River City (117 page)
There he sat in his living room, on the sofa, then on the floor, where he thought about things. He pondered the future and dwelled upon the past. He had rationalized losing Anik when that sad moment had occurred, and had poured himself into work and the dark case of her father’s murder. Which had meant pouring himself into the history of the Cartier Dagger and of his adopted city. In a way, solving it all had been meant to prove his love for Anik. To show her his love. Having done so, he found himself alone anyway. His heart had been broken once, but he administered the antidote—work, obsession, forging on. Now he could wholly feel the loss, and he grieved for a love that might have been, that in the overall scheme of things could never be revived.
Dawn would find him on the floor, slumped, doubled up, asleep. Rousing himself at first light, he stumbled through to his bed and peeled back the covers. He curled up in bed, clothes and all. He didn’t possess the energy to undress, as though a great weariness had overtaken him and needed to be served through a long sleep. His eyes snapped open once. He wondered if he was wearing his uniform. Then, remembering that this was supposed to be his day off until nightfall came around again, he managed to work his trousers off, then his shirt. Then he resorted to a substantial rest.
E
ACH HAD A SHOVEL. THE LIGHT OF A HALF-MOON GLOWED UPON
the few remaining patches of snow and the shelf of tombstones. Black, grey and white marble emerged from a winter hibernation to breathe cool mountain air again. In its devotion to all seasons, the earth had sufficiently thawed to admit their trespass, yet the pair of women were vigilant not to disturb the ground in any grievous way, or to awaken ghosts who might prowl that realm.
Slurping noises accompanied their travail, as the mucky clay was lifted from the hole their diligence had created.
Anik Clément bent down and with a stick measured the depth.
“One more,” her mother said.
“One or two,” the daughter agreed.
Anik’s terrier, Ranger, examining the cavity, seemed to approve. Anik pulled him away.
Carole Clément wedged her shovel down their neat, square hole to pry free a section of mud. Scraping it up the side walls to the surface, she deposited the clump upon their small pile.
“There,” she said.
Anik tested the depth again.
“That does it,” she said.
She rose to her feet again.
Her eyes scanned the vast sky.
“It’ll rain,” she said, “right?”
“The forecast says so. I can feel a change in the air.”
Upon the ridge where they stood, they could see across the city to the west and north. Moonlight illuminated the distant Laurentian hills, with a scud of clouds brightening and darkening as they sailed the higher winds directly above.
“Now’s the time,” Carole said quietly.
Beyond their small pile of muck, Anik’s backpack lay waiting. She unzipped the inner pocket, having to shove Ranger’s nose out of her way several times, and extracted the protective box for the Cartier Dagger. She placed it on the ground. Crouching over it, she opened the case and gently removed the relic. Still bent low to the ground, she kissed the handle lightly, then stood up.
She passed the knife to her mother, who kissed the handle also.
Anik held the handle to her lips again, then the blade to her cheek, then moved over the hole dug thirty-six inches deep into the soil above her father’s grave.
“Do I say something first or after?” she asked her mom. Carole Clément’s lips were trembling, her eyes moistened in the light of the moon.
“Now,” she managed to suggest. As if to confirm that choice, Ranger sat squarely on his haunches, waiting to hear what words might be spoken.
Anik had to catch her breath first. Her lips quavered. Her small frame began to shake. Carole stepped across to stand more closely beside her, slipping an arm around her waist. Sudden stray tears from both women slid from their cheeks to drip upon the wet earth.
“Daddy,” the young woman said to the air, to the ground. “We got the knife back for you. You can look after it from now on. You deserve to have it with you.”
Anik held the dagger, and Carole covered her daughter’s hands with her own, then spoke the words she had spent days preparing. “We’re burying the knife in the soil of this place we call Quebec, of this city, once known as Hochelaga, once known as Fort Perilous, once known as Ville-Marie, now called Montreal, to help make this a good ground, a sacred earth, for everyone
who lives here, for everyone who arrives, in our time, and for all time. We entrust it to your care, Roger, my love.” She paused to wipe away her tears. Then, more quietly, as though only between herself and her dead husband, she said, “You were my war hero, Roger. You are my love.”
Anik squeezed her mom’s fingers, to let her know she heard her words. “Daddy, in a time of war, you went to prison for love. That makes you my war hero, too.”
Kneeling, Carole added, “You deserve the Cartier Dagger as much as anyone.”
At the time of her father’s funeral, Anik was too young to fully comprehend the loss. In her own way, then, this became her solemn commemoration of his life, and of her love for him.
“Hold Ranger,” she said, and her mother did, hugging him in her arms. Bending low, Anik introduced the knife into the cavity, planting it upright there, in the soil of the mountain on the river city. She shoved the blade down to the hilt. Then she stood again, gazing upon it.
Composure, briefly surrendered, returned. Anik stepped over to the case, and from it retrieved the broken tip, which she showed to her mother. “I’m keeping this,” she said. “As if it’s my daddy’s heart.”
