He would not open his mouth.
He would not speak in tongues.
† † †
Rooke yawned, covered it delicately with the palm of his hand. Seri noticed his fingers, impeccably groomed, not a cuticle out of place. He replaced the file in the top drawer and removed nail clippers from his coat pocket.
He started with his thumbnail. “How much of our history do you remember?”
“Yours and mine?”
“CSIS history.”
“All of it.”
“See, the problem really began with the dismantling of the RCMP Security Service back in ’84.” He was filing the thumbnail to a perfect crescent. “The Mounties once had some measure of power where subversion is concerned.”
“That was a good thing?” She chomped a stick of gum.
“In the old days, we could go after those with threatening ideologies. The punks, the freaks, the anarchists, the whole crew.”
Rooke rounded a nail’s curve, continued. “Now our hands are tied. Do you know what it’s like to have your hands tied, Seri?”
“Nope.” Her mouth dried. She coughed.
“The CSIS Act in ’84 took away many of our powers. But The Osbaldeston Report, in ’87 . . . ” He clipped loudly and dug the spike under a nail.
Seri was chewing hard, two-and-a-half sticks’ worth.
“Do you know the wording, Seri? In the report?”
“Of course. Do you?”
“CSIS’s counter-subversion program casts its nets too widely. Too widely.” He sliced a nail and leaned forward. “How do you catch fish without casting your net?”
“You’re using the wrong metaphor—”
“In the absence of counter-subversion, what has become our top priority, as established by government clerks?” He gently set down the clippers. “Economic security.” He stroked a cuticle. “Criminal, is what it is.”
“Criminal?”
“Protestors marching on Parliament Hill every second day. Dopers challenging drug laws. People on mad journeys, south into deserts or north to the Arctic, trying to ‘renew’ themselves.” He pronounced renew as if he were about to vomit.
Seri flushed, looked down.
“Handcuffed,” he said. “From SIP right on down. Ever been cuffed, Seri?”
“Never.”
“And when we do get some juicy intelligence, we give it away.”
It’s called the coordinated approach, Seri thought. She looked down at the carpet. “Why are we fixating on subversion?”
“Punks,” Rooke said, as if that answered the question. “Why should the RCMP get all of our best so-called ancillary information? Why should we simply fly around gathering shiny bits of foil to line someone else’s nest?”
He tapped his fingers and leaned forward once again.
“What are we, magpies?”
† † †
Granny Finnegan played the violin for her boyfriend, Mr. Scott. He came over to the house on Friday nights, sat with hands folded over lap. She played Paganini till the strings snapped. Mum just smiled. Grandpa Hamm, from the family’s other side, laughed and laughed until it was time for his medicine.
Some Fridays, Granny Finnegan would put the violin away and drag Seri out on a double date. Granny sat in the back seat with Mr. Scott while Seri’s current boyfriend, Greg, drove to the bowling alley. On rainy nights, when the windows fogged, Seri would feel claustrophobic.
Greg was the youth pastor at a Mennonite church. He read the Bible to Seri and talked earnestly about the sacrament of marriage, the blessing of family. He kept his car so clean. He insisted they never pray together, because that level of intimacy could lead to a careless mistake.
At the bowling alley, Granny would have a few beers, Mr. Scott a scotch with ice. Greg would have one Coke. The pins would crash. Lights would flash. Granny would pat Mr. Scott’s bottom.
It was obvious, even logical, that Greg was God’s will for Seri. Greg had all the right qualities: fidelity, truthfulness, righteousness. He was like her father, the preacher she remembered, perfectly correct in his views on family and ethics. The only difference was that Greg would keep his faith, and never run away. He was even handsome, in a youth pastor sort of way.
Greg is God’s will for me, Seri told herself.
It was a rainy night.
She threw the ball at the pins, hard.
† † †
Rooke slipped a compact disc into the stereo on the shelf, turned up the volume.
“Do you like Paganini, Seri?”
She nodded.
“People thought he was the devil,” Rooke said. “He played the violin so fast, so hard. Somewhere between madness and brilliance.”
