As his ship pulled out of Cadiz, there was a moment of panic that he forgot the name on the tombstone, but it came back. Sebastien Plouffe of Cimitiere Saint Pierre, Marseilles. It was a midnight dig, but there was enough glow to make out the stone-Sebastien bought it early, fifty-seven. Feeling connected to him, hungry to know him, Faloon has created a fiction. Jowly, beefy, taken in the prime because he wouldn’t cut down the calories. A councillor, a ward heeler, corrupt in small ways. Worried about the Arabs and Turks. His daughter gone astray, on drugs. Problem with smelly feet.
Hula-Hula is up, pulling his arm, the pool beckoning. The dining-room manager sidles by. “Will the lady be sharing your regular table tonight, Monsieur Lapierre?”
“But of course. We’ll start with the Sauvignon Superieure.”
Alfred Lapierre, that’s who he is, down to his last passport, a French one, down to his last wig and moustache. He tells everyone he’s living on an income, which is true. Maybe he should settle here, far away from those cold winter rains. Investing in the Nitinat Lodge was a loser’s move, where was his head at? A warm slap of sun on Arthur’s face brings him upright in bed. It’s mid-morning, Bungle Bay has long been up and about, no one’s waiting for the laggard. He has paid for his stolen hours with a week of toil and sweat. It’s the last mate-less Saturday, tomorrow she descends.
At the window he takes a lungful of country air, but it’s flavoured with a hint of methane, like a gassy fart. A hallucinogenic fart, either that or he is truly seeing Stoney work up a sweat, cutting a length of pipe. Dog holds a shovel.
To add to this pastoral yet industrial scene: the Japanese Woofers are repairing the fence, Kim Lee is feeding the chickens, and Zoe is in the goat pen, surrounded by prancing kids. Reverend Al is snoring in the next bedroom.
A note by the coffee maker demands Arthur’s presence at the Woofer manor. His mood sours, he wants to leave business behind this weekend. Steaming mug in hand, he attends to find her highness at her computer. A Criminal Code. A text on criminal evidence. The Faloon files. Lotis has raided his house for them.
A curl of smoke from a cigarette in an ashtray. Arthur doesn’t deny himself a soupcon of guilty pleasure at this evidence of wobbly willpower.
“The Blunder Bay chapter of Willing Workers on Organic Farms is now on-line. Munni Sidhoo transmitted some autoradiographic images. The comparison sample worked fine, Angella’s snot and sniffles.” She shows him a printout: “DNA ladders, they’re called.” Thin vertical lines, in segments. “This one is Adeline, say hello. Dr. Sidhoo is rooting through the semen for her twin.”
If by some miracle this seeming time-waster works, Lotis will be unbearably smug. As it is, he has a sense of being patronized. He resents her unspoken disdain for his technological ineptness.
“Been on the horn to Claudette. She hasn’t heard a squeak from Nick, she’s worried sick. Holly’s black eye came from a barroom scrap with a drunken log-truck driver. I gave up looking for Daisy. Eve probably shit-canned the file.”
He praises her diligence. She shrugs, flicks her hair. Nothing to it, Arthur. He can’t concentrate on these things. Tomorrow is Day Seventy-nine. He ventures out to inspect his woeful, weedy plot. The invaders must die.
The afternoon of this sparkling day has Arthur manoeuvring his runabout toward Gwendolyn Beach, as his crew of Lotis, Al, and Slappy wave and bark at anchored locals. There’s Clearihue’s yacht. He and Arthur have an appointment in the war zone.
Stump Town has moved here, settling amidst the great firs and cedars spilled helter-skelter like God’s matchsticks. Wilbur Kroop’s worst nightmare has come true: naked hippies on the beach or swimming in the chilly saltchuck.
A medieval tapestry decorates the shore. “Qualified Reiki Therapist,” a banner says. “Yoga Research Society,” says another. Beside it, inconsonant with this mellow 1960s revival, a khaki military tent houses Kurt Zoller’s tour business, Garibaldi Adventures.
Beyond is the twenty-acre clear-cut. Already an otter habitat has been lost. The confrontations must end before more of nature is tramped upon, despoiled. But there’s hope. Almost $7 million has been raised or promised. The Gwendolyn Society’s last-gasp strategy, fiercely debated, is to borrow the rest.
After discharging his live cargo, Arthur anchors out and takes the dinghy in. Zoller helps drag it up so Arthur can skip to shore without getting wet, then announces he’s off to fetch a fare. “More tourists.” Now Arthur must push Zoller’s craft off the beach, and his shoes fill with water.
Flim and Flam, always silent, always observing, raise cameras as they spy Arthur on a slab of driftwood, emptying his shoes. Also grinning at him are two Mounties, a skeleton crew today, enjoying this weeklong break from thankless duties.
Lotis has been sent to search for him, finds him squeezing his socks. “Clear-cut won’t talk to any of the local peasants. You de man.” Why does he want to meet here, amid the green ruins? Maybe he thinks the ugly backdrop will give him an edge.
He slips on his wet shoes, follows her through the maze of fallen trees, hears the honk and squeal of the Garibaldi Highland Pipers, practising for the ceremony tomorrow, when Margaret will descend by zip line. Three bagpipes, one drum, a rendition, however incongruous, of “Will Ye No Come Back Again.”
Clearihue applauds the pipers vigorously. Boots and denim, a tooled leather hat. He’s growing a beard, though with undetermined success on his boyish face.
Their tete-a-tete takes place by a stump, its juices oozing, sap rising to phantom branches. The corpse of this tree lies atop several others, still sending out growth.
“We’re riveted on your trial, Arthur, the whole island, it’s all we talk about.” He claps Arthur on the shoulder. “Glad you’re back, I didn’t want to deal with the locals; frankly, I’d be taking advantage.” One week off-island, and Arthur has lost his local status. “Be nice to get this timber out of here. Sure opens things up though, doesn’t it? Stage Two is that ridge over there, incredible view lots, top dollar for them.”
“Our figure was $12 million the last we talked?”
“Directors beat me up over that, Arthur, I have to jack it up. Fifteen, I can sell them on that.” Though no one’s nearby, he comes close enough for Arthur to smell his aftershave. “We have some strong outside interest, Americans, Europeans. An e-mail from a Saudi sheik, he wants his own wilderness retreat, God forbid. It’s all the publicity, Arthur, the human-interest stuff, it may be backfiring.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m saying this has become such a headache we may have to unload fast to the highest bidder. We have an Arizona developer coming by, I don’t know what to tell him.”
“You might tell him he’d be insane to pay millions of dollars for endless years of problems.”
“He owns half of Tucson, he’s a billionaire, he’s got time. A gated community, that’s what his team is talking about, three hundred lots. He’s promised to protect the environment, I got that out of him.”
Twice the devastation Garlinc would have wreaked, the valley torn apart, the island’s population tripling. Surely this is all bluff. No smart investor will touch land so deeply in dispute, occupied, besieged. Yet Arthur supposes the publicity has indeed sparked interest-an article in Time has made Gwendolyn a celebrity.
Arthur bites the bullet. “We can’t go above your previous offer.” The society can go to the bank for the rest, and pray donations will continue to flow.
“The expenses are eating us alive, Arthur.”
“An astute negotiator such as yourself shouldn’t be displeased with a fifty-per-cent profit over two years, particularly when the bulk of it can be written off as a charitable donation.”