Trial of Passion (53 page)

Say it!

I am an alcoholic.

The sweet, addicting syrup flows into the sink and down the drain.

Ah, you impious bastard, George, I am a stronger man than this. I will survive. I
will.

And then I feel the weakness subside. A strength, a peace, comes over me. I have survived loss before. I have plunged into the fire of love and I have lived. I am truly not the whimpering invertebrate I used to be. Perhaps all those years of sweaty labour to conserve a bad marriage have given me muscle. Or perhaps like my rutabagas I have grown healthy and hardy in the gardens of Garibaldi. Have I not just won a notorious trial? Have I not attracted the lurid attentions of Emily Lemay? Yes, I am feeling quite possessed. Unruffled. Calm.

I slip on a wool sweater and walk outside among the rays and shadows of the moon. I shall not think of Margaret.

(But now I see her in its solemn face, hear her in the whispering wind in the trees, in the scolding slap of waves upon the beach.)

I stroll down the path to the water, and to prove my courage I glance at Margaret's house. It is in utter blackness. I am strong. I will survive. But unbidden comes a vision of heated naked bodies, and I am nauseated by it and speed to the ocean's edge. I stand there for a few moments panting, but nothing comes up.

I stare at the sea for a long and wretched time: the moonlit dancing waves, the foam-whipped channel, flickering lights on distant islands, the star-fat sky. I become aware of a distinct feeling of
dampness around my toes and realize the tide has been flowing, saturating my shoes.

Now something is tugging at my pant cuffs. Am I about to be eaten alive by crabs? It seems a sufficiently ignominious way to end it all. I turn, and Slappy licks my hand.

“What the
hell
are you doing?” Margaret is at the top of the path, under the arbutus tree, looking down at me.

Slowly, I turn to face her. She starts to come down the trail, wobbling, lightly impaired by her several beers. “Talking to yourself, wandering into the ocean. Why did you run off anyway?”

My feet are wet and I am paralysed.

“I looked all around for you.” She stops about a yard in front of me, studies me for signs of injury or mental illness.

“I, uh, I'm sorry, I just thought you and Malcolm wanted to be alone for a while.”

Slappy keeps tugging at me, and I follow him to dry land.

Margaret takes my hand and looks searchingly at me. “Oh, Arthur, I think I hurt you tonight. I know what happened.”

“What happened?”

“You saw me kissing him goodbye in the parking lot.”

“Kissing him . . . goodbye?” I croak.

“He had to get the nine o'clock, but insisted on coming by to look at the house. I really couldn't say no. Anyway, he took off right after that for the ferry. I looked for your car — why didn't you bring it to the fair?”

“My car?” I am in utter confusion.

“You haven't looked in your garage?”

Zombie-like, I let her lead me there: the Phantom v proudly squats within, festooned with ribbons.

“Stoney drove it in the parade this morning, didn't he tell you? That's a steering wheel from an old Massey-Harris tractor.”

I have managed to loosen up enough to laugh a little, though with the slight edge of hysteria.

She turns to face me and takes both my hands. “I'm sorry about. . . you know, the thing you saw with Malcolm. He, ah, really leaned into me.”

“I will admit to a raging jealousy. It was unworthy of me and insulting to you.”

“Yes, well, I felt very awkward all day. Not used to all that male energy. I suppose he was coming on a little. I told him I couldn't put him up.”

“I read your feelings differently.”

“You boob. It wasn't that much of a kiss.”

As she presses her lips to mine I smell a pleasant beery aftertaste. Her mouth works mine apart and her tongue searches deeply into it, and I am intoxicated by the delicious womanly scent of her body, by her narcotic exhalations. Her hips close with mine, gently shimmying, and I am transported, rabid with desire, and I melt in her heat, feel myself diving, diving, into the flames of passion. . . .

”
That's
a kiss,” she whispers huskily in my ear.

Her eyes shine into mine, hot as liquid silver, glistening in the moonlight. “You didn't really have to try so hard, Arthur.”

And she grabs a fistful of woollen sweater and marches her willing captive to the house.

Dear Patricia,

I suppose you're absolutely agog with speculation. What happened to that empty-headed sex slave anyway? Kidnapped? Joined a cult? Wandering amnesic through the lanes of Kathmandu? None of the above. No, I've changed my name and I'm starring in a smash Broadway production that just opened to rave reviews.

In my dreams.

Yes, the postmark says Domfront, Normandy, France.
That's in the apple country, not the wine country. (I've become a nut for calvados.) The town is on a hill, and it's incredibly ancient, all cobbly with narrow, leaning buildings and wiggly streets leading to the ruins of a castle, circa sixteen something. It's just crawling with old fortresses and stuff around here. Some major heart-attack restaurants, too — everything is served in some kind of obscene cream sauce or other. I'm going to become a total butterball.

