of time before he whipped off his apple-green dhoti and frolicked in the fields with his Vestal Virgins.
Then there were the fights and door-slamming, and making up, too. Misdeeds confessed to and half pardoned, swept under the little Rajasthan rug and saved up for the next round. Max had taken Guvani for their next pigeon, and now it turned out he was the pigeon’s pigeon. Max was furious. They were after the guy’s fortune, but no, he’d taken advantage and stolen what was most precious to him: Pascale, “his” Pascale.
Once in Ohio, Max wanted to see this ashram up close and confront the fraud. At least they spoke the same language, so they’d understand each other perfectly. Instead, he found a modern, up-to-date man, not the sandalled refugee holding court in the luxurious living rooms of bored do-gooder ladies. No, this Guvani was as simple as they come, a diminutive person with too much of a tan for these parts, and his smile was definitely not lecherous. It bore the same fatalism he was to see on many Indian faces later on; millions, in fact. He wasn’t rich, either. Max could tell not only from the way he lived, but also as he rifled through his bank accounts and investments. Max had called on a few of his contacts for this. No dice. This guru had nothing, or almost nothing. It was the students who profited from his teaching, not him. Possibly the carpet-seller or the cassette-maker … who knows?
Brad Wyles — in charge of rooting out victims of esoteric or religious cults — whom Max met in New York, confirmed it. This was Wyles’s life-long mission, and he’d like nothing more than to nail Guvani, but the guru was literally above suspicion. He’d gone over the man’s early life, as well as his connections in the U.S. and India, with a fine-tooth comb. He’d even sent fake devotees to spy on the ashram and offer him money, cars, yachts, or (more discreetly) investments in tax havens, and they’d been sent packing. He had nothing. He wanted nothing. Even the fanatics clinging to his parka (well, it was winter after all) made him want to get rid of them. Ironically, that just whipped them into more of a frenzy … Pascale most of all.
Max was like a rabbit in the headlights of this UFO. He was paralyzed, unable to do a thing, least of all use reasoned logic. Pascale would listen to no one, nothing but her own impulses. She was plugged into her own soul with an ardour that literally scared Max. Then one day, the fervour simply disappeared. The prayer rug joined its secular fellows in the back of the closet, preceded by the meditation cassettes. The cure was as sudden as the onset of the disease. Max was just too happy to bother asking why, and their lives picked up where they had left off, in a way. Guvani was gone from their conversations and lovers’ quarrels.
In the summer of 1980, when Max got out of prison, Guvani still reigned over the ashram in the Hocking Hills. The master was a little stooped, the smile still resigned, and his modest means the same. His advice was the same as Philippe’s. Why go looking for her? Just respect her decision, that’s all.
Later, Max did pick up Pascale’s trail, when he found out she’d been living in India for years. Perhaps her separation from the guru was just strategic and temporary. Perhaps she’d just wanted to cover her tracks and make things hard for Max, and he’d fallen into the trap. So maybe the man’s naïveté, his candour and blindness, had actually been a smokescreen to hide what she was up to after all.
“A swindler like me. The best of the lot.”
24
The only way to get past this is to look straight ahead, to project myself into the future, thought Juliette. From now on, I’m unshakeable; I won’t let anything stand in my way. I won’t let David disappear, no, never. He entrusted me with his memory, and I won’t let him down. The basilica was packed, obviously. It smelled of rain all the way to the altar. Everyone was wet and uncomfortable. Juliette turned toward the choir and saw Deborah Cournoyer — whom she’d met briefly in Patterson’s office — near the organ. One more glance at the body. The Canadian flag was wet, too. Droplets evaporated with the incense. In a trembling voice, Raymond Bernatchez was describing to all a David who was truer than life. Everyone held back tears.
They carried out the coffin, and Juliette fell in behind, accompanied by Béatrice. The younger woman raised her head. Deborah Cournoyer was no longer in the choir, though Juliette spotted her a few moments later getting into the back of a Subaru parked on Saint-Sulpice. Patterson closed her door, and the car rolled toward the Old Port. When Patterson turned around, he saw Juliette. He hesitated. It was as if Juliette had noticed something she wasn’t supposed to or been found somewhere she wasn’t supposed to be.
Juliette went over to the consultant. “Who was that woman?”
“Excuse me?”
“Deborah Cournoyer, who is she, really?”
Patterson reacted to the question like a slap in the face. He sighed, looking around for a way out, and then sighed again to signal that he didn’t want to talk about it. But Juliette stared him down without blinking, and he had no choice.
“She was Philippe’s mistress for a number of years. In fact, right up to his death.”
“I don’t want this business suddenly coming out in public.” Now I know what she meant.
The prime minister’s favourite caterer had the young waitstaff from the Institut de l’hôtellerie slinking around on cat-feet. There were more flowers, bouquets of them, and a large photo of David, a holiday picture at least, and guests around the buffet table, hesitating between the sauerkraut and the tandoori chicken. Dennis Patterson had done things up grand, as always. Despite her grief, Béatrice was slipping from guest to guest like a bee among flowers: it was just another cocktail party really, a bit tragic of course, but the same rules of etiquette applied, nevertheless. Bernatchez fluttered from one businessman to another with his customary ease. Was this to be a last tribute to David or a chance at privileged access to the high commissioner? To ask the question was to answer it.
Juliette couldn’t stop thinking about what Patterson had said a few minutes before and about Deborah Cournoyer’s discreet presence at the funeral. Béatrice must have suffered from their relationship. Juliette watched her mingling with the guests and saw her in a new light. She forgave her mother-in-law’s insistence, her hurtful comments, her condescending attitude toward people in general, especially to Juliette. Must be a defence mechanism built up over the years. Was David in the know? Surely not. Béatrice could have used this woman to tarnish her deceased husband’s reputation, but obviously hadn’t. It was to her credit.
Suddenly, Juliette felt she’d had her fill of deconstructing the past, and she took advantage of the general melee to slip discreetly away to the kitchen. The fridge — there had to be some ice. Then her cellphone began to hum. This time it was really crackly on the line.
Max brought her up to date on what he’d found out about David’s fear and nervousness from Luiz and Adoor, the watchman; the call from Srinagar in the heart of Kashmir as war threatened between India and Pakistan; David’s return to Delhi with his well-kept secret most likely increasing his nervousness and fear. David apprehended what was about to happen: the kidnapping and torture, the explosion under the used Volvo.
“What do you get from that?”
“The attack wasn’t a blind, gratuitous, or isolated act. David was not simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, as Patterson and the High Commission people think.” David had been selected from among all the diplomats in Delhi for a reason. What that was, Max did not know, but he was going to find out, of that he was sure.
“Kashmir?”
“Maybe.”
That Indo-Pakistani wasps’ nest, where both
