The Party Wall Page 7

  “No, no. The rain will stop. And this time tomorrow we’ll be celebrating your victory.”

  Ariel lowers his eyes in the direction of his wife.

  “What victory? I wanted to win this election on my terms. And I haven’t stopped compromising. It’s not my program I’m defending but the packaging.

  “To reach your goals compromises are unavoidable—you know that.”

  “But you don’t make compromises.”

  “And I never reach my goals.”

  Ariel smiles wanly. Marie is mistaken, he thinks. Working daily for a cause you yourself have defined, under conditions you have chosen, constitutes a kind of victory that he is more and more convinced will always elude him. As if she has heard her husband’s thoughts, Marie grasps his face between her hands and tightens her grip.

  “Your campaign has been extraordinary. No matter what you think, you defended your values and some crucial ideas. Your objectives are so high that you’re always sure you’ve failed. But you succeeded where people had already given up hope of seeing someone even try. And I’m very, very proud of you.”

  Ariel, his cheeks aflame, leans down to kiss his wife. In her legs she senses a faint echo of their bygone blackouts, and she smiles.

  “Now, leave your speech alone and come along. I’ll uncork the bottle of cognac my uncle gave us at our wedding. Unless you’d prefer to keep it for your birthday?”

  Ariel shrugs.

  “I’m not having a birthday this year.”

  “Oh, yes you are. You have no choice. I’m preparing a surprise! Thirty-five—that’s something to celebrate!”

  Ariel brightens up. Year after year, his birthday, which falls on December 24, in the shadow of both the Jewish and Christian holidays, is eclipsed by the profusion of garlands and dreidels. Still, Marie insists on throwing a party for him, knowing that her husband can’t resist the childish enjoyment of presents and surprises, of holding something shiny in his hands. At the mere mention of it he forgets the rain, the speech, and his horticultural cravings. He is seven years old again and the world has recovered its magical glow. The one thing Marie knows for certain is that this part of him must stay alive if he is to win the election.

  Ariel presses down on his computer, which folds onto his draft like a large, tired hand. Outside, the wind has become a wail, a high-pitched whistle, almost a call for help.

  “Do you hear something?” Ariel asks.

  They stare at each other. Marie runs to the door and—it seems to her—barely grazes the handle, yet already the door has swung open, letting in the water, the fury, and the madness of the weather. The storm goes quiet just long enough for a misshapen creature to dash across the threshold and plant itself on the makeshift promontory of the coffee table, from which it surveys the premises. Once it stops moving, Marie and Ariel finally manage to examine it and recognize a shape under the layer of mud puddling at its feet. A cat.

  “And where have you come from, little fellow?”

  It opens wide its huge golden eyes and lets out a meow that says it all. It has come out of nowhere. It has never known a litter box, a home, or the teats of a female cat. It rose out of the mud on a stormy evening and ran toward the light, toward the promise of warmth, and will never leave it.

  Canada’s new prime minister. He’s young. He brings people together. Has ideas. Energy. Charm. A knack for the quick rejoinder. John F. Kennedy. He speaks four languages, including Hebrew and Inuktitut. He knows how to mollify the Québécois. He is the youngest person ever to have held this position, and the first Jew, though not a practising Jew. But neither is he an atheist. He plays the guitar. He loves brioches and had one in every city during his election tour because everywhere he stopped he was treated to them. He is good at hockey, even better at tennis. He knows his classics. Neil Young, Cronenberg, Atwood, Terry Fox. Canadiana. According to his medical records he is epileptic. He does not smoke. Drinks in moderation. Jogs. Won’t decline a motorcycle ride when a helmet is available. He rode one four times over the course of the campaign. He voted in his Montreal West riding, a stone’s throw away from where he grew up. Where the old-timers know him. Call him Golden Boy, like everyone else. He’s going to change the face of the country. Give the silent majority a voice. The frustrated, overburdened, cynical, apathetic majority. Ariel Goldstein is going to clean things up. Fire corrupt civil servants. Invest in schools. Bring back women’s right to abortion. Take our children out of prison. Kick the media’s ass. Hold out a friendly hand to dissenters, outsmart the terrorists, rein in the militias. Put an end to racism. Transform every single slum into a palace. Reverse climate change. Establish universal peace. Ariel Goldstein, the thirty-sixth prime minister of Canada. Golden Boy.

