Authors: Gabriel Boutros
He knew that she had other lovers; clients, actually, just like him. On more than one occasion she’d kept him waiting in the hallway until another man slunk by, wearing an air-mask to maintain anonymity. But he could ignore all that when he was with her, when he could pretend she belonged to no other man in the world.
So Janus became an even better liar than when he’d accompanied Leblanc to the dog-fights. He could have breakfast with his family while remembering the taste of Sahar on his tongue. He could make love to Terry and silently compare her fleshy arms and hips to Sahar’s thin frame.
When Terry looked into his eyes, did she suspect that he was seeing someone else lying under him? His eyes, it turned out, were not mirrors to his soul, but weapons of deception.
Janus ran his hands across his face. He’d become a full-time liar from the day he’d first bribed a young guard on the bridge to Laval.
But he had no choice other than to continue, finding his happiness once a week for an hour or two in Sahar’s bed. He couldn’t leave her, and he knew he could never have more of her. If he’d ever had any romantic notions about taking her away from her sordid life and setting up a happy household, she’d quickly disabused him of that fantasy. She was matter of fact about who she was and what she did. There was nothing romantic about how she saw her life.
Janus would have to continue to lie, to sneak into Laval each week, and to wear a mask with Terry and his children. And he was perfectly happy to go on like that, as long as nobody interfered.
August 10, 2039
Janus had found no way to avoid their little getaway. Terry made it clear that not only would it hurt and insult her uncle, who was being “so incredibly kind and generous”, but it would mean that her husband couldn’t spend two nights alone with her. How was Janus supposed to explain that it was her uncle’s very kindness which made going on this trip so painful? And that it wasn’t the two nights with her that he minded so much as the one night spent away from Sahar.
They’d driven up that afternoon, taking the same Highway 15 he’d become so familiar with, bypassing the exit to Laval he took every Thursday night, and reaching
Ste. Agathe
in an hour. The decor of their hotel was ostentatious to the point of bad taste, what with its marble floors and gold-plated faucets. Janus supposed that this was what passed for elegance nowadays. The hotel had been built in the early twenties for those who could afford it, as a getaway from the urban centers that were growing more crowded and dirty by the day.
If the air up here was not as clean as it once was, at least they could get by without air-masks. And there may have been no fishing or swimming in the lake, but there was filtered water in a spacious pool that was covered by a glass canopy. The view from their room would have been stunning if more trees on the mountain had been alive. What nature had lost man had attempted to replace with gold, marble and stained glass. The hotel looked as out of place on the lake-shore as Janus felt.
While Terry browsed the hotel’s boutiques, he sat in the bathroom of their suite. At home that morning he’d slid his note palette into his suitcase, and now he held it on his lap, looking at the words he’d just written. Once or twice he’d considered toning his words down, but they’d spilled out like a torrent that he couldn’t control
“What does it take to truly hate someone? To despise them to the point that you wish them nothing but pain and even death? Would you hate someone with all your heart for killing your children? Would you hate the man who raped your wife? Or maybe just caused your financial ruin, putting you and your family out onto the streets? The answer to all of these is easy. It would be natural and expected of you to hate such people. Society would support and even applaud your wish to see them suffer; your friends and neighbours would hate them right alongside you.
“But there is another hatred which is just as profoundly felt in your heart, just as real in the way it encompasses your every waking moment, but that is somehow more difficult to explain. It is the hatred of that one true and good person you know, that man who does nothing but good for you, who wishes you nothing but health and happiness and often actively acts to procure it for you. Sometimes to his own detriment.
“To hate such a man is a very particular, and a very special, thing. It allows you to build on your own self-hatred over being such an ungrateful brute and to combine these feelings, to mix them until they become part of each other, each sentiment feeding upon the other, growing exponentially.
“To desire to bring evil down upon one who desires nothing but good for you can become an obsession that drives you day and night. And I have not slept on many nights, because his every action and word seem to exist purely to torment me. But why should I not sleep? I never asked for his kindness. I have never needed his presence in my life (Okay. So I can lie to myself. I know I may not be alive today without his help, but because of this help I can’t even live with myself anymore. Or is it more accurate to say that I can’t live with him anymore?)
“Who can I explain this to? Who will listen without judging me as the lowest of the low? I don’t need anyone else’s judgement; I have my own, thank you. But someone who understands this ridiculous, inexplicable hell that I’m going through, that’s who I need most. If you are out there, perhaps, one day, you will share your understanding with me.”
Just then he heard the suite’s door open and Terry’s high-pitched “Yoo-hoo, I’m back.” He wiped at his eyes and took a deep breath, then pressed the “Delete All” tab and got up, pulling up his pants. He flushed the toilet and washed his hands so that Terry wouldn’t wonder what he’d been doing. If she ever asked, he would tell her that he was relieving himself, without specifying of what.
He stepped out of the bathroom with the palette behind his back, and slipped it discreetly into his suitcase. He took out some of the casual wear that Terry had packed and started to get dressed while she excitedly emptied a shopping bag on the bed. He tried to take an interest in what she’d bought, knowing that he could enjoy his time with her if he just let himself. They would eat what was certain to be a sumptuous meal in the hotel restaurant, have drinks in the bar beside the huge fireplace, then come back to their room where they could make love with as much reckless abandon as they wanted with, no children around to dampen their enthusiasm.
In the privacy of the bathroom he’d written down what he wanted to say but could never speak aloud, at least until he saw Sahar again. If he felt the need to vent he could always write more later. But he would try not to hurt Terry. She had a right to enjoy this short trip, and he would do his best to make sure she did.
