interrupted by a crackling noise as the dispatcher’s voice came over the patrol radio: “Calling all units: Code 063 at 4565 Côte-des-Neiges.”
Robitaille turned to his partner. They were only a few blocks away. Without a moment’s hesitation, the green-eyed policeman grabbed the transmitter.
“Eleven three. We’re on our way.”
Robitaille started the engine and shot off at full speed, making the tires spin out on the ice. His partner turned on the siren and revolving lights. The two were silent as the patrol car hurtled through the night. Then Robitaille winced and said between his teeth, “An abused kid. Jesus. We’ve got a fucking shitty job, son.”
Victor Lessard said nothing, but his jaw tightened and his gaze hardened. Sinister phantoms danced before him.
* * *
The woman who’d made the call to 911—a gray-haired, wrinkled twig wearing a floral dress—waited for the officers on her apartment’s second-floor landing.
Since Robitaille was breathless from climbing the stairs, it was Victor who asked, “What’s happened, madame?”
“I heard screams coming from the apartment upstairs,” she responded. “A child’s screams. I went out into the hallway, and that’s where I saw him. The upstairs neighbor, I mean. Coming down the stairs with his big suitcase, the one he’s always dragging around with him.”
“He lives alone?”
She nodded her small white head. “I’ve lived here fifteen years. He was here when I moved in. I’ve never seen anyone else go up those stairs. Except once.” Her wrinkled mouth puckered in a sneer of disgust. “A whore . . .”
Without reacting to her remark, Victor asked, “Do you know his name?”
She shook her head no. “But everyone on the block calls him Suitcase Man. He’s a scary one, that’s for sure.”
Robitaille, who had finally caught his breath, cut in: “And what exactly is the problem, madame?”
“Besides the screaming?” She fixed her owl’s eyes on the cop. “There was blood dripping from his suitcase.”
Victor walked up to the staircase, crouched in front of the first few steps, and brushed them with his fingertips. He stood, his index finger covered with blood, and followed the trail of drops up the stairs.
* * *
Breathless, his chest heaving, Arthur Zourek sits down in the snow and leans against Florence’s headstone. Reaching out his arm, he grabs the handle of his suitcase and pulls it to his chest, cradling it gently as the wind blows and blood spreads dark over the snow.
A melancholy smile crosses the old man’s face.
“My little princess suffered too much, Flo. I had to take her with me, I had no choice. You see, Flo—together for eternity. I’m coming to join you.”
He digs in the pocket of his jacket and takes out a half-empty bottle of pills. Twisting the top off, he brings it to his lips and swallows the remaining tablets. Then he hears shuffling behind him. He raises his eyes and makes out the silhouette of a young man leaning over him. Behind him, gnarled branches blown by the wind seem to reach out to grab him.
“Bonjour, Arthur. How are you today?”
The old man nods in greeting to the visitor, a man of around thirty, whose long black hair is flecked with snowflakes and blowing in the wind. “Salut, Jérôme. You should put on some clothes, you’ll catch a cold.”
The young man pulls the lapels of his jean jacket closed, a contemptuous smile curving his lips. “Perhaps you have a coat for me in there?”
Arthur Zourek hugs his suitcase even more tightly. “There’s nothing of interest to you in here,” he says in a sharp voice. “Nothing, you hear?”
Jérôme shrugs his shoulders and pulls a flask from his jacket pocket. He throws his head back and takes a long swig. “I have what I need to keep warm. You want some?”
Zourek shoots a disdainful look at the flask. “No. I don’t drink alcohol.”
* * *
The half-open door squeaked loudly as Robitaille gave it a push. The two policemen cautiously entered the Suitcase Man’s dark apartment.
“Police!” Victor called out.
Flashlights in one hand, pistols in the other, the men moved silently, each covering the other. Robitaille buried his nose in his forearm. A fetid odor of decaying matter and cat urine filled the room. “Oh god, it reeks in here.”
He turned on the living room light, and a mountain of random filth appeared: a soiled mattress, a lamp with a ratty shade, a cooler, a TV in a solid wood case, a teddy bear’s head on a stand, suitcases, dirty clothes, a turntable, records, an overturned sofa, dusty picture frames, and many stacks of newspapers.
Victor headed for the kitchen, where a pan of dried spaghetti sauce congealed on the stove. On the counter, fruit flies swarmed around rotten fruit and cartons of Chinese food. Garbage bags full of empty cans were piled in a corner, and bundles of old lottery tickets lay on the table.
A corkboard was fixed to the door of the pantry. Amid a jumble of papers, a few black-and-white photographs stood out. Victor examined them for a moment. In one of them, a little girl of six or seven wore a polka-dotted dress. Barefoot in the grass, she smiled timidly at the camera. In another, which looked to be from the same period, a man of around thirty stood with a young blond woman. An uneasy feeling came over Victor. The couple wore a look that was almost frightening.
Leaving the pantry to take a look around, Victor made his way down the hallway. Suddenly he recoiled, his heartbeat quickening. Bloody footprints were still wet on the wood floor. He thought he should alert Robitaille, who was inspecting the dining room, but he was unable to move, rooted to the spot by the force of his imagination.
What would he find at the end of this hallway?
Not a dead child. He wouldn’t be able to bear it.
After shaking off the thought, he followed the trail of footprints and traced them back to another room. The door was ajar. The hallway was dark, and for a moment everything seemed to sway before him. An irresistible force drew him forward. His eyes were glued to the strip of light showing under the doorframe, and
his heart pounded wildly in his chest. He stepped up to the door and knocked loudly.
“Police!”
Not a sound. Victor lunged at the door and pushed his torso through the opening, pointing his pistol into the room, ready to fire at the slightest provocation. For a moment, he thought the room was empty—until he saw what was there on the floor.
It took a moment for the nausea to come over him. His gallery of phantoms had just come alive again, the one that had haunted him since that July day in 1976 when his father had savagely murdered his mother and his brother Raymond, before turning the gun on himself.
Victor swallowed. He felt an immense pressure in his chest. At his back, his partner’s voice startled him.
“Oh fuck. We’d better call backup.”
Robitaille’s eyes widened in horror as he saw what Victor had been staring at: on the ground, a kitchen knife bathed in a pool of blood, strewn with short hairs.
A message had been traced with fingers on the floor: Together for eternity.
* * *
Defying the cold, the howling wind and snow gusts bending the cemetery trees, the young man in the denim jacket slowly approaches Zourek, whose face is now livid.
“There was another disappearance, Arthur. Right next door to you. What a coincidence, eh?”
“Why are you telling me this, Jérôme? What are you trying to insinuate?”
The young man stares at him with eyes full of reproach. “You know very well why I’m telling you this. There were others after—”
“Nasty little liar! You think you can mess with me?”
“Why so aggressive? After all these years . . .”
Arthur Zourek’s vision begins to blur. “You took her from me . . . She was my life . . .”
Jérôme shakes his head. “You’ve never accepted the truth. I’m the one who should be angry.”
Zourek’s eyes open wide as he murmurs, “The bloodshed did me good. It calmed me.”
The young man clenches his fists. “What are you hiding in that suitcase, Arthur? Let me see.” Jérôme steps forward and fixes the old man with his sullen eyes. Before Zourek can react, the young man grabs the handle of the suitcase and yanks at it with all his strength. The old man clings to it with the force of his despair.
Montreal Noir Page 26