Serafim and Claire

by Mark Lavorato

  Then Claire saw a portly nun crossing the street, heading up St. Denis. Instinctively, she stood and hurried to catch up with the woman, slowing to a stroll just behind her, within reaching distance of her habit, stepping on her shadow as it floated over the cracks in the sidewalk. Claire felt like her heart had sunk into her stomach. She scratched her neck to look behind her, and it seemed as if the entire street were filing into a procession in her wake, men convening from every corner of the intersection. They were, however, still keeping their distance, not yet running.

  Claire had only been ambling behind the nun for a minute or two before the woman began veering away from the street, towards one of the side doors of the church of St. Jacques. At a loss for what else to do, Claire followed. She looked behind and saw the men stopping, watching her, not even trying to hide the fact that they were in pursuit. Now that it appeared she was heading into a church, they weren’t quite sure what to do. They exchanged glances and looked for direction, for someone to give them definitive orders.

  Claire and the large woman climbed a set of eight stairs to a side door, and the nun opened it, turning to swing it wide, and in doing so, she was surprised to find Claire silently on her heels. “Mademoiselle! Je vous prie!” Perturbed, the woman stepped inside and tried to shut the door behind her.

  Claire jammed her foot in the gap and in colloquial French implored the woman to please, please let her in, insisting that at that very moment she was in the gravest of danger, and that the consequences of her being shut out would very likely be lethal. Please, she begged, please have mercy.

  There was a cold pause. “Mademoiselle O’Callaghan, I must say, your French has much improved recently.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  The nun smiled, waiting for Claire to work it out on her own. So this was one of the many nuns who had cared for her at the Hôtel-Dieu, only fifteen months earlier. One of the women who, after spending almost three weeks with Claire in the most intimate of circumstances, had become convinced she was an imposter of some kind, for some unknown and sinister reason. Claire was just the kind of patient a nun would remember.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Well, I do, mademoiselle. Now, if you would please remove your foot from the door, lest I call for help.” There were voices and movement inside the church, the sounds of people approaching.

  Claire checked the street behind her. The men were growing in number, milling together. “Okay. Yes, you are right. I was not who I said I was. I was lying. I lied to you all, every day that I was there, in everything I did. Can you think of reasons why a woman might do that?”

  “I can, mademoiselle.” Deadpan.

  “Well . . . I was in trouble then, and you helped me regardless, and I thank you for that, very much. But you must understand that I am in much greater trouble now, and I am asking you, I am begging you, for mercy. Please.”

  “By ‘trouble,’ you mean to say that you have done something against your fellow man, against the law, against God? Again?”

  Claire faltered. “Yes, all of them. Please. Open the door.”

  “So you would have us harbour a wanton criminal? Is that it, Mademoiselle O’Callaghan?”

  Claire’s head fell softly against the wood of the door. “Yes.”

  The nun paused. “All right.”

  Relieved, Claire removed her foot and readied herself to step inside. But the nun quickly shut the door and locked it instead.

  “No. No, no, no,” Claire said, desperately listening for movement on the other side, her face against the quiet of the wood grain. With her body leaning against the door, Claire gradually turned round. A car pulled up, its back seat empty, intended for her. One of the men opened it, left it open, and looked at her. Two other men set out towards her, quickly taking the stairs. Claire covered her face with her hands.

  She heard a click from the door at her back, and then it opened, a hand pulled her inside, and the door was deadbolted behind her. It was dark inside and smelled of stale incense. “Follow me,” said the nun, “and not a word.”

  She led Claire to a backroom, down a set of stairs, and into a kind of kitchen area without appliances or cooking facilities, with yellow wallpaper and cold floors.

  “Sit there.” The nun pointed at a steel chair.

  Claire sat down and hung her head. “Thank you.”

  “I don’t need your thanks. I need you to understand that the most I can do for you is send for the police, who will collect you from the back of the building, through that door there. I will go and see if Father’s busy, and if he will agree to make these arrangements. I imagine, if he has time, he will hear your confession. Now, wait here.” She left.

  Moments later, the door that she had indicated bumped open, and a man teetering with a heavy box stepped inside. He was fighting to fully enter the room, the door’s tight springs conspiring against him. Claire stood up and held it open for him.

  “Thank you, madame.”

  Looking outside, she read on the side of his coach that he was a deliveryman with the Canadian Pacific Express. As he was setting the box in a corner, Claire slipped outside, climbed into the back of his coach, and found a space to hide in a narrow slot behind a crate. She heard the horses blow and nicker. Seconds later, the canvas flaps that covered the back of the coach were draped shut, the driver mounted, and the coach jostled into motion, easing out into the dangerous streets, and passing, Claire imagined, a swarm of men watching and waiting for her to emerge from the church.

  Perhaps a quarter of an hour later, the deliveryman made another stop, opened the flaps, and removed a box. Two deliveries after that, Claire climbed out while he was away and was back in the bright day without a clue as to where she was in the city. She hailed the first cab that passed, jumped into the back, lay down on the floor, and asked the driver to take her to her address in the east end as fast as he could. There was no curiosity from the driver about why she was on the floor.