  The camera flashes turn the crowd into something sparkling and, what’s more, indistinct. The mass of supporters parts like the waters of the Dead Sea to let the couple pass, and, borne along by a groundswell, they are up on the stage in no time. They approach the podium together. Marie plants an appropriate kiss on her husband’s feverish cheek, then steps back. Ariel is left alone at the mic. Unbeknown to the audience, he wrings his hands a little. All that is visible is Ariel’s winning smile. Even without seeing his face, Marie senses the smile and the deep breath that comes next. “This country has been turned into a place that is not in our image.”

  Ariel waits for the renewed surge of applause to abate. Though he cannot see them, he can guess where his crew of strategists is standing. Their hands clap with metronomic regularity and self-congratulatory strength, with the satisfaction of a job well done and the smugness of victory. Deep in his heart Ariel is jubilant. He is no longer working for them. His address continues, full of promises and acknowledgements. He had the feeling he had not properly rehearsed his speech, but now that he is on stage, looking out at this sea seething with such a wild, collective joy, the words come to him so naturally he could just as well be extemporizing. Last night’s anxiety has given way to that almost unseemly euphoria that grabs hold of him whenever he addresses a crowd. Years ago, a comrade asked him where he drew his confidence when speaking in public. “I always have the feeling I’m speaking to just one person,” Ariel had replied. It was true before he met Marie. Ever since, he knows he was always speaking to her.

  The celebration explodes into a strange blend of dignity and excess, in which the desire to project the right image is at odds with the heady sensation of seeing the horizon open up before one’s very eyes and with the need to dance at the prospect of all the new possibilities. Once the evening is over, only Marie, Ariel, Marc, and Emmanuelle stay behind, drinking spring water in the hope of recovering a semblance of respectability before dawn. Jubilation gives way to the contemplation of the months ahead, the anticipation of the time of major reorganization that awaits them.

  “It’s strange,” Marie says. “It’s as though everything has just shifted. And it took just one day.”

  “And 11,558 votes,” Ariel adds.

  “That’s politics for you,” Marc observes. “There are two possible worlds, and in a few brief moments everything gets decided, we’re thrust into one or the other and our lives are transformed.”

  “It’s like falling in love!” Emmanuelle exclaims, her cheeks gone crimson.

  “I don’t agree,” Marie retorts. “Love isn’t a momentary thing. It’s something that has always existed deep inside us and that rises to the surface when we summon it. Like a permanence of being.”

  The four comrades fall silent, but then Marc lets out a dry little laugh, which is immediately cut short by Emmanuelle, whose gaze is fixed on Marie.

  “Shush. It’s important, what she just said.”

  Cursing the Ontario wine that loosens her tongue like this, Marie tugs discreetly at Ariel’s sleeve. His voice exhausted by the evening’s speeches and endless conversations, Ariel announces they are leaving. Hand in hand, Mr. Prime Minister a
nd his wife go out into the bracing air and take their seats in the car that is now theirs, with two bodyguards sitting up front. Marie shivers. They’ve become bodies that must be guarded. From now on something vague and evil lies lurking and must be fended off.

  The cat did not enjoy the trip to the capital. As soon as the car set out, he began to snarl in his cage and scratch at invisible adversaries. Since arriving at the official residence two weeks ago, it has lost none of its rancour; it hisses whenever anyone approaches and leaves puddles of urine in different corners, forcing the residents to spend hours sniffing out the exact spot like clumsy creatures. Neither Marie nor Ariel understands exactly why the animal—which they’ve named Wretch—has adopted them. It does not seek their care or affection and turns its nose up at most of the meals they serve it, insisting instead on rustling up its provender outdoors. They are even more at a loss to explain the docile attachment they feel toward it.

