prison, Max had received pictures from Philippe, taken when he was on duty in the Moroccan Sahara, pictures of him with local dignitaries appropriately costumed. In one, taken in a souk, for example, you could see merchants selling him baubles and grinning from ear to ear. Then, more serious, as befits a “diplomat,” he was seated at a mahogany table with officials in European dress, as well as dusty-faced rebels with Kalashnikovs over their shoulders. Philippe’s piercing gaze reigned over all — people, situations, insoluble crises — and everywhere he went, he got respect. He inspired people to be on his side and work with him, to feel that serene strength backing them up. His warmth didn’t smother or suffocate, but reassured. Max had experienced it as a boy and understood why everyone reacted to his brother the same way.
Philippe had just finished a three-year stint in Rabat and was on his way back to Ottawa to await his next year’s posting: Ankara, Turkey. In the meantime, he’d be Mr. Average Suburbanite with his young wife, Béatrice, a translation student who’d wound up at the Canadian Embassy in Tokyo a few years earlier. She was expecting to teach English to the offspring of the “Japanese economic miracle.” Then the two had fallen madly in love, and after a lengthy engagement, got married in Rabat. During the long vacation, Philippe had brought his bride to the North Pole to introduce her to Max. She was the very model of an ambitious diplomat’s wife: refined, elegant, fiercely intelligent, and ready to sacrifice all for her husband’s career. Philippe was beyond doubt a superior being, and so was she, forming an elite duo that, before long, would be unstoppable.
By his side, Béatrice was more like a guide than a shadow. In the thick of things, Philippe didn’t have time to stand back and assess every situation with regard to long-term ambitions. Béatrice directed from the wings, and, with exceptional mastery, steered him away from errors of judgment that might hurt his career.
Tokyo and Rabat had been remarkable turns. Of his class, now scattered around the globe, Philippe held the most promise. His finesse, his intelligence, his gift for languages — one year in Tokyo and he was already speaking Japanese — as well as his innate flair for negotiation and human interaction, put him far ahead of the others.
Lost in his “zoo” up in northern Ontario, Max had no idea about Philippe’s transformation, or the refinement he’d undergone. Still, nothing had changed between the two brothers. Except Béatrice. The first time he met her, Max saw that the young woman was ill at ease with him. She’d have preferred Philippe to keep his distance, but that wasn’t going to happen, so she never accompanied her husband again to Temagami. Philippe often brought Pascale with him on the long drive. These were the happiest moments of Max’s incarceration, with Philippe’s travel stories and their chats together, all three of them. Everything seemed so easy, simple.
Now, Max found himself reliving the nightmare of Pascale’s disappearance, of his return to Montreal in 1980, of the parole conditions that prevented him from packing his bags and going to look for her. He wanted to search every single city and country and house, to walk the streets of the world to find her and bring her home with him and restart their life together. He could forgive her; anyway, it wasn’t her fault. It was his for not being there when it mattered. He’d let her down.
“Maybe you should give her the benefit of the doubt,” Philippe had said when he was asked for his opinion.
Max hadn’t expected this answer. He wanted to send her name and description to every embassy and consulate in Europe. “People have to renew their passports from time to time, don’t they?”
But then what? Max knew her. She was probably travelling under an assumed name, and fake IDs were easy to get anywhere.
And, anyway, the benefit of what doubt? He knew she was gone and wasn’t coming back. Getting her home would take more than his brother’s fine and empty sentiments.
“That’s what really hurts, her going without saying a word.”
Philippe was right about his pain, though. It just got worse and worse. He had no hold over any of this, like a small boy who doesn’t get to have a good cry.
“What could you have done, anyway?”
Max had no idea. Maybe things would have turned out exactly the same. At least …
“She’s gone. That we know, and I’m sure she had reasons we can’t even guess at. The fact is, she chose to go, and all you can do is rail at the way she did it.”
Ever the diplomat. Philippe was discussing this like some inter-tribal conflict in New Guinea: what you do is get each side to consider the other’s perspective. The problem with that was they were talking about a ghost. Max was out of arguments and walled himself up in silence. There was nothing Philippe could do to help. Max just had to muddle through on his own.
The next day, instead of reporting to his parole officer, Max crossed the U.S. border at Windsor after an all-night drive, flashing fresh fake papers prepared by Antoine, though Mimi was against it. “You’ll dig yourself in deeper, Max. What you need is just the opposite. You need to make yourself look squeaky clean. How can you be any good as a con man with your face plastered over every police bulletin board in the Americas?”
He had a beard now, but it did nothing to hide his suffering, and anyhow, he didn’t give any more of a damn for her advice than for his brother’s.
Detroit, all lit up, was still a depressing sight. No use hanging around here, so he kept driving till he couldn’t keep his eyes open and stopped in some quiet, nameless burg with deserted malls and fast-food places. Still, the motel was full up. Finally, he got a room at the far end of a long row of different-coloured doors and slept a deep, dreamless sleep. He ditched the car in a vacant lot and went south on a Greyhound. His convalescence was definitely over and his new life — his American new life — was underway, but first he had to visit the guru Guvani.
Already Max could pinpoint when it happened, the precise moment when things fell apart between him and Pascale: similar, but not identical to a host of little things he’d not noticed at the time. One day he’d found Pascale searching for information on one guru Guvani, who followed in the footsteps of Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, a Tantric Buddhist all dressed up in red and who had a hankering for the lifestyle of a maharajah. In the 1980s, he was expelled from the U.S. and fled to Poona in India, where he’d founded his very first ashram in 1974.
Guvani appeared to fall right into step behind his mentor and his competitors, even recruiting the same consciousness-deprived people who’d become jaded toward Western faiths. Guvani even cultivated the same look, minus the red, which he replaced with green, and the used-car-salesman smile. At first, Max had thought Pascale was after the guy’s money.
Why abandon Bay Street, Wall Street, and Rodeo Drive for a secluded ashram in Ohio’s Hocking Hills? Then again, why not? We all need a fresh start now and then, Max figured. Eastern philosophy was one opportunity. Pascale had other ambitions, though, or rather none at all outside of “transforming” what she called her “life connections.” She subscribed to the guru’s publications, listened to his meditation cassettes, and even got a small woven rug — probably made by kids at some hole in Rajasthan. She sat on it every Sunday morning and chased away evil thoughts.
At first, Max wasn’t concerned, especially since she was as effective as ever. Meditation had given her a clearer grasp of things, and that was a plus in their line of work. He soon lost his illusions about that, though. He realized she was hiding things. Instead of visiting friends in Europe, for instance, she went to Ohio. He found out Guvani had taken a liking to her (“There’s nothing to worry about,” she said, “He’s above sexuality, not like Rajneesh.”). That probably accounted for the lecherous smile and the habit of scratching
