Snow Job (55 page)

At home, he was greeted with muddy-pawed exuberance by Homer and a weary nuzzle from old Barney’s muzzle. The two mousers, Underfoot and Shiftless, tangled themselves in his legs by way of hello, then wandered off, already bored with him.

The Fargo locked in the garage, its keys secreted in the back of the pantry, Arthur accepted Zack Flett’s tight, sinewy grip and Savannah’s enveloping arms, and exchanged greetings with the roadside bike-path boosters sprawled about the parlour. Then he changed into his grubs and let Homer take him on a tour of the farm.

Fences were sturdy, the barn in excellent repair, solar panels added to the roof of Margaret’s neighbouring house — Zack and
Savannah were almost ready to move into it, minimizing the threat of awkward sleepwalking incursions.

He spent the rest of that day in the fields and the garden, in the greenhouse and the goat corral, and felt the turmoil of recent weeks slip away. Yes, he must come up with some impregnable plan to avoid that royal commission hearing. Could he persuade Abzal and Bully he was too close to critical events? Yes, an excellent solution — he’d explain he was a potential witness. One can’t be both counsel and witness.

Pleased with this solution, he settled into his club chair and turned on the set for the six o’clock news, while his housemates sparred in the kitchen over who ought to dispose of a dead shrew, Underfoot’s gift.
Nullus est instar domus
. There is no place like home.

Arthur enjoyed several minutes of Jill Svetlikoff and her sister and niece rejoining their families in a clamorous welcome at the Regina airport that had the news anchor wiping his eyes. This was interrupted by a bulletin.

“The Bhashyistan government has fallen,” the announcer said. “Russian media has advised that President Ivanovich, his family, and advisers are surrounded in the presidential palace, seeking to negotiate terms of surrender.”

The Mishin Statement
A Blog by Vlad Mishin — Version: English

Dateline: Saturday, January 8. From the Steps of the Number Two Imperial Palace of the Former Ultimate Leader for Life.

Good evening, readers and fans. And thank you for making the Mishin Statement the most popular blog of the new year. My front-page
Izvestia
dispatches have been picked up around the world by now [click for list], but as usual it is time for reflections from one
who has had the fortune to be at the centre of the whirlwind — though a whirlwind that, as Catherine the Great complained to her husband, “petered out.”

That’s bad, isn’t it. Forgive me.

Anyway, it turned out that the dreaded elite guard were cowards to a man, and when their colonel told Igor Muckhali Ivanovich they weren’t willing to die for him, that’s when the negotiations began. The Mishin Statement is now able to confirm that Mad Igor and his retinue will face trial, but because they spared bloodshed by surrendering, the provisional government has agreed not to put them against the wall. (You read it here first. There was a lively debate over that one among the provisional leadership.)

Ex-President for Life Ivanovich remains with his family and advisers in the main palace [click to enlarge] which will be their prison until the BDRF decides where to put them.

Meanwhile, there is dancing in the streets, and hugging and kissing, and the Stolichnaya is flowing. (Expect a high birth rate in nine months!) Never have I seen such joy since the election of President Putin in my own country. Check out the podcast below where you will see Vlad Mishin flailing helplessly, being carried on the shoulders of revelling students.

Behind me, as I write, is the number two imperial palace [click here], in which the provisional government is quartered for the time being. I have just returned from there after a few interesting words with Abzal Erzhan, who has been named chair of the provisional council. He told me he is determined to create a democracy in a land that has never known one. Many, including your faithful correspondent, hope that is not a naive goal.

“Not everyone agrees,” my friend confided, “but I favour the British system, a house of the common people.”

Yours truly is neither a politician nor a great student of history, merely a recorder of events, but I humbly pressed our own Russian model on him, recalling Lenin’s line: “It is true that liberty
is precious — so precious that it must be rationed.” Jesting right along with me, Abzal quoted the even more famous line from Churchill: “Democracy is the worst form of government except all the others.”

I question whether that will hold true in the cauldron of the future.

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O
n Saturday, Arthur bundled up against a rare coastal snowfall to head off to the General Store, a welcome return to his hiking regime. The coffee lounge was sparsely populated, with just a couple of carpenters on break from roofing the new bar.

Abraham Makepeace was in the grocery aisles, helping the cantankerous island centenarian, Winnie Gillicuddy. “If I want your advice about fat-free yogurt, I’ll ask for it. Don’t treat me like I’m helpless.”

The frazzled postmaster joined Arthur at the mail counter and offered the most cursory of greetings: “Welcome back to the rock.” He tossed a thick bundle onto the counter. “Bunch of magazines waiting for you. Political flyers. Catalogue from a publisher, your picture’s in it. Invitation to the Starkers Cove shindig this afternoon, family fun in the afternoon, followed by a dance featuring a rock and roll band called Skunkweed.”

Arthur would take a pass on that, saving his strength for the next day’s balloon launch.

“A couple of interesting postcards. This one’s from Capri — that’s in Italy. You can read it yourself.”

