William Deverell - Snow Job

At the door, flashing her invitation, an unexpected presence — the media sweetheart, Margaret Blake. All the socialists in the House, among whom Lafayette counted half the Liberals, had boycotted this event, so it was doubly surprising to see her here. Especially given that her office had been the operations centre for a ten-city multiplex of demonstrations.

Just a touch of makeup for this handsome woman, a natural tan, piercing grey eyes, spindle-waisted, best pair of legs in the House, and a constant, annoying burr in Lafayette’s side. A goat-keeping agronomist from a West Coast backwater, slow to learn the rules, the decorum, the way things are done. An idealist. They never lasted long here.

Still, she seemed to be enjoying her blip in political history. It might be amusing to relate to her. She was chatting with some of his ministry staff, who, after he joined their circle, politely dispersed. The leader of le Parti Vert seemed a little stiff in his presence, so he sought an opening that might relax her.

“I don’t know whether I should feel complimented that you have targeted me, Ms. Blake, but I am bandaged head to toe from the wounds of your unerring darts.”

This elegant paean didn’t even buy him a smile, just a cool, silvery stare. But of course she must pretend to be unflattered by the attentions of Gerard Laurier Lafayette. “Nothing personal, Minister.”

“Where is your husband, the eminent barrister?” A.R. Beauchamp, former leading counsel, now an artefact. His biography was being written, invariably an indication one’s career is over.

“He was afraid he’d find himself gushing in the radiant company of your guests. He’s such an admirer of megalomaniac dictators. I hear Mad Igor has even named a slave labour camp after himself.”

“All of which begs the question of why you are here.” He was miffed, he’d expected deference.

“To keep an eye on you guys. I’m counting the bear hugs.”

“If you’d like one, I’m sure that can be arranged.”

The acerbic tone didn’t deter her. “I heard the cabinet was divided over this.”

He flicked a look at Gracey. “We stand as one. It is trade, madam, free trade, the opening up of barriers, that brings a struggling nation out of darkness.”

“And makes a bundle for Alta International.”

“Canadian businesses ought to be permitted to compete in the international market. If exchanging ambassadors opens the door for opportunities, why should they not take advantage?”

He could see from her startled eyes that his nimble rejoinder had struck home. But then he saw that those eyes were fixed on General Buhkyov, advancing like the Light Brigade. “Tovarich!”

She slipped away just before he swooped.

This lusty assault occurred as Huck Finnerty was strolling by to confer with the attorney general. He paused to watch, with relish, as Lafayette got his ribs squeezed and back slapped with meat-tenderizing blows.

“It must be love.” A woman’s voice, behind him. Turning, he brushed her shoulder, nearly causing him to spill his rye and soda. Margaret Blake, the Green sharpshooter, who had also been watching this wrestling event. No damage done, but Finnerty apologized profusely.

“There are strange things done in the midnight sun,” she said.

He laughed. He liked this plucky woman, despite knowing that if she had her way the family trawling business would be kaput. He wanted to linger with her, enjoy a conspiratorial chuckle at Lafayette’s plight — backed against a table, with a stiff, gaping grin — but he’d had a skinful, he had to get out of here.

He was planning an escape route when Guy DuWallup urgently beckoned him, a bad-news look on his unlovely mug. They met in a quiet corner.

“Problem with Abzal.”

“Abzal? Help me.”

DuWallup sighed. It was always “help me” with the P.M. He was an old pal, though, and was carrying the party through some of its toughest times. “Abzal Erzhan. The sniper who immortalized the Great Father. He has disappeared.”

Finnerty was too swizzled for those last three words to settle in right away. Erzhan. Vancouver. Fifteen years ago. Right. He’d got refugee status or something. “He disappeared?”

DuWallup heard “dishappeared.” He took the P.M.’s rye whiskey and set it down. “Let’s go for a walk, Huck.”

“Leaving anyway. Give me the bad, let’s hear it.”

“Erzhan didn’t show up at work this morning. He’s been eight steady years as a high school teacher in Chambly, just east of Montreal. He was last seen leaving his home to walk to his school.”

DuWallup steered him toward the coat check. Huck seemed to be walking okay; he might get past the press unscathed. “I’ll get your driver.” He dialed his cell.

“Juss a minute, the RCMP was supposed to be watching this guy.”

“He slipped past them, it was very quick. There’s an indication a friend picked him up in a car.”

Finnerty fussed and grumbled as they headed down in the elevator. What was he supposed to do about this? Very bad time for a Bhashyistani assassin to be on the loose.

He waited by the front entrance while DuWallup peeked out, summoned the liveried driver. “Not too many reporters out there, Huck.”

“They know anything about this?”

“It’s under wraps. Do we warn our Bhashie friends?”

“No bloody way.” Finnerty didn’t want anything to delay their morning departure. They had behaved like the Mafia, had half a dozen women up at the Westin.

“The other option is doubling security,” DuWallup said.

“Yeah, right, let’s stick to the timetable, get these jokers out of here. We tell nobody.”

Huck’s driver joined them, and the three walked together from the building, Finnerty held in place between them. “A fine evening,” he called out, too loud, to the converging press. Keep the smile steady. There’s the car. A smelly pall of cigar smoke from a clutch of Bhashies by the sidewalk. Clara Gracey out here too, with a cigarette, waiting for her car, looking cold.

He made it into the back seat, a persistent microphone at his shoulder. “Sixty M.P.s signed a pledge to boycott this event, sir. What do you say about that?”

“They weren’t missed.”

Reporters laughed. So did Clara, who envied Finnerty’s easy rapport with the media. Drunk again, but somehow he always kept his balance. It must be all those years on the high seas.

The Bhashie culture minister had been eyeing her and now was approaching with the family pictures he’d been showing around. Where was her car?

“You like seeing my people in traditional costume?” A fistful of glossy prints. “This my wife.” A woman in a burka and a gorgeous patterned robe. “This my wife too.” A sombre young woman in an imposing headdress.

“How many wives do you have?”

“Only four now. You are also some man’s wife here?”

“Not exactly.” Be pleasant. In ten hours they head home with their goodies and their trade treaty.

“You like I show you fine jewellery my country.”

“You have it with you?”

He produced a gold locket, dangled it. “Is more in hotel room.”

Here came rescue, her driver.

Arthur is in an old folks’ home, staring out at a pastoral scene, maybe Blunder Bay. He strives to go there, but his wheelchair can move only backwards, nurses and attendants skipping out of the way, laughing, patting him on the head. They’re all on cellphones and Blackberrys, planning something cool, street theatre.

His bedside radio, programmed to drag him out of bed at eight-fifteen, rescued him with a sonata. He regretted having to turn it down. Schumann was a salve after that dismal dream. Rolling backwards, that’s what he’s been doing. Backwards into senescence.