A Three Day Event (24 page)

The headline read: MONTREAL MEGA–BUCKS MIRED IN MIAMI SCAM. She skimmed the lead paragraph, which in bold strokes outlined the collapse of a grocery warehousing pyramid scheme in Florida, promoted and manipulated by former Montrealers, involving upwards of four hundred million dollars from Montreal investors.

Hy was saying to the reporter, “…and all I can tell you is that I turned it down and advised my friends against it because after I looked into it I could see that it was too good to be true…”

Ruthie’s heart began to race a bit as she read o
n. The names of the victims leaped at her from the page: Caplan, Lifshitz, Greenblatt, Stein, Cohen, Zimmerman… Almost every name familiar, if not because she knew them personally, at least because they were Jewish. At the same time she was reproaching herself. Her first, irrepressible reaction had been,
Almost all Jews. What will the goyim say?

“…look, a company doing those huge volumes can’t make returns of thirty per cent–not legitimately, anyway. I mean, you take a normal sales arbitrage company–there’s one in New Jersey I can put you on to–they’re pretty nimble and the profit margins are small, so they can cherry pick their buys. And yes, they can give an investor, say, 10–12 per cent on his money…”

How could she think so–well, politically incorrectly was what it was for someone of her lofty, global overview of life. That was
other
Jews’ voices, Cote St. Luc, ghettoized Jews, certainly not
hers
. She disowned her response. She was educated. She prided herself on her lack of parochialism, on her many inter–cultural friendships. What did it matter if they were Jews who’d been stung? It wasn’t as if they had been found running a heroin ring, after all. It must be because of that horrible cartoon. She wasn’t herself…

“…a thirty percent return! So then why did these Florida people have to come to Montreal for money? But sure, I was curious, and it seemed like so many people were raking it in, so I asked the general partner in Montreal for the financial statements. I wanted to actually see how they were doing it. He showed me
his
statement. Well, hell, I said, that’s no use to me. Let me see the statements of the sales company’s that’s doing the arbitrage. But then he got evasive and I knew right away something wasn’t kosher.”

Four hundred million dollars,
they would say.
Do you see how rich they are? And how greedy?
Or maybe,
Aren’t Jews supposed to be so smart? How did they all get taken like that? There’s more to this than meets the eye…

“…classic. Absolutely classic Ponzi scheme…every pyramid scheme is really the same old story…”

Ruthie read on. It was appalling. Houses mortgaged, RSSPs raided, money borrowed, capital decimated, golf and tennis club memberships dropped, private school educations forfeited, retirements deferred, ignorant wives dumbfounded…There would be divorces, suicides maybe. Combined Jewish Appeal would have its work cut out for it this year.

Her heart beat faster.
There but for the grace of–well, not God, but fate…
and she thought with fervent gratitude on her children’s behalf of Hy’s conservative administration of her own secure and steadily growing portfolio and, of course, her half interest in
Tissus Clar–Mor…You’ll be quite a catch
, Marvin used to say when the medication made him high and everything seemed hazy and funny to him.
Oh don’t don’t don’t…But it’s true, ziess…

“…all the due diligence in the world is useless if you don’t check out the principals… I’d be very surprised if their personal record is clean… On the record? a quote? Well, I guess it’s what I just said. You want to check out the principals if you’re investing in something. Because it’s their characters that will determine what kind of deal you’re getting yourself into.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

T
hey sat amongst the debris of glasses, coffee cups and
plates of buttery toast ends in the empty restaurant, Polo poring with quiet absorption over the scabrous cartoon, Ruthie restively scanning his face for the nuances of feeling underneath.

Ruthie had waited until after the meeting. Now they were alone. Ruthie had decided to show it first to Polo to see whether he thought there was any point in burdening Hy without a specific target for his anger. And since she was eager to have Polo’s opinion, she could not account for the profound resentment she was suddenly experiencing in witnessing his fascinated contemplation.

“Have you ever seen this kind of stuff before, Polo?”

“Nope.”

