A Three Day Event (7 page)

She turned towards the hall and the phone rang. Immediately she tensed. She let it ring twice more, then picked it up. She waited before speaking.

“Manon? Manon?
C’est toi, Manon
?”

“Oh, Ruthie, it’s you, thank heavens. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, but…” her voice quivered with relief.

“Manon, what’s wrong?”

“Oh, it’s just that we’ve been getting some…
calls
, these nasty anonymous calls, and they say such awful things…”

“Obscene calls?” Ruthie asked with sympathetic indignation.

“Worse, really. These are directed at us personally–well, at Hy, actually, and it’s just so upsetting…”

Ruthie was alarmed. “What are they saying?” she asked sharply.

“Oh, it’s all about l
es juifs,
how they control the banks and the media, how they have a plan to take over Quebec, how they were stealing property from
nous autres
, about the barn and this land, how it belongs to
nous autres
…really, it’s just sick, and it makes me so nervous…”

“Do you have any idea who it is?”

“That’s just it. I think I do. And–oh, Ruthie–it’s one of my
relatives.
Or at least I think it is. He works for Roch at the stables. He’s from the ‘other’ side of the family…”

Manon’s family in Saint Armand was a sprawling network of the Desrochers clan. The Desrochers owned half the county one way or another: quarries, construction companies, the ski hill, an interest in the golf club, car dealerships…there was no corner of local industry that did not include some enterprising member of the tribe. But they were not a close or united family.

They had split politically in 1980 over the referendum. There was still very bad blood between Manon’s father–he had campaigned for the
NON
side–and his brothers–staunch nationalists then and aggressive
souverainists
now.

Hy’s acquisition of
Le Centre
had divided the family further.
Le Centre
had once been owned by Jean–Claude Desrochers, Manon’s uncle. In the real estate mania of the eighties he had wanted to develop the 500 acres of the cross–country course, which would limit the competitive equestrian activity to Jumping and Dressage. Nobody had ever argued that Eventing was a lucrative corner of the business and he saw the issue strictly in financial terms.

But the town saw it differently. The exquisite, rolling parklands, dotted with tiny ponds and charming woods of diverse flora were an environmental jewel. The space was used for other activities now: triathlons and cross–country skiing, and for people who just liked to walk over them, picnic and enjoy the scenery. The townspeople were proud of it and wanted it to stay green space.

And they liked the annual Three–Day Events. They came out to wander the course and spectate in numbers. The events were an increasingly popular tourist attraction, drawing visitors from nearby Vermont towns and the spokes of Quebec villages surrounding Saint Armand.

There was a showdown between Jean–Claude Desrochers and the town council. Hy Jacobson married Manon at a crucial moment in the dispute. Both of them were amateur riders and loved horses, it was one of the things that had drawn them together. And he wanted to buy a wedding present magnificent enough to express his love for her.

So Hy made an offer to the town to safeguard the area from development and, in an uncharacteristic burst of courtly abandon, an offer to Desrochers no sane businessman could resist or refuse. Pressured on both sides, Desrochers walked away the richer for it, but not happy. Manon knew that she was considered by some to be a traitor to her family and her people, so it was not intra–family acrimony alone that influenced her suspicions.

“What does Hy say?” Ruthie was very uneasy and she felt very bad for her brother. The purchase of the house, the extensive renovations and decorating undertaken with such delight and pride, had been a symbol of happiness after a long period of misery for each of them in their former lives, and she was angry that there should be any blight on their contentment. They were so right together. There was no envy in her contemplation of their joy. Though nobody could have blamed Ruthie if she
were
envious. Her own husband had died only months ago.

“Ruthie, I haven’t even told him about most of them. He was so upset I told him they had stopped.”

Ruthie had shivered inwardly at Manon’s news, but tried instinctively to minimize her sister–in–law’s obvious fear. “Manon, I’m sure it’s just meant as a prank. If it were serious, it would have gone farther by now. It’s just name–calling, I wouldn’t worry.”

“Oh, do you really think so?” Ruthie heard in her voice the desperation to clutch at relief from the strain. “I hope so. Listen, do you want to come out this weekend? We’d love to see you. I already feel better just having told someone. It seems less horrible now, more like it
could
just be a bad joke.”

“Yes, I will come. I’d like that. The girls are busy on the weekends and my married friends are all up north or busy with their families…
mon dieu,
do I sound self–pitying? Stop me quick!”

