over the family business. What was he doing in New York pretending to be a marathon runner, selling Christmas trees to make ends meet? After having worked a few years for Nordopak, Kevin had cut all ties with his father. Caroline had told him this one night, not wanting to say any more than that. Max hadn’t pressed. Secrets, like fruit, must be ripe to be picked without effort.
At one point that very night they had stood in front of a giant billboard in Times Square: an ad for the Boston Marathon with the year’s previous winner, trophy in hand.
“Next year, Robert, it’ll be my picture up there.”
It was a dream that wouldn’t come true, not the following year, nor any other. Disappointing performances, an injury that wouldn’t heal. Voight fired, replaced with a guru from California. Yoga, relaxation, transcendental meditation. No results there, either. But Kevin wouldn’t give up. After the Boston Marathon, after New York, he was offered a teaching position in British Columbia — he refused outright. He couldn’t leave Caroline by herself; she’d just given birth. They were madly in love, the two of them, that much was clear. They couldn’t bear the thought of living apart. Max had never seen such osmosis between two people, such compatibility. Even Max’s relationship with Pascale those long years ago, the tormented, troubled, passionate moments spent together, seemed dull compared to the love between Kevin and Caroline. An intense love, destined for tragedy.
Max adopted their family, in a sense. They went out together all the time. Restaurants, museums, theatre, cinema: Caroline’s world. Meanwhile, Kevin took Max out to baseball and hockey games. Max pushed Gabrielle’s stroller through Central Park while the girl’s father trained and trained. On Gabrielle’s birthdays, Max would come over, his arms loaded with gifts. Gabrielle would throw herself at him, emitting shrill, joyful cries.
In other words, they saw one another as much as Kevin’s schedule and Max’s particular hours allowed. Max was often away, always on business. Sleazy business, which the couple knew nothing about, of course.
That always made Caroline laugh. “Your bosses are ready to send you to the ends of the earth for a few bucks out of some deadbeat’s pocket! Now that would make a good story!”
The last thing Max needed was publicity. Caroline burst out laughing when he pulled a confused face. A loud, confident laugh that made you want to follow her anywhere. Kevin tried to make her happy, to do everything for her, and sometimes fell just short. As did she. But they always ended up back together after a fight or an argument, falling on their feet like champion gymnasts. Sometimes, right in the middle of a conversation, Max would notice a shared smile, a look between them. He’d glance away then, feeling as if he was intruding, not wanting to insert himself too deeply in their intimacy, especially because he wasn’t revealing his true identity to his friends. Max made sure to keep them as far away as possible from his own scheming. To always play the role of protective older brother. It was a lie, another one, but it comforted him; it was the most beautiful lie in the world.
And so Max tried to help them out, giving secret gifts they knew nothing about. Like that training seminar in Colorado with a motivational speaker of some kind.
“He’s just amazing! You should read his book, Robert.” That was Kevin telling Max he couldn’t go to the seminar because he was flat broke. So Max made a cheque out to the motivational speaker without telling Kevin.
Another time Caroline’s computer suddenly died on her. Max knew they were tight on cash, so he came up with a prize she’d never heard of for her to win. One morning a representative from a technology company knocked on her door with a brand-new machine.
And then there were the jobs. Once the holiday season had come to a close, Kevin worked part-time as a personal trainer at the Manhattan Sheraton’s gym. Max found him better employment with the New York City Department of Parks and Recreation. Kevin was none the wiser.
Max didn’t get anything in return for his generosity. Kevin and Caroline weren’t marks he was fattening for the kill. He had no intention of fleecing them at some point after winning their trust. No, that wasn’t it at all. He was investing not in some grift, but in their happiness. He was always looking for ways to make them happy, to make their lives richer, fuller, to protect them from anything that might come their way. An impossible task, Max would come to realize. Fat and happy but in a cage is no happiness at all.
3
“Did you know Nicolae Ceauşescu loved Christmas trees? Each one of his forty villas was decorated with them. Isn’t it ironic? There wasn’t a single other Christmas tree in the country.”
Max O’Brien whipped around, furious at being caught daydreaming. He hadn’t known what to expect, but it certainly wasn’t the man before him. Tiny, bent over, Toma Boerescu looked eighty years old on a good day. He was precariously balanced upright by a walker even older than he was. Could barely breathe, it seemed. And his breath stank of palinca, a moonshine expertly distilled in the slop buckets of Transylvanian farmers. On the lapel of what had to be at least a thirty-year-old pea jacket, he had a star — probably some sort of military decoration.
Before Max could answer, Boerescu added in approximate English, “Ceauşescu prohibited any Romanian from cutting down fir trees for Christmas. Environmental protection was the reason. Oh, how the Conducător was ahead of his time!” A twinkle in his eye, the man burst out laughing. “Robert Cheskin?”
Max shook his hand.
“Toma Boerescu. But you can call me Tom. I know you Americans love abbreviations. Tom Boerescu. Now that’s not too bad a name, right? Sounds like a hockey player!”
The old man pointed down Brătianu Boulevard. “Let us walk, if you don’t mind.”
Boerescu continued to chatter idly about Nicolae Ceauşescu and his immoderate love of Christmas trees, which he had imported straight from Moldavia every November. “The army delivered the trees a few weeks before Christmas.”
Ceauşescu didn’t have many occasions to admire them, unfortunately. It was impossible for him to be simultaneously in every one of his forty villas. He could only visit them one after the other, according to a schedule kept entirely secret, established by his wife, Elena. For security reasons, of course. Despite his extensive powers, Ceauşescu wasn’t gifted with ubiquity.
“One day he thought someone was trying to poison him. According to him, the branches of his trees were covered with some sort of substance that gave off a lethal gas of some kind.”
Boerescu burst out laughing. “Because, you see, the trees came from the north! The Romanian gulags were there, where he’d sent many of his political enemies.” He hesitated. “Not without reason, if you ask me.”
He pointed to the small red star on his lapel, a decoration given to him by Ceauşescu, most likely. “Romanians realized too late they punished an exceptional man.”
An old Communist! Just his luck.
A few tourists passed them on the sidewalk, hurrying toward their tour buses. Farther off, mothers with their strollers made their way between skateboard-riding teenagers and tiny dogs.
Boerescu hesitatingly gestured toward a bench a couple of lovers had just vacated. He dropped onto it heavily, inviting Max to join him. Pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket, the old man told Max in a muted voice how for more than thirty years he’d been a loyal servant of the Romanian police. Oh, those were the good old days! Thanks to their hard work, there was barely any crime. And when they did catch someone, you could be sure the culprit wouldn’t commit