He didn’t look up. Ruthie waited impatiently for him to say something else. But he just kept looking, frowning, lips compressed in a meditative line. Why wasn’t he waxing indignant on her and Hy’s behalf? Why wasn’t he saying out loud that he was repelled, morally outraged? For this was what it seemed necessary for her to hear from him. Yet it appeared to be, for him, just another vexing tangent to the general mystery, an odd–shaped fragment in a 1000–piece jigsaw puzzle.

Ruthie felt vulnerable, anxious and disoriented. Part of her longed to flee this too–open rural spill of undefended dwellings. Her thoughts turned westward, with renewed appreciation for the protective anonymity of the city, the tall, solid, jammed–together fortresses of brick and stone in lower Westmount, her once and future home.

Ruthie’s thoughts still resonated with the story in the morning paper and her own defensive reaction to it. The public story of that business scam–
Jews Jews Jews–
and this terrible private intrusion–it was a bad psychological cocktail. She had not wanted to face the turbulence of her own feelings in realizing that she was either a hated and possibly hunted creature or an envied and resented one. The cold wavelets of fear lapping at her gut during her run that morning were now great rolling breakers beating hard against the porous wall of reason she had erected against them.

Overnight her cosmos had divided itself into ‘them’ and ‘us’. This had nothing to do with the environment she lived in, of course. Ruthie knew her history. She was engaged in the collective cultural life of her people. She knew she lived in a Golden Age of tolerance and freedom unprecedented in Jewish history. Naturally she followed the escalating progress of global anti–Zionism and anti–semitism (almost invariably one and the same, of course) with concern and apprehension. But that was a mental process. It had nothing to do with what was churning inside her now.

To be confronting racial hatred in a personal way for the first time at such an advanced stage of life–it was an odd and very unsettling feeling. But why didn’t Polo speak? Why wasn’t he
connecting
with her fears and emotions? Why wasn’t he offering some kind of
comfort?

Ruthie felt herself suddenly alienated, detached from Polo. Mysteriously she took against him. There he sat, a cool, blond stranger (a professional horseman, of all absurd things), and a
stranger,
and some deep tribal impulse counseled retreat from intimacy with him.

“What do you think, Polo?” She heard frostiness in her voice. Did
he
? “Or rather what would you think if you got that over
your
fax machine?”

“Assuming I was Jewish? I’d be scared…angry…frustrated…mostly scared, I think. All the feelings we want to spare Hy.”

“Yes, well let’s assume you’re not.” now she heard the edge, the uninvited sarcasm in her voice.

If he noticed, he didn’t betray it. Impassively he considered her suggestion. “Not? I guess…I guess my first thought would be, well, somebody really hates Jews…and then maybe–why are they sending this to me? Do they think I’m Jewish?”

“And you’d feel–what? angry? scared? …maybe you’d feel
insulted
? That you should be thought to be Jewish, I mean…?” There could be no mistaking the accusation in her voice.
What is happening here? Why am I saying this?

Startled, his eyes flew up from the page and, meeting the misgiving in hers, the spark of disbelief exploded into a flame of anger. “I’m feeling pretty fucking insulted right now,
ziess
,” he said in a low but feeling tone.

“You mustn’t use that language with me!” she snapped.

“Yeah, well I’m sorry if my
stablese
has ‘bruised your shell–like ears’, but if you were a guy, I’d have done more than
bruise
them for accusing me of that kind of shit.”

“It was natural for me to wonder,” Ruthie protested. “I watched you. You didn’t seem to think there was anything so terrible about that piece of filth. You’re not Jewish. How can you possibly understand what it
feels
like–”

–
You’re not trying to learn. You’re a bad student.

–I am so trying. Maybe you’re just a bad teacher.

–And maybe you’re just plain stupid…

He leaned forward, gripping the table edges. For a frightening second, Ruthie thought he might overturn it. He spoke quietly in a voice she’d never heard before–raw, male, implacable, “
Fais plus de ta maîtresse d’école
. It’s finished, the pretty little schoolroom. I’m all grown up now. Nobody tells me what to say or think.”

