I have learned she now resides in the mountainous interior of this province — near a village called Slocan — and I will go there immediately. In the meantime, I will also spend more time in the library in an effort to master the intricacies of what is known in the trade as S and M. The concept is truly beyond me.
It might be worth noting that Professor O’Donnell’s only break from routine last week was his attendance at a Thursday evening performance of a play called Switch at the Granville Island Theatre Workshop in which, as you are obviously aware, Miss Martin plays a role. Perhaps there was nothing so unusual about Mr. O’Donnell’s presence there — he was probably curious. While I was unable myself to buy a ticket — the theatre is small and the production popular — I did wait outside until it emptied. You will be pleased to know that the audience — excepting Professor O’Donnell and a few people with picket signs — seemed smiling and happy, and had an enjoyable time.
I remain faithfully,
Francisco (Frank) Sierra
To whom it may concern,
I am Dominique Lander. I live at Rural Route 1, Bellflower Road, Slocan. I write this in support of my friend and former lover, Hon. Jonathan Shaun O’Donnell.
I met Jonathan two years ago at a reception for new faculty at UBC, where I was commencing a term as visiting lecturer in fine arts. I told him I wanted to fuck him, and we went to my rented studio in Kitsilano, where we did so. We fell in love and continued to meet there for the purpose of sex two or three days a week for seven months, after which I returned here to the Slocan Valley.
As a form of play before we fucked we would often paint each other’s bodies. On frequent occasions we engaged in bondage and discipline. (This is often called sado-masochism, but that is a misleading term for what are properly seen as acts of affection. Pain is after all just another aspect of love. Death itself is erotic.)
Although the routines varied, a common element involved Jonathan tying me up to the bed and spanking me with his hand. I therefore do not believe that if he tied Kimberley Martin to the bed it was for any other reason than to engage in a ritual he enjoyed prior to fucking. He has never harmed a person in his life. I hope this information will assist him in his case, for I know that he is innocent.
Signed: Dominique Lander
Witness: Francisco Sierra
On this second Sunday of August, clouds decorate the horizon, but above Garibaldi the sky remains blue, the sun unrelentingly hot. The “spell” is what everyone is talking about at the ferry dock today. “Longest spell I can remember since ‘85.”
“Don’t think this spell is gonna end till October.”
Kurt Zoller is fluttering like a butterfly about the fringes of this crowd — local elections are set for this fall, and our trustee has been seeking the opinion of the grassroots, testing the waters before deciding whether he has any hope of re-election.
He strolls towards me, fidgeting with the straps of his life jacket. “Mr. Bo-champ, good morning. We got another hot one, eh?”
“Ah, our esteemed trustee. This drought must be keeping your little waterworks company hopping.”
Zoller recently began a business tanking water up to his neighbours in Evergreen Estates, and he is reputed to gouge. This may have lost him a few votes, especially because he is seen as profiting from the spell.
“It’s a service to my fellow islanders.” He drops his voice and bends to me. “But I hear rumbles. Some people can’t handle the idea of a businessman with initiative. Ford didn’t build an auto empire without taking his opportunities. If it hadn’t been me, somebody else would of done it, an off-islander.”
I wonder if he is not sweltering in that heavy life jacket. Margaret and I have decided it is a kind of mother’s blanket.
“You are merely adhering to the time-honoured ethics of capitalism, Mr. Zoller.”
“Thank you.”
I like the way he insists on misinterpreting my sarcasm. He is still convinced I am his unswerving ally.
“I’m meeting some bureaucrats from the city.” Zoller continues to speak in the hushed tone of an international spy. “Government hydrologists. Coming over here to check water-table levels. This is how they spend our taxes.”
“Ah, yes. The government is always interfering in matters that don’t concern it.”
“Can you think of some legal move to head them off, like a sort of injunction?”
“Not offhand, Mr. Zoller.”
From behind me comes the nasal mewl of Nelson Forbish. “Hey, Kurt, I heard the government might put a freeze on the new subdi-vision. You got any word on that?”
Forbish wears his usual headgear, the porkpie hat. He is sucking the contents of a can of grape soda through a straw.
“Arthur here said it better than I could. They’re always sticking their nose into other people’s private places.”
Forbish produces his notepad. “They say there’s gonna be an investigation into, um — they call it. . a possible malfeasance.”
“No comment.”
“Well, hey, I ain’t accusing you of anything, I just asked what you know.”
“I know nothing.” Zoller’s eyes are narrowed to defensive slits. He tightens the straps of his life jacket.
Not Now Nelson slurps up the last of his grape soda with a long, rasping gurgle. “So, are you going to sue Margaret Blake?”
“For what?”
“Saying you were in bed with the developers, that they paid you off. I thought you were going to sue her for slander.”
“Well, I’m still thinking hard about it.”
“Think he’s got any kind of case there, Mr. Beauchamp?”
“If people ran to the courts over every word said in the heat of debate, the system would self-destruct.” I am hoping Zoller will take this as a word of advice from his confidant to abandon thoughts of suing: Margaret may have seriously misspoke. She has confided she had no ammunition for her charge.
“Yeah, but do you think he’s got a case? On what you know?” Forbish surprises me, showing hitherto unrevealed reportorial skills, a doggedness. Perhaps I have misread this clumsy stout. Does within hide a skinny streak of cleverness? “I, too, know nothing.”
“So would you be acting for Mrs. Blake if Kurt here sued her?”
“Nelson, the ferry is arriving.”
“Like I hear you been, um, talking to her.”
“Not now, Nelson.”
“A lot. Over the fence and like that.” Kin to grotesque Silenus, half-man, half-goat, he is the peeping satyr of Garibaldi Island. “Maybe you’re doing more than talking, eh?” A bawdy wink.
Zoller’s expression is one of confusion: The full impact of betrayal hasn’t hit home.
“I am afraid I must flee your riveting company, Nelson — I have a friend to meet.”
“I hear she’s thinking of running for trustee this fall.”
This is true, though told to me in secret. But secrets never seem to survive on this island.
As Forbish ambles off, Zoller stares at me with the expression of a soulmate betrayed. I slink away ashamed, the Quisling of Garibaldi.
The ferry groans wearily into its slip and spews the cyclists out. Augustina then disembarks by foot, greeting me with a hug.
“You seem pretty pleased with yourself, Arthur.”
“Why do you say that, my dear?”
“The funny smile. Look like you swallowed a canary.”
“But I’m merely happy to see you.”