Serafim and Claire (29 page)

While remaining hidden
and huddled under the blanket he'd found in the alley, Serafim gradually began to realize what he had to do. Since the men were still waiting for him, lingering and smoking in and around his apartment in the pale light of morning, it seemed likely that they hadn't discovered his concealed drawer, hadn't yet found what they were looking for. So what Serafim intended to do was to show it to them; to hand it over as a kind of peace offering, as something, he rationalized, that would end this game. He would lay his harmless cards on the table, a bluff called and lost. It was also, he considered, the one way to ensure they wouldn't begin searching for Claire.

However, he wasn't about to saunter through the front door in his pyjamas and hand it to them. Instead, he would wait until the men left his apartment — even if it was just for a moment — rush inside, lay the envelope out for them to find in the most conspicuous place he could think of, gather a few of his clothes and things from the floor, and leave Montreal, maybe even Canada, for good. He wouldn't contact Claire or Antonino before he hopped on a train, in case he was being followed. After that, it was anyone's guess. Maybe he'd make his way to Paris and join Álvaro there.

The one problem with his plan was that the men in his apartment didn't seem all that eager to move. They continued to appear at his back door every few minutes and look around, blowing the smoke of their cigarettes up at the sky, where washes of watercolour had begun to stain the clouds with lilac and apricot. For Serafim, the daylight posed another predicament.

Considering they might very well be able to see him from his back door in the morning light, he needed to find a new location while it was still dark enough to do so. He would have to venture out through the alleys and streets in his sleeping clothes, where he was sure to be regarded as a madman. There was little other choice. He brought both the kettle and the blanket along with him, which he hugged tight in his arms, making himself appear even more unbalanced.

At a local tavern, a group of workers just coming off the graveyard shift snickered and elbowed each other as Serafim shuffled by. He was mortified by their pointing fingers, watching his slippered feet and cursing the absurd position he'd put himself in. He continued for a few more blocks, not lifting his chin until he found another forgotten corner in an alley to hide for a while.

The sun reared higher, and though it tried, it couldn't quite burn through the overcast ceiling. Serafim sat, dejected and awkward, until he heard a man in the distance, slowly making his way down the alleyway. The man was wailing as loud as he could, an eerie yowl that might have been weeping but which Serafim began to distinguish as words, something about searching for
chiffons
. Serafim left his corner to see what the noise was all about and spotted an old Jewish man pushing a handcart with a heap of rags and some potted plants inside. He was trading one of his plants for a handful of rags that a housewife had brought out to him.

When the man came closer, Serafim tried to barter his blanket, hoping to get something more suitable to wear in exchange, but the ragman offered him a frail seedling in return. So Serafim returned to his corner and brought out the kettle, which was undoubtedly of monetary value. The ragman wasn't interested, and offered him only a few more seedlings. It wasn't until Serafim made it clear that he had to find something suitable to wear on the streets, and would hand over his sleeping clothes as well, that the ragman reluctantly began to dig to the bottom of his cart, where, hidden under grimy rags, he kept the garments he'd amassed that were still intact. After a brief and humiliating moment of nudity in the alleyway, Serafim looked half presentable; or at least he looked like a grimy pauper, complete with a half-flattened bowler hat and pants that were too wide and long, and so covered his slippers. In any case, it was a step up from appearing to be a perfectly respectable gentleman who just happened to be walking around in his pyjamas. Seeming unsatisfied with the transaction, the ragman lifted the handles of his cart and continued on his way, his melancholic wail rising over the rooftops again, floating up and through the gnarled and extended branches of chimney smoke. Serafim headed the other way.

He decided to walk past the front of his apartment, to see if he could learn anything new. He made slow progress along the streets, trying to appear both stumblingly drunk and aimless. He kept his eyes mostly on the ground, leaning against a fence or tree from time to time, stealing glances of the world from just below the brim of his bowler hat. As he neared his apartment, he spied two suspicious cars parked together, one empty and one with a set of men inside, smoking cigarettes and checking the mirrors, tapping their ashes out of the windows. When Serafim made his way around the back again, he confirmed that there were still men inside his apartment, and concluded that the second, empty car belonged to them. He realized he would have to wait until the cars were gone.