The villa is on an escarpment. From the window where I write, orchards are spread out below me for miles, absolutely dripping with apples. Lots of calorie-burning little roads to explore by foot.

Got an off-season deal on this place. Four floors, lots of secret little parlours, all sort of rococo.
la Maison de la Resistance
is what the owner calls it — in honour of a French resister who hid out Allied airmen here during the war. Which is sort of what we're doing, hiding out, waiting for the liberation.

Let's not let Remy know where I am, okay? I assume he has my telegram, which I sent almost immediately when we got to Paris (ah, Paris, ah, romance, the cafés, the galleries, the strolls under the moon by the Seine). I'll deal with him, with it, with everything when I get my strength back. I'm getting there. Another week here and I'll be able to take on King Kong. I'll bring you a bottle of ten-year-old calvados when I return to face the music.

I've promised Jonathan not to mix it with Benedictine.

Anyway, let's face it, it wouldn't have worked. Remy needs some kind of fluttery society matron. But he's beautiful to look at, and he'll find some nice little money-hungry starlet to worship helpless at his feet.

Jonathan has impeccable French, which aids in our
forays into the countryside. We went up to St-Malo on a scooter; that was fun. Enchanted castle rising from the sea. What else? Pilgrimage to Rouen, where Joan was martyred. “Sometimes I actually think I'm Joan of Arc.” Did I say something like that in the courtroom? Jonathan says I did. How fucking arrogant. Joan of Arc is still burning with embarrassment over her porno gig in Court 55. You may not recognize me when I get back to Vancouver, but I'll be the one with the bag over her head.

That'll be next week — Jonathan's leave extends to the middle of the month, and I'm going to finish off my last year. We're not ashamed; we'll brazen it out. Anyone who makes a smart crack gets flunked.

Do you know where we spent the first night? Up at Grouse, in my cabin. We snuck down the next morning and caught a flight to Paris.

(Okay, I can tell you're impatient. I'll fill in the gap.) The scene is an obscure little bar in Chinatown.

HE:
There is something else I have to get off my chest.

SHE:
(nervously biting her lip) What?

HE:
I don't know how to say this. (She fiddles with her swizzle stick.)

HE:
I love you.

SHE:
(in shock) Oh, God.

HE:
For what it's worth.

SHE:
(increased agitation) Oh, God.

HE:
(frowning) What's the matter?

SHE:
(facing up to the truth) Dr. Kropinski had a final piece of advice….

HE:
Well, what did he tell you?

SHE:TO
ask myself why I see you so often in my dreams.

Next scene is a little cabin on the mountain. Clothes are lying helter-skelter on the floor. By the flickering
light of a fireplace we make out two bodies joyfully writhing on a rug.

We've talked about the M-word, but we're going to try living together before we make any legal binding commitments. (And speaking of binding, no we don't! But what the hey, I'm always into a little safe-sex fantasy. He knows not to jump me from behind, though.) He also understands my need for independence, my space. So I get his library — that parlour of debauchery — to study in; he gets the broom closet and kitchen. (Bonus: Hon. Jon loves to cook!) We'll have his-and-her closets, bathrooms, and psychiatrists. Share the bed.

How's your love life? Check out that starving actor I tried to line you up with. Light a fire.

Fondly,
Kimberley

A few writers and other friends are owed no small debt of gratitude. Anne Ireland's sage comments were invaluable in keeping the manuscript on track. Brian Brett and Doug Small offered critical perspectives. Ellen Seligman edited with characteristic craft and insight.

After working his way through law school as a journalist, William Deverell became one of Canada's most celebrated trial lawyers, serving as counsel in more than a thousand civil rights and criminal cases, including more than thiry murders — prosecuting as well as defending.

His first novel,
Needles,
won the $50,000 Seal Prize in 1979 and the Book of the Year Award. Since then he has published ten bestsellers, including
Kill All the Lawyers, Trial of Passion, Slander,
and
The Laughing Falcon,
and a true crime book,
A Life on Trial: The Case of Robert Frisbee,
based on a sensational murder trial he defended.

Trial of Passion
won the Arthur Ellis prize, for the best Canadian crime novel, and the Dashiell Hammett award, from the International Crime Writers Association, for literary excellence in crime writing in North America. His novels have been translated into ten languages and sold worldwide.

He created the CBc's long-running
TV
series
Street Legal,
which has run internationally in more than 50 countries, and adapted many of his works both to screen and radio. He has served as Visiting Professor of Creative Writing, University of Victoria. He is former executive director and president of the B. C. Civil Liberties Association, and twice was acclaimed as chair of the Writers' Union of Canada.

He lives on Pender Island, British Columbia, and winters in Costa Rica. Please visit his web site at
www.deverell.com