Serafim and Claire (26 page)

Serafim sipped his gin. “You mean that it is there, even if it fails to manifest itself. Like dignity.”

Antonino turned from the sink. “I am glad you understand, Serafim. Now leave me be. I am tired, and must sleep.” He shuffled into his bedroom. “Good night to you.”

Serafim sat in the quiet kitchen for some time before letting himself out, gently turning off the lights behind him. On the long walk home he found himself watching the shadows and looking into the parked cars for silhouettes of men lying in wait. He arrived home without incident and was soon in bed himself, though he couldn't quite get to sleep. He kept thinking of what Antonino had said, about the politicians in the city, and their network of corruption being more extensive than Serafim knew; how, even if one were to possess incriminating photos, there was no one to hand them to who wouldn't instantly destroy them, or, worse, use them for their own gain. There was the fault in the reasoning he and Claire had adopted, and which he planned on bringing up with her before Friday, before it was too late. But mostly he was thinking about Antonino, and how alike their experiences of affection had been, how they'd both had to leave behind the women they'd first loved, women who had then chosen another. Some other man, it was all too agonizing to think, who was better.

Stirring up these thoughts of Inês, thinking back on how he'd laboured in the darkroom for all those winter months, working on the picture he'd taken of her in the gardens of the Palácio de Cristal, the flexion of thunder implicit in the clouds behind her, it was no real surprise to Serafim that, in the morning, after accumulating what felt like only minutes of sleep, he found a cup of tea on his kitchen table, waiting for him. Though this time he noticed that three matches had been struck while attempting to light the stove for the kettle. He thought of what a distinct noise it made, and how, with such a shallow sleep, he should have been able to hear it. Then, standing with a spent match in his fingers, he recalled, in a remote and nebulous way, that he had in fact heard something the night before, something like that bright sulphur flare-up, at some point, somewhere nearby.

Medium:
Gelatin silver print

Description:
Three men attacking another

Location:
Montreal, Quebec

Date:
1929

A narrow courtyard conceals itself; a finger of paving stones pointing the only way out, a driveway leading to a bright and overexposed street beyond, an outlying dreamscape of saturated light. The courtyard's high brick walls reach up and out of sight, blocking the sun. Metal railings are anchored into the masonry and spiral down, along a set of back entrances and wooden doors stacked three high. It is the kind of unseen urban corner where, one feels, flowers would not grow.

The paving stones in the foreground are flecked with strands of hay, spilling over from a stable close by, though out of the frame. Four men stand at the edge of this scattered feed, all of them wearing flat caps, which are crooked and tussled off centre. Two of the men are muscling back the arms of a third, exposing his belly to what one imagines to be punches given by the fourth, who is standing directly in front of the captured individual. The fists of this fourth man are not balled up. Instead, he is standing casually, hip cocked to the side, and holding a penknife as if it were a flashlight, shining its steel point into the dark of the captive's face.

One of the men holding the captive's arms is looking away, over his shoulder. The expression on his face suggests that he senses something worse is about to happen. Something more hurtful, more menacing, on its way.

Claire and Serafim
were sitting on a bench overlooking the intersection of St. Catherine Street and St. Denis. It was noon and the streets were swarming with businessmen and restaurantgoers, vendors, hawkers, procurers, and shoppers. It was perfect.

“Why don't you just leave your hat on?” asked Claire. “Playing with it like that makes you look suspicious.”

Serafim placed his hat back on his head, folded his hands in his lap, then refolded them. To calm him as much as she could, Claire shuffled closer on the bench, and with a hand over his shoulder she stroked the back of his neck, which had worked to mollify him once before. She was glad to see that it had the same effect now and she could get back to concentrating on scanning the faces of the passersby, looking for the councilman, who would be arriving any minute.

For what felt like weeks leading up to this noon hour, they had discussed ad nauseam the best way for the transaction to take place. The first option would have been to do it in a secure and private setting. But that felt like a risk for Claire and Serafim, because the councilman had — or could bring, if he so wished — people with guns, knives, and baseball bats. Things could go badly. So they decided on a busy intersection at a busy time. This way, the exchange could take place within seconds, surreptitiously, after which Claire and Serafim could simply disappear among the throng, heading in separate directions. They had already agreed upon who would carry the case, and where they would rendezvous afterwards.

Everything was set. The letter had been couriered anonymously to the councilman's desk on Thursday morning, with his cameo photograph and the promise of both the film and all enlargements ever developed from that film, to be exchanged for four thousand dollars in small bills. They had further stipulated that the bills should be carried in an attaché case with a small red ribbon tied to the handle, which would allow Serafim and Claire to spot it from a distance and make the trade as quickly as possible.

There were only two potential problems with their plan. The first was the point that Antonino had brought up. The councilman was sure to have friends in the highest places, in every influential position imaginable, people who would be willing to protect him if presented with evidence that might incriminate him. This was, after all, the very twine that bound the monopolists together and the reason corruption was so thorny a problem to uproot. But it was also a problem to which they could think of no solution. So they would just have to trust that nothing would go wrong with the transaction.