  When she arrived home, Claire locked herself in, closed the curtains, and tiptoed through the house, edging her way around corners. Once she was sure she was safe, she stood in the centre of the apartment, reached out to a stack of records placed beside the Victrola, lifted them high above her head, and slammed them onto the floor, letting out a scream that strained her throat, her fingers splayed wide at the ends of her arms. Then she collapsed into her only chair and into the stunned hush of the room.

  As she sat there, she slowly realized that there was still a good chance they didn’t know who she was. It wasn’t as if she was famous. So long as she could change what she’d looked like the moment they’d seen her, there was still a chance this might all blow over.

  In the bathroom, Claire cut her hair closer than the coif of a banker. She also drew extensions on either end of her eyebrows, and rouged different parts of her cheeks. She stopped to listen, makeup pencil hovering, whenever someone in her townhouse used the stairs, half expecting the door to be kicked in.

  She knew she had no choice but to go to work that night. If someone on the staff were not to show up, it would seem suspicious, especially today. Knowing where the photo had been taken, the men were sure to be at the club. She felt sick to her stomach thinking of walking through the front doors of the cabaret, of having to perform in front of a horde of faces and searching eyes that might recognize her at any given moment.

  When it came time for work, she felt as though she were walking the plank. She left through the back door, after ordering a taxi to pick her up in the alley. She lay down on the floor of the cab again, and got out on Stanley Street like a cached mistress, paying the cabbie without speaking. As she walked to the entrance of the Kit-Kat, she paused — much like a gambler might at a roulette table, before putting all his chips on red — then stepped inside.

  Ciao Serafim,

  I telephoned you multiple times to
day, but received no answer. I was in the neighbourhood so thought I would drop by to make sure everything was okay. Since you still haven’t come home, I’ve scribbled this note for you to find when you do.

  An acquaintance has heard whisperings in the wrongest of circles, of men who are searching for a surreptitious photographer. I discreetly inquired whether or not this might have to do with your taking photos of those men who were roughing me up the other day. I was assured, however, that it had nothing to do with that.

  For some reason I fear that you have gotten yourself involved in something more dangerous than you know. These men of whom I speak, there is no telling what they’re capable of.

  If you could call to reassure me, I would be grateful.

  Con affetto,

  Antonino

  28

  With the photos and film in hand, Serafim stood up from the bench and set off at a good pace down the street, ducking into an alleyway the first chance he got.

  With most of his attention focused behind him, trying to ascertain whether or not he was being followed, he didn’t think of what lay ahead. Two men stood in the alleyway in front of him, shoulder to shoulder, straddling the shallow ruts in the concrete, waiting for him.

  Behind him, Serafim was being followed by four or five men, who were right on his heels and hustling to catch up with him. He turned to face the alleyway, about to break into a run, but stopped in his tracks instead. Boxed in, he braced the rolled-up envelope, as if ready to wield the hollow paper column as a weapon.

  He looked to his left, pocketed the envelope in his jacket, and leapt onto a fire escape ladder, quickly reaching a set of narrow stairs. He could hear the men below him, scampering over the metal in pursuit. Serafim tried every door as he climbed, each one of them locked, losing himself precious seconds. His last hope was that the fire escape would ascend all the way to the roof, where he might access other stairs or hatches to get back down to street level, but as he neared the final landing, he could see nothing that ascended beyond. It was over, and he stopped in front of the last door, an imposing barricade of painted steel and riveted sheet metal clamped tight. He tried the latch with a half-hearted tug, and to his astonishment it opened.

  Serafim had just managed to get on the other side of it, slamming it shut and locking the bolt, when a rush of bodies clanged against it, with pounding fists and muffled curses. Their expletives were in Italian, he noted, backing away from the emergency exit. He continued down a hallway, as people poked their heads out of doors to see what all the commotion was about.

  Descending a few sets of stairs, he found himself outside again, though he didn’t dare risk crossing the street, knowing they would be racing to the front of the building at any moment. Instead, he walked as casually as he could along the storefronts, and just as he heard scuffling behind him, and people shoving through the crowds, he turned into a barber’s shop. As the door closed behind him, the bell above his head tinkled a second time, startling him.

  Serafim asked to sit in the chair farthest from the front window. He was trying hard to slow his breathing. The barber wasn’t really inclined to use that particular chair, he admitted, but Serafim insisted, saying he would pay extra if the gentleman entertained his request.

  “Fine, fine,” the man finally agreed, draping a white cape around Serafim’s body as soon as he sat down, cinching it snug around his neck. “What would you like done, sir?”

  “A shave, please. Moustache and all.”

  “Very well.” The barber clipped his moustache down to the skin then reclined Serafim’s chair and smothered his face in a warm, wet cloth, only his nose protruding from its folds to breathe. It was then that the bells above the door rattled again and someone burst in, looked around, and dashed back out.

  “Someone’s in trouble,” said the barber, removing the towel and straightening the chair, already working his brush into a lather.

  “Well” — Serafim watched his own suspicious eyes in the mirror — “not our problem.”

  “No, sir,” agreed the barber, beginning to daub shaving cream around Serafim’s face. “Not our problem at all.”

