The first figure we will meet is Dr Bernard Rieux. His catalytic place in this story and his subsequent role grants him primacy. His status as a male physician also serves to foreground him as a protagonist. But his manner would not otherwise suggest that he fits the role. When it is first necessary to speak of him, it occurs shortly before the key incidents that took place in late October.
It was Halloween. To be more precise, it was a weekday that fell between the weekend when adults celebrated in their costumes and the holiday’s actual date when they dutifully trudged the streets alongside their children. As someone who had no children (and found dressing in costumes distasteful), Dr Rieux was largely oblivious to the trappings of this festivity. He had, however, been awakened at five in the morning by a loud bang. It was a local tradition that fireworks and firecrackers were set off in the days around Halloween. The tradition had taken place for at least a few decades and was routinely decried by concerned citizens calling for a ban. The previous year, fireworks had caused a dog to be spooked and then killed by a SkyTrain car and fireworks were also held responsible when a house burned down another year. According to one blog Dr Rieux read, the peculiar fireworks tradition originated in Guy Fawkes’ Night and could be traced to the city’s British origins. For people who lived in Vancouver, this was how Halloween was experienced. If they relocated to other cities, ex-Vancouverites would wait in vain for the explosions expected at this time of year. Their chests clenched in the evenings whenever they saw a cluster of teenaged boys—knowing that there were people who didn’t habitually flinch in this way.
Rieux was unable to get back to sleep after being woken. His day at the clinic would start in just another hour. He sat up in bed and noticed that his wife was no longer beside him. The sheets on her side were cold. He found her at the kitchen counter with a mug of tea still steaming onto her perfectly round eyeglasses. Her suitcase was already set by the door.
Elyse Rieux was a thin, precise woman whose severity had once been offset by a plump face and the expressiveness of her gesticulations. Since she had been diagnosed with breast cancer, the flesh on her cheeks had been overtaken by bone and shadow. Her teeth and jaw had grown in prominence. Her eyes, once pools of light behind those circular eyeglasses, now seemed permanently parched. As always, she kept her hair in a tomboyish bob—it was thick enough to withstand radiation. But where it once had accentuated her long neck, it now highlighted the deep recesses between her neck and collarbones. Her collection of scarves had grown expansive.
“I’ve already changed the sheets in the spare room for your mother,” she announced. “Is that why you’re up so early? Or did you miss me?”
“A firecracker woke me up,” he said. Rieux took a seat across from her and squeezed her hand.
“Teenagers,” she muttered. “They only get up early in order to wake everyone else up.” She let out a dry laugh. Her humour had grown caustic in the past year. At least it hadn’t been turned on him today, Rieux thought.
Soon Elyse would leave on her own; she was taking a cab to the airport. Her suggestion that Rieux work today had curdled into a command. Her friend Nicole, who was in remission and six months away from being declared cancer-free, would travel to the airport with her. This friend swore that the clinic in Reynosa, a Mexican border town, had turned back death with its herbal remedies and oxygenation treatments. Rieux no longer objected to her “scheme,” as he called it, but she remained wary of his skepticism, a feature as elemental to him as his dark hair and his tendency to mutter in the shower. She worried that his presence would wither away her optimism before she even stepped aboard the plane.
Four hours after she departed, Rieux’s mother would arrive from Hong Kong. That they would miss each other by a day went unacknowledged and, for the most part, both the women in Rieux’s life refrained from speaking critically about the other.
He changed into his cycling gear for his work commute. Afterward, they spoke about the day that stretched out ahead of each of them. He would need to get through paperwork before seeing walk-in patients for the rest of the morning. That afternoon, he would leave his bike at work and board the SkyTrain to meet his mother at the airport; they would take a cab home. Rieux and Elyse usually spent their mornings this way, up earlier than necessary, too anxious to sleep well, exchanging information. And yet it had been different since Elyse fell ill, Rieux thought. It was the difference between going to church and feeling one’s heart churn in the refrain of a hymn.