  The official residence is inhabited by shadows, by ossified, impassive mirages, the legacy of generations of people who lived there knowing they were only passing through, dreading they would be driven out too soon or sometimes horrified at feeling imprisoned there. A long line of prime ministers’ spouses has repainted, changed the wallpaper, and refurnished in the hope of making the premises their own, but without ever managing to feel at home inside these walls, which close in imperceptibly from year to year, thickened by the layers of colour added over and over.

  Marie was not planning to redecorate. For her, this dwelling is just a pied-à-terre. Her home is still Montreal, the little house where she and Ariel have lived since their wedding, with its cracked walls, creaking beams, unkempt yard, and misty windows. But Ariel, in a surprising display of superstitious inclinations, got very worked up. Living amid the decor of the previous government would surely bring bad luck, politically speaking. So Marie has hired a marvellously authoritarian designer and bows unquestioningly to his directives. Yes, acid green in the kitchen. Very well, a mauve wall in the living room. Oversized light fixtures. And a giant steel egg in the hall—why not?

  Reassured by the makeover of his new house, Ariel tackles the transition process with renewed vitality. He has put the ups and downs of the election campaign behind him and is prepared to wipe the slate clean; between meetings, he repeats ready-made phrases that bolster his morale. In the morning, Marie hears him mumbling words that sound like “first day of the rest of my career” while he knots his tie. The reins of the nation weigh a ton and the team under harness is made up of dogs who ignore each other. He needs such maxims to convince himself that he will be able to lead them in the right direction.

  As for Marie, she tries to adjust to the numbing pace of working at home. She is unused to the fuzzy boundaries between work and private life, and the borderline seems to be disappearing in every area of her life. She wanders around in pyjamas and wastes hours viewing rubbish instead of organizing her symposium on the death penalty. The cat claws at her ankles when they cross paths, believing that there are enemies hiding under the long panels of her dressing gown. This is the state that Ariel’s parents surprise her in when they show up unannounced.

  “Are you ailing, dear?” her mother-in-law immediately inquires as she presses the backs of her thin fingers against her daughter-in-law’s cheek.

  “No, no, I’m simply a little slow today,” Marie replies, aware that her dazed appearance is only fuelling the Goldsteins’ conjectures as to her first pregnancy, which they anticipate nearly more impatiently than she does.

  Under their inquisitive gaze, she shows them around the house while attempting to collect the scraps of herself adrift on the floor. The Goldsteins fan out like a flock of birds, their frenetic presence fills the sealed up boudoirs, and their flapping wings upset the silence in which Marie has wrapped herself. After taking the kitchen, the television stations, and the arrangement of the closets by storm, they direct their efforts to training the cat. Marie takes refuge in the bathroom and gulps down some pills that dampen the invasive commotion going on around her. In the evening, her guests refuse to go to bed and stay up until midnight waiting to welcome Ariel home. When he arrives, they ignore his tiredness and bombard him with a jumble of high-handed questions and advice. The Goldsteins have never been able to share their son, but this is the first time it has made Marie feel sick. After a few days, she announces she has to go to Quebec City to take care of some urgent matters. She boards the train and watches the kilometres between her new and old lives slip past like prayer beads. Back in his office, Ariel experiences a swaying sensation. He misses his wife already.

  The winter holiday festivities have gotten under way weeks ahead of time. Labour’s Christmas party. The donors’ cocktail party. The media gala. The cabinet dinner. But the event that does Ariel the most good is the private meal with Marc and Emmanuelle. Alongside the mass of adversaries and false allies that have been crowding him for months, his right-hand man has stood out as a true friend, one who does not indulge in whispered slander and backstabbing. In their beloved old house in Notre-Dame-de-Grâce, flanked by Marie’s boreal beauty and Marc’s solid, upright presence, Ariel finds that all’s well in his world. Emmanuelle, with her perennially sullen air, is the only one out of tune. She chafes at Marc’s new schedule and constantly insinuates he is unfaithful to her. Evidently, spending Christmas Eve in the prime minister’s company was not part of her vacation plans. Ariel tries to ignore the sour mood radiating from Emmanuelle by stroking his wife’s knee. Marie clutches his fingers with an almost animal violence, which each of her gestures has evinced since the evening began. He could make love to her right here and now.

