old ‘friend’ Patterson for some specific purpose, like, say, getting himself into the High Commission. A letter from a former diplomat, or better yet, a personal call to Raymond Bernatchez would do the job. That meant revealing the assumed name he was travelling under, and you’re going to tell me what that is right now without a fuss.”
Patterson went on playing with his fork, while Juliette begged him not to give in to this blackmail, but he wasn’t listening. “Peter Brokowich.”
Roberge then turned to Juliette with a smile. “Terrific, and now, how about we order?”
Juliette was already up and heading for the exit. Patterson caught up with her in the street. “Look, let me explain.”
She was in no mood to listen to him humiliate himself any further. She hailed a taxi and got in. She felt like throwing up, and leaned her head against the window.
Most diplomats die in their beds, surrounded, at best, by their grieving families, and at worst by their souvenirs from another world — exotic trinkets dried out by electric heating and cracked into a thousand veins, not really something worthy of a state funeral. On the website for retired Foreign Affairs people, there would be the inevitable short blurb on the great loss resulting from this death, not just for the family, but for all of society, due to the “selfless devotion to duty and his beloved country.” Juliette recalled seeing David turn to the death notices looking for colleagues of his father, who, unlike him, hadn’t been “fortunate” enough to die tragically.
Death in the line of duty, however — violent death especially — received the fullest recognition. This was a first-class send-off with all the pomp of Foreign Affairs behind it. Ministers got the wrinkles out of their best suits and shined their shoes. The grieving widow was obviously the heroine of the day, a role Juliette had absolutely no desire to play. She’d have much preferred a more discreet burial, but since David’s death she’d let herself be swept along by events. She had some vague perception of everything being arranged around her, as though she had no connection to the whirlwind of energy that strangers were expending on her husband’s remains. Patterson had coaxed her to the funeral home on Laurier, shown her the coffin, which she had approved, along with the text of the card. Unquestioning, she said yes to everything. She kept thinking, I’m not going to cry. I’m going to be dignified, like those widows of politicians, whose strength of character the media praised to the skies: “She remained erect, not shedding a tear, despite the unbearable grief.”
David, in a suit he’d had made to measure by a tailor in the Santushti Shopping Complex, lay in his coffin at the far end of the room. Béatrice fussed over the floral arrangements for the hundredth time. Juliette charged up to her.
“What’s wrong? What do you want?” Béatrice cried out.
“The truth.” Juliette had had her fill of things left in the shadows, little mysteries, and things implied but left unsaid. The previous evening, she’d asked Béatrice about Deborah Cournoyer and the story that should not be brought out into the light of day, but Béatrice had brushed her off. This time Juliette was looking for answers about Max and why Béatrice always bad-mouthed him. Why was that? She’d turned Max in to Roberge without a moment’s hesitation. She stayed as far away from him as possible, as though he were a leper who might infect her. What was the reason?
Béatrice had adopted the pose that David called “her statue pose.” “She makes me laugh,” he’d said. “She’s like a rabbit in the forest when it hears a noise — it freezes completely.” Pose or no pose, Juliette was not letting her off the hook till she explained.
Juliette quoted Roberge: “Max O’Brien’s methods are even worse. Ask Béatrice about it.”
Béatrice didn’t budge. This rabbit was unmoved by Juliette’s torrent of words.
She moved in again. “What did Max ever do to make you hate him so much?”
Béatrice sighed. “He could have prevented Philippe’s death, and he refused. It’s as simple as that.”
17
The small diplomatic world of India stuck together in their mourning and wanted to prove to the Indians that the terrorist threat wasn’t going to intimidate them. On the contrary, this was an act of will, of bravery, and even of heroism. Obviously, the military Jeeps and police cars that Max saw in front of the Spanish ambassador’s residence lent courage to the guests. Yet, despite the precautions, Max had no trouble getting past these obstacles. In the immense salon, he faced an Osborne bull in a tapestry hung on the wall above a Gaudiesque bureau. Photos of Toledo and a reproduction of seventeenth-century Madrid were also on show. The Spanish did nothing by halves. The grated door, which separated the servants’ quarters from the ambassador’s family could be locked in the event of an uprising and was typically decorated with Castilian flourishes.
The ambassador, Don Miguel Ferrer, seemed built to match. His long, emaciated El Greco face was topped by a tangle of wayward grey hair that was borne every which way by the draft from a fan that seemed to pursue him wherever he went, even by the bar near the kitchen door where a group of Sikhs in evening wear stood.
Max stopped a young Indian serving girl, snagged a glass of champagne from her tray, and then went out into the garden. Some of the hardiest were out there defying any possible sniper and seemingly the more excited for it. Guests, fuelled by alcohol, were talking loudly, punctuated by the occasional belly laugh. He’d expected more restraint from David’s colleagues, but the vocal display was part of their bluff: “Terrorism won’t stop us from enjoying ourselves and indulging in curried shrimp.”
There were representatives of other embassies there, as well as Indians, all of them fully decked out for the occasion, downing Scotch and Rioja with typical Western self-assurance and good humour, as if they were saying, “We were present at the end of the world.” Around the bar were small groups of entrepreneurs who had shown up, as Max had done, without invitations in order to escape the solitude of the Intercontinental Hotel or an intimate dinner with themselves at the Parikrama. Under other circumstances, Max would have had no trouble at all choosing “pigeons” among these rootless ones and latching on to them for his own profit. For now, he had other things on his mind: finding someone, and that someone was Vandana. But she was nowhere to be seen.
He took another spin around the garden, where groups of Japanese were handing out stacks of business cards, before going back inside. The Sikhs had split up, and the ambassador was now discussing the Afghan situation with a Polish diplomat, while his wife, Ana Maria, was describing the feria in Pamplona to an enthralled Indian. Two Australian businessmen wondered if they shouldn’t leave the country like their compatriots, especially now that Pakistan had announced missile tests in order to show the Indians that two could play at that game. Their Indian companion simply smiled.
“Vajpayee is away on holiday in Manali. If it were that serious, don’t you think he’d stay here in New Delhi?”
The Australians seemed even less convinced.
A fresh glance at the door revealed that Vandana had just arrived, resplendent in a burgundy sari, and she wasn’t alone. Henry Caldwell and William Sandmill were with her in Bernatchez’s place. He was probably in Canada by now. Sunil Mukherjee brought up the rear. Max would rather have been alone with her, so, disappointed, he headed once again for the garden, where the darkness would afford him better protection. He kept his eyes on Vandana and her escorts, who were now the centre of attention. Don Miguel dropped his conversation with a chubby Argentinean to welcome the new arrivals. Renewed courage — “We won’t be cowed by terrorists.”
The ambassador
