October 1970 (51 page)

* * *

A gathering had formed on the beach. Locals, a few tourists, commenting on the nature of the human forms spat out by the savage sea. More gringos who hadn't been careful. A tourist from Saint-George-de-Beauce was explaining to his neighbour, an ageless freak from Limoilou, that the village took its name, Zopilote (“vulture” in Spanish), from the number of bodies that, year after year, were washed up on its beaches.

“We need to get him to a hospital,” Marie-Québec was saying to whoever would listen. She then looked down at Sam, sitting very pale in the sand and holding up his left arm. “How do you say hospital? And arm?”

“
Brazo
,” Sam answered, weakly, from the depths of his concussion.

Marie-Québec was pointing to the unmoving arm against Sam's stomach,
“de su esposo, brazo, brazo
.” All the gawkers continued to talk with enthusiasm around her, but no one moved an inch.

“
Hospital
,” Nihilo said.

“
¿Donde esta el hospital?”

“
Aqui no hay
,” a young and very brown Mexican kid with a large smile informed her.

“
¡Fuego!
” someone yelled behind them.

All eyes looked in the direction of the upraised arm. The village was burning.

The fire had started when a simple
brasero
had been overturned in a kitchen. By the time the flames reached the low-hanging extremities of the palm fronds that made do as a roof, it was already too late. The improvised firemen, throwing shovelful after shovelful of sand on the flames, suddenly saw them increase in intensity and begin to roar above the
palapas
. The wind finished the job.

“
No hay bomberos tampoco
,” the young Mexican said, nodding his head, his smile all the larger.

Explosions began ringing out, likely caused by propane tanks.

The villagers began carrying their possessions to the beach: furniture, dishes, children's toys, family mementos, and piles of clothing and blankets, were all thrown on the sand, with their owners running back to their burning homes to try to save what could still be rescued.

Sam dragged himself to an icebox a bit farther off, opened it with his uninjured arm, and grabbed a bag of half-melted ice, which he applied to his broken forearm. He then made himself a cushion out of a rolled hammock and leaned back against it. At the top of the beach, the village was besieged by flames that jumped from one roof to another following the wind's whims, with great belches of heavy black smoke and storms of sparks.

In front of Sam, a human chain had formed. Every old container that could be found — from kitchen sink to chamber pot — circulated hand to hand, arm to arm. At the far end of the chain, he could see Marie-Québec, in the sea up to her stomach with her short dress riding high on her hips, busily filling the containers with water that the excited children brought her. Then, swaying in the undertow, she passed them to the outstretched hands that passed them to their neighbours. It was pathetic. It was magnificent.

Samuel watched her tear an overflowing bucket of water from the sea and toss it to the next man. Sam followed the bucket with his eyes, climbing up the line. A man reached for the handle, grabbed it with two hands, and passed the bucket to the next man with an ample swing of his torso. He turned to watch the next container when he saw him, eyes raised toward him, only fifteen steps away. For one whole second, they stared at each other.

Sam nodded, and Gode turned his eyes away.

MME CORPS AND
THE FLOWERS

“CAN I ASK YOU A
question, Sa
muel?”

“Sure, go ahead
 . . .
”

“If Marcel Duquet's death wasn't an accident, who killed him?”

“That's what I was hoping to learn from you.”

“But I thought it was Lavoie's death that interested you
 . . .
”

“One murder brings about another. It's a link in a chain. While I was investigating the Lavoie Affair, I became interested in the kind of people whose job it is to fake a tractor accident and make it look real. When their work has been done well, you get a few paragraphs underneath the fold. They're anonymous artists, the unknowns of history
 . . .
For them, killing is only the beginning.”

“That has nothing to do with the truth. Your mind was made up long before you came here.”

“Maybe. In fact, the only merit in my interpretation is that it's more probable than the official version. More real
 . . .
In the end, it's my fiction against theirs.”

“I'd like to hear your explanation for Marcel's death, and the next
pastis
is on me.”

