Al-Qaeda, the conflict took on more resonance. A new scope, too. Before then, the only victims were in Kashmir. The rest of what went on up there stayed there: jihadist and Kashmiri rebels versus the Indian Army — homemade carnage. But now India is accusing the Pakistani Inter-Services Intelligence, the most formidable secret service in all of Asia, of covering for Islamic terrorists and helping them deploy all over the country. So, you might say things are tense.” Patterson paused, then added, “Especially now they both have the bomb. Sure, our minister of foreign affairs tried to cool things down, without taking sides, of course. As far as Kashmir’s concerned — like any other conflict of this type — Canada has to keep on good terms with both countries.”
“So David was just an unlucky victim? No Italian or Japanese diplomats out on the street that day — oh, hey, wait, a Canadian!”
“I can’t think of any other reason.”
“What do we hire security people for, then?”
“When in doubt, it’s good to be prepared for the worst. You never know … a Hizb-ul-Mujahideen hit man shows up at the General Hospital with an AK-47 slung on his shoulder —” Patterson looked up “— I know it’s crazy, but I wanted to reassure Juliette.”
“The Mounties questioned her?”
Patterson looked at Max a long while. “Béatrice is right,” he said ironically, “you’re going to stick your nose into this, aren’t you?”
Max glanced at the half-open door to the Mughal Palace storage area, just as some Indian employees opened another one onto the street. Just for a moment, with both doors ajar, Max saw through to the other side of the building: parked in the alley was a police car with removable flashing light on the roof. No one was at the wheel. Could this be Roberge already? Again Max’s eyes roamed over the cafeteria. It was less busy now. Employees had finished lunch and were headed back to their offices. He looked around for Roberge’s profile, but didn’t see him. This time, Patterson picked up on his nervousness. No point in pretending.
“You called them, didn’t you?” Max asked, but Patterson just smiled.
“I have absolutely no interest in making life easier for Roberge. You know that.”
That left Béatrice. Why had she turned him in?
A man in a uniform shirt appeared at the north exit and another one at the south. They seemed to be looking for someone: it had to be him. So they hadn’t spotted him yet.
“Look, I need an intro to the high commissioner, Bernatchez.”
“Don’t get involved in this, Max. Stay away from it.”
A third agent emerged from among the stands, a flabby guy pretending to be engrossed in the Mexican menu. And another among the tables. Then a bustle of activity behind the display of chalupas and enchiladas. There were shouts and the sound of a plate shattering, then a struggle on the ground. When the agents got up, they were firmly grasping a young Latino. Screeching of walkie-talkies followed — a successful raid right there in the Labyrinth.
Another illegal on his way back to Chihuahua, courtesy of Her Majesty, thought Max. One more broken dream.
The cops ignored Max and Patterson as they went off with their prize, looking proud, shoulders straight.
Patterson resumed the conversation. “The situation there’s explosive. Way beyond our abilities, and yours, anyway.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“You’re going to take off after Islamist terrorists all by yourself?”
“Sure, why not?”
Patterson shook his head hopelessly. “These guys are even worse than the Salvadoran army, Max, harder to get hold of.”
Max closed his eyes. He could see Philippe’s office on Avenida Las Palmas, the chalk outline on the floor, the Policia Nacional officer by the door, pretending to be somewhere else, not wanting to disturb Max’s reunion with ghosts. I’ll see it through to the end, he told himself. I’ll keep my promise to Philippe.
7
The last of the trees had been cut down, or would be soon. The dirt roads had been cleared and marked out. Cranes, tractors, a giant Meccano set. From his window, the young Max could see the first construction sites, the first wounds. Houses going up as far as the eye could see; all identical, lining up like fresh scars. Against the advice of Max’s mother, Solange, his father, Gilbert, had quit the poorly heated apartment on Lajeunesse in the summer of 1962 to seek out something new at the opposite end of the island. His new fortune and his family’s.
He’d convinced Stéphane Kavanagh, his banker and friend, to take a chance on him, and in the following weeks, while everyone else was getting worked up about the Cuban Missile Crisis, the two Irishmen were at the kitchen table, totally wrapped up in something else. It was a contest of dreams and hopes. Solange pretended to be won over by her husband’s arguments — the future king of Roxboro, as he said with a smile as broad as you please, shaving cream still on his face. Max remembered that Sunday when the four of them (Philippe was there for the day this time) went to scout out the plot for the ultimate sacrifice. Solange, not wanting to be a wet blanket, though she was wary of her husband’s impulses, faked her enthusiasm for the clearing of the street, the beauty of the lot, and the size of the river.
Gilbert O’Brien was a veritable home-handyman visionary. All these houses were going up at high speed, and one day they’d need improvement, renovation, or at least a change of colour. All these tenants becoming home owners would sooner or later get bitten by the toolkit/electric-sander bug. Their mortgages were all sewn up thanks to Kavanagh, who in return financed Gilbert’s business on Gouin Street. Yep, a tidy little arrangement. Solange went along without a word, Philippe and Max, too, despite the sacrifices: new neighbourhood, new school, new friends. Then, when Philippe left home to avoid the exhausting daily trek to college, Gilbert had to resign himself to the boy getting a room in town. He’d be a long-distance partner in the dream.
Max was inconsolable. He idolized Philippe, his teacher and protector. Philippe had six years on his brother and brought a whiff of the outside world to Lajeunesse Street. With him around, dressing, eating, and talking were all different: everything was “modern,” a modernity learned at college side by side with the daddy’s boys of Greater Montreal. Gilbert had spared no expense. The Jesuits cost him an arm and a leg, but he paid without blinking. It was an investment in his son’s future, his own, too. Did he already have Philippe in mind to pick up the reins after him, or was he thinking of Max as the “handier” of the two? Whichever it was, the “empire” was still in the planning stages. It kept Gilbert awake at night. He spent sleepless nights adding details here and there. By dawn he’d be ready to pass the torch to both of them, as they went out to conquer the world in their turn. His office became a time machine to the future.
Solange was the one left waiting in the present. Then one day she’d had enough. She was seeing another man on the side, one who “understood” and who did not live in a fantasyland. Her confrontation came as a complete surprise to the “king of Roxboro,” who felt she’d betrayed him. Gilbert hadn’t seen this coming. She wanted a new life that wasn’t Gyprocked, screwed, and asphalt-shingled into place. She wanted out with her kids, but Philippe refused to leave. So did Max. They both clung hard to Gilbert, shutting out their mother’s arguments. She insisted, she lamented, then she slammed the door in a fury.
Gilbert, supported
