William Deverell - Snow Job

“I am on bended knees begging you to come, Clara,” Finnerty had said, smiling, avuncular. “This is their big farewell reception. You’re my first minister, they’ll take it as an insult. And what’ll it look like to the press?”

“There won’t be press. This is invitation only.”

“They’ll be outside, counting heads.”

Cabinet solidarity must prevail. It was Lafayette’s show anyway — he would carry the can if this disgusting love-in with these Mongol invaders went haywire. The red carpet he’d unfurled for them was a national humiliation. A colour guard! The governor general dragged from the sickbed to witness the signing of protocols. They’d been wined and dined, a stretch limo provided, a tour guide, interpreters, gifts of Inuit art and sterling silver embossed with maple leaves. Bhashyistan’s gift, a yak from the personal herd of the Ultimate Leader, had also been in the Ilyushin, in the aft cargo area. That delightful interlude, the ceremonial unloading of the shitting yak, had been on all the newscasts. It was trucked off to an animal farm in Chibougamau.

Foreign Affairs had also arranged for an entire wing of suites in the Westin Hotel. Treasury wasn’t paying for these, thank God, or for the several street women who’d ended up there last night, according to RCMP watchers.

Clara cracked open a window and lit a cigarette. Her driver tuttutted, but he was used to it. Ice on the canal, a frozen slick. Bringing to mind Ms. Blake’s well-reported sound bite about oil slicks. And their champion, the slick foreign minister.

So much for Lafayette’s concept of educating these characters in the benefits of democracy. Only four showed up for the tour of Parliament yesterday. They’d sat in the Speaker’s Gallery for forty minutes, bored to numbness, then went shopping at the Rideau Centre. The Ilyushin was later observed being loaded with barbecues, dishwashers, and home theatres.

At least the sovereign state of Canada had not demeaned itself by apologizing for permitting twelve of its peons to acquit the alleged assassin of the Great Father, Boris Mukhamed Ivanovich. His son, Mad Igor, had named a planet after him. Mars was now known, in Bhashyistan, as Boris. Venus had been named after Boris’s second wife, Igor’s Revered Mother. It was now called Nanotchka.

A ceremony honouring the Great Father seemed to satisfy the Bhashies: expressions of deep regret, the laying of a wreath at the National War Memorial, another honour guard. Shameless. A huge demonstration outside the Centre Block today by a coalition of green NGOs abetted by the usual peaceniks and Amnesty Internationalists. One of nine such rallies across the country, a sizable crowd even in Calgary, outside the Alta International Tower.

This government was in peril. The thought of jumping ship, returning to academia, continued to tempt Clara, but would be painful, a rebellion against five generations of party faithful. Her great-great-grandfather had served under Sir John A.

Clara summoned strength as they arrived at 99 Bush Street. The fifteenth-floor Rideau Club was a venerable institution restored from premises devoured by fire some decades ago. A lavish affair was promised, allegedly bankrolled by the Friends of Bhashyistan, an organization previously unheard of, likely slapped together for the occasion. Presumably Canada had some friends of Bhashyistan, even immigrants from there, but Clara had never met one.

There weren’t many on the Hill who doubted this was Alta International’s treat.

Somehow, Gerard Lafayette hadn’t expected the Bhashies to have a minister of culture, but here he was, in the Rideau Club’s dining salon, raising a glass. “To Canada, like patriotic song saying, glorious and free.” A throaty voice from a barrel chest. This was the tenth toast of the evening; these eight beefy, genial visitors were taking turns, some twice. Most had a smattering of English, with strong Russian accents.

Prominent among them was the minister of police, Mad Igor’s brother-in-law, a boisterous fellow with flashing gold teeth. Of possibly higher rank was the Ultimate Leader’s nephew, a big, shambling ruffian without a word of English, already half pickled, a clump of caviar in his beard. The defence minister, General Buhkyov, who’d been like a leech on Lafayette, was in a uniform dripping with medals and braid.

“Oh, say can you see, we stand on guard for north strong and free,” the culture minister intoned from his trove of memorized anthems. “Is still part of British Empire, no?”

“Is no longer called Empire, is Commonwealth,” said the education minister. “But is still great contry.”

Standing corrected, the culture minister carried on: “Is good news that Canada break free from British rule — like Bhashyistan, free of Kremlin. We are brothers, together we sharing national dream. To freedom!”

He slugged back his vodka and gave the prime minister a hearty bear hug — there’d been an incalculable number of these. Lafayette had got his share over the last two days, and was staying on the move so as not to get trapped. Finnerty, though, was keeping up with the Bhashies, drink for drink. The old Fundy fisher was showing them what Canucks are made of — he’d still be standing when they were all on the floor.

Next up, the Bhashyistan defence minister. “But Canada still honours English queen. Is figurehead, nice lady, like grandmother. To royal queen, God willing forever may she reign.”

Lafayette had begun to wilt under the pressure of their interminable toasts, presumably a national art form. To glorious new friends and brothers of great democratic republic of Canada. To all people of Canada, including French and Indians. To national tree with red leaf.

They’d been bundled off to see the sights of Montreal that day, so were spared the sight of the demonstrators outside Parliament with their placards. “What’s Alta Paying You?” “Send the Bhums Bhack to Bhashyistan.” “No Deal with Fascistan.” Every tree-hugger and anarchist in the Capital Region had turned out.

Here was Clara Gracey, the minority of one, conscripted into service. Elegant in a long dress of low cut, more than a hint of bodice, denying her years with foundation and blush. One would think, given her aspirations, she would show more solidarity with this Bhashyistan initiative, get on board, try to place herself for the next race, after the stopgap P.M. founders.

The Bhashie minister of penal corrections did the closing piece, a recitation of a few stanzas of “The Cremation of Sam McGee,” first in English — the queerest thing Lafayette ever did see — then in the consonant-laden Turkic tongue of the republic, a variant officially known as Igor. Lafayette took Finnerty’s cold glare as a signal: you, Lafayette, you have brought this on, you will reply.

He vaulted up to a small stage, comfortably above everyone, then reached down and, with modest panache, cleanly plucked a Chablis from a passing tray.

He thanked the visiting dignitaries — he dared call them that — for their offer of an exchange visit, and claimed to be champing at the bit to sample the renowned hospitality of their country. Otherwise, he kept to generalizations: good health, prosperous future relations, may we absorb each other’s culture and gain from that. When it seemed he had little else to say, some Bhashies looked distressed, so he threw in something vaguely laudatory about the Ultimate Leader.

General Buhkyov was approaching the stage, voracious grin, arms splayed. He’d been lobbying to place his sons in college here; Lafayette was expected to put in the fix. Dismounting from the platform, he slipped behind an alcove, pretending he had an important phone call. Buhkyov veered away toward the bar. Others of his troupe had headed off to the billiards room.