Snow Job (17 page)

He woke at an hour uncertain with a painful thud:
Empires of the Steppes
had fallen on his foot. He massaged a sore toe, then a creaky neck, then switched off the lamp and manoeuvred toward the stairs, finding his way in darkness relieved only by a glow from the kitchen.

He looked in — the fridge door was open, and Savannah, in a
frozen state of unconscious indecision, in pyjama top and bikini bottoms, was staring blankly at the leftover macaroni. She’d been dieting, but the unaware self had not paid heed. Averting his eyes from her bent-over bottom, he sought to gently wake her, speaking her name. She was unresponsive.

When he sought to pry her hand from the fridge door, she jumped, looked wildly about, stepped quickly back, the fridge door swinging shut, darkness enshrouding them.

“Who are you?” she cried. “What are you doing?”

“It’s just me, Savannah.”

“Who? Arthur? Where are we?” She took some time to orient herself, even after Arthur found the light switch. She blinked, looked about, breathing heavily. “I should be in bed, I’m sorry.”

Arthur followed her there, settled her in, made hasty retreat upstairs.

“Breakfast!” Savannah hollered from downstairs. Coffee’s seductive aroma, the sizzle of bacon. No vegan she, unlike her stringy, over-healthy partner.

“Coming!” He padded off to his bathroom. Normally, he shared kitchen duties, but somehow he’d over-adjusted his inner clock to West Coast time, slept in till almost nine on this first day of December.

Wet-haired and gleaming from his shower, he found Savannah cheerily breaking eggs into a pan, listening to the CBC, no residual damage from last night. Rarely did she discuss her sleepwalking, shrugging it off as a minor life nuisance, and she didn’t mention it this morning. She greeted him with a bold hug, however, a full body press that threatened to arouse (he was ashamed to admit) an inappropriate physiological response. But she drew away in time.

“What’s on the news?” he asked.

“Bhashyistan. This thing looks like it’s subsided into a phony war, world leaders huddling, Security Council in no hurry to meet, NATO sitting on the sidelines. Nobody seems to be taking this seriously but you, me, and the Ultimate Leader. And maybe that freaky geek you saddled me with.”

Arthur got tied up in the early afternoon because Papillon, the adventurous nanny, got stuck in a fence attempting one of her miraculous escapes. When he returned to the house, a dozen locals were already in session debating strategies against the developers of Starkers Cove.

Among them was Ray DiPalma, who had penetrated the Committee to Save Lower Mount Norbert Road. He was squatting on the floor, polite, unobtrusive, a newcomer though well enough regarded, especially by those who had a little acreage to sell to an anti-American American. Savannah was guiding the debate, a facilitator more than agitator. One begins by politicizing people locally, she’d instructed Arthur, with issues that affect them just down the road, issues they can grasp.

Scraps of conversation, overheard as Arthur washed up and puttered about the kitchen: “We had a lovely view of that beach, and now this.” “So what if they go around buck naked — somebody tell me what’s the big deal.” “Well, we’re appalled, aren’t we, Desmond, at the prospect of seeing … well,
everything
.” “Yes, dear, if you say so.” “Some folks got a bug about nudity, not me. The body is the temple of the … whatever.”

Savannah: “I thought we were fighting a road widening and a clear-cut.”

This was politics in the raw, as it were — a livelier debate, how-ever, than any Arthur had witnessed in Ottawa.

During a refreshment break (Maud Miller’s muffins, Zoë Noggins’s biscuits, Blunder Bay’s goat cheese), Ray shuffled up to
Arthur, who was outside plotting his escape. “This is working, Mr. B., I’m getting in with the locals. What great people. Straight shooters. I could really dig living here.”

Arthur didn’t encourage him. “I feel quite uncomfortable about this, Ray. I almost feel I’m betraying my friends.”

“I’m on their side on this Norbert Road campaign. Keep Garibaldi green. Save the trees, save the planet. The nudity issue, personally I don’t care. But I do have some experience in that area, Janet and I having frequented a naturist club in Quebec, though just out of curiosity.”

“Janet? I thought she was Janice.”

“Why did I say Janet? Anyway, I’m thinking of doing a little fact-finding mission, check out this Starkers bunch. Maybe pretend I’m interested in investing.”

“And what do you suppose your boss is going to say when he finds out you’re investigating a supposed nudist group?”

“All in the line of duty. Speaking of getting naked, what’s the lowdown on this Emily LeMay and her Lovenest B & B? I don’t know how many times she’s asked me to jump in the hot tub with her, and there’s a no-clothes policy. She comes on a little strong.”

“Ah, yes, the local sex goddess. That’s her modus operandi, the hot tub. Soon she’ll have you hog-tied to her four-poster.”

“Oh my God, then what?”

The fellow seemed to lack a sense of humour. Arthur still couldn’t quite get a handle on him. Naive at times, but glib too, and with a disarming frankness. Some of his pro-green rhetoric seemed studied. Calling his wife Janet was a highly unusual slip. Arthur was expecting a kind of security check on him from Antoine Salzarro, who had been with Public Security and had met DiPalma several times.