He picked up an empty whiskey bottle from a garbage can to add to his charade and returned to the front of the building, where he found a place to sit at a safe distance from the vehicles to outwait these men. During the course of the day he was verbally abused twice more, this time by people passing by, once a group of municipal workers who shouted insults from the sidewalk they were repairing, and once a group of boys who had run by and then returned for an impromptu game of trying to be the first to hit Serafim's bowler hat with a pebble. Serafim let them, the pebbles bouncing off his shoulders, their giggles causing one of them to begin a strained-bladder dance. He found that appearing miserable was becoming less and less a feat of acting.

Towards the end of the afternoon, the men who had been waiting in his flat came outside and hunched over to speak to the men who were waiting in the car. After a brief exchange, they piled into the empty vehicle and drove away. The men in the parked car stayed behind, remaining in their sedan to guard the front door. While the situation was not ideal, at least for the time being his apartment was empty. Serafim stood up, his muscles stiff, and nervously headed into the alleyway.

He approached his back door at a painstaking pace. While still trying to look like a drunken vagrant, he also had to keep intensely sharp, listening for movement that might be coming from the apartment. Someone might be inside, waiting for just such an eventuality. And if not, someone from the car that was parked out front might enter at any moment, on any whim. He stopped at the landing, coughed into the open back door, pretending to swig the last of the whiskey from his empty bottle. There was no sound, no movement. He fought the urge to call out, “Hello?”

Serafim stepped inside, his slippers crushing shards of broken glass and ceramic pieces. Gently, he padded through his apartment and made his way into the sitting room. The place was in ruins. Clothes, shoes, photographs, ties, hats, sheets, furniture, everything he owned was splayed across the floor. Finally convinced that no one was waiting for him, he began rummaging through his things, assembling at least one suit that he could change into immediately. He threw off his beggar clothes and hurriedly donned his own, hobbling to the front window to peek at the car out front, wanting to make sure the men were still sitting inside it. From where he was, however, he couldn't see them.

He quickly checked to see if they'd discovered his hidden drawer. He had been right — they hadn't. He then found his Leica on the ground, damaged beyond repair. Without time to feel sorry for himself, he just left it there, and stepped into his darkroom.

Once inside, he felt as if the planet, for just an instant, had stopped revolving, had slipped and lagged into some kind of momentary standstill.

On the makeshift counter he'd made were a few of his prints, which he knew the men had found in a drawer just below. They were photos of Claire, the ones he'd shot on the day he followed her to her place of work. The photographs had been laid out in the sequence they'd been shot. Of the four pictures on the counter, three had been taken when she was walking towards the camera; the fourth he'd shot the moment she stepped out of her nightclub, the Kit-Kat, the name of which was clearly discernible in the frame. The first and second photos of the sequence were missing, the spots where they had originally been placed on the counter now empty. Serafim recalled exactly what the missing photos contained and what they gave away. He recalled the sense of familiarity she had then, the ease in her manners as she looked around for him, the way she stood in front of the cabaret as if she owned it herself. Serafim imagined they had easily recognized her as the woman who'd approached the phony councilman on the street. But now they also knew where she worked.

Serafim rushed back into the sitting room, where he remembered having come across his watch under a blanket. He found it, turned it over. It was ten to four. He might still be able to catch Claire, to warn her, before she left for her shift, where they would almost certainly be waiting for her. He dove into a corner of piled clothing, looking for his phone, tossing shirts and pillowcases over his shoulders, cursing in Portuguese. He finally found it, picked it up, manically clicking the switch hook to get the operator.

“Code and number please.” A female voice, dry and sleepy.

“St. Louis one-eight-six-one. Please hurry.”

“I'll connect you just as soon as I can, sir.”

“Please.”

As the phone was ringing, Serafim darted a look at the door. Someone was climbing the stairs to his landing. He held his breath. The phone continued to ring. It seemed unlikely anyone was home. The footsteps paused at his door.

The operator came back on the line. “I'm sorry, sir, no one's responding.”

“Please,” Serafim whispered. “Please, can you try again? I must get through.” He watched the door.

“Fine, sir.”

As Claire's telephone rang again, the footsteps continued to the next landing.

On the fifth ring, she picked up. “
Oui, all
ô
?”

“Oh, thank God you're still home,” exclaimed Serafim in French. “Claire, they know who you are. They know who
we
are. Are you okay? Are you alone?”

“I am . . . sorry? May I ask who's speaking please?”

Serafim held the receiver away from his ear, staring at it in disbelief. He could hear a tiny voice still coming from the matrix of its pinholes.

