I must leave immediately. A major show could fall through if I miss these negotiations.”
I shrugged. I had a lot of problems, but this wasn’t one of them.
He brightened and gave me a crafty glance. “You look more or less presentable. Would you consider filling in here until he shows up?”
• • •
Hull, Quebec, may be another political world from Ottawa, but it’s a short walk from the market. I always love walking over the Alexandria Bridge. The breeze blowing up the Ottawa River was the best thing that had happened to me so far that day. But the cooling effects were quickly lost pounding the pavement on the other side.
It was a hot half-hour before I panted up to Alvin’s rickety eight-unit building on Boulevard St. Joseph and staggered through the front door. As usual, the faint memory of marijuana hung in the corridor.
I thumped on Alvin’s door. Legally, that was better than thumping Alvin himself, which had crossed my mind. I almost hoped he wouldn’t answer so I could continue to get rid of my frustrations.
A small child emerged from the next apartment and watched me with great interest. I provided a bad example by giving the door a kick. It swung inward. I hated to venture into Alvin’s apartment unassisted. I never knew what I’d find, but I always knew I wouldn’t be prepared.
Inside the apartment, the floor had been painted black, the walls an elegant shade of dove. The lighting was museum quality, but the temperature hovered slightly below boiling. I managed to maintain my cool as I came nose-to-nose with a pretty fair papier mâché replica of The Thinker, sitting in the middle of the floor. A series of question marks hung, suspended by invisible wires, over his lovely puzzled head.
Alvin’s retro fridge had been redone in a bracing shade of fuschia, and labelled The Pinker. The toilet which he uses as a planter had a cabbage rose growing in it and a little plaque on the wall behind that said The Stinker.
A floor-to-ceiling rectangle consisting of three broad vertical stripes caught my eye. Alvin had thoughtfully added a blinking artificial flame at the base of the painting and a talk bubble that said, “Ouch, that’s hot,” at the top. It got the label,The Blinker.
On the next wall, a Picasso from the blue period. The large eye winked at me, and two seconds later the small one did. The label said, naturally,The Winker.
That boy gets me every time.
I did have to ask myself: if Alvin was ingenious enough to create and maintain this display, why, in his time at Justice for Victims, had he never once answered the goddam phone properly?
• • •
I found Alvin in the bedroom. I almost didn’t spot him under the tangle of sheets. He was curled into the fetal position. His eyes were closed, and I couldn’t see any movement. His ponytail spread over the crisp white pillowcase, and five of his visible earrings glinted in the pale glow filtering in from the living room.
Alvin didn’t even appear to be breathing. I almost stopped breathing myself. I reached out and touched him. Warm. And better yet, that small rise of his chest indicated that he was alive.
Now that I knew he was alive, I really felt like killing him.
I shook him vigorously. “Are you out of your mind, sleeping in on the first day of your new job?”
Alvin didn’t respond. I gave his grey, bony cheek a gentle slap.
I sat back and looked around. Had he accidentally overdosed? I saw nothing in the small bedroom. Unlike the living room, it was simple and neat. Double bed. No clothes strewn. No museum knock-offs. His all-season leather jacket hung on a wooden hanger in the closet, next to his Mickey Mouse scarf.
I checked the bathroom. It was spotless. White towels with the monogram AF were displayed neatly on the towel rack, fresh soap sat in the soap dish, and the bathmat was clean and fluffy. Aside from the Magritte panel reproduced on the inside of the shower stall, it could have been anyone’s bathroom. I opened the medicine cabinet.
It contained a toothbrush and a tube of Crest.
I rushed back to the bedroom and stuck my head under the bed. Not even a dust bunny.
Alvin hadn’t budged. My cellphone decided this was a dead zone. I was pretty wobbly as I hightailed it to the living room to call for help. Too bad Alvin had painted his telephone black to match the floor. I was about to race into the hallway yelling for help when I stubbed my toe on the missing phone.
911. I stammered out the address. And admitted he was breathing. Yes, I was calm, I insisted. No, I didn’t know of any medical conditions. No, I didn’t think he had been sick recently. No, I’d found no sign of any drugs. No, I didn’t know for sure if he might have ingested anything. No, no pill bottles in the apartment. Yes, I already said I was calm.
Extremely goddam calm, in fact.
It didn’t take long for the paramedics to arrive. Eight minutes by my watch. Eight hours by my emotional state.
Long enough to notice no light flashing on Alvin’s answering machine. Looked like he’d picked up his messages.
• • •
As the paramedics were peering under Alvin’s eyelids with little lights, he popped his eyes open and sat up.
“What’s going on?” he said.
“You tell me,” I said, perhaps too forcefully, because the paramedics asked me to step out of the room. “Not a chance,” I said.
I found myself being propelled by the female paramedic. She could have bench-pressed some serious numbers. I relied on the Cape Breton solution and made tea in Alvin’s grandmother’s pink and white china teapot. The tea had reached the bracing black stage when the bedroom door opened and the paramedics emerged. Lines of sweat ran down their faces. “Looks like he’s all right, Madame,” the male said. “He’s making sense. It’s probably the heat, but you should check with his doctor.”
“He had a bit of a shock. I think he got a phone message that a family member has gone missing.”
“That may be. But it is dangerously hot in here.”
“Is that tea?” the female attendant said.
“Would you like some?”
She shook her head. I heard her mutter something like anglaise, tête carrée.
I had no idea who Alvin’s doctor was.
“You should get him someplace cool and make sure someone stays with him for the next twenty-four hours.”
I’d already figured that one out myself.
“And no tea.”
When the door clicked behind them, I turned to face Alvin. He clutched a silver-framed photo.
“What happened, Alvin?”
Alvin emitted a low keening sound, raising goosebumps