He sat back in his chair, but his face was hard and closed. She shrank from his antagonism. It was disproportionate. Wasn’t it? She started to let him know this, but he held up his hand.

“I’m grown up now, Ruthie,” he repeated. “I live in the real world. It’s full of hypocrites and creeps. You just don’t have a clue. Your whole life you’ve been surrounded by people who made you think the world turns around you, and that it’s so goddam important to share every little feeling, every little thought, every little worry. And everything that came out of your mouth was special.
Ruthie’s so smart. Ruthie’s so sensitive. Ruthie’s so good
. And suddenly somebody’s calling your brother dirty names, so you think the world’s coming to an end and everyone has to drop what they’re doing to hold your hand. You know, I hate to tell you, but where I come from, people would say you’ve got High Class Worries, lady.”

He saw he had got to her. She looked furious, but embarrassed and miserable too. And yet she had been the one to strike the first match. He couldn’t stop yet. He still felt like cracking a blackboard. One final shot. “Part of you will always be
daddy’s little princess
, eh
ziess
?”

“
Ohh!”

Oh fuck, why did I say that, she’s going to cry…

“And maybe part of
you
will always be just a…just a….” her voice shook and her face flamed, because she couldn’t manage to say it, and couldn’t think of anything to replace it with.

“…just a…”

Maudit
.
This has to end
.

“–an ignorant
habitant
from St. Henri? It’s okay, I’ve been called worse.”

“
Ohh!
”

Polo had meant it as a joke. But Ruthie’s eyes were brimming and hot with shame. They stared at each other in an agony of suspense to see what was going to happen next.

“I never meant–” she finally whispered–

“It was a joke–” he murmured.

Thank you,
her eyes said. She drew a shaky breath and then, to the command of some invisible baton, they both chose laughter at the same instant. It was precarious and uneasy laughter, but it threw a bridge over the terrible fissure. They were safe. They were quits. Still, they knew now that there would always be a scar in a place they had once assumed was solid rock.

Returned to herself at last, Ruthie took a deep breath and shook her head. “Look, I’m sorry,” she muttered. “I–I know it seems like paranoia. This whole business seems to have done something to my judgment. This place–it’s so beautiful, but there’s something evil going on.” She shivered, and pulled her woolly cardigan tighter.

“And today,” she went on in a murmur, “knowing one of them was probably lying, but not knowing who–I don’t know–it’s that nothing in this place is what it seems to be somehow. And you said it yourself last night. Anybody is capable of anything under the right circumstances. I said it wasn’t true, but maybe it is. Seeing that–” she gestured brusquely to the paper in front of him–“it was upsetting. Not an excuse, I know that…” she trailed off miserably.

Polo didn’t absolve her in words, but a softened glance of understanding had replaced wariness. He rolled up the paper and tucked it into the pocket of his Australian driver’s coat, hanging over the back of the chair.

“No problem,” he finally said, lightly, with no discernable emotion. “Let’s move on. It wasn’t Jean–Claude Desrochers who did the office, I don’t know if I told you. He was and still is in Quebec City. He really is there and didn’t know a thing about the damage. Either that, Roch says, or he suddenly took acting lessons. Not possible. Roch’s known him a long time.

“That brings us back to Gilles and Benoit again,” Polo went on. He shook his head impatiently. “Benoit, okay, but I still can’t put it together with Gilles…What about you? Got any theories yet?”

She cleared her throat and responded tentatively, still embarrassed. “About the horse business, no. Horses are definitely ‘not my onions.’ But the office attack and the fax–well, actually, I think I do. Or at least an orientation with potential. I spoke to Jacques Lallouz from Canadian Jewish Congress this morning. He thinks it could be serious. An indication of a cell, a racist network, maybe. That didn’t help my mood any, by the way. Again–no excuse…. But do we tell Hy?”

Polo drummed the bowl of his coffee spoon rhythmically on the table and stared moodily across the room and out the far window towards Hy’s house. In the quiet of the restaurant they could hear from the courtyard the steady glug of water pouring out of the gutters into rain barrels that served as water troughs for the horses on turnout.