“I'm afraid Claire just left for work. This is her sister speaking. Would you mind me asking if everything is all right? Is my sister in some kind of trouble? Hello? Hello?”

But Serafim had already dropped the phone and was running for the back door, down the stairs two at a time, through the alley and out onto the street, where he spotted a taxi in the far distance and began sprinting towards it, waving his arm, his palm unfurled like a white flag.

Montréal, le 18 mai 1929
ATTN: Responsable

M. Villard,

I'm very sorry to let you know at such late notice, sir, but I'm afraid I won't be able to stay on and do my set tonight. Something happened and I'm feeling quite out of sorts, and won't be able to dance. Though I wanted you to know that I've called in Maude to take my place.

Also, just to help you out in terms of programming, you might want to have a replacement for Claire standing by as well.

I'm very sorry again. I look forward to seeing you for my shift next Thursday.

Vous remerciant d'avance de votre compréhension,

Mme Chantal Burgien

B
efore going into
the nightclub, Claire hesitated on the sidewalk for a moment, looking around for no reason she could think of. Everything seemed normal. Down the street on her left, a couple were squabbling, the man holding the girl's arm, the girl squirming free and walking a few paces away before he caught up and held on to her again. Claire looked up the street, to her right, where a taxi was speeding around the corner, the cab tilting to its side, straining its leaf springs. She hated how taxis drove so recklessly downtown, careening through the pedestrians, buggies, and tramcars as if they were the only vehicles on the road. She clicked her tongue at the driver and stepped inside.

She heard the bartender, crouching out of sight, restocking his shelves for the night. “How are you doing, Callum?” she called over the counter.

Only it wasn't Callum who stood up. It was some other man, someone she'd never seen before. “Sorry?” he said, wiping his hands on the white of his freshly donned apron.

“Oh. Where's Callum?”

“Callum? Oh, other guy. Got hisself all black 'n' blue he did. Some beef with a couple torpedoes s'what I hear.” He squatted down again, rattling bottles.

Claire faltered, looked towards the back, listening. Something was amiss, but she didn't really know what to do about it. She wondered if it was best to just keep acting as though there was nothing wrong, to cast less suspicion in her direction. That was, after all, what had worked for her so far. She continued to the back, bent on keeping her bearing perfectly normal.

She stopped at the door of the performers' change room, where she heard several voices on the other side, speaking softly. Claire knocked.

“Yes?” came the voice of the dancer who had almost caught her and Serafim the day they'd taken the pictures.

“Is everything okay in there?” asked Claire.

“Why, Claire! Yes, honey, everything's just ducky. Come on in.”

At that same moment, Claire heard someone hurrying through the front doors of the cabaret and mumbling something to the bartender. She felt the need to close herself in, quietly lock herself into some safe place. She opened the door to the change room and saw the other dancer there, sitting alone.

The woman, who was wearing a wooden smile, tapped the chair next to her. “Come have a seat.”

Trying to work out what her strained expression might signify, Claire closed the door, only to be startled by the sight of two moustached men hiding right behind it.

One of them gently and calmly took Claire by the arm and pulled her into the same seat the other dancer had been sitting in; while the woman stood up and, as if previously agreed, hurried out of the room, shutting the door behind her.

It was just Claire and the two men now. The room felt cold to her. Alarmed, she saw the events around her unfolding in a sluggish, inflexible way, the sounds that the men were making in the cramped space as brittle as icicles. One of them cracked the knuckle of his pinky.

The same man who'd led her to the chair crouched down to address her, speaking in French with a singsongy Italian accent. “I am sure you know why we are here. We are looking for some photographs, and we need to find them, tonight. You will help us.” The two men exchanged a measured look. “Now, how painful you make this process is entirely up to you. So let me start by asking you plainly: Where are those photographs?”

“I honestly don't know.” Claire swallowed. “Serafim has them.” She looked at each of them individually. “But I can tell you where he lives. I can show you.”

“That is not necessary. We know where he lives. The pictures are not there. Perhaps Mr. Vieira could help us. Do you know where he is?”

“No,” Claire answered, sounding small, futile.

The man straightened up. “That is” — he let out a regretful sigh — “unfortunate for you.”

The men traded another look, and the second man reached into his back pocket, from which he pulled a knife, unfolded it, and held it in a rather unthreatening way, as if playfully testing the weight of its blade.

