44

DOWN THE LONG FLIGHT of stairs Valerie ran — through the corridor and out the front door, down a spiralled street that felt as coiled and tense as a rattler. She ran right to the bottom of the hill, as if danger had lit a match to her clothing, as if she meant to jump into the sea.

She’d seen Andre — twice today, on TV. Three times (if you counted apparitions). Only this time she’d seen something else.

Calm down. If it were anything to concern you, Gerard would have called.

Gerard had her cell phone number and he’d jotted down the number of the pension. Her husband had beautiful, neat handwriting. When the kids were small, he’d sometimes take them to his TV studio. Andre and Chantal would admire his big, block letters, how he’d write their names in red felt marker on his story-board. On weekends, he’d play a game with them. He’d write down a word or phrase in French and get the kids to translate. One point for each correct word, three points for a phrase.

For example: Meilleurs Amis — Best Friends.

Gerard’s handwriting. That poster on TV, in Union Square.

***

She made her way down the hill. It was a cool evening, but at this moment the sky was clear and dark, and the waning moon had not yet risen. Stars were alight and the Dipper was turning in its slow, majestic circle around the North Star, sublime and indifferent to the world. In Manhattan, the sky was grey, foul with smoke. In Saint-Pierre she had, at least, the blessing of the stars.

Her sister Karen told her once that the stars had Arabic names. Vega, Deneb, Altair, summer stars. She glanced westward. A lot of Muslims got killed today, she thought. They said it on the news. All kinds of immigrants went missing. It had to be true — the TV showed bilingual signs in Union Square, people searching for their loved ones in English and Spanish. A few of the posters had Chinese characters, others added Arabic script to English, another sign had Russian letters. French words, too. There are New Yorkers who speak French, who come from Haiti or Senegal. There would have been more than one French sign. If you were French, you’d write the French words first.

DISPARU — MISSING

The TV showed candles in the square, burning down to bruised stubs, casting light on the flags of all nations. Canada’s flag, too — a red Maple Leaf on a white field, neighbour to a miniature Stars and Stripes, the flags of both her countries bound together. Of what use were countries? she wondered. Their boundaries no longer protect you. Matt had to write a paper once on Karl Marx, who didn’t write about countries, only classes — oppressors and oppressed.

All that is solid melts into air.

For a moment, Valerie remembered Matthew — young, before everything happened. Andre bore his father’s looks, and it had been her son’s youthful face she’d seen on Gerard’s poster, alongside the two flags.

All that is holy is profaned.

One of two faces.

DISPARU

***

Valerie tried to stay calm, breathing with slow breaths in and out, imagining the roll and glide of the ocean waves, high tide, low tide; the Dipper sweeping around the pole like the hand of a cosmic timepiece. She wondered if time had come to an end, or if once again, she’d slipped backwards into another moment that had vanished long ago. Matt and those damn clocks, she thought. This is all his fault.

***

As she reached the bottom of the hill, she saw Jean-Claude approaching her.

“You have left the party so soon?” he asked.

“I have to go home.”

“You’re very close to the pension.”

“No, I mean home. New York City. Andre’s alive.”

“How do you know that?”

“I just saw him on TV. But then I saw — “

She told him about the missing sign in Union Square. She began to weep.

Jean-Claude held her. “If we fly, we will find hope,” he said.

“We’re not allowed. We’ll be shot down.”

Jean-Claude drew back from her, then took her hand in both of his. “Do you remember that pilot you told me about?” he asked.

“Mr. Groves. The one who disappeared.”

“No, he did not. He found hope in another dimension.”

Poor Jean-Claude, she thought. You’re coming unstrung.

“He’d found an encrypted système de pilotage,” he continued. “Left from the Second World War.”

“That story’s been around so long, it’s—”

“Listen,” said Jean-Claude. “My father was a pilot and he had friends who were veterans of war who—”

“Took off and disappeared. No one’s heard from them since, right?”

“No one found Monsieur Groves because they didn’t know how to look for him.”

“But what are you telling me?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he whispered.

“Well—”

“Murderers. They cursed the sky.”

“You want to make it whole again.”

“Yes.”