“Yeah, right, sorry I forgot, big dummy that I am. Listen, Charlie my boy,” he went on, belching and covering his mouth with his hand, “you look fairly … wiped out. Maybe it would be … good for you to have a quiet night at home. If it’s … all right with you, though … we’ll just swing by the office for a minute and I’ll give you tomorrow’s merchandise. After that I’ll … give you a lift home. Okay by you?”
Charles nodded, his anger dissipating, replaced by the sweet enjoyment of seeing Guilbault feeling so badly; a particularly sonorous burp shook the man’s shoulders, and Charles had to clench his teeth to keep from laughing.
A few minutes later the car stopped on rue Parthenais in front of a small, one-storey brick building that looked as though it had seen better days. It was squeezed between a run-down boarding house and a restaurant from which swung a sign in the shape of a pipe. Whatever was afflicting Guilbault had spread from his stomach down into his intestines. The businessman jumped out of the car with sweat on his forehead and his nostrils flaring; he took out a large key-ring and ran to the front door.
“Hurry up! I can’t … I’ve got to go!” he called to Charles in a barely recognizable voice.
And he disappeared inside the building, leaving the door open behind him.
Grinning contentedly, Charles strolled into a large, half-empty, neon-lit room containing an imposing oak-panelled desk in need of repair, an olive-green metal filing cabinet that appeared to have been violently attacked by a large carnivore, and two varnished wooden office chairs. A narrow hallway opened at the back of the room. Portraits of Pope Paul VI and Cardinal Paul-Émile Léger hung on the wall on either side of the desk, welcoming visitors with an unctuous gravity into a room that smelled nauseatingly of cheap chocolate.
Charles stopped in the middle of the room and looked around for his boss.
“I’m in the john,” Guilbault called out in agony. “Have a seat … I’ll be … out in a minute.”
The room filled with the grotesque sounds of explosive defecation coming from the end of the hallway. Charles leaned against the desk, laughing into his hand. The sounds were amply accompanied by sighs and stifled groans. The club sandwich seemed to be passing through Guilbault’s entrails like a horde of barbarians armed with pikes and axes.
Charles sat in one of the chairs and swung his legs, more and more delighted with the turn of events. Things seemed to bode well for revenge. His eye fell absently on Guilbault’s cardigan, hanging crookedly on a coat hook; one of the pockets was partially open, and seemed to contain an object of some weight. He found himself staring at the bulge in the material with no particular idea forming in his mind, occupied as he was with the heroic combat Guilbault was fighting in the bathroom; it was as though his boss’s intestines had been transformed into a giant tuba and were playing an obscene tune.
“Everything okay in there, Monsieur Guilbault?” Charles asked as seriously as he could manage.
“Yeah, I think so,” came a supplicating voice.
Charles was still staring at the cardigan pocket, only now his look was sharper. Without taking time to consider the consequences of his act, he walked over to the coat hook, reached into the pocket, and took out a wallet. At the sight of the enormous wad of bills the wallet contained he felt as though he had been kicked in the stomach. Here was his revenge, he was holding it right in his hand. With a swift, precise gesture he divided the wad in half, stuffed one of the halves under his windbreaker and returned the other half to the wallet and put the wallet back in the cardigan.
His first instinct was to run, but he quickly realized that that would be the end of him. He went back and sat on the chair and waited. His limbs were trembling. He squeezed the chair arms and crossed his legs to hide his anxiety. Every now and then he looked down at his windbreaker to see if there was any tell-tale bulge. A minute before he’d been hoping that the swindler’s torture would go on forever, but now he wished it would end as quickly as possible. He brought his hand up to his cheek, which seemed to be burning. Was he red in the face? How would he explain that to Guilbault if he noticed it? From the hallway came nothing but silence. Then the flushing of a toilet indicated that the man’s torments were at least temporarily suspended. Quick steps came down the hallway and there he was, looking as though he had just given birth.
“Ah, my boy … I thought I was going to die in there! It was like I’d swallowed an orangutan … Nevermind, I’m going to sue that bastard for selling food poison! He’ll have to explain himself to the judge!”