“If we keep up like this, I'll be round as a button.”

“Your mastery of French slang is remarkable.”

“Thanks. My friend Fred gave me the
Dictionary of French Bistro Slang
. He wanted to come to Paris, too. Fred is convinced that intelligence agents (or spies, if you prefer) sometimes kill as a means of communication. The body is the message, you see?”

“I understand, but do I believe it? That's a whole other story. Life isn't a spy novel, Samuel.”

“Maybe not, but you don't need a romantic imagination to face reality as it is
 . . .
”

“Tell me
 . . .
”

“The simplest reason for eliminating Marcel Duquet was because he had a big mouth and had begun to open it in front of journalists. He might have been in the know about what we pretty much have to call the American angle
 . . .
In my mind, it was Coco who was the principal contact between the Chevalier Cell and the Americans. It's hard to say what Marcel knew for sure. In any case, his strange tractor accident sent a very clear message to those in the big house, still doing their time. Texas was off-limits. Mum's the word. Coco furnished fake IDs for the FLQ, but who helped Coco? We now know that Montreal's CIA satellite office, located on avenue Mont-Royal in 1970, had a resident forger with his own studio. All that's missing is a line between Île aux Fesses and the Plateau. A line of coke, probably. Why are you smiling?”

“Because of l'Île au Fesses. Do you have a girlfriend?”

“Not any more. She left me a year ago.”

“You can replace her.”

“That's what I thought, too, at first.”

“Why did she leave?”

“The month of October must have taken up too much space in my life.”

“Go back to her, Samuel
 . . .
”

“What?”

“I see something in your eyes, I hear it in your voice. You love her?”

“You'll have to excuse me. I think I'll have this drink in a train compartment
 . . .
”

Samuel stands up. The beach looks like a marble floor: fine, smooth, white sand. And Mme. Corps couldn't be more French, with her cream-coloured pantsuit and her coquettish pink scarf. He offers her his hand.

“Thank you. You've been quite generous with your time.”

She takes the offered hand, tightens her grip. Doesn't let go.

“Forget this foolish investigation and go find her, you hear me?”

“Madame
 . . .
”

“That's all I've got to say.”

“Okay. Thanks for everything.”

“You'll have to come to the house next time
 . . .
”

“Why not? It could be fun.”

“When you're in Paris, you'll come, eh? We'll pick you up at the station, and my husband will prepare his famous rabbit in mustard sauce. You'll like him, Samuel. He's a cultivated man, full of kindness, and politics hold no secrets for him. I let myself be spoiled. I was married too young, but I had a second chance and have never looked back. I don't miss Quebec, I never think about it. My first marriage, with that dearest fattest husband and his gang of cops,
bidasses
and bad men, all that is far, far away now.”

Sam looks at Ms. Corps, one foot still on the terrace.

“
Bidasses?
”

“It's slang for ‘soldier.' Don't tell me you've never heard it before?”

“Sure I've heard it, but
 . . .
What's the link with Coco?”

“Oh, he was friends with a couple of soldiers. Everyone's pretty tight on the South Shore. There was a base in Saint-Hubert, you know, Mobile Command and all that
 . . .
I even went to Ottawa with Coco one time. He told me he was going to meet General Jean-B. Bédard to talk about a project they had together, that's all I remember. And tulips, of course, I remember tulips because while he was at his meeting, I took a walk along the Canal, and — okay, so maybe I'm inventing the tulips — but the year was 1968. I remember because of Dalida's
Le Temps des Fleurs
, you know,
Those were the days,
it was always playing on the radio
 . . .
”

And Mme. Corps, her cheeks red, closes her eyes and begins to sing.

Those were the days, my friend

We thought they'd never end

We'd sing and dance, forever and a day

We'd live the life we choose

We'd fight and never lose

For we were young and sure to have our way

“Samuel? Are you listening
 . . .
Samuel?”

