The secretary’s brow lifted, her eyes narrowed, and Catalina could tell she was displeased but knew enough to keep her tone neutral, her words measured. “Might it be a better idea to resume with old clients first? They have so much to process — losing Dr. Schmidt under such tragic circumstances, having their therapy cut off so abruptly.” This time her voice didn’t crack. She had been handling Dr. Schmidt’s clients for a long time, and in this she felt confident, perhaps even superior, in her judgment. She wore a self-possessed, almost smug expression as she awaited a reply.
“No,” Catalina said with no further explanation, and watched the old woman’s confidence slowly deflate. After a moment, Mrs. Dubois began to sweep the papers and other detritus on her desk back into the drawers with no thought of order. Slovenly, thought Catalina, though her face showed no distaste. Mrs. Dubois would soon cease to offend her senses altogether.
“If you’re sure there’s nothing else I can do...” She picked up her brown handbag and threw her keys in it.
“Nothing, nothing at all,” Catalina replied pleasantly, and escorted her to the door.
Through the bay windows she watched the old secretary shuffle up the street. Every few steps she looked over her shoulder, as if desperate for a last glimpse at her world before it disappeared.
“And to die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier,” Catalina recited in the empty office, grinning. Her favorite line from Whitman never failed to infuse her with equanimity and resolve. Death had always been lucky for her. She was not certain Dr. Schmidt felt the same when his time came, though Mrs. Dubois might feel fortunate to finally join him. She looked through the secretary’s desk, searching for an address. Tomorrow or the next day she would drop by her flat to settle the matter of her future at the practice once and for all, the bottle of Dr. Schmidt’s sedatives resting in her pocket like a love potion, like a sleeping snake.
Suitcase Man
by Martin Michaud
Translated from French by Katie Shireen Assef
Notre-Dame-des-Neiges Cemetery
An old man bows against the wind, making his way among the frozen headstones of the Notre-Dame-des-Neiges Cemetery. A heavy suitcase dangles from his fist, leaves a trail of blood on the snow. The man’s eyebrows are white with frost, and his eyes shine with the conviction that drives those who have made grave decisions, carried out irreversible acts. When he finally reaches Florence’s headstone, he knows he’s come to the end of his journey, and he’s determined to watch his life leave him like a dark ship disappearing into the horizon.
Under the weight of his years, but especially his suffering, the old man’s knees buckle and cease to carry him. When he staggers and slumps forward, arms open, he looks as if he’s trying to grab ahold of the clouds rolling across the sky.
Then his body collapses, shooting crystalline snowflakes up into the air. The old man is named Arthur Zourek, but it’s been years since anyone has heard his name.
The smell of fast food filled the front seat of the patrol car, its windows frosted over. One of the policemen, whose name tag read Robitaille, shoved a handful of fries into his mouth and, chewing, said, “It’s terrible. You’d think my daughter walks around the house in lead boots! She had an exam at the university this morning. When I got up in the middle of the night to take a piss, she was still studying. Can you believe it? Every damn light in the apartment was on. Just like her mother. I spend my whole life turning off those friggin’ lights!”
Robitaille burst out laughing, shaking his head while his fingers closed down on his dripping hamburger. With his mouth full, he continued: “Me and Michèle, we haven’t fucked for weeks. The kids’ rooms are practically on top of ours. I think we’ll have to move. Now that Justine and her brother are older, we’ve got zero privacy. We need some more space or we’re gonna go crazy...” His greasy fingers stroked the ends of his graying mustache. “How ’bout your son? How old is he now, your little guy?”
The man who’d been absently listening to Robitaille’s grievances raised his head, worked his jaw for a moment, and fixed his green eyes on his partner. “Martin? Six months.”
Robitaille slurped up the last of his Coca-Cola through a straw. “And? How’s it going?”
“He’s so little, so fragile — it’s a miracle, life.” The young policeman looked out the window into the deserted Saint Joseph’s Oratory parking lot. The patrol car was parked in front of the lot, on Chemin Queen Mary. “You don’t want anything to happen to them. You want to protect them from anything that could harm them. From...” The cop’s eyes gleamed as he choked back tears.
Robitaille, who’d seen a thing or two in his day, suspected his partner was a tormented man, that an immense rift had torn through his childhood like a long and painful scar burned into flesh.
“You want to protect them from others. And from yourself.”
Robitaille noticed the rectangular plastic box his colleague held on his knees, containing a sandwich, carrots and celery sticks, a piece of cheese. He ate slowly, chewing each bite carefully as if he were savoring every flavor.
“Your wife packs your lunches, eh?” said Robitaille. “Enjoy it, son. It won’t last. Pretty soon she’ll start nagging you for not talking enough about your emotions, if she hasn’t already.”
The young policeman lowered his head, embarrassed at suddenly being the center of attention. Robitaille crumpled up the wax paper that had covered his hamburger, chewing the last bite. “Besides, it’s not as if you were much of a chatterbox to begin with.”
On the radio, they listened to a hockey match between the Canadiens and the Bruins. When the sportscaster announced a Boston goal, Robitaille banged his fist on the dashboard. “Goddamnit, Roy! Another fast one! Better trade him while he’s still worth something. We’ll never win the Cup with that moron in the net.” He turned the heat up all the way and sighed. “Thirty-three below. Shit, it’s freezing—”
He was interrupted by a crackling noise as the dispatcher’s voice came over the patrol radio: “Calling all units: Code 063 at 4565 Côte-des-Neiges.”
Robitaille turned to his partner. They were only a few blocks away. Without a moment’s hesitation, the green-eyed policeman grabbed the transmitter.
“Eleven three. We’re on our way.”
Robitaille started the engine and shot off at full speed, making the tires spin out on the ice. His partner turned on the siren and revolving lights. The two were silent as the patrol car hurtled through the night. Then Robitaille winced and said between his teeth, “An abused kid. Jesus. We’ve got a fucking shitty job, son.”
Victor Lessard said nothing, but his jaw tightened and his gaze hardened. Sinister phantoms danced before him.
The woman who’d made the call to 911 — a gray-haired, wrinkled twig wearing a floral dress — waited for the officers on her apartment’s second-floor landing.
Since Robitaille was breathless from climbing the stairs, it was Victor who asked, “What’s happened, madame?”
“I heard screams coming from the apartment upstairs,” she responded. “A child’s screams. I went out into the hallway, and that’s where I saw him. The upstairs neighbor, I mean. Coming down the stairs with his big suitcase, the one he’s always dragging around with him.”