The second potential problem was a technicality. If they were to keep their word, and had both the film and every photo developed from that film contained inside a single envelope, what would happen if they lost the envelope or, God forbid, it was stolen en route? Where would they be then? So it was agreed that Serafim would process an extra photograph, and keep it hidden in the secret drawer that he'd installed in his apartment, where he stored all his archival stock and large reels of unexposed film. Just in case.

Claire took a deep breath of spring air, which smelled of horses, a bit of oil from the passing automobiles, and taffy and popcorn, a vendor of each positioned at opposing corners of the intersection. A concertina player weaved in and out of the pedestrians, followed by a young boy holding out a hat and soliciting coins for the performance. In years to come Claire would remember this moment as a time in her life when things were still simple. She fixed her gaze on a woman pedalling a bicycle, who had passed just in front of them, smiling at Serafim as she streamed by. Her dress sailed in the wind she was creating. Claire's eyes followed her through the intersection, admiring how gracefully she was moving her legs, and how straight and tall she sat on her bicycle seat. Then Claire's eyes stopped abruptly at the corner.

There was a man at a shop window, standing with his back to them, holding an attaché case with a tiny red ribbon tied to its handle.

Claire pointed. “That is him, there.”

Serafim located the ribbon, inhaled deeply, and let out a slow breath. “As we discussed, you make the trade, bring the case to me, and I will slip away with it. Are you sure you are ready?”

“Entirely. We have nothing to worry about. I will be back in a moment.” She put her hand on the large folded envelope concealed in her purse, stood up, and headed across the street, making her way through the traffic, flinching at the coarse-sounding car horn that bleated at a carriage on her right.

As she approached the man, she inspected the red ribbon, then noted his expensive shoes, suit, and hat, edging forward until she had sidled in directly beside him, where she ostensibly busied herself with peering into the window display as well, her free hand close to his case.

She took the envelope out of her purse. “I believe,” she said in English, into the glass in front of her, “that I have something of yours.”

To her surprise, the man was somewhat taken aback by this. “I . . . I'm sorry, madam?” He turned to face her.

Claire's lips parted. He was not the councilman. “I am sorry. . . . . thought that you were . . .” She shoved the envelope back into her purse. “I mean, I was . . . admiring your ribbon . . . there, on your case.” She indicated it.

The man held it up. “Oh, yes, my daughter” — he shook his head in light paternal annoyance — “this morning, thought the drab old thing could use some livening up. Poor dear.”

“Oh.” Claire made a weak attempt at laughter. “I see.”

“Well, madam” — he cordially tipped his hat to her — “a fine day to you.” And with that, he stepped around the corner and disappeared into the bustle of passing people.

The concertina player ended his cheery tune.

Claire stood for a moment, looking around for anyone else nearby with a red ribbon tied to his case. There was no one. She crossed the street, perplexed, and returned to the bench, sitting beside Serafim, though at a distance.

“Claire, you . . . didn't get the case.”

“Yes, I know. It wasn't him. It was someone else.”

“I . . . That's impossible. What are the chances of such a coincidence? A man standing alone with the coded signal, at the very time that the signal was expected, at the very place?”

Claire shrugged. “I know. It is strange.”

They looked at each other, the conclusion sliding towards them at breakneck speed. Their eyes widened. Suddenly, they understood what had happened. Without speaking, both of them pivoted to look out into the street, at the teeming array of faces situated at every point of the compass surrounding them. In a second-floor window, a man smoked a cigarette, intent on the bench where they sat. At one of the street corners, three men stood speaking to each other, one of them listening while staring at Claire. Across the street, another man was spying in their direction above his open newspaper. They had been outed. And as soon as they moved, they would be followed, pursued, and hunted. Until the photos, and the blackmailers who'd intended to use them, were gone.

“Oh my God,” Claire whispered. “Oh my God.”

“Okay, look,” Serafim broke in, also whispering. “The photographs are what they want, and the most dangerous thing to be caught with. Let me have them.”

Claire took the envelope out of her purse and slid it across to Serafim. He rolled it into a tube.

“Now,” he continued, “we always had plans to split up. Each of us has already mapped out our own sort of escape route. I think we should use those, now.”

“I'm scared.”

“So am I. I will go first, so you can see if anyone follows me. Then you will know we are right. Then you should run, not walk. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He nodded to himself. “Okay. Goodbye.” Serafim got to his feet and briskly headed down the road, cutting into an alley as soon as he could. Claire was petrified to see the men who amassed out of the woodwork and, like beads of water down a funnel, streamed in the precise direction that Serafim had set off in, many of them breaking into a quick trot.