DEER PARK

FRED IS DRIVING HIS SMALL
car through the pretty co
untryside. The tender green of newly unfolded leaves, beech trees, a few oaks, a landscape grown over the alluvial plain by the first few folds of the Canadian Shield. A few kilometres before Sainte-Béatrix, he turns left and drives along Saint-Paul Lane. Horses, three, four of them, powerful legs, muscular haunches and large necks, are galloping in the pasture, a golden light behind them. Past the fields, he slows when he sees the large wooden sign, painted in bright red with a silhouette of a doe drawn on it, just before the turn on the access road whose curve hugs the side of the hill next to the forest.

DEER PARK

He sees a large house built lengthwise, invisible from the road until he passes under a gated arch in the wall and ends in an inner courtyard. A few buildings lie around like discarded children's toys: a garage, shed, cabin. Then a flotilla of vehicles: tractors, ATVs, minibuses, pickups. A bit farther off, a decent-sized pond where ducks play bumper cars at the feet of an old statuesque man scratching at a piece of bread. Benches carved in tree trunks, long chairs, and a windowed kiosk are disposed around the pond. On the benches, more white-haired folk.

Barely out of the car, Fred sees the director come out of the door and walk toward him. He recognizes him by his nose.

“Mr. Falardeau?” asks the director, offering his hand.

“Mr. Langlais?” Fred asks.

He takes the proffered hand and shakes it.

Dominating the enclosure, the observation post is both viewpoint and watchtower. It is accessed by a staircase of pressure-treated wood. Thirty metres up from it, in the middle of a clearing in the undergrowth, the feeding post consists of a pile of apples and carrots, a salt lick, and an automatic corn distributor. The pond's discharge stream sings as it slides between the stones that mark the edge of the clearing, ensuring a supply of water even in winter (the Deer Park director adds).

“Call it zootherapy if you want. I personally have no problem with that. What's for sure is that we've noticed a link between the aesthetic pleasure that our residents take from their observational activities, and the positive results in their cognitive tests. It also has positive effects on memory tests. A stimulating effect, performance-wise, that's for sure.”

“Fascinating. And when I think that I wondered whether there'd be a link with Louis XV
 . . .
”

“With
 . . .
” The director's surprise is obvious. “Louis XV?”

“Yes. The Deer Park. It was the place, at Versailles, where Mme. Pompadour would store the young women destined to fulfill the king's baser instincts.”

“Really? I didn't know
 . . .
it's a period I don't know so well.”

“You should. A fascinating character, Louis XV. To govern, he preferred to trust his spies and secret diplomacy rather than the officers of his own government. The Chevalier d'Éom, you know, the famous transvestite prince of secrets, worked for him. You've heard of him, I'm sure.”

The two men face each other in the summer house. Still not a deer in sight.

“Let's go to my office,” the director offers.

They're in the office. We won't describe it here or we'll never see the end of this book. But it's a director's office in a long-term care facility for people suffering from Alzheimer's.

“Tell me a bit about your father,” François Langlais asks.

“He's a historian
 . . .
David Falardeau. Does the name mean anything to you?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“His most famous work is on the Battle of Eccles Hill (that's near Frelighsburg) in 1870. Irish Independentists who'd hidden out in the United States tried to invade Canada more than once. That time, they were met with solid resistance, in great part because the man who looked after their supply of ammo, a French doctor called Henri le Caron, was in fact an English spy called Beach. After the Fenians' defeat, he was captured and brought to Ottawa, where those who knew his actual role welcomed him as a hero.”

“And
 . . .
your father.”

“Had a real passion for the Second World War. And was a great admirer of the British Secret Service. Before working on Eccles Hill, he worked on another story having to do with the Fenians: the Victoria Jubilee Plot. Officially, it was an Irish nationalist scheme to attack the monarchy, but it was defeated at the last moment by the authorities. In reality, it was an entire ploy set up by the British secret service to penetrate terrorist groups and compromise the legal independence movement
 . . .
”

Director Langlais puts his pen down, leans back into his ergonomic chair and, chin cupped in his hand, looks at Frederic attentively.