Seri smiled. “My Granny is a violinist and a minister of God. She would say Paganini’s music, played with brilliance, chases the devil.”
Rooke stared, hands on hips. His fingers tightened, twisted black fabric. “What do any of you know about the devil?”
“Us?”
“I want you to look at this map,” he said, yanking a string from the ceiling. A wall-sized geography of Canada unrolled, much like a retro grade-school map. “Look at the space, the whiteness, the vast borders. Does this look like a place that can be policed by clerks and bureaucrats?”
Seri sighed around what was now a wad of gum. “So, what, Ted? What is our job description? Tell me clearly.”
His shoulders, held high, dropped suddenly. He looked at the carpet and held his breath, reminding Seri of her childhood playmate, Ricky.
“Ted?”
He exhaled in a whoosh. “I am not, at this time, completely certain.”
“Sure you are.” She turned down the stereo. “Just explain at whatever level of specificity you have.”
He pulled up his shoulders, a little higher than looked comfortable. “Certainly not the usual security clearances, background checks and other assorted impotencies. Look at that map, Seri.” His voice gathered speed. “Up here, at the Arctic Archipelago, the District of Franklin—look at all that space.” He smiled, tapped his tooth with a fingernail. “Clarity, Seri. We need a bird’s-eye view, a transcendent position. A roost.”
He tugged at the string, and the map shivered in waves.
Seri dabbed chewed gum into a wrapper and folded it neatly. “What does all this have to do with Paganini?”
Rooke frowned. His pink tongue flicked his lips. “You think we no longer have subversives in this country?”
“Of course.” Seri touched the dimple in her cheek. She uncrossed, then crossed her legs. “What’s the main distinction between us—”
“And CSIS?” Rooke warmed, straightened, smiled. “The handcuffs are off. We do not get monitored by the Security Intelligence Review Committee. Not budgets, not activities, nothing. We have no intercourse with the Inspector General, nor the Solicitor General, nor the federal courts.” He looked less like Ricky than anyone she had ever seen. “We report to no one.”
Well, that was nonsense. Seri would find the proper channels, regardless of what Rooke did or didn’t know.
“And our jurisdiction, Ted?”
“Expanded considerably. Wide-ranging discretionary powers, and, best of all, no affidavit for intrusive measures. My say-so is the only warrant we need.”
Serendipity rose to fetch a glass of water, stopped, sat down again quickly. “What about due respect?”
“Punks do not merit due respect. Least of all ageing punks who should know better.”
He was close now. Seri could smell soap, cologne, the spice of body odour.
She exhaled. “You seem to have it in for CSIS.”
Rooke snapped a nail. “They won’t let me do my work.”
Dear Lord. Seri thought of peaches.
“Do we get guns, Ted?”
“Guns?” Rooke laughed, as a nail popped and spun onto the glass-top. She whiffed his cologne again, stronger this time. He grinned, teeth so white, snapped the volume up till Paganini burned from the
speakers.
“No guns,” he said. “That would be like bad American TV. And this is still Canada. And I am an upright man.”
CHAPTER TEN
A Welcome Dark
Lor drifted through the long hallways of the Marquis. Radiators bubbled, paint-skins peeling, heat pressing windows, windows shedding stains, stains seeping down through carpet to the underworld. Dead flies guarding the sills, the whispers of everyone who had ever stayed overnight, and the tock-tick of the grandfather clock at the hallway’s end, where he hovered to stare at the broken face, then entered the heat of the bathroom and the stifled drip of corroding pipes, where the mirror was fractured, and his eyes were bloody, and he was a boy.
“Lor. Come on, man, wake up.”
The ice around Lor’s brain slowly cracked, letting in the blood.
“Lor. You had me worried, brother.”
“Where’s . . . everybody?” Lor raised his head from the table. His cheek was numb.
“You were gone, man. Totally out.”
Lor stood, wobbled a bit, looked about him. There was shattered glass at his feet and on his hands.
“Whoah, buddy.” Alistair grabbed Lor’s shoulder, steadied him. “You’re a li’l mixed up there, account of some wonky body chemistry. Here, have a bun, steady you a bit.”
