Nikolski (26 page)

“Shit …”

“My thoughts exactly. So the point is, I have a favour to ask of you. I’d like you to go spend Christmas in Montreal with Simón, until things settle down.”

“No problem. When do we leave?”

“Around four a.m.”

“Four a.m.?! Are you kidding me?”

“Not at all. I’ve already bought your tickets.”

“But …”

“And, here, I’ve prepared this for you, too.”

She hands him a Venezuelan passport and a small white envelope. The passport opens to a colour photograph of Simón. The boy is beaming, as if he were going to hunt for treasure at the beach, not confront the dreaded customs officers of North America.

Noah opens the envelope with some trepidation. What unfolds in his fingers is an official letter, written in three languages, in which Arizna Burgos Mendez, being sound in body and mind, designates Noah Riel as the biological father and legal guardian of Simón
Burgos, in witness whereof she signs hereunder at La Asunción (Nueva Esparta), Venezuela, on this 16th of December, 1999.

“I think,” she explains, in an almost neutral tone of voice, “this will be enough to get you through customs.”

All that can be heard in the library is the muffled patter of the rain against the windows. Noah nods his head. He is obviously dazed, but his face is lit up by a faint smile. Incredulous, he rereads the letter, folds it carefully and slips it back in the envelope. He says nothing—there is nothing to say. The silence lingers. Arizna wears a frown as she looks for some memorable phrase to close this chapter of her life.

“Go get your bags ready,” she finally says. “I’ll take care of Simón’s.”

She gets up and, with a little wave, fades into the shadows. Noah finds himself alone, holding Simón’s passport. He smiles as he contemplates the photo. Then he leaps up from his chair, scoops up everything on the table—envelopes, stamps, Saskatchewan road maps—and sends the whole lot flying into the wastepaper basket in an avalanche of dust and paper.

He rubs his hands together, turns off the lamp and goes to pack.

SOMEONE IS KNOCKING AT THE DOOR.

No answer. There’s no sign of life in the apartment, except for the faint hum emanating from a black, rotary-dial telephone which, apparently, has been off the hook for a number of minutes. The old-fashioned instrument, splattered with countless flecks of white paint, seems to have been cut out of a starry sky. Five large white spots on the receiver reproduce the Little Dipper.

The telephone is poised on a stack of computer programming handbooks, next to an empty bottle of rum and an old clock showing 6:37 a.m. Pinned on the wall are two yellowed news clippings about the arrest and trial of a woman accused of piracy in the United States in 1989.

The desk is in a mind-boggling state of chaos. To all appearances, the drawers have been emptied and a number of objects gathered up during a hasty departure. An informed and thorough analysis of the scene would point to the absence of a notebook, a set of CD-ROMs,
a Spanish dictionary, an extensive supply of counterfeit cards and an old blue sailor’s duffel bag.

Ruling over the disorder, in the middle of the room, sits a cathode ray monitor and a computer on which the name Louis-Olivier Gamache has been inscribed with a black felt pen. The computer is running (one can hear the unobtrusive purr of its cooling fan), and the messages on the screen indicate that the hard disk has just been erased and reformatted.

The condition of the rest of the room is much the same.

Strewn over the floor are a bowl containing remnants of crab-fried rice (topped with a pair of lacquered chopsticks), a pot redolent of codfish soup spiced with cumin, a tin of sardines emptied of its passengers, and a depleted bag of shrimp chips. The culinary trail leads to the sink, which is surrounded by an even greater jumble of dirty dishes. A kettle, a jar of tea bags and a teapot have been left high and dry on the stove.

At the southern end of the room, a sash window leads out to the fire escape. The window is wide open, despite the bad weather outside. The curtains wave gently and, on the floor, a puddle of melted snow is slowly spreading.

On the other side of the door someone is still knocking.

THE NOISE OF A DIESEL ENGINE
wakes me at seven in the morning.

I open an eye. I’m still stretched out on the living-room floor, with my head between the teapot and the bottle of cheap Jamaican rum. I have a Bukowski-style headache and an unpleasant impression of déjà vu.

I stumble over to the window and hang on to the bamboo curtain. Outside, the rain has stopped, and a fine snow is falling silently on the statue of Dante Alighieri, while a municipal snowplough rolls by, showering the street with salt and sparks.

Yawning, I reflect on where all that salt might very well come from. Probably from the Magdalen Islands. The salt cycle provides an outstanding illustration of the vanity of existence. Patiently deposited by the sea over millions of years, blasted out with dynamite, milled into grains, shipped out in cargo ships, loaded into the snowplough, spread throughout Montreal’s arterial system, then finally washed
down the sewers in the direction of the ocean whence it came.

How small we are.

The snowplough disappears at the corner of the street and I step away from the window. The living room is in the same condition it was in last night: the map of Alaska is still unfurled on the floor, held down by the teapot and the empty bottle of rum. The old Three-Headed Book is still lying there on the coffee table, along with a couple of grimy glasses and a split-open compass.