As long as they were together he would pay attention to her and her needs. As for Uncle Joe, Janus would forget about him until they got home on Friday. After that he knew he knew Joe would be back on his mind.
August 15, 2039:
Like most people he knew, Janus had no particular fondness for his job. Far from it. But his position carried with it a certain amount of prestige and creature comforts, even if the title on his cubicle door was banal: Head of Electrical Infrastructure.
Head traffic light repairman,
he thought.
He knew he was a pencil-pusher of the highest order, but as an administration director his salary was better than most and he could send his children to private schools, as well as pay the outsized mortgage on his house.
He suspected that most of the metro-bus riders he was cramped with each day lived in the small cubes that passed for apartments in this over-crowded city. Once upon a time the Island of Montreal was full of green spaces and large suburban tracts. That was before the Quebec City refugees came here.
For the first few months after the nuclear attack the tens of thousands who streamed across the island’s bridges had been housed in heated tents in nature parks and on undeveloped land, while housing was built as fast as construction contracts could be handed out. The city had looked like a third world nation after a natural disaster, and the cheap, pre-fabricated apartment buildings that went up had added nothing in terms of style.
A small ping let Janus know that his P-screen had finally gotten him online. The screen, lying flat atop his desk, showed there were twenty-eight new e-messages for him, although he presumed that many were erectile dysfunction ads. Once upon a time the Department budget allowed for proper firewalls, but that was in a distant past. He scrolled through the messages slowly, deleting the ads, reading the few that had any relevance to his work.
Once that was done he checked the timer on his com and heard that it was ten-twenty. Much too early for a caffeine break. It was an unusually slow night for electrical failures in the city, and all the work teams were on schedule.
A morning without any emergencies to deal with. Should mark this day on the calendar
.
He punched in the morning news and waited for the screen to change, unconsciously drumming his fingers as the seconds passed. Until the rush hour updates came in he would take a few minutes to catch up with world events, something he could rarely do in peace at home.
Eventually the news link was joined, highlighting a report on another technological advance that was supposed to minimize the environmental damage caused by fracking for oil. Janus touched the tab headed “International Headlines.” After a brief moment the day’s international news was displayed on the screen. Stories about the latest Afghanistan offensive were squeezed between ads for tooth whitener and the national lottery.
He read about a number of over-seas success stories. Several European countries were on an economic upswing despite the fact that North American markets had never recovered from their last collapse. On the other hand most of the world’s economies achieved success at the cost of the air that people breathed and the water they drank.
He scrolled further with his index finger. He had to navigate past various service ads, administration announcements, new and improved detergent: it was a wonder there was any room for the actual news.
Under a story about negotiations for water shipments to the Indo-Chinese Economic Union his eye fell on some bright red writing. It was a notice put out by the Canadian Intelligence Agency. He’d seen the boldly-coloured headlines before, but had never paid attention to the contents.
They were asking the public’s help in catching black-marketers, described as a scourge on civilized society. “Anonymity was guaranteed,” the notice said.
For a few seconds Janus stared blankly at the screen, his mind barely latching onto the meaning of the words. Then, as if waking from a nap, he blinked rapidly and read the notice again. The administration was asking people to inform on each other, to turn in friends and neighbours.
Or in-laws
.
Like Uncle Joe, who couldn’t help but spoil his extended family, especially Janus’s kids. Joe, who didn’t believe there was any nutritional benefit at all to be had from the Simili-meat sold at the administration’s grocery stores, no matter how much extra vitamin D they injected into it. Neither nutrition, nor taste for that matter, and Joe insisted that much of the so-called food sold at these stores actually contributed to the constant stomach-cramps and indigestion that people suffered.
Which is why Joe went to his friend in Little Italy, some guy operating an unregulated butcher shop, to buy fresh lamb and beef without paying the exorbitant tariffs imposed by the administration for the welfare of all. Terry gave her uncle the money for her weekly grocery shopping and Joe would manage to stretch it while still buying a few choice cuts of meat or imported vegetables; just enough to feed Janus’s family the occasional decent meal.
At first Janus had objected to the idea that a family member of an administration director would do any of his shopping underground. What if he were caught? How embarrassing would that have been?
But Terry had persuaded him to relent. Actually, it was Joe’s roast leg of lamb that had persuaded Janus. A taste that he barely remembered from his own childhood. A taste his own children never would have experienced if it weren’t for Joe’s little vice.
Janus was aware that buying and selling on the black market, everything from fresh food to banned CDs, was a pervasive trend. Most people did it without a second thought, whether it was to avoid excessive taxes, or to access a better quality of goods. It was precisely this pervasiveness that the ad warned about. Since everybody was doing it, then everybody knew someone they could inform on. Anonymously, as it said, and for a modest financial reward.
Janus wondered what would happen if someone were to inform on Joe. He thought of Joe’s humiliation at having his picture splashed across neighbourhood watch-boards. Plus Joe wasn’t even a citizen.
He assured himself that it probably wouldn’t be anything permanent. It was, after-all, just some food bought on the black market. He told himself that it might not even get Joe out of the house, but it would hurt him. Joe would no longer be able to visit his buddy, Tony the butcher, assuming that this Tony wasn’t shut down altogether. Of course, Janus realized, this would mean much less of Joe’s delicious meals. Was that too high a price for teaching Joe a little lesson in humility?
Janus’s thoughts went back to Joe’s non-citizen status. He repeated to himself that it was unlikely Joe would get deported over this, and that wasn’t what he really wanted. But he allowed himself this little fantasy for a while. He imagined that getting rid of Joe would help set his world right, and reestablish Janus as the man of his own house.