19

THE SOUNDS OF TOLLING bells grew louder and darker. To Valerie’s ear, they took on a hardness, like the clank of a hammer on the metal stakes of a graveyard fence. Matt, Andre, James, it rang. She thought of Gerard’s image multiplying like a cancer cell. Three planes had attacked her native country. No, four. An infinite number, if she counted the replays. No one knew how many.

My loved ones are asking to be remembered. That’s all.

A graveyard fence, a garden fence, you could only conflate the two on a day like this one when the fist of memory punches a hole through time. Even so, Valerie wondered why particular memories were so insistent, all the while knowing that the answer to her question was ineffable, was lodged like a bullet in her flesh, the wound that had brought her to Toronto. There to the house with its old-fashioned garden fence, its wrought-iron gate with a lift-up latch, its hard, smooth touch cooling her hands. The gate had a fresh black coat of paint, she remembered that. I hear the super’s a bit of a handyman, said Matt, his slim fingers raising the latch out of its slot, swinging open the gate. A narrow, brick row house downtown, a tree-shaded street near the university, and she walked up the front steps with him, admiring the batik in the front window, the white gabled roofline, the wood-frame porch. Some nice digs, said Matt. This place is close to everything worth seeing, as if they were tourists. She didn’t care. A knot of sorrow ached inside her, three months along.

The front door was solid oak, prim as a church, with carved trim and an antique stained-glass pane. Matt knocked. The woman who opened it introduced herself as Rita. “Welcome to Canada,” she said.

Their landlord Gerard was working late; she’d show them their room. Valerie eyed her. Short, black hair, bright eyes, a smile that was high-beam brilliant, like the lights of an oncoming car.

***

The things you remember when you’re terrified, she thought.

She wanted only one thing: to know her son was safe.

The road tipped downward, as if gravity had had enough of holding up the town. Yesterday it hadn’t been so steep. Too many thoughts were tugging at her. Uncertain of the zigzag streets, she was looking for the fromagerie, feeling Matt’s arm on hers, his touch saying, Rita’s been waiting for us, and Valerie placed a hand on her stomach, as if to protect it from quicksand, an open maw in the earth.

That first evening in Toronto, Rita was making supper and she said, We’re a small group right now. My partner’s a draft resister, too, a teaching assistant at the university. He’s not around much, but he can advise you on whatever you need to know. Matt looked uncomfortable until she asked him where he was from, and he said New York City, and she frowned, then asked about muggings. Matt said, Mugging keeps me in shape, just call me Captain America, and then Rita picked up a knife and began chopping carrots with such force that one or two of them ricocheted off the wall. Pop-pop. Like cars backfiring.

Valerie pushed her memories aside, remembering where she was. The traffic here is unbelievable. Everyone in Saint-Pierre was trying to run errands before the midday rest, a custom brought from Europe to this chilly rock of an island. Up ahead was the fromagerie on Rue Albert Briand. One-half litre of cream, Valerie thought. A kilo of butter. Any cheeses you like, said Marguerite. Three hundred and fifty grams is more than enough.

She glanced at her watch again. It was past noon.

***

Thoughts kept breaking in.

“You haven’t met Gerard yet,” said Rita. “From Montreal.”

There was something uneasy in the way she spoke those words, the way she placed them, one at a time, like small weights on the soul.

“He’s only here until he sorts himself out.”

Matt and Valerie looked at each other. Wasn’t he the landlord?

“You’ll have to be patient with Gerard,” she said.

***

Fromagerie Leduc, the sign read. A handwritten note was taped to the door. Ouvert toute la journée aujourd’hui. Open all day today.

That’s odd, for Saint-Pierre, she thought.

Monsieur Leduc was behind the counter — a dark-haired, round-faced man with a kind but introspective gaze. He was serving a customer, and he glanced up at Valerie. Have a look, he said, pointing to the display case. Behind the glass were rows of cheeses — Boursin, St. Paulin, Camembert, Neufchâtel. None of them tempted her appetite.

I hope he’ll know where I can check my email.

On the countertop was a plateful of business cards. Usine de la Paix, read one. Peace Factory — it sounded like a place Andy Warhol might have opened in the sixties. Poterie. Marguerite had been a potter once, but no clay could survive my two boys, she said. With the kids grown, she’d switched to collecting pottery and now she sat on the local conseil des arts. The owner of this shop would be acquainted with Marguerite, would at least know her taste. A good place to buy her a gift. Valerie took a card.

She heard Monsieur Leduc’s voice. “A brie wheel, c’est une bonne idée.”

His customer wore a trim navy dress and heels, a leather purse slung over her shoulder.

“I’m filling it with confiture aux abricots,” she said. “And sliced almonds.”

“I will sample it tonight, then.”

“You’ve heard about Laurent Sarazin?”

That must be Lisette, thought Valerie.

“Such a shock,” said Monsieur Leduc. “A young man.”

Valerie decided not to introduce herself. The brie aux abricots sounded wonderful. She just wasn’t up for chatter.

James, she thought, are you listening?

Can you get the recipe? he asked.

Tonight I’ll ask Lisette, she promised him.

***

Monsieur Leduc’s TV was on. Valerie saw fire.

She felt something ominous humming in her bones — a police transmission, a chopper moving away from the burning tower. The top of the building’s glowing red, said the pilot.

Like cigarette ash before it’s flicked.

***

America’s young are on the run.

Of all the things to remember, thought Valerie, but Rita’s voice was rich in undertones like the plucked string of a guitar, a note that hummed with the resonance of Andre, now on the run with James and thousands of others. It’s that damn war bringing all of you here. Rita spoke above a whisper, a conspiratorial tone, her eye out for Matt who was freshening up for dinner. She set out a stew, a salad, a loaf of fresh bread. Now really, I like Americans, she said — just as Matt walked into the room.

Valerie heard the sound of a key in the door, the click of a latch — Gerard was back, heading upstairs for a shower, a trickle of sound against the flow of Rita’s words. She spoke to them about the house, the neighbourhood, where to buy groceries.

“Maybe you could tell me more about your plans,” she said.

“I think you know why we’re here,” said Matt.

“Yes.”

“To visit. Not to stay.”

Rita looked puzzled. Her eyes widened like a camera’s shutter in need of light. “I guess I just assumed you’d planned to—”

“No. We’re just here for—”

Rita looked embarrassed. She smiled at Valerie. “You and me’ll have a girl-talk,” she said. “All the details.”

“You have a date for us, I hope,” said Matt.

Valerie flushed. His insistence felt all wrong, an intrusion on Rita’s hospitality.

“Two weeks from now,” said Rita.

It was what Valerie had hoped for. Without telling Matt, she’d written to Rita, explaining the situation and asking for a delay.

“Two weeks?”

“Don’t worry. It’s safe.”

“We’ll be out of here by then,” said Matt.

Rita glanced at her watch. She was working the night shift, she said. As she got up to clear the dishes, in stepped Gerard. He greeted them, grasping Matt’s hand.

“I am overhearing,” he smiled. “I hope you are not leaving so soon.”

“Not yet,” said Matt.

“We will hide you from the FBI. Don’t worry.”

Matt didn’t answer.