“Don’t be silly. And even if you were, what’s wrong with that? It hasn’t been very long, after all. You’re allowed to be sad,
chou.
By the way, Polo was here today while Hy was in Ottawa. He dropped off the bids for the new arena. But I missed seeing him.”

“Gee, I haven’t seen Polo in months. Not since the
shiva
. We barely spoke even then, there were so many people. Well, more to the point, you know, he has such a thing about women crying. I’m usually so upbeat and buffed, and there I was all teary and scruffy–looking. I think I spooked him, and he couldn’t take it. I was sort of pissed off, in fact. Fair weather friends and all that, eh?”

“You’d better forgive him. You’ll be seeing a lot of him if you come up for a long holiday in May. He’s looking after the arena, and he’s involved in the big Young Riders show we’re putting on here in June.”

“It’ll be strange to see him alone. It’s always been with mom and the girls or the whole family. I haven’t been alone with Polo since–well, since I left home and married Marvin, I guess…it’ll be strange…”

“Strange–unusual, or strange–uncomfortable?”

“I’m not sure…”

CHAPTER FOUR

May, 1992

G
illes Lefebvre jerked awake and stared blankly at
the alarm clock beside his narrow cot.
Five a.m.
He had slept for more than an hour! He must have missed it! He dashed the two steps to the light aluminum door of his little trailer, yanked it open and strained to see in the faint pre–dawn light. But surely he couldn’t
not
see, if it had really happened. The sky would be ablaze with light from the flames. He looked to where the arena in progress stood, a tall skeleton of joists and timbers and roofs and partially filled–in walls. He saw its massive outline, high on the hill above him. Nothing had changed. They hadn’t done it, after all.
What had gone wrong?

He shivered in his thin T–shirt. The mornings were still chilly. It had been a cold spring so far. He retreated into the fuggy warmth of his home. The tiny ‘silver bullet’ trailer seemed claustrophobic to other people, but for Gilles, these last few months being the only time in his life he could remember having any privacy from the invasive presence of his six siblings–he was, like his Uncle Roch the youngest, the
benjamin,
of his family–and this the only space he could remember ever belonging to himself alone, the little nest was a royal retreat. Even the primitive outhouse and tiny hotplate could not dampen his pride of possession. He was allowed to shower in the men’s locker room at the Centre and, all in all, he had been happy enough. Except for…
don’t think about it yet.

He had not been at all sure, when his uncle offered to take him on, that he would be happy at
Le Centre
. Gilles had never worked with horses or done heavy manual labour before. He thought of himself as a city person, even though he rarely made it into downtown Montreal from the south shore suburb where he lived.

His options had been limited, though. Having rebuffed his mother’s pleadings to go on to CEGEP after high school, he was bound to get a job of some kind. With his father laid off from
Clar–Mor
and his mother’s nurse’s salary the family’s sole, fragile hold on security, he needed something better than minimum wage at a fast food outlet, the best he could find in a depressed market without skills, good English or any decent experience.

He shrugged into a sweatshirt and thought about what he should do now. If things had gone as Liam said they would when he last saw him yesterday, Gilles would have shown up at eight o’clock this morning as usual, and appeared surprised at all the commotion. Liam had promised that in return for making duplicate keys to the administration entrance, Gilles could be totally uninvolved in the action. Gilles had thought this was preferable to them forcing the lock and ruining the door. Liam had promised that the office would only be messed up, but nothing would be damaged or stolen. There would be graffiti, of course, but that could easily be washed off.

How did I get mixed up in all this? Because Liam was so friendly to me, and nobody else but Polo ever paid any attention, except to complain when I made mistakes, or they were so busy falling all over Michel, and Uncle Roch thinks I’m worthless. I know I make mistakes, and I didn’t mean to insult a client, why would I do that, I didn’t even know what I said wrong, my English isn’t so good, then Polo explained, but it was too late, Uncle Roch said she was so insulted she nearly went home to Toronto and he would have lost a whole season’s money.

But I’m trying, and he thinks I’m a moron because I go to mass, what’s wrong with that, why does everyone think religion is such a joke. I wish I could talk to Father Pascal about all this. It’s so confusing. Or to Polo maybe. He’s the only grown–up who gives me the time of day and tries to really teach me how to do things right. But how can I? He’s a friend of…them.