Lor shook his head, ignoring the Zwieback. Then he fell over.
“Criminy,” Al said. “This zany shit’s what got us into this mess, this imbroglio, this, uh . . . ”
“I can’t think.” Lor grabbed his sticky forehead.
“W’fuck. You’re hungry, you’re high, you’re in a basement, of course you can’t think.”
“What’s an imbroglio?”
Alistair kneeled beside him. “My map nixed the island, you nixed the meeting, so Natasja nixed the tour. Dig?”
“So the bargain’s off?” Lor looked up hopefully. “You want to be rid of me?”
“Hell no, bargain’s on, and you, captain, are going to help us buy some new gear.”
Lor dropped his forehead to the carpet.
“Look, ’migo, Natasja bailed, so we had to redesign the tour, meaning, far as you’re interested—we ain’t leaving till Christmas now. And if you don’t help us get the gear we ain’t never leaving.”
“Oh god.”
“Here, put on my hat.”
It covered his head, and the brim cast a welcome dark.
† † †
Humongous Pizza Slice is seven feet from the Marquis, as the crow flies. It is always open late, because proprietors Mucciaroni and Chan both have advanced insomnia, and neither has slept since the Second World War. Humongous offers the finest hybrid cuisine anywhere for those on a budget, queer pizza creations that would never be whispered of by daylight in suburban restaurants or traditional households. And the smell.
Alistair gobbled two whole-wheat slices trimmed with bok choy, peanut sauce, and feta, while Chan giggled and Mucciaroni tossed and punched dough. Lor smoked and smoked, a chain of Lucky Strikes.
No more drugs, he thought, over and over. A mantra. Just say no. Drugs were clearly his problem, psychedelics in particular, because the line between hallucination and reality, though sound, was beginning to blur. Someone had obviously dusted that weed in the Crystal Room. No more drugs. And forget that damned bargain, too, Al was out of his mind. Lor was not going shopping for anyone, least of all these fuckheads.
Alistair chomped. “Weird thing was, he always wanted my hat.”
Lor nodded. Franklin again.
Alistair sat on the table and told Mucciaroni and Chan the story of his project. How he had discovered a phantom website that told of an upcoming Arctic music festival, complete with hazy visuals of Foggy Island, the festival site. How the extended text blasted gross commercialism and lazy suburban ennui. How anyone could show up and play. There was to be no producer, no program, no sponsorship. DIY writ large.
“It’s going to be white chaos, picaroons, a convergence, harum-scarum, the experience of a lifetime. Mooch, who’s the juicebag watching us over in the corner? Albino rhino with the thick glasses and piggy eyes?”
Mucciaroni turned. “Malachi Frump. Eats his weight in gold, keeps us open.”
“So what’s his gig, machiavel, like what’s he taking notes on us or something? Hey! Taco Bell, you spying on us?”
The man closed his notebook and capped his pink pen, began to cram a wedge of cured meats and mixed cheese.
“Leave him,” Chan said. “He writes for Alberta Watch. His mom’s a famous politico.”
“The razorback is eavesdropping. Hey! Take your notebook and get back to your fucking flat tax or flat earth or flat affect conference or whatever the fuck.”
The man clicked open an attaché case and neatly placed the notebook and pen in their designated pockets, then folded the remaining pizza and crammed it.
“Thanks, Chan,” he said, rising.
“Yeah. Come back later when these creepies are out of here.”
“I will. Thanks, Mooch.”
Mucciaroni nodded. Frump headed for the door.
Alistair gave him the finger. “Actually, don’t come back, babushka, and while you’re at it—subversives you say? Fuck you, that’s a compliment where I come from, yeah, hope to see you again too. . . .” Alistair was far enough over the table that he almost dumped it.
Lor collapsed into his chair. Where did Al get all that energy? It was exhausting.
“See what I mean?” Alistair turned. “That’s the Man, frozen in small ice.”
“You’re crazy,” Chan said. “And bad for business.”
Christmas, Lor thought. I can’t wait that long.
“Get out now,” Chan said, tapping the back of Lor’s chair. “Maybe we let you back in another ten years.”