“It’s Margaret, Arthur.” Savannah came out, passed him a cellphone, a borrowed one — DiPalma seemed sure their line wasn’t being intercepted, but Savannah was less confident. She hustled Ray back inside. “Do you want to help with the letter-writing campaign or do picket duty?”

Margaret spoke briskly. “Ten-thirty on Saturday in Montreal, at a mosque on Sherbrooke Street. Vana Erzhan will be there, and the landlord. Also the local imam, Dr. Mossalen. You’ll have to book a flight to Dorval for Friday. I’ll pick you up there and arrange a place to stay.” Rapid-fire, businesslike, a woman on the march, things to do. Politics and city living had sped her up.

“The tension around here is nearly intolerable, Arthur. Nothing
seems
to be happening, but you sense underlying currents. We don’t know what cabinet’s doing, thinking, planning. The Tory majority is down to five with DuWallup shunted off to the Senate. Finnerty’s favourite footman, Charley Thiessen, has his portfolio for the time being. The P.M. hasn’t been around for Question Period, and his ministers are being totally obtuse. We’re worried they’re about to spring the Emergencies Act on us. Bug all the phone lines, demand DNA from half the population, seize all the computers.”

“Slow down, dear. You’re running a little hot.”

“I
am
hot. What’s going on with you know who?”

“He’s currently helping organize a campaign to save Norbert Road from a threatened invasion of nudists.”

“Spare me the details. He’s such a wild card, Arthur. I really feel it’s a mistake to have got so tight with him.”

“I’ll give you a complete report on Saturday, my dear.” At least she didn’t lambaste him this time. But Savannah had already talked to her, persuaded her to let the show run a few more days.

Arthur returned to the living room, grabbed a muffin, and slipped out for his daily hike just as Ray was saying, “I have an idea.”

The next day, Thursday, was brittle bright, the thermometer climbing to new global warming heights, perfect for a pound-pruning jaunt to Gwendolyn Valley Park. Before setting off, Arthur listened
to his messages — three from Wentworth Chance and one from Antoine Salzarro. Arthur used the borrowed cellphone to call him back.

“His only major blot involved the infamous stolen computer,” Salzarro said. “Otherwise, an outstanding agent, with a splendid record from his several years working out of Belgrade. Came to the service right out of Carleton, master’s degree, honours. Quite the athlete there, I understand.”

“
Athlete?
”

“Played right wing with the Ravens. Rowing. Water polo.”

“I see.” Though Arthur didn’t. “Family history? Parents? Spouse?”

“As I recall, there was something about his mother … yes, it comes to me she died very young of cancer. I’ll do what I can to find out more.”

“But there was a mini-scandal, Antoine, was there not, about some sites found on his computer?”

“That does come back. Something to do with … partner-swapping? A nudist club? I remember we all had a great laugh over that.”

“And was he relegated to some lowly form of deskwork?”

“Not for long. He was considered too valuable to waste.”

“Wife problems?”

“I believe he had difficulty letting her go.”

“Do you recall her name?”

“Afraid not.”

“Bad habits? Smoking, drinking?”

“Aware of none. Quite the health nut, it seems to me. I’ll see what more I can find out.”

Arthur promised to pop in to see him on his return to the capital. He felt dissatisfied, suspicious, even angry — at DiPalma, for not quite being as advertised. Yet almost everything added up — the drinking may have started after his marriage began to dissolve. But athletic? This fellow stumbled around on two left legs. But maybe the drinking accounted for that too.

Arthur stayed on the phone, booked a ten a.m. flight the next day from the Victoria airport. That meant he’d have to catch the seven-fifteen ferry. And that meant, since Savannah didn’t drive … Bob Stonewell.

“Garibaldi Taxi Service and Hot Air Holidays,” said the answering machine. “How may we help you?”

Garibaldi’s sole taxi operator engaged in the dubious business practice of rarely being by his phone, but was usually in his garage or his charnel yard of skeletonized vehicles. No major detour required, he’d hike up by Centre Road.

Puffing from the hairpin climb, Arthur saw Stoney and his support group gathered in his front yard — missing was Hamish McCoy, reportedly still living high in Berlin, being coddled by the arts community.

Stretched out on the ground was a giant polyester sheet, pancake shaped, striped like a barber pole — the hot-air balloon. The group was in head-scratching discussion, studying a manual, presumably instructions on how to assemble this inflatable flying machine.

Seeing Arthur enter by the rickety gate, Stoney ambled toward him, pausing to pat the bow of the twenty-foot cabin cruiser he’d won from Herman Schloss.

“A beauty, eh? But what I want to direct your attention to is this baby here.” The balloon. “We’re not quite prepared for liftoff — there are some safety rules we got to adhere to. Like you don’t want to go up until that propane tank is full and what they call the blast valve is working. As soon as we figure everything out, the world’s our oyster.”

“Surely you need a licence of some sort to go ballooning.”

“Yeah, like for pilots, but this is Garibaldi Island, the last frontier, ordinary rules don’t apply. Soon as we figure out how to get this sucker aloft, we’re going into business, island hopping. That there gondola can carry six normal-sized tourists.” A commodious wicker basket.

Arthur saw this as a pipe dream — surely on sober reappraisal Stoney would put this project aside, as he had many other of his airy-fairy ideas. The middle of January. High over the Salish Sea, at the mercy of every gusting wind.