  Before Serafim left, he stared out the front window for quite some time, hovering behind the coat stand, listening to the barber and another patron, a regular, as they chatted about each other’s families. When neither of them was looking, Serafim took the envelope out of his dangling jacket, grabbed the other patron’s blazer and hat (a fedora quite unlike his flat cap in shape and colour), put them on, and crossed the street, heading straight for a tram that was just about to set off. He kept his eyes on all the things he was least interested in focusing on, a trick he’d learned from street photography, which, he knew, made a person as invisible as any other bystander around him. He took a circuitous route home, making sure all the while that he wasn’t being followed.

  He arrived to find a disconcerting note from Antonino in his mailbox. He decided, however, not to call him back, sure that if his friend heard how rattled he was, he would ask questions that Serafim would have trouble answering.

  That night, he spent a great deal of time peeking through a slat in his curtains, watching for strange vehicles hesitating near his address. Serafim had already unlocked the back door, having made sure the metal stairs and passageways were all clear and uncluttered, in case he had to make another off-the-cuff getaway. He was waiting to hear from Claire, sure she would phone the moment she finished work, which was when they had initially planned to rendezvous. He was still convinced she was fine, that no one had even thought of following her, since they saw the envelope physically change hands between them. He was doubtful there were enough people to have Claire followed as well.

  As the night drained away, so did his confidence in this assumption. Surely she should have called by now, he thought, checking the time every three minutes. Surely her shift must be over. He busied himself with making certain the envelope was safely sealed with his film, inside the hidden drawer, and that the right amount of household paraphernalia was haphazardly leaning against it, looking neglected and natural. The only corner in his apartment that looked chaotic.

  The phone rang, but when Serafim answered, the person on the other end didn’t say hello, only breathed into the receiver. Finally he hung up, only to have the phone ring a second time, while his hand was still on it. It was Claire. She had called before as well, needing first to make sure that Serafim wasn’t being held at knifepoint, thinking that if he had been caught, they might anticipate Claire’s call and attempt to lure her close enough to nab her as well. Serafim sighed at this reasoning. It had all so quickly, so regrettably unravelled.

  Claire explained that she had stayed for several drinks after her shift, trying to feel out whether or not anyone at the club had already been approached, and wanting to reinforce the few acquaintanceships she had, so that maybe her colleagues would keep their suspicions to themselves if asked. To her surprise, everything seemed to be okay. She increasingly had the feeling that they had both, somehow, managed to give their adversaries the slip. All she could hope was that it would end there.

  They agreed that they shouldn’t see each other for a while, and in the meantime they should just continue in their usual ways, exactly as they had before, as if nothing had happened, and as if they had never even met. For her part, Claire had every intention of heading to work at four the next afternoon, and would stop for the customary small talk with the bartender before continuing to the back to get changed, as she had a hundred times before. “I’m so sorry it turned out this way,” she said before hanging up. “Take good care of yourself. Goodbye.”

  Serafim went to bed late, where he spent hours gazing at the ceiling, thinking of all he’d lost. He found the only image that gave him any consolation was the one he’d invented in a daydream the day he landed in Montreal, the day all his money had been stolen. The image was of him curled in a ball on top of In�
�s, her bare arms embracing him, holding him there, steady. Envisioning this was the only way he managed to fall asleep.

  What Serafim woke to in the middle of the night was complete confusion, a bewilderment so profound that it would only become clear to him in time, and after scrupulous thought, what exactly had happened. He remembered hearing gruff voices just before a loud slamming noise. The bang was instantly followed by (what he would later figure out were) the reverberating coils of his bedsprings. They had overturned his bed, checking to see if he was hiding beneath it. He wasn’t. Instead, Serafim was standing in the dark, in his sleeping clothes, in the middle of his kitchen, holding a kettle of boiling water.

  He looked around, groggy. Through the entranceway of the kitchen, he saw that the lights were on elsewhere in the apartment. He heard the door to his closet-cum-darkroom thrown open, followed by a shout in Italian, inviting others to come and take a look. In a haze, Serafim turned, the kettle still in his hand, tiptoed to the back door, and silently let himself out. He stole down the stairs in his slippers. When he was at the bottom, his kitchen lights flickered on, and he heard the sound of a teacup and saucer being smashed on the floor.

  Serafim was crouched behind a garbage can when the back door was finally flung open, a man standing on the landing, squinting into the dark, looking for movement before turning back into the apartment.

  The men continued their search, overturning furniture, pulling out all the drawers, flinging his clothes over their shoulders, and tossing the prints they found in his darkroom around the sitting room, tiling the hardwood with their glossy pages. He heard the dying squiggles of static reception as the radio was smashed. Then the sound of his Leica, crushed under someone’s heel.

  Feeling the need to get farther away, Serafim retreated into the alley, where he found a large and filthy piece of cloth that someone had thrown away. He wrapped himself and his kettle inside it, and tucked himself between two garbage bins at a spot where he could still see the back door and the men moving around in his house, tossing aside everything that wasn’t bolted down, looking for either clues to where he was or the film and pictures of the councilman.