There was a knock at the door. A man's voice, trying hard to whisper and not succeeding in the least, hissed through the wood, “Claire? Claire, I need to speak with you immediately.”

The three of them looked at each other, as if seeking the one who knew what to do with this new turn of events.

It was the most unlikely of them who did. “Serafim, yes, I'm here. You can come in,” said Claire.

The two men scurried back into the corner where they'd hidden before, and Serafim stepped inside. Claire, tangling her fingers in her lap, was surprised to see him without a moustache. “I am sorry,” she said.

Before he could work out just what she was sorry for, the door closed behind him, revealing the two men. The second man was now wielding the knife in a firm fist, while the other had his hand in the inside pocket of his jacket, where, it was understood, he had a gun, though he didn't feel the need to pull it out because Serafim was the very model of surrender, his complexion a sickly white, his hands lifting in tired submission, without even the vigour to rise above his shoulders.

“Our lucky day,” the first man said, still in his melodious French. “Now, we are going to get into a car together. It is parked in the back, just a few feet away. If either of you causes a fuss or tries to run, you will die. Do we understand each other?” Sombre nods. “Good. Then let us go.”

They drove, mostly in silence, to the Italian neighbourhood near the commercial quarter of St. James Street. On the way, the man who seemed to be in charge, the only one to speak so far, turned to Serafim. “So, where are the film and photographs?”

“In my apartment,” Serafim offered without wavering. Claire was relieved he was co-operating.

“No, they aren't. We searched the apartment.”

“Yes, I know. I watched you. But they're in a hidden place.”

“I see. Good. We will wait until after dark then go there together. You can show us.”

“That's fine,” Serafim agreed.

They pulled into another alley and Serafim and Claire were led into a shallow basement, the ceiling pressing down on them. The men pulled out two chairs and arranged them so they were facing away from each other, and Claire and Serafim were told to sit. The first man then produced a rope, and proceeded to have a conversation in Italian with the second, presumably, Claire gathered, about the best way to tie the two of them up.

To everyone's surprise, Serafim interjected, also speaking Italian. His tone was passive, reasonable. Claire worked out that he was saying such strict measures were unnecessary, that he and Claire would do nothing but comply, co-operate to the fullest. In reaction to this outburst, the two men paused, blinking. Then the second lurched forward and wrapped the thick rope around Serafim's head, tightening it over his mouth, gagging him. They had soon done the same with Claire. Then they bound their hands and feet. When the men were satisfied that the two of them would stay put, they left, locking them in and turning off the lights, leaving them with nothing but dark, mildew, and silence.

They settled themselves on their respective chairs, breathing through and around the ropes that barred their mouths. At one point Serafim tried to say something to Claire, but he failed, sucking back the spittle from the attempt. She felt him hang his head, defeated.

Claire found herself thinking about her sister, then of her parents, who hadn't entered her mind in what felt like years. She recalled the way her father had indulged her, his warm words and effortless praise. The same could be said for her grandmother, and her sister. All of them, coaxing her towards something that, it was sickening to think, they might not themselves have believed she would ever become. Ironically, in the end, not doubting them for a second, she had left them all behind, on her way to that invented, extravagant place. In reality, where she had ended up was frightening. She couldn't stop herself from crying, tears and saliva collecting at the end of her chin, where they streamed onto her dress in long strings that she couldn't wipe clean.

She felt Serafim shifting around behind her. He managed to reach one of his thumbs to a point where it was in contact with her wrist. He gently stroked the skin he could touch there, and he didn't stop for hours, his thumb running back and forth in the quiet darkness, until the men returned and switched on the light.

They untied only their feet and dragged them back outside, where the sun had since fallen. They were pushed into the back of a different car this time, where the man with the knife, whom they had yet to hear speak, was waiting for them. Seated in the front were a driver and another man, both of whom Claire had never seen before. What was strange was that the man riding shotgun seemed to be well acquainted with Serafim.

He turned in his seat, smiled. “Seraf
im
eh.” He tipped up his hat. “
Come sta
i
?” Then he said something in Italian, which Claire took to mean, “Because I know you, I asked if I could come along. That way, we can get this over with as quickly and as smoothly as possible.” He turned to face the front, while the man in the back gestured that they should crouch down, out of sight. As they complied, the driver started the car and pulled away, out into the Saturday night streets of Montreal, the sidewalks that ran on either side of them already mingling with revellers and clubgoers, all of them oblivious to what was passing them by.