He stopped when his eyes fell on Charles’s face. The boy was looking up at him, sitting stiffly on the chair.
“What’s the matter? You don’t look too good yourself.”
“I don’t feel well.”
“Ha! A bloody epidemic! Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
He tried to put his cardigan on but suddenly his eyes lost their focus and he had to lean on the desk with one hand.
“My head’s spinning like a top, for Christ’s sake … He really poisoned me, that bastard …”
He took a deep breath, then pressed his hands to his stomach.
“Christ, I feel like death warmed over …”
“Me too.”
“As soon as I get better I’m going straight to a lawyer, that’s it! I’ll get that son of a bitch! I’ll make him eat dog hair, that crap vendor! Okay, here we go … that’s one sleeve … that’s the other one. Oh, it feels good to have a little cloth to cover me. The back of my shirt’s like a wet dishrag.”
Charles’s heart leapt to his throat as Guilbault slid his hands into his sweater pockets.
“Okay, let’s go, Charlie my boy. I’ll drop you off and then straight to bed … A little nap’ll do me good … Tell me, your head’s not spinning, is it?” He’d suddenly remembered his Lincoln’s interior. “You don’t feel like throwing up or anything, do you?”
“No,” replied the boy, walking awkwardly towards the door. He was deathly afraid that the banknotes he’d stuffed into his windbreaker would slide out and flutter down to the floor.
“Hmm,” said the businessman, watching him, “you definitely look under the weather. I’m not going to risk it. I’ll put you in a taxi. You’ve got enough money, haven’t you? I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”
Charles was already out on the sidewalk fighting off a furious urge to run like a rabbit.
“Hold it a minute!” Guilbault called after him. Charles froze. “I forgot to give you your bars for tomorrow. Although judging from the way you look now … Oh well, you never know …”
He went back into the building; a door creaked and an instant later he reappeared carrying two cardboard boxes, each one labelled:
EXTRA GOURMET CHOCOLATE WITH ALMONDS
QUEBEC PRIVATE DAYCARE COALITION
Five minutes later a taxi appeared and Charles got in stiffly – part of the wad of bills was protruding from the windbreaker and slipping down his thigh. Guilbault nodded through the window, looking concerned.
“Good luck, Charlie my boy!”
And he waved him off.
As he turned towards the daycare, Charles noticed a plastic bag fluttering at the edge of the sidewalk. He grabbed it, slipped it in his pocket, and quickened his pace. He’d had the idea near the end of the taxi ride and had asked the driver to keep going as far as rue Lalonde. If he got off in front of his house he’d run the risk of bumping into people he didn’t want to meet just yet.
He’d transferred the wad of bills to his left armpit, between his skin and his cotton T-shirt, where there was no chance it would escape, but because he had to keep his arm stiff he was afraid of drawing attention to himself. He cast a quick look around, stepped into a small yard, knelt down behind a garbage pail, and slid the bills into the plastic bag, then continued on his way.
As he’d hoped, the daycare was closed and its grounds completely deserted. His throat tightened slightly when he saw the old cherry tree at whose feet the little yellow dog was sl
eeping. He remembered the circumstances surrounding its death with such extraordinary clarity; it was one of the landmarks of his childhood. He sat between the tree’s roots and gently patted the grass. The little yellow dog was right there and would look after the money. Charles was sure of it.
He looked carefully about him, then took the bills from the bag and began counting them. There were tens, twenties, and fifties (which he now saw for the first time in his life), all brand new, crisp and crackling, still at the beginning of their life’s journey.
“Three hundred and fifty dollars,” he murmured, flabbergasted.
He was seized by a wild joy. He leapt to his feet and jumped up and down, waving his hands. What a perfect revenge! What a way to teach the dirty exploiter a lesson! Now all he had to do was bury his loot, keep his mouth shut and his head down until Guilbault gave up looking for the thief and resigned himself to putting the incident behind him. He’d never dare file a complaint with the police, of that Charles was certain. People like him avoided the police at all costs.
