GOLAN

THE ISRAELI CONSUL IN MONTREAL was named Moshe (or Moïse) Golan. Three years after the Six Day War, having that name was a bit like a French diplomat being called Clovis Alsace-Lorraine.

The rented Econoline van was pulled over at the curb on Saint-Denis, across from the Carré Saint-Louis. Behind it, the flashing light on top of the patrol car shot splashes of bright red light on the park benches on which poets had once declaimed.

“I need you to get out of your vehicle and unlock the rear door,” the cop said after glancing at the driver’s licence. He was standing beside the door.

“Why?” asked Lancelot.

“Because. I want to see what you’ve got in there.”

“But why did you stop me?”

“Your left-turn signal light is burned out.”

“You’re supposed to give me forty-eight hours.”

“I said get out and unlock the door.”

“This is an abuse of power,” Lancelot shouted, to gain time. They knew what they were looking for, he thought. And they know who I am . . .

Having complied with the officer’s request, he watched as the cop bent the top of his body into the Econoline’s storage space while his partner examined certain documents in the glove compartment. The partner soon found a sheet of paper on which had been pencilled a series of telephone numbers and radio-station call numbers. The names of known journalists were written in parentheses, and the word “Golan” was written in capital letters at the top of the page.

The first officer had just seen the wicker basket about the size of a coffin, big enough at any rate to hold a man. He knew an illegal weapon when he saw one, and he took a marked interest in the sawn-off 12-gauge Remington shotgun, first making sure that the thing wasn’t loaded.

“So I suppose you’re going duck hunting, are you?” he said to Lancelot.

“How did you guess?”

“In the middle of February?”

“No, rabbits . . .”

With the shotgun in his left hand, the officer opened his holster with his right and ordered Lancelot to place both hands flat on the side of the vehicle, keeping them in plain sight, and to spread his feet. His colleague came around waving the sheet of paper.

“Looks like he might be a journalist or something . . .”

With his fingers freezing on the cold van, Lancelot endured the other’s hands on his sides.

“What does this mean, ‘Golan’?”

“It’s a plateau, like this one . . .”

“A plateau where?”

“Under your feet. I’m talking about the Mount Royal plateau. Golan Heights is in Syria, but for the past three years the Zionist state has been occupying it illegally.”

“What the fuck’s he talking about?”

“I don’t know, but he can explain it down at the station.”