Polo considered the pressures burdening Hy already, and he considered his friend’s not entirely perfect state of health, and he considered especially Hy’s heightened sensibilities on the issue of anti–semitism, not unnatural in the only son of a man whose entire family had been wiped out in the Holocaust.

Finally he said, “I don’t see it as being very constructive right now, do you? I mean, you’ve already stolen his mail,” he smiled wryly at her, “now it’s just a question of how long before you give it back.”

Ruthie smiled back gratefully, relieved to be forgiven and a target for teasing once again. Seeking a neutral subject as a breather, she looked out the near window into the courtyard, and cried, “Oh look. He’s so sweet.”

‘He’ was ‘she’, Popote, the shaggy little blind pony, now marching stiffly but eagerly through rapidly widening puddles in the direction of a beloved voice. Daisy the goat danced nimbly around her. A second later Michel, his riding gear covered by a split–backed waxed riding poncho, came into view, a handful of carrot bits outstretched. The pony’s worn teeth found the treats and she nuzzled her dripping face into Michel’s stomach while Daisy complained noisily at his interference with her companion. Relaxed and laughing, Michel pulled affectionately at his pet’s hairy ears, scratched her flaccid neck and even bent to kiss the top of her soaking wet head.

“It’s a side of Michel most people don’t see,” Polo said with obvious approval. “He’s pretty closed up around most humans, and he’s all business with his competition horses.”

“You’ve known him his whole life, haven’t you?”

“Yeah. We get along pretty well. He’s shy like I was, and ambitious–like I was.”

“So then he’s the opposite of his father, in fact.”

“Yeah. People, and making things happen are Roch’s bag. You’d never catch him mooning over a horse, even if it was his very first, like this one was for Michel.”

“What about you? Do you moon over your horses?”

“Not hors
es
plural, but I did once. I was crazy about The Grand Panjandrum.”

“Oh,
Hamish.
He was beautiful. No wonder.”

“Oh, it wasn’t his beauty. Looks aren’t much to a competition rider.”

“What then?”

“Hamish had the most heart I ever knew in a horse. Plus he was a hundred percent honest.
And
he had great natural athleticism. You often get two out of the three in a horse, but all together–very rare.”

“Honest…That’s a funny word to use about an animal.”

“If you rode, you’d understand.”

“I thought it was so odd that daddy gave him that name, didn’t you?”

Polo laughed softly. “It was typical Morrie, that’s for sure.”

–
He should have a stable name, Morrie. Panjandrum’s too long.

–I thought about that. We’ll call him Hamish.

–Hamish? Isn’t that a Scottish name?

–Yeah, but in Yiddish it means someone who’s a good guy, comfortable, easy to live with. A person who likes his home. It’ll be our secret. You can tell people your mystery sponsor is Scottish. MacGregor, McDuff, McCoy, McGoy…whatever you want.‘Til you make the team. Then watch their faces when they find out…’

“It went as well as could be expected, didn’t you think?” Ruthie asked, meaning the meeting, which had been attended by everyone they wanted except Benoit and Gilles.

The self–condemning absence of the two stable boys had worked out to their advantage. With Benoit and Gilles to focus blame on, nobody else felt particularly threatened, and volunteered information about their movements on Thursday afternoon and evening with no obvious signs of guilt or constraint. This was pretty much what Polo had expected. If the killer lurked amongst this group, he or she had had ample time to think about an alibi or a reasonable cover story.

It had been readily established that Liam had been last seen Thursday afternoon out on the cross–country course patching the soggy footing at jumps 9–A and 9–B (the Chevrons) with wheelbarrow loads of sand borrowed from the jumper arena mound. Bridget admitted talking to him, giving further instructions at about four p.m. when she left in her truck to meet with Roch in his office about stabling needs for the show. Roch confirmed this. When she went back out on the course around five, she said, Liam was gone, and so was the wheelbarrow. When Roch asked her if she had told him to clear out, that he was fired, she had appeared mystified. Nobody admitted to ‘giving him the push,’ as Benoit had put it to Roch.