“Okay. Well you're not here because of your father's Alzheimer's 
. . .
”

“No. I'm here to talk to you about Pierre.”

The Deer Park director begins to lift himself out of his chair.

“I know no one of that name. You're wasting my time.”

“Sure, ask me to leave. I knew you would
 . . .”

Fred takes a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, folded in eight. He unfolds it slowly and pushes it toward Langlais, who can't stop himself from looking down.

“The Rosetta stone,” Fred says, answering the unspoken question.

The director picks up the photocopied page and, adjusting his glasses on his nose with his forefinger, brings it closer to his eyes.

KEY WITNESS DETAINED

SECRET FLQ MEETING HELD ON NIGHT OF NOVEMBER 3–4

He lifts his eyes up from the article for a second or two to stare at Fred. Then he lowers his eyes and reads through the text. His expression betrays nothing as his mouth sketches a dreamy pout halfway through the article.

The two cells of the FLQ that have claimed responsibility for the kidnappings of the British diplomat John Travers and the Minister of Labour Paul Lavoie linked up on the night of November 3rd and held a meeting that lasted until early the next morning, two trusted sources close to the
Sun
's reporter have indicated.

The accuracy of the information previously given by these two sources, as well as their professional honesty, cannot be called into question.

“The man who led the meeting is still under our control,” one of the sources indicated.

“He's already testified, and we didn't learn much, but we're convinced that he still has much to tell us. And he doesn't know that we know.

“We're keeping him isolated for now from a number of other individuals we're currently holding as witnesses.

“He's convinced that we don't have any other questions to ask him. And that's exactly what we want him to believe.

“But, when the time is right, we'll bring him back in front of a judge and he'll have to answer much more direct questions.

“He won't be expecting it. We'll surprise him when his guard is down, and he'll confirm everything we already know.

“Such a corroboration of the facts already in our possession will no doubt be quite a boon to the investigation.

“The only problem is, we still have to wait before bringing him back to testify. But we don't have a choice. Our reasons, when made public, will appear reasonable,” one of our sources has claimed.

[
 . . .
]

“We have no assurances that Mr. Travers is still alive. What we do know, however, is that there have been important disagreements between both cells.

“Of the two groups that have committed a kidnapping, one is radically opposed to the death penalty, applied to whomever: be it themselves, or their hostage,” the source added.

He places the sheet of paper back down.

“That's very strange
 . . .
”

“Mr. Langlais, do you go snowshoeing? Have you seen fox tracks in the snow?”

“I wouldn't recognize them.”

“In my case, it was my friend Sam Nihilo who taught me. If the track zigzags, it means the fox is hunting. If it's going straight, you know it's heading back to its den. Sometimes you can follow the tracks all the way back home. When tracking humans, it's always a bit harder. And I know what I'm talking about, since I once spent three months following Goupil in France and England
 . . .
”

“Are you sure your father doesn't have Alzheimer's?”

“Quite sure. Now, Mr. Langlais, you have good reason to listen to me. You want to know how far I followed the tracks in the snow
 . . .
”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Doesn't matter, it's a fable. It's called
The Fox, the Deer, and the Penguin
. Oh, and there are wolves, also. In the end, the fox is left hanging from a fence, as an example.”

Langlais remains silent.

“That
Sun
article you read,” Fred says, pointing to the photocopy. “For the longest time, I couldn't understand it. The only thing it seemed to demonstrate was that the antiterrorist police, or the secret service, or both, had been there on the night of November 3 on chemin Queen-Mary. And that they had followed the man they'd seen leaving the apartment, so they knew about the base of operations in the northern part of Montreal, and also knew, a week before his being freed, where John Travers was being held. But the entire business of your role in the story remained rather obscure to my eyes. Why did the anonymous sources insist that the messenger (you!) was in the authorities' hands in November of 1970? I couldn't understand
 . . .
”

Fred slides his fingers over the photocopy.