And Benoit, it seemed right what he said about the Jews taking all the jobs and the land, it’s really his family’s house, his family’s land, they think they can just come in with their money, they’re so clever, they just take control of whatever they want, the newspapers and the banks, Liam says, and he must know. Papa says the same thing, it’s why he has no job. Why should Mr. Jacobson have all this, and my father was doing his job at Clar–Mor, and just like that, laid off, and yet he’s a real québecois, it’s not right…

But Mr. Jacobson isn’t the way Liam says they are, he doesn’t seem so bad, he’s very nice to me, how come… and how come papa always says if you’re really sick and your doctor doesn’t know, then go to the
juif
…How did I get into this? I couldn’t back out, Liam said he would tell Uncle Roch and he would, I know it, he knows so much about everyone here, everyone is scared, even Michel…

Oh shit, that was terrible yesterday afternoon, what Liam said to him, and Michel, I thought he was going to kill him, but he walked away… and Jocelyne was in the feed room, I think she heard too, and she was crying, oh
Seigneur
, what a mess….

There was no point in even thinking of going back to sleep. He might as well make himself useful. His trailer was tucked into the corner of the field used for parking cars at the shows. It stood on a rise overlooking the stadium, the jumper and dressage arenas, and off to the right he had a good view of the steeplechase and the first few jumps of the cross–country course. Looking up and across the road, he could see the owner’s property, partially obscured by woods, and
le Centre
beyond. He could walk to the barn in about eight minutes, but Roch let him take the pick–up home at night. Everybody borrowed the pick–up when they needed it, and left the keys in the ashtray.

What he thought might calm his jangled nerves was some hard physical work. At the corner of the jumper arena beside the stadium stood a huge mound of sand. The sand was to be the final layer on the re–worked foundation of the arena in preparation for the June show. It was time to re–do it in any case, that was what Polo had explained to him. An outdoor jumper arena needed continual updating or the footing grew uneven. No professional rider would jeopardize his horse’s fragile feet and legs in a bad arena, so the good competition barns invested heavily in arenas with a deep base of layered gravel, earth and sand which drained evenly and quickly after rainstorms, and cushioned the horse’s expensive hooves with just the right degree of ‘give’. Too little, sore feet and ankles, too much, strained tendons. Too little was an irritant, too much could mean a long–term, even permanently debilitating injury.

The wheelbarrows and shovels were kept in a utility cell in the wing connecting the round barn to the indoor arena. Access could be gained from the interior corridor or from an outside door. He could pick up the gear without entering the barn and maybe waking Liam up. He didn’t want to see him yet. And he wouldn’t wait for coffee. He had already drunk too much trying to stay up all night.

He drove right up to the access door and slipped inside. Fleur had heard the truck and was upon him immediately, whining softly for affection. Gilles felt sorry for the dog. She was supposed to be Jocelyne’s, but the girl never paid any attention to her. She got fed and she had as much exercise as she wanted, often following clients out on their hacks, but nobody except Gilles really cared about her, or petted her, or even talked to her. Lonely himself, never having owned a pet before, Gilles had taken the dog over.

Now the truck was loaded with what he needed. It was dawn. The dog pleaded to come with him.
Why not
? She hopped gaily into the front seat beside Gilles. He drove the long way down on the asphalt road. There was a short cut, a rough track between the paddocks, but it cut too close in front of the Jacobsons’ house. He didn’t want anyone asking what he was doing at that hour, unlikely as it was that someone from the house would be up and about. And there was an unfamiliar car in the driveway, a Lexus. Typical. All the Jews had nice cars. Must have come last night, because it wasn’t there yesterday. Better to go around.

He parked on the far side of the mounded sand, where the truck would be invisible to passers–by and the stable people. What he thought he would do was to time how long it took to fill a wheelbarrow and assess how much ground each barrow–load covered. That way he could tell Polo how long it would take the two government grant workers who were supposed to come on Monday–it was Friday today–to finish the job. Uncle Roch might appreciate this initiative and lighten up on his criticisms.

He began to dig and very soon fell into a rhythm that began to soothe away some of the tension. He didn’t know why his uncle was so short–tempered these days. In Gilles’ youth Uncle Roch had always been his favourite of all his mother’s many brothers and sisters. He was a joker. He loved parties. He
gave
great parties–his New Year’s
réveillons
brought the combined relatives of their side and
Tante Ghislaine’s
together every year, over one hundred people at their small, cozy home a mile from the Centre. Everyone pitched in with cooking and baking. The kids swarmed over the house, the bedrooms, the rec room, everywhere. Uncle Roch hugged and kissed everybody, pressed food and wine and beer and Pepsi on them. Or he’d have his father’s big work horses hitched up, pile all the kids in the sleigh and personally drive them through the woods, singing, laughing, shrieking as they plunged downhill and around the corner. But lately…

Fleur was suddenly barking frantically and digging madly in the sand twenty feet away. Maybe a mouse or a snake. Better shut her up, though, even though no one was in sight.