  As soon as the guests have left, Ariel grabs Marie by the hips. He feels the words rising, ready to materialize in his mouth laced with the sugary flavour of Port. He wants them to have a child. Tonight. He does not want to wait for the right strategic moment, for his power to be consolidated, for the winning conditions. He wants to give his wife everything she desires, right now.

  His impulse is curbed by the sound of the telephone. Marie seizes the chance to tiptoe away. In her bedroom she finds the two envelopes that she prepared. Her heart is pounding so hard it makes her reel. She hasn’t taken any medication since the beginning of the week. She wanted to be clear-headed for this moment, which she has been planning in absolute secrecy for months. She goes down the stairs gripping the handrail, as if on a ship in the middle of a storm. Through the buzzing that fills her head she hears Ariel scolding a political aide.

  “Don’t you have a father, an aunt, a neighbour, Odile? A Madagascan roommate? So now you’re going to hang up, put on a clean sweater and leave the office to go wish him Merry Christmas, and if you can manage that, then have a glass of some alcoholic beverage. Anything will do. Mouthwash if need be. And don’t call me anymore because of what some asinine amateur blogger has to say. For the next twenty-four hours, I don’t exist.”

  When he hangs up, Marie is standing in front of him; her complexion is opalescent, her gaze poignant.

  “Happy birthday!”

  Ariel smiles and moves closer, ready to dive under his wife’s skirt. She checks him with a trembling hand that proffers an envelope decorated with a gold ribbon. Her other hand holds a second envelope just as bulky as the first.

  “You’ve brought me work? A case that needs to be dealt with during the holidays? You’re too kind!” he scoffs, snatching up his gift with a wink.

  Marie does not laugh. She solemnly places her hand on her husband’s to stop him from opening the envelope too soon.

  “Inside, there’s a surprise for both of us. I wanted for us to have a chance to get to know ourselves better, to understand ourselves better. These papers…”

  She pauses, muzzled by an invisible filter. Ariel pulls her over to the loveseat, to the gentle warmth of the hearth.

  “These documents contain the identities of our birth mothers.”

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p; Ariel stops. Each of his movements—of his guiding arms, of his coiling spinal column, of his faithfully returning breath—hovers in mid-air.

  “I know you would have preferred to wait, but… if we’re thinking of having kids, I feel it’s important to know where we come from. I don’t expect the contents of these envelopes to go beyond the walls of this house. We can throw them in the fire afterwards, if you like. Your parents won’t know. This is for us. For the nucleus. It belongs to us.”

  Ariel plops down on a cushion and takes a gulp of Port as he contemplates the golden ribbon and the secrets wrapped within it.

  “You have no idea what we’ll find in there?”

  “No. I did whatever it took to wait until we could open them together.”

  “Well, okay then, let’s do it.”

  There are moments that nothing can prepare you for. Such as fainting on shaking hands with a stranger. Or reading your mother’s name for the first time. You don’t know what to do, how to behave. You forget how to breathe, blink your eyes, swallow the stones building up in your mouth. Ariel unties the ribbon, slips the set of papers out of the envelope, skims through them. Barely moving his lips he murmurs a woman’s name while Marie, sitting beside him, performs the same gestures, and in her turn utters a name. Like an echo. A poisoned refrain.

  For many minutes, they remain frozen next to each other, unable to speak, unable to cry, paralyzed in a moment like the one experienced by suicides, the deafening minutes that elapse before they decide to pull the trigger. Finally, Marie holds out her hand. Ariel passes her his papers, and she gives him hers. There’s no mistake. There it is in black and white. Eva Volant. The same name twice. Two parallel lines that nevertheless meet at the source. A geometrical aberration. Thirty-three years earlier, Eva Volant, fifteen years old, gives birth to two premature babies. She gives up the girl for adoption, but wants to keep the boy. A month later, the boy is placed in the care of a private agency. Their three paths should never have crossed again.