“There was an element missing. It was in the previous day's paper, a couple of paragraphs, an unsigned news item that told of a young FLQ kid exiled in London who'd hanged himself in his cell, in Reading, just before being questioned by the police.”

Fred stops himself. Through the window behind Langlais, he sees a skunk walking across the parking lot with a grass snake in its mouth.

READING GAOL, GREAT BRITAIN,
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 1970

The prisoner, plunged into a state of lethargy, was already breathing with difficulty when the man knelt over him on the bunk and placed both his gloved hands around his throat. He was serious, had stopped all his sinister jokes (on the high quality of the drug and the colour of the young man's shirt: pink). In one quick movement, he tightened his grip around the boy's throat, breaking his larynx. Then, holding on despite the violent shaking and jerking of the dying man on the bunk, he maintained the pressure until complete asphyxiation.

“Fucking queer,” he said when it was all over.

Unsteadily, he moved away from the bunk, let himself fall to his knees in front of the toilet bowl, a bit farther off, and emptied his stomach.

His accomplice, who'd been standing away from the whole scene, came closer and picked up the shirt that had fallen to the floor. Bending over, he slipped one sleeve around the victim's neck, keeping his eyes away from the man's face, and tied a knot. Realizing he hadn't kept a long enough length of sleeve to double the knot, he undid it and began again. Knotting the sleeve with care, he doubled the knot and pulled it tight. The pink shirt looked to have been made out of something like silk. He saw the other man next to the bowl, wiping his mouth.

“Are you okay?”

The man nodded.

Turning back to his work, the other man picked up the body in his arms and, holding it under the armpits, lifted it toward the bars as if he were a bouncer dragging a drunk out of the bar who couldn't stand up on his own two feet. The young androgynous man he was holding between his arms smelled of sperm and shit. He held the body against the wall for a moment to catch his breath, arms straight, before raising it a few inches to allow his partner to thread the other arm of the shirt through a crack over the door. It took a few attempts to make it work. The man who'd tied the knots joked that he felt as if he were slow dancing with the faggot. Closing the door a little, the killer finally managed to wedge the extreme end of the sleeve into the crack while his accomplice, grunting, slowly let go of the hanging man. He dangled at the end of his pink rope. His feet barely grazed the ground.

As they closed the door, careful not to wedge the sleeve out of its perch, the entire body shook in a final death spasm. One of his arms dangled, making it seem as though the corpse were pointing to the toilet bowl in the corner.

“Jesus Christ
 . . .
”

They looked at each other. They'd forgotten to flush.

“In Europe,” Fred continued, “I traced the Goupil family and gained access to the coroner's report. In addition to the unclear circumstances of his arrest and the bizarre way in which his shirt sleeve had been wedged in the door, there was a troubling detail: Goupil was on medication in prison. He took two Phenergan tablets every four hours. Promethazine hydrochloride is a powerful sedative, used, in the past, as a birthing sedative for women. Phenergan acts on the respiratory system, leading, in some cases, to anoxic issues in newborns. What Goupil was taking every four hours was a hundred milligrams of the stuff, the recommended daily dose. In other words, he was completely drugged
 . . .”

“Of course they killed him!” Langlais suddenly shouted out, livid. “Scotland Yard's Special Branch
 . . .
you think I don't know? They're the antiterrorist cops over there. They made it look like suicide, of course. Another day's work for those assholes. You've no idea what they're capable of
 . . .
”

“I have no idea. But you do
 . . .
”

The two men looked at each other for a moment in silence. Fred continued: “During your time in England, you became a creature of the British secret service. There's a fine line between an agent and an informant. What I think is that you were what is now called an agent-informant. In fact, you might have been a French agent when you started working with the British. Or was it the RCMP, through your friends in Algiers? They don't call it the intelligence community for nothing: there's always an overlap of interests in that world, and there are no rules about having more than one master. To what extent you collaborate voluntarily, or are under constraints, or are manipulated, depends on your handler. In any case, the British. You were talking to them, but they didn't have you under absolute control yet
 . . .
”