Nothing has budged, but the old sailor’s duffel is gone, the yellow raincoat is gone, Joyce has shoved off.

Picking up the rum bottle, I shiver as I estimate the amount of alcohol that was polished off last night. I can feel my liver withering. Am I growing old? The fact is, I’m hardly in the habit of imbibing so unreservedly. I decide to go dissolve all of it in the shower.

Walking toward the bathroom, I instinctively sweep my eyes across the bookshelf, and do a double take. An unusual gap has opened up among the travel guides. My book thief has been at it again! I quickly identify the missing volume as the
Rough Guide to the Dominican Republic.

Perplexed, I contemplate the gap as one might consider the missing piece of a puzzle. Those few centimetres of void sum up all I know about my book thief, which is next to nothing.

I’m still mulling over this meagre clue when I discover in the bathroom an old sweater and a still-damp pair of jeans. Joyce absconded without even taking the time to retrieve her clothes. An exit straight out of a cheap detective novel! Well, she certainly did not skimp on surprises. Searching through the jeans I discover:

• a few coins (total, 61 cents);
  

• the business card of the S.W. Gam Bookshop on the back of which I scribbled my address;
  

• a crumpled cash register receipt (“hamsan—1—$3.75”);
  

• a Hydro-Québec bill addressed to Ms. Joyce Doucette, residing on Mozart Street.
  

I look at my watch. Two hours left before the bookstore is scheduled to open. I dress hurriedly, throw Joyce’s clothing into an old plastic bag and jump into my winter boots.

I charge down the stairs four at a time, cross Dante Park without even saying hello to the old writer, shoot like a bullet past my favourite Italian café, just barely avoid running into the snowplough, and scamper up Casgrain Street with the plastic bag tucked under my arm like a rugby ball.

At the corner of Mozart and Casgrain, I stop for a moment to catch my breath.

The snow has transformed this otherwise familiar intersection into a ghost-town setting. A few cars go by with a muffled hissing sound. Hardly anyone around, and the shops have not yet opened. A woman presses her nose against the closed door of the Italian grocery. After a moment’s hesitation, she crosses the street, walks past the red neon salmon of Poissonnerie Shanahan and scurries toward Jean-Talon market.

I tighten my scarf and scan the street addresses around me. I soon find Joyce’s building and, parked directly in front of it, two RCMP cruisers.

I make an effort to calmly take stock of the situation. Presently, I manage to identify four vehicles: two standard patrol cars, an unmarked beige Malibu (given away by its VHF antenna) and a white van, not to mention a minivan from the
Journal de Montréal.
But not a policeman in sight.

Keep cool—it’s possible there’s no connection between Joyce’s hasty departure and these police cars.

I walk up to the door hoping to discover the signs of some domestic drama—scarlet stains, suspicious smoke—but all I can see are the decorative lights loosely draped around an artificial Christmas wreath. In a corner of the hallway, a plastic Santa Claus blinks feebly and seems to be mocking the entire universe.

I check the Hydro-Québec bill one more time. There’s no mistake—this is indeed where Joyce lives,
apartment 34. I take a deep breath, push the glass door open and start up the stairway.

On the third floor, a reporter is half-heartedly questioning a stubbly-faced man—the janitor, judging from the heavy set of keys attached to his belt—while his photographer, cigarette butt wedged between his lips, takes some rapid-fire shots of the premises. I skirt around the little group (the janitor gives me an odd look) and continue down the corridor. The policeman on duty blocks my way in front of apartment 32.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks sharply.

“To see a friend.”

“Which apartment?”

“Number 35.”

I say the number without thinking. A shiver travels up my spine. What if all these officers were here precisely to pay a visit to the occupant of apartment 35? My careless bluff might be the end of me. Luckily I’ve picked the right number, and the policeman deigns to stand aside, but not without taking a good look at my face.

The door to apartment 34 is ajar. As I walk by, I glimpse several officers busying themselves amid a bewildering mishmash: filthy dishes, electronic equipment, clothing, books, computers, CD-ROMs, shredded paper. Sitting at the desk, a technician is attempting to reboot the computer, while two
underlings wearing white gloves pack the contents of the apartment into cardboard boxes.

Joyce is clearly not at home.

So I am no further ahead. Now, how am I going to get out of here?

I go to knock on the door of apartment 35, trying to come up with a story before the tenant opens the door. Nothing comes to mind. As I stand there waiting, the policeman watches me suspiciously. His gaze is fixed on my plastic bag as if it held, not Joyce’s damp clothing, but a homemade nail bomb. I put on an innocent face, examining first the door (various bruises), then the ceiling (water stains) and the floor (unidentified brownish rings). After a time it becomes apparent that apartment 35 is providentially unoccupied.

There is a god for bluffers!

I backtrack under the wary eye of the policeman, and go back down the stairs gingerly and with bated breath. My heart rate returns to normal only once I am on the street again. I linger for a moment in front of the building, pressing the bundle of Joyce’s clothes under my arm.

The snowplough comes back the other way, spitting salt across the road.