the most expensive pieces of real estate in North America: the tip of Point Grey. It made driving into the university a bit like entering the magic kingdom. Water surrounded the campus on the north, south, and west, and a wide belt of parkland — old-growth forest of cedar and Douglas fir — buffered it from the city on the east. Because of the parkland and the access to beaches and water, there wasn’t a house on the point that would sell for less than $400,000.
As I moved west on 12th Avenue the houses went from the palatial estates of Shaughnessy to the funky, brightly painted wooden houses of Kitsilano, back to the upscale abodes of the Point. The peninsula narrowed, 12th Avenue fed into 10th, and I knew that if I went straight up the hill it would lead me to the main gates of Southern, but as I approached Alma Street I slowed. I could continue straight ahead or I could turn right, head down toward Spanish Banks, and take the beach road in through the back entrance. I felt my stomach contract. I would have to go down there sometime. It might as well be now.
I took a right, then a left further down at 4th Avenue. Ahead of me a steep hill rose up to the plateau of Point Grey, but just before it I turned on to a small road that dipped off to the right, almost hidden in an ancient stand of cedar. The road wove downward in a dark tunnel, then abruptly the trees thinned, the terrain flattened out, and the road made a ninety-degree turn. The dark tunnel burst open to reveal a wide ribbon of sand, a vast expanse of black water, and the fairy lights of North Vancouver sprinkled across the distant backdrop of mountains. I slowed the car. Despite the breathtaking beauty of the shore, I focused my attention on the other side of the road, the compact neighbourhood that climbed up the bluff. I’d forgotten how it looked: glass-fronted box houses that seemed to be piled willy-nilly, one on top of the other. No style and no taste, but million-dollar views and two-million-dollar price tags. I used to live along here.
I slowed as I approached our house and pulled into the parking lane. I left the engine running with the heater warming the car and stared. It was still the perfect house — a landscaped garden fronting a wall of glass that overlooked the mountains and English Bay. Once upon a time the perfect family had lived there: Daddy the doctor, Mommy the hostess, and the two beautiful, well-behaved children. Unfortunately, Daddy worked terribly hard and was hardly ever home, but that was just like all the other neighbourhood dads. And Mommy drank a bit too much, but then entertaining for Daddy was her raison d’être and she was just a social drinker. But as the two well-behaved children grew, the drinking went from social to solo, then became a full-time occupation, and the Daddy’s absences became more and more prolonged, until one day he simply never came home. Then the money dried up, the perfect house was marred by flaking paint and an overgrown lawn, and the well-behaved children were no longer so welcome at the other neighbourhood homes.
I hadn’t been down here since I was eleven. That’s when my mother came out of her alcoholic daze long enough to realize that my father wasn’t coming home. She sold the house for a fraction of its value and moved us to a rented house on Albion Street in the derelict, tough east end, and with the remaining money from the sale of the house she began the slow, painful process of committing suicide with drink.
I looked at the old house now, standing firm and solid despite our neglect, and tried to remember. I did know happiness in that house. I must have known happiness there in those early years, but all memories of that time seemed to have vanished in the turmoil of events that followed. Even confronted with the tangible evidence of an earlier era, that part of my past remained firmly locked away.
I turned and looked across the bay to the North Shore. Grey mist hung in the air, and the soft smudge of dawn was just appearing behind the mountains. The pale light draped the landscape, reducing all colour, all contour, to a monochromatic scale of greys. I took one last glance at the house, felt nothing, then put the car in gear and headed toward Southern.
Five minutes later I drove into the back of C-lot, the vast student parking area cut out of several acres of virgin old-growth forest. At this time of the morning it was almost empty, but I pitied the poor students who had to park in the outer reaches. It would be a forty-five minute walk to the nearest building.
I made for the first row of cars and spotted a tight space between a vintage red Mustang and a new blue Miata. I pulled in with room to spare. I still had some time before my meeting with Elaine so I got out my Southern map and tried to orient myself. From the car, dead ahead, was a covered parkade. If I followed the street that ran just to the left of the parkade, that should take me to the Life Sciences complex with its Zoology wing.
I zipped the map back into my briefcase and locked up the little beater. As I crossed in front of the row of cars I smiled. In addition to the Mustang, there was a neon-yellow Rabbit in perfect condition, and further down the line an old two-door Acadian that looked new. I’m a bit of a car nut, and coastal B.C. is the only place in Canada where you can see mint-condition older cars parked casually along the streets. Everywhere else in Canada they have long been devoured by road salt and slush.
Life Sciences was easy to find. It looked like a huge concrete bunker sitting at the corner of the biggest intersection on campus. Instead of going to the front I followed the service road around behind, where, according to my map, I would find a separate entrance for the Zoology wing.
The doors were unlocked, but the lights inside were still off, the corridor dark. Some light filtered in through the windows that ran up the stairwells at either end of the hall, but it wasn’t enough to read by. I unzipped my jacket and pulled out the flashlight. Since Zoology rated a separate department I reasoned that it should have a separate office, which in turn should have a listing of the professors’ office numbers posted somewhere nearby. I wasn’t disappointed. Halfway down the hall there was an expanse of plate glass. Through it, I could see a high counter that ran the length of a large room, blocking off an open office in behind. At this hour the whole area was black, but by 9:00 A.M. it would be as active as an overstocked aquarium.
On a bulletin board next to the door I found what I wanted: a listing of the profs with office and lab numbers. Edwards wasn’t on it, which I thought was bizarre, but I found Riesler’s office and lab number and scribbled it in my notebook. I did the same for Jacobson, then slipped the notebook back into my pocket. Riesler had a lab and an office on the top floor, as well as a lab in the basement. I didn’t have time to see everything, so I decided to check out his office and lab upstairs. The rest could wait for later.
On the fourth floor there was just enough light for me to read the numbers and names on the doors. I walked slowly, listening for any activity, but the corridor and surrounding labs were silent. Riesler’s lab was near the end of the hall. I was expecting a huge space jammed with benches and equipment, but when I peered in the narrow window I saw a small room, no more than three metres by four metres. Windows ran along the outside wall, with a lab bench tucked in beneath them. Another bench bisected the room. Both were covered with micro-pipettes, tiny Eppendorf vials, Nalgene squirt bottles half-filled with liquid. There was a fume hood in the corner, and I could see the dark brown bottles of reagents and stock chemicals crowded in behind.
In addition to the small pieces of equipment, there were two chest freezers, what looked like a heating or drying oven, and a small table-top centrifuge. In other words, the place had the look of barely contained chaos typical of most labs. I noticed a door in the left back corner of the room and, like a light switching on, the size of the room suddenly made sense. This must be a tiny private lab attached to Riesler’s office. The bulk of his research, or should I say his students’ research, would be done in the basement lab. I tried the door-knob. Too bad. Locked. I looked both ways to make sure nobody was coming, then I knelt down to examine the lock. It was a shame, really. When I had the time the door would be frightfully easy to open.
From there I headed for the stairs, but just before them I noticed a small corridor off to the right. Another entrance to Riesler’s office? I shone my flashlight down the hall, and sure enough, there was a door with a brass plate on it: Dr. Madden Riesler, Assistant