Her good friend, Émile, had asked her out again. She had to tell him that what was done was done. He understood, although they were both saddened. He gave Anik the tip of the knife then, without her asking, and without saying a further word.
She placed it now in her jacket pocket, which she zipped closed.
Mother and daughter hugged each other. They held on tight.
Then they attended to their noses, and eyes, and laughed a little.
Anik and Carole began to backfill the cavity, easing the earth around the knife until it was completely covered. Anik tamped the ground around where the knife stood, then backfilled the rest of the soil. Carefully, they returned the square patch of grass they’d removed to its original location, and did their best to eliminate any evidence of their trespass there.
“It’ll rain by morning,” Carole assured her daughter. “That’ll wash away our footprints, and the bits of dirt.”
“I’ll come back once the sun’s out again. Pay a proper visit. Bring a bouquet and some grass seed. Just to make sure everything’s tidy.” “Good. It’ll be all right, sweetie.” “It will. Daddy’s watching, you know.” She knew.
The mother waited for her daughter to come away first. This was the young woman’s time. Her moment, when a murmur nurtured in the heart flew above this sacred soil, across time and sky, forward and back, imbuing the earth and the history of the world with her regard, her terrible trepidation, her immense love. She remained still, and finally her mother tugged her arm, gently whispering her name. They gathered up the empty case, the backpack and their tools, and haltingly made their way down the mountainside in the ambient dark, led by an aging, still spry terrier. They did not take a route common to pedestrians, but chose a difficult path scouted on previous trips. They moved through the trees and over boulders.
They did not wish to be seen.
Two women with shovels and a dog. Departing a cemetery in the dark. On a mount called Royal. They drove down the mountainside into the thrum of their city on the frozen river, although the ice was breaking up now, and the water flowed freely once again.
This book is set in Minion, the first version of which was designed for Adobe Systems in 1989 by Robert Slimbach. The name comes from the traditional naming system for type sizes, in which
minion
is between
nonpareil
and
brevier.
Inspired by the classical, old-style typefaces of the late Renaissance, Minion is also, in a typographical sense, quite economical to set, offering a few more characters per line than most other faces without appearing crowded or compressed—a useful attribute in a text as lengthy as
River City.
Novels that draw a substantial portion of their narrative from history cull their information from many sources, while permitting fact and fiction to commingle. Stories recounted by Captain (retired) Jacques Cinq-Mars, the former captain of the Night Patrol with the Montreal Police Department, were crucial and inspiring to this writer. I hope that the accounts were put to good use here. I am greatly indebted also to a broad range of published material. Listed alphabetically by author and indicating publication dates for the editions at my disposal, I especially credit:
Duplessis,
by Conrad Black, published by McClelland & Stewart, 1977;
Montreal: The Days That Are No More,
by Edgar A. Collard, published by Doubleday Canada, 1976;
Storied Streets: Montreal in the Literary Imagination,
by Bryan Demchinsky and Elaine Kalman Naves, published by McFarlane, Walter & Ross, 2000;
The Revolution Script,
by Brian Moore, published by Holt, Rinehart and Winston, 1971;
Montreal: From Mission Colony to World City,
by Leslie Roberts, published by Macmillan of Canada, 1969;
Memoirs,
by Pierre Elliott Trudeau, published by McClelland & Stewart, 1993;
City Unique: Montreal Days and Nights in the 1940s and ‘50s,
by William Weintraub, published by McClelland & Stewart, 1996. Of assistance were websites operated by the government of Canada on early French-Canadian history. To editors and readers Shea Lowry, Anne McDermid, Lina Roessler, Andrew Hood, Lloyd Davis and Iris Tupholme, great thanks.
J
OHN
F
ARROW
is the pen name of Trevor Ferguson, who has written nine novels and four plays and has been named as Canada’s best novelist in both Books in Canada and the Toronto Star. Under the name John Farrow, he has written two other novels featuring émile Cinq-Mars, City of Ice and Ice Lake. Both are highly acclaimed and popular around the world. He was raised in Montreal and lives in Hudson, Quebec
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NOVELS (AS JOHN FARROW)
Ice Lake
City of Ice
NOVELS (AS TREVOR FERGUSON)
The Timekeeper
The Fire Line
The True Life Adventures of Sparrow Drinkwater
The Kinkajou
Onyx John
High Water Chants
PLAYS
Zarathustra Said Some Things, No?
Barnacle Wood
Beach House, Burnt Sienna
Long, Long, Short, Long
FILM
The Timekeeper
River City
Copyright ©
2011
by John Farrow Mysteries, Inc.
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EPub Edition © JUNE 2011 ISBN: 978-1-443-40832-5
Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
FIRST EDITION
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication information Farrow, John, 1947-River city : a novel / John Farrow.
ISBN 978-0-00-200580-7
I. Title.
PS8561.A785R58 2011 C813’.54 C2011-900482-8
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