Philippe died in El Salvador in 1989, he finally understood what Pascale meant. His brother’s political mishap had been a futile attempt to change the progress of things. Philippe had returned to his riverbed, which now took him to Central America, and not just anywhere, but specifically to El Salvador, where the menu presented a military clique working for the big landowners, generals who imposed order and terror with machetes and prohibitive taxes. It was a country run by death squads supported by the U.S. Army. Rebel groups hidden in the mountains stood up to them. Assassination and kidnapping were the signs of a perpetual civil war.
A hundred thousand dead in ten years, just one more senseless conflagration on a planet that held to them with demonic persistence.
Max was sure Philippe knew what hell he was getting into and even suspected he chose El Salvador deliberately, maybe because Lebanon, Burma, and other hornets’ nests were unavailable. Philippe had determined the location of his sacrifice the way Joan of Arc had resolutely said to her executioners, “Put the fire and stake here, not over there. It’s too far!” Karma perhaps, but one he had chosen for himself, as if to prove he didn’t care about dying any more than about the latest limo.
Sure, and why not El Salvador?
The sacrifice had been calling to him, and sooner or later, he’d have to face it head-on. The generals just had to wait for the right time to intervene. By seeking to provoke the powers that be, Philippe stood himself in front of the bullseye, but he also drew the sympathy of the people of the capital, terrorized by the violence that corrupted the atmosphere in the country, be they of the right or the left. Lo and behold, here was one, at least, who wasn’t barricaded behind bodyguards at every private cocktail party. He dared to drive along the Panamericana without ten motorcycle cops from the Policia Nacional on his tail.
Béatrice watched this provocation, this ritual of death, with anger she could barely contain. What her husband was doing made no sense. If he wanted to die, okay, but why take his wife down with him? That wasn’t his plan, either. He chose one of her return trips to Montreal — there were lots of them — to open the embassy gates to some peasants and rebels fleeing the death squads, and in a single night transform his office into Noah’s Ark.
Ottawa was informed, and the minister awakened in the middle of the night. Philippe O’Brien once again. He regretted not having insisted on the Singapore posting instead of giving in on this one, but the wimpy prime minister had wanted to soothe his fallen star, and here was the result.
The view from Ottawa showed Philippe creating his own personal crisis to draw attention to himself. This was Bonaparte on Elba plotting his return to the French throne. No question that when this ambitious headline-grabber came home after saving these poor people, his twisted family history would be all forgotten, but what the minister of foreign affairs saw as a rebirth, a resurrection, a roaring comeback, was in reality nothing but an uplifted middle finger. Okay, so Philippe had manufactured his own distinct flashpoint, but he’d done it to be able to make a spectacular exit. A gesture out of the ordinary, the kind that made its agent “useful,” no longer a spectator powerless to act on events, but someone with an impact that made him “essential” to his peers. Since Canadian voters had refused his “total commitment,” illiterate peasants — who probably had no idea where Canada even was — would be the beneficiaries of his act of bravery.
Things unravelled very quickly. While the whole world watched, Philippe negotiated for the lives of the peasants with representatives of the generals. He offered his own for theirs, despite orders to the contrary from Ottawa. But who were they to get in the way of his sacrifice? The authorities weren’t expecting anything like this insane courage. Then there were the television cameras, and the generals were getting to enjoy their new show. They could of course storm the place and kill everyone, including the ambassador, and put an end to the drama. But these morons enjoyed being instant TV anti-stars, bogeymen scaring good suburbanites all across the West.
Ottawa was in panic mode. What the hell kind of game was this cretin playing? Communications were cut off, naturally. Anyway, Philippe couldn’t care less about their advice, and within a week, the media getting bored with their clinking medals and grandiose uniforms, and their own grand play, the generals decided that at last they could act. In a crackling fireworks of shots, soldiers invaded the embassy like drunken festival-goers carrying machine guns. They were expecting the usual panic and desperate acts, but what they got was a deserted building that was way too calm for that. This place smelled like shit. They came across the ambassador writing letters in his office. He barely paused to invite them to take a seat.
Not a trace of the rebels.
What was this? A trap? An ambush?
Philippe suggested they take a look in the basement.
A tunnel dug through the wall led to the sewers of San Salvador, which accounted for the infernal smell that permeated the building.
Later on, one of the escapees told American TV reporters that he’d once worked in the sewers and knew the city’s underground world by heart. An important conduit was situated nearby, and for a week, while Philippe faced down the generals under the eye of the camera, the fugitives had punched a hole in the cement and dug through the crumbly earth to the main sewer and freedom. They subsequently found refuge in Guatemala, and the media that had once demolished Philippe’s political career were now the ones that, despite themselves, allowed him to save these poor people and become a hero.
For the military, Philippe’s victory was intolerable, especially when it was so cool-headed and insulting. He ought to be at their feet begging for pity, but instead he was beaming and seemed to be at his all-time peak. They killed him on the spot at point-blank range.
“If I’d turned myself in to the police when Béatrice asked me to,” Max sighed, “Philippe would be alive today.”
Juliette was moved listening to this story. A few hours earlier, an elderly woman, Mimi, had greeted them with arched black eyebrows and a strident voice, as well as hot soup. Antoine, her taciturn brother, used his equipment in the basement while listening to Madama Butterfly. Mimi didn’t seem pleased by Juliette’s presence, but she kept her opinions to herself. Max let her use his room and he got settled on the sofa. Juliette wasn’t sleepy, and neither was he. She joined him in the living room, and that was when she had asked him exactly what happened to David’s father. This time, there was no avoiding the question for Max.
“Did David ever talk about him?” he asked.
“He admired him a lot. He was David’s idol,” and she added, “David would have liked a Central American posting. He knew they’d never send him though.” Then, after a long pause, and realizing that Max was silent now too, she continued, “I’m disappointed he didn’t tell me what he was up to. What if he felt guilty about something? Maybe he did feel guilty and didn’t dare tell me about it.”
“Or perhaps he was trying to protect you. Like Patterson just now.”
Everyone wants to protect me, regardless of what I want, she thought to herself. Maybe David did, too.
“He didn’t want you to get mixed up in anything,” Max went on, “like Philippe with Béatrice back then. The people who held a grudge against David knew that somehow or other. That’s why you weren’t attacked as well.”
“Your brother had secrets, too.”
Max didn’t react.
“Did you know about Deborah Cournoyer?”
Max had never heard the name.
“She was his