“Oh my God,” she whispered again, to no one. What was odd was that, knowing she now had to jump to her feet and sprint for her life, she found she couldn't move. She felt pinned to the bench, her knees already weak, her posture small. She looked around, trying to distinguish which men were charged with the task of apprehending her, which ones were waiting for her to move. She didn't stand a chance of outrunning them, or even outsmarting them in mid-pursuit. There were too many of them. It would be over before it began.

Then Claire saw a portly nun crossing the street, heading up St. Denis. Instinctively, she stood and hurried to catch up with the woman, slowing to a stroll just behind her, within reaching distance of her habit, stepping on her shadow as it floated over the cracks in the sidewalk. Claire felt like her heart had sunk into her stomach. She scratched her neck to look behind her, and it seemed as if the entire street were filing into a procession in her wake, men convening from every corner of the intersection. They were, however, still keeping their distance, not yet running.

Claire had only been ambling behind the nun for a minute or two before the woman began veering away from the street, towards one of the side doors of the church of St. Jacques. At a loss for what else to do, Claire followed. She looked behind and saw the men stopping, watching her, not even trying to hide the fact that they were in pursuit. Now that it appeared she was heading into a church, they weren't quite sure what to do. They exchanged glances and looked for direction, for someone to give them definitive orders.

Claire and the large woman climbed a set of eight stairs to a side door, and the nun opened it, turning to swing it wide, and in doing so, she was surprised to find Claire silently on her heels. “
Mademoiselle! Je vous pri
e
!
” Perturbed, the woman stepped inside and tried to shut the door behind her.

Claire jammed her foot in the gap and in colloquial French implored the woman to please, please let her in, insisting that at that very moment she was in the gravest of danger, and that the consequences of her being shut out would very likely be lethal. Please, she begged, please have mercy.

There was a cold pause. “Mademoiselle O'Callaghan, I must say, your French has much improved recently.”

“I'm sorry?”

The nun smiled, waiting for Claire to work it out on her own. So this was one of the many nuns who had cared for her at the Hôtel-Dieu, only fifteen months earlier. One of the women who, after spending almost three weeks with Claire in the most intimate of circumstances, had become convinced she was an imposter of some kind, for some unknown and sinister reason. Claire was just the kind of patient a nun would remember.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Well, I do,
mademoiselle
. Now, if you would please remove your foot from the door, lest I call for help.” There were voices and movement inside the church, the sounds of people approaching.

Claire checked the street behind her. The men were growing in number, milling together. “Okay. Yes, you are right. I was not who I said I was. I was lying. I lied to you all, every day that I was there, in everything I did. Can you think of reasons why a woman might do that?”

“I can,
mademoiselle
.” Deadpan.

“Well . . . I was in trouble then, and you helped me regardless, and I thank you for that, very much. But you must understand that I am in much greater trouble now, and I am asking you, I am begging you, for mercy. Please.”

“By ‘trouble,' you mean to say that you have done something against your fellow man, against the law, against God? Again?”

Claire faltered. “Yes, all of them. Please. Open the door.”

“So you would have us harbour a wanton criminal? Is that it, Mademoiselle O'Callaghan?”

Claire's head fell softly against the wood of the door. “Yes.”

The nun paused. “All right.”

Relieved, Claire removed her foot and readied herself to step inside. But the nun quickly shut the door and locked it instead.

“No. No, no, no,” Claire said, desperately listening for movement on the other side, her face against the quiet of the wood grain. With her body leaning against the door, Claire gradually turned round. A car pulled up, its back seat empty, intended for her. One of the men opened it, left it open, and looked at her. Two other men set out towards her, quickly taking the stairs. Claire covered her face with her hands.

She heard a click from the door at her back, and then it opened, a hand pulled her inside, and the door was deadbolted behind her. It was dark inside and smelled of stale incense. “Follow me,” said the nun, “and not a word.”

She led Claire to a backroom, down a set of stairs, and into a kind of kitchen area without appliances or cooking facilities, with yellow wallpaper and cold floors.

“Sit there.” The nun pointed at a steel chair.

Claire sat down and hung her head. “Thank you.”

“I don't need your thanks. I need you to understand that the most I can do for you is send for the police, who will collect you from the back of the building, through that door there. I will go and see if Father's busy, and if he will agree to make these arrangements. I imagine, if he has time, he will hear your confession. Now, wait here.” She left.

Moments later, the door that she had indicated bumped open, and a man teetering with a heavy box stepped inside. He was fighting to fully enter the room, the door's tight springs conspiring against him. Claire stood up and held it open for him.

“Thank you,
madame
.”

Looking outside, she read on the side of his coach that he was a deliveryman with the Canadian Pacific Express. As he was setting the box in a corner, Claire slipped outside, climbed into the back of his coach, and found a space to hide in a narrow slot behind a crate. She heard the horses blow and nicker. Seconds later, the canvas flaps that covered the back of the coach were draped shut, the driver mounted, and the coach jostled into motion, easing out into the dangerous streets, and passing, Claire imagined, a swarm of men watching and waiting for her to emerge from the church.