He found a small shovel in a sandbox and used it to dig a hole about a metre from the little yellow dog. He made it just deep enough, put the bag of money in it, then filled it in, and carefully replaced the sod.
By the time he got home he was weak with hunger. Sylvie had a macaroni and cheese casserole in the oven, which was just about ready to come out. The succulent, slightly sweet odour filled the apartment and reminded him of the time Alice moved about in the same rooms, a time when he’d been so happy. His mouth filled with saliva, and he felt deliciously sad. Alice’s macaroni was much better than Sylvie’s, but Sylvie’s wasn’t bad.
“Home already?” the waitress greeted him in surprise.
Charles almost told her he was no longer working for Gino Guilbault, but held himself back, afraid of giving too much away.
“I was so hungry, Sylvie,” he said. “Is it going to be ready soon?”
She opened the oven door, decided the casserole was cooked, and served him a large portion. Charles poured himself a glass of milk, and the two of them ate in silence. Wilfrid was out, God knew where, and Charles preferred not to ask any questions.
The emotions of the day had exhausted him. He watched television for a while, spoke briefly with Blonblon on the telephone, then went over to see Boff. When he got there, Henri was vacuuming out the doghouse. By eight o’clock Charles had had his bath and was in bed. His father came in soon after that and, in his loud and imperious after-tavern voice, demanded his supper.
Charles was just drifting off to sleep when the doorbell rang. An unpleasant presentiment make him sit up in bed and hold his breath, and he soon recognized Guilbault’s dry and haughty voice, asking to speak to him. There was a short conversation between the two men and Sylvie, but his blood was pounding in his ears so loudly he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Still trembling, he lay back down and pretended to be asleep, although acid kept climbing up into his throat, making him cough. He bitterly regretted his impulsive act of the afternoon and prepared himself for the worst. He didn’t have long to wait.
The bedroom door burst open and banged against the wall, the ceiling light was switched on, and his father was standing beside the bed, livid with rage:
“Get up!” he shouted.
Rigid with fear, Charles stared at him without speaking; his father’s head appeared to be scraping the ceiling.
“Get up, I said!”
Seizing the boy by the shoulders, he pulled him from the bed.
“What have I done?” sputtered Charles, instinctively raising his arms to shield his face.
The carpenter grabbed him again by the shoulders, spun him towards the door, and gave him a violent shove, projecting him into the hallway.
They had shown Guilbault into the living room. He was sitting in one of the sofa chairs, legs crossed, hands folded on one knee, wearing a silk tie, shiny shoes, his pudgy face heavy with an episcopal seriousness only slightly compromised by his crooked mouth. He gave a small inclination of his head in Charles’s direction as the boy appeared before him, barefooted and still in pyjamas, looking terrified. Sylvie was sitting on the sofa; she gave him a quizzical look, but didn’t dare open her mouth.
“Monsieur Guilbault has a few questions for you,” Wilfrid announced, standing behind his son.
Guilbault looked at Charles through half-closed eyes. Charles had never seen anyone so evil-looking. His hatred for the man rose up inside him and he stopped trembling.
“Was it by accident that you went through my wallet this afternoon, Charles?” the man asked in an almost comically affected voice.
“What wallet?” the boy murmured.
“This one,” Guilbault replied. He picked up his cardigan, which was folded over the arm of the chair, and slowly withdrew the wallet from one of the pockets.
“No,” Charles said.
His firm, almost insolent tone brought a fleeting frown to the philanthropist’s pink lips without detracting from his overall air of solemnity.
“Is it not true that you were in my office this afternoon while I was … indisposed?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone else come into the office while you were waiting for me?”
“No.”
“So,” Guilbault went on, “no one apart from yourself was in my office between a quarter past six and six-thirty, is that right?”
“Not that I saw.”
“Right. Then explain something to me, Charlie my boy. How is it that, when I went into my office at six-fifteen and hung this sweater on the coat hook, my wallet had seven hundred and twenty dollars in it, and when I left that same office, where, as you have just admitted, you were the only person in it with me, my wallet contained only three hundred and seventy dollars?”