“Why, thank you, Abraham.”

In carefully printed letters:
Greetings, Comrade Arthur. Albania not so safe right now for Djon Bajramovic, so having holiday until heat
dies. Sorry about sidekick Ray. Maybe Mafia rubout hit. Talk to you when coming soon Canada, looking forward. Solidarity!

“This here other one is addressed to Margaret, postmarked Albania. Guess things weren’t going too good when you sent it. I got depressed just reading it.”

Arthur sat down with a coffee, glanced at the publisher’s catalogue, the spring list, Arthur’s eagle beak in inglorious profile on the cover of
A Thirst for Justice
. He hid it under the pile. The political bumf included an exhortation from the Progressive Reform Party, Gerard Lafayette standing proudly by a maple leaf flag. The right-wing renegade was suddenly polling well; he’d reaped a harvest of Tory malcontents. Margaret had sounded a little flattened on the phone the night before — with the election ten days away, the Greens had hit an electoral ceiling, were scrambling for leftovers with the other small parties. Progressive Reform was coming up the middle of the pack.

Makepeace came by with the portable phone. “Normally, as you know, this establishment frowns on personal calls, but this here is from a foreign dignitary.”

“Who?”

“President pro-tem, he calls himself, of Bhashyistan. Don’t tie it up all day.”

Arthur was slow to recover from the shock of hearing, from halfway around the world, the liquid-clear voice of Abzal Erzhan apologizing, of all things, for this intrusion. “Forgive me, Arthur, but someone at your house said you could be reached here.”

“Good lord, is that you? Truly?”

“Weary but more at peace than when we shared our last adventure. I apologize for deserting you in the night, but you can appreciate the reasons.”

Arthur recovered sufficiently to ask after his family.

“I just got off the line with Vana. She’s well, the kids are in excellent health and spirits. I expect they’ll join me here after their school year. Hopefully, things will have settled down by then.”

He’d reunited with his siblings, who were also well — “all things considered.” His bitterness at the tyrant who had tortured them and murdered his parents seemed somewhat mollified by his easy, triumphant victory. “There has been enough blood, Arthur. Better that Ivanovich and his bootlicks spend the rest of their lives in solitary contemplating the hatred the nation feels for them. Oh, incidentally, our technologically savvy friend Mukhamet has denounced his
père
— thinking to save his skin — so he may be a useful tool.”

Arthur could hardly believe he was hearing these unguarded, confident words from a man who’d seemed congenitally moody and taciturn. It struck him that he’d not got his true measure during their few days together.

“There’ll be elections, of course?”

“When we’re ready.” That was too ambivalent. Arthur was reluctant to ask about the ominous influence of the Russians. He feared that this educator, however well intentioned, despite his impressive show of leadership, might prove unschooled in the politics of power.

Abzal asked after Brian Pomeroy, and Arthur was able to tell him the lawyer-turned-goldseeker had been reported alive and reasonably well.

“It will be too much to ask you, but maybe Brian Pomeroy — We’ll need help organizing a justice system.”

“An invitation to serve as adviser to the Bhashyistan minister of justice might tempt him to emerge from hiding.”

“And Djon Bajramovic, have you heard from him?”

“He’s on holiday in southern Italy.”

“Well earned. I’m sorry I never had a chance to meet Mr. DiPalma before his sad end.”

Makepeace was wagging an impatient finger. There would be time enough to tell Abzal of the eight million dollars negotiated on his behalf. “Tied up as you are with affairs of state, you obviously have little reason to come back.”

“Oh, no, I’m looking forward to watching you in action at the commission hearing. Very important to see justice done.”

Arthur stifled a groan.

Parking was tight when he arrived late at the Hot Air Holidays proving grounds, so he left the Fargo by the gate, deep-pocketing the keys. It was a cold, crisp day, the sun unable to muster the energy to melt the leavings of yesterday’s snow clouds. These had deposited a white film on roofs and untrampled foliage, making Stoney’s car lot less homely. The ribbons, banners, and helium balloons — a clever touch — along with the swollen, red-striped airship, gave the feel of an inelegant amusement park.

Stoney’s cronies were all present, along with the bulk of the Centre Road neighbourhood — though not the next-door Shewfelts, who were constantly at daggers drawn with Stoney, dragging him to court under the Unsightly Premises Bylaw. No sign of Constable Pound, who’d likely found the ballooning regulations too complex to be enforceable.

When Baldy Johansson offered a swig from his hip flask, Arthur looked at him severely.

“Oh, yeah, I forgot, you’re AA.”

“So are you.”

“Had to take a break from them meetings, I get too emotional. Besides, it’s the year’s biggest social weekend. How late did you stay at that Starkers Cove ring-dang-do?”

“I wasn’t there.”

“I’d of sworn you was in the hot tub with us. Man, they had half a steer on the spit. Kegs of beer, enough to fill a bathtub, wine galore, not from kits either, the real stuff. Live music, Skunkweed from Port Alberni, played all night until their lead singer passed out. Everything kinda died out around four.”