“Maybe,” Mucciaroni said.
“Doubtful,” Chan added.
† † †
They stood beneath the horned moon and the buzzing neon, in gently warming air, while a rainbow of western sky cut into streaks of cloud. Lor leaned against the rail and tried to keep his eyes open while Alistair clicked a boot heel.
“Dude,” Alistair said. “You really need some rest.”
“I can’t go back. I have to get out of that hotel. I have to.”
Alistair lit his pipe. “Tell you what, starting tomorrow night you stay with me.”
“I don’t think so.”
Alistair puffed. “Ready to shop?”
Lor slumped.
“Dude?”
“Whatever,” Lor said, looking down, eyelids heavy.
“And you’ll stay with me.”
Lor nodded slowly.
“Chinook arch,” Chan told them, momentarily popping out with a broom to sweep the remaining snow from the walk. “Hot winds coming, early tomorrow, maybe tonight. Chase the moon away.” Mooch called from within, and Chan disappeared with his broom.
Lor let go of the rail and looked to the sky. “So, Al. When you went, did you ever see any, I don’t know, any powder? Like in that little box you and Franklin fought over?”
“Powder?”
“In that old Underwood Museum of Evil. Like a sparkling dust.”
“Fuck no, kidding amigo? That place was filled to the nuts with interesting stuff. Too bad you never went.”
“Yeah. Too bad.”
They watched the sky darken.
“Al. I have to get high.”
“High?”
“Up. Off the ground. I need to walk to a view.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
They parted at the Kresge’s. Alistair clomped away beneath a winking streetlight, pointed hat bobbing. As Lor watched, he suddenly felt a twist of fear and loneliness, like a boy heading off to summer camp for the first time.
“Al!”
“Yeah.”
Lor paused, unsure as to why he had called out. “Good to. . . .” The words jammed up in his throat. “Good to. See you again, brother.”
Alistair grinne
d. “Good to see you too, confrere.”
The moon faded behind a nebulous roil, horns catching briefly to rip a seam through the clouds.
† † †
Midnight.
Lor took the remaining Lucky Strikes and wandered out into the night, under the overpass, through a tangled hedge, down train tracks frosted with ice and filtered starlight. The sky was streaked with chinook cloud to the west, stretched over rows of wartime houses, windows winking with domestic secrets. Who were these people, and how did they put up with the chaos of a family?
He ambled down the tracks through knee-high weeds still sugared with snow, to the pedestrian overpass. Beneath, two lovers giggled, sprinkling whispers and chemical magic. Who were these people, and how did they put up with the chaos of love? Lor climbed the concrete steps and sauntered to the centre.
His head jerked with memory. The Japanese woman. The arcade. The wooded greenstrip, the crows. Damn, the Weird was following him. Backward in time and motion, from Lethbridge to Underwood.
He bowed his head.
Far below, in the west, the city stretched to coulees, and coulees to prairie, and prairie to dark horizons. Lor focused on the middle distance: suburban twinkle, traffic buzz, the promise of seasonal days and nights. Wafting up now, the smell of pizza all the way from Humongous. Lor sniffed, taken with childhood memories of weekend suppertimes, when the world was enormous and a lifetime stretched to its own horizons.
The Weird was going backward.
The night silenced, all hushes synchronous. For a few seconds Lor heard nothing. No cars. No lovers. No urban hum. Then, suddenly, the chatter of a magpie, up long past its bedtime.
PART THREE
Brown Alberta Blues
It is imperative to take the initiative, to build firewalls around Alberta.
—Former Prime Minister Stephen Harper, 2001
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Four Creatures
Calgary, though no Lethbridge, has its own few pockets of weirdness, braided almost secretly through the mesh of freeway snarl and corrugated suburbia. The neighbourhood of Mission is a pocket: nested between the perpetual rush hour of Seventeenth Avenue and the upscale convolutions of Elbow Drive, Mission is an entanglement of French Catholicism, working-poor stoicism, punky freakdom, and ambitious yuppiedom. Late-nineties Mission is not yet gentrified, and no gentle place.
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