“I don’t know.”
“Tell the truth!” Wilfrid growled, squeezing the back of the boy’s neck.
“I am telling the truth.”
“You have no idea?”
“If I knew, I’d tell you. But I don’t know. So I can’t tell you.”
“Talk more politely, you,” growled his father, increasing the pressure on his neck until Charles groaned with pain.
“In that case,” sighed Guilbault, straightening the crease on his pantleg, “I have no choice but to go to the police. The police will come here, and believe you me, they won’t go as easy on you as I have. Do you understand me, Charles?”
“Yes.”
The child stared directly into the man’s eyes. Guilbault thought he detected an almost imperceptible expression of bravado in the look, and the corset of respectability within which he had bound his rage suddenly flew apart; his face turned purple and a speck of foam appeared at the corner of his mouth. He leapt to his feet and reached an arm towards Charles.
“Now you listen to me, my little friend! You’re not going to get away with this! You’re going to find yourself in reform school! Is that what you want? And as for you two,” he said to Wilfrid and Sylvie, “don’t forget you’re responsible for this child. If he refuses to return my money, it’s you who’ll have to pay me back!”
With that he stormed towards the door like a buffalo, nearly knocking the carpenter over. The latter hurried after him, sputtering promises Guilbault wasn’t hearing. Guilbault went out and was halfway down the stairs when he stopped, turned around, and came back into the vestibule, where Wilfrid was standing with his arms hanging by his sides.
“My boxes of chocolate!” he shouted.
“Your what …?”
Guilbault stared at the carpenter’s dismayed face. Then, in a falsetto voice his suppressed rage poured out in an uncontrolled torrent.
“Go get them, you idiot! Wake up! The two boxes of chocolate I gave your son this afternoon! Do you think I’m stupid enough to leave them here with a thief?”
Sylvie sat Charles down beside her on the sofa and was patiently and gently trying to get him to admit to having stolen the money. He continued to deny e
verything, crying hot tears and using his large round eyes to great effect. She’d told Wilfrid to keep out of the way, and he was pacing back and forth in the kitchen, beer in hand, muttering to himself over and over.
“Three hundred and fifty bucks! Where are we going to lay our hands on that kind of money, for the love of Christ?”
After a quarter of an hour, moved by the child’s sobs and not knowing what to think, Sylvie went into the kitchen.
“Listen, Wilfrid,” she said. “I don’t think he took it. We don’t know anything about this Guilbault. Maybe he’s trying to put one over on us.”
Wilfrid stared at her for a second in astonishment, then slammed the beer bottle down on the table so hard beer splattered everywhere.
“Is that what you think? Well, I never thought you could be so stupid! Have you lost your memory, is that what you’re telling me?”
He stretched his trembling arm towards the living room.
“The fast one that little asshole pulled on us last spring, have you forgotten that? When he snuck out of here in the middle of the night, broke a window at the vet’s clinic to get his goddamn dog out, and you think he’s not capable of going through someone’s wallet? I know he did it, goddamnit, I know it was him who took the money. And you can be goddamn sure that little Christer is going to pay back every last penny of it!”
Picking up his bottle, he left the kitchen and went into the living room. For the next minute or two, father and son shouted at each other in unison, the one accusing and the other denying, their voices hoarse and strident, carried away by the same vehemence and equally aware that they were playing for keeps; that this battle marked a turning point in their relationship.
They were stopped by a sudden knock on the floor. Monsieur Victoire had had enough; he was demanding a truce. The carpenter calmed down immediately.
“Okay, you don’t want to talk? It’s up to you. Tomorrow I’ve got a little surprise in store for you. Go to bed.”
Curled up in his bed with Simon, Charles’s whole body shook as he thought about the surprise. He knew what it was. He could see the closet door beside him, still with the three screw holes in it. He’d be kept a prisoner behind that door, and not for just a day, either, but until he confessed to his crime. He knew his father was capable of keeping him in there for a long time, such a long time that Charles might not even be conscious when they came to let him out.
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