Her phone on the counter began to buzz. “Nicole is downstairs,” she said.
Elyse braced herself against the counter to climb off the stool. Fixing her eyes on the granite countertop, she pushed herself off with an economy of strain that seemed like ballet to him. He grabbed his own bag so he could leave at the same time and then wheeled her deceptively light luggage to the elevator downstairs.
At the end of the hall, they saw their building superintendent, Mr Santos. He was in his fifties, a man with caramel-coloured skin, greying, bristly hair, a thin black moustache on his long upper lip, and a tattoo of an anchor on his forearm.
“Good morning, Doctor and Mrs Rieux.” There was a tentativeness in his voice, which normally seemed ready to break into song in mid-sentence.
“Is something wrong, Mr Santos?” Elyse asked. Everyone else in the building called him by the name embroidered into his shirt, Miguel. But the Rieuxs thought it polite to return the formality.
“No, ma’am,” he said. “I’m just worried about the way kids are raised today. We weren’t brought up the same way. They eat too much sugar.”
“We were just saying,” Rieux said, thinking about the firecracker that woke him up earlier. But Mr Santos had another reason to be upset. That morning, he told them, he’d found a dead rat in the underground garage. There had been a garbage strike that ran from the middle of August through the first half of an unseasonably warm fall. Until only a few weeks earlier, even the most genteel parts of the city had a ripe smell that reminded Rieux of his childhood visits with his mother to Vancouver’s Chinatown, where they would cut through alleyways full of open dumpsters and butchers seated on upturned buckets smoking Marlboros in blood-stained white smocks. The rats and raccoons that were occasionally glimpsed in the city had become more visible, wobbling from overflowing garbage and compost containers. People spoke of these pests as though they were obnoxious neighbours.
Every few days, Mr Santos explained, he might see rodents running from under a car, where they huddled for warmth. But this morning, a rat had been left in front of the garage-floor elevator. “Now imagine being a lady, taking your baby out, and seeing that?” He shook his head, whistled, and then disappeared into a supply closet.
They took the elevator to the front hall. Rieux had hoped to say something to his wife, something that might clear the fine mist of uneasiness that had come between the two of them; it was an obnoxious perfume that obscured a more offensive smell. But at the sight of Nicole waving from the idling taxi, Elyse moved briskly outside.
Rieux followed behind. He placed the suitcase—was there anything in it but toiletries and a scarf?—in the trunk of the taxi. Once he closed the trunk, he turned and collided into his wife, who had approached him to say goodbye. He had to catch her to keep her from falling.
“We can’t even get this right,” Elyse said.
“I’m sorry.”
There was a kiss and a hug that could have been a handshake or a fraught wave goodbye. Elyse said she would call when she landed at the airport, but that the clinic had limited phone service and no internet. He watched the taxi circle the driveway and turn onto the road.
As the car grew smaller in his view, he felt a tension loosen from his shoulders with the absence of his wife. He took his commuter bicycle from the storage locker and rode out through the garage entrance. Normally he would take the Seawall to the clinic on Powell Street, but he wanted to buy a Vietnamese sandwich in Chinatown. There was a fire truck attending to a car crash at the intersection of Main Street and Second Avenue. He wove through the cars stuck in traffic, catching glimpses of the impatient commuters.
Near the intersection, before he could veer off on the crosswalk, he recognized Elyse’s blue-and-white taxi. He saw his wife’s head from behind. Nicole was on her phone. Rieux stopped between the cars in the left-turn lane and those inching forward and took a look at Elyse’s face. There were tears on her cheeks, but she wasn’t sobbing or looking especially grief-stricken. She wasn’t crying because of him. She felt the same way he did—relieved, he thought. Likely hopeful, too.
Traffic lurched ahead, and he returned to the world. Before the taxi scooted into the intersection, he’d eased behind a Tesla in the left-turn lane. Rieux cycled past the man he saw most days. He carried a cardboard sign that read, “Everything Helps.”