“
Tais–toi, Fleur, qu’as–tu là?”

Beside her now, he saw the big paws scrabbling furiously, and he heard the clacking sound of nails meeting metal. He shivered and grabbed the cowboy–style bandanna Jocelyne tricked her out in, dragging her away so he could see.

Crisse de crisse de crisse!

He would know that belt buckle anywhere! It was plainly visible now, and a few inches of blue jeans beside and a square of white hairy skin where the T–shirt had rucked up and–

Gilles crossed himself with wild imprecision, turned and retched violently onto the grass. Nothing but coffee and bile came up. He retched again and again, he thought he would never stop.
Christi!
He sank to his knees, weakness spreading everywhere in his body, and started to cry. Fleur whined softly, licking frantically at his face. He pushed her away with a trembling arm and tried to think.

Think, think, think. O shit, o shit. Who? Maybe Benoit? They must have fought over what to do. Or Michel? O God, the way he looked yesterday. If it’s Benoit, I’m fucked, he’ll tell on me, or say it was me, I can’t prove it wasn’t, or if it was Michel, I got to do something, blood is thicker…or Jocelyne? No, a girl could never…and how? O God, now I have to find out how, I have to see. I have to touch him…

He retched again and he was still shaking as he gingerly shovelled the sand away, up the T–shirt and there was that goddam
Tufts
sweatshirt he always wore, and up some more, the hands all white and somehow inhuman, rubbery, pressed against his chest and then–o S
eigneur
,
strangled with wire still wrapped around, the thin wire they used on the fence posts and everywhere
,
I use it more than anyone, the face all bluish, tongue just sticking out a little, swollen, eyes half open and staring–and so–so dry–looking, like wood or plastic…

“
Fleur! Non! Touche pas…”

Think. Think. Think. To leave him here? They’ll find him on Monday when the men come to…but how can I pretend til then? Okay, and if it was Benoit, that’s the most–because Liam kept pushing him, and then if Benoit tells on me, says I was in on the whole thing, why should they think it was only Benoit…if I quit and go home and they find him, then I’m fucked for sure, they’ll say for sure it was me… and if it was Michel, and what if it was true what Liam said, and then Michel would have to say why he was so angry…. oh God, Uncle Roch would die, just die, he thinks Michel is out every night with a different girl, it’s so important to him…I got to protect my cousin, I know he doesn’t even know I’m alive, but it’s blood, it’s family…I can’t stand it…to know he’s here and keep on working as if…I got to get him out of here…I can’t stand it…

He thought it must be seven o’clock already, it felt like hours had passed, but he looked at his watch, and no, it was only five–thirty. And then he closed his eyes a minute to think, and then he opened them to see under the protective roof of the VIP section of the stadium bleachers a thick pile of cotton material, it must have been a metre high, all the bunting for the show, loosely wrapped in a huge rectangle of shiny paper, heavy store wrapping paper that he knew like he knew the bottom of his own pocket, and a plan unscrolled itself in his mind.

First he had to do what his whole body was screaming at him not to. He pulled the body out by the legs and laid it on the grass.
Don’t think about it. Just do it.
He leaned into the back of the truck for the toolbox and found the wire cutters. He cut the coiled wire carefully without breaking any skin, picked it away with the tips of the cutters and dumped it into the big garbage drum beside the stadium. Once a week the garbage was collected. It was pretty full now and he pushed the wire down amongst the debris.

Still using the wire cutters, he cut off the ponytail. The hair was thin and it only took a few seconds to saw through it. This he scattered around the ground. It had the exact texture and colour of horsehair. It would blow around and would not be noticed. Now for the hard part.

Muttering a combination of oaths and hail Marys, the boy undid the belt, trying hard not to touch the actual body. He slid the belt through the loops and rolled it up, buckle and all. Then the really disgusting moment. He pulled the identifying sweatshirt over the horrible mask of a face and yanked it free, shuddering and retching up nothing. Thank God the T–shirt underneath sported only a generic
Expos
logo. The jeans and sneakers were standard issue. He forced himself to look for tags or felt–penned names on both pieces of clothing, seizing the material by the tips of thumb and forefinger, taking care not to touch the skin that looked like sausage casing. Nothing.