Lafayette paid no heed to the P.M. until, as Finnerty slowly bent toward the table, his nose finally met it with a thump. Then his bulk slid sideways off his chair and he fell like a bagged rhino onto the floor, glassy eyed, no longer of this world.
Dear Journal,
That sounds silly, addressing a notebook, but I’m keeping it as a record in case … well, in case something happens. That sounds bleak, but at least my words will live. I hope I don’t have to eat these pages if we hit a roadblock — I can’t put people in danger. They’re so brave, so full of hope for freedom from their oppression. So kind.
I’m confused about what went on the night before last, but I gather a jail in Igorgrad was stormed by Canadian soldiers and all the prisoners freed. So that’s been a matter of rejoicing by the insurgents helping us and putting us up along the way. Hundreds of Bhashyistan freedom fighters escaped, and everybody we’ve met is singing Canada’s praises.
The official version is different. The government claimed to have repelled a massive invasion, and the radio is full of patriotic songs and guff about Canada licking its wounds. But we got the true story from one of the escapees, Atun Gumbazi, a strapping young man with a long beard and a fantastic smile. (Hunky, says Ivy.)
He’s sitting in the cab of the truck, a four-wheel king cab, with a Kalashnikov on his lap, one that he grabbed off a dead guard. We’re all hiding under sheepskin jackets in the bed of the truck, Maxine, Ivy and me, and three shy men and a woman, freedom fighters, they proudly call themselves, members of the BDRF, the Bhashyistani Democratic Revolutionary Front. We’re waiting in the woods for night to fall so we can be on our way again.
Reading this, even I’m confused. Let me back up. Yesterday, the morning after the raid, Abrakam and Flaxseed woke us up because a car with soldiers was coming down the road. We gathered everything and hid in the bushes by the river, scared out of our tree, scared for our hosts. But they received the soldiers, gave them tea, showed them around, the yurt, everything, told them they hadn’t heard anything about any Canadians, and they didn’t get beat up or anything. Elders are pretty well respected around here.
And when we crept back into the yurt, there was Maxine’s travel kit, with all the tickets and maps and brochures hanging from a peg, fortunately behind a framed photo of the country’s president for life, which I guess they didn’t dare touch.
So later in the day, one of their grandsons came by with a horse-drawn sled full of these same stinky sheepskins, which thank God for because it was snowing hard, and he got us out to the main road where there was no other traffic because of the conditions. At one point he had to shoo off a bunch of kids who tried to climb onto the backboard. Boy, were we sweating.
We pulled into some kind of town where you could hear speakers blaring from a minaret, and onto a side street. It was getting dark by now, they have these short December days just like home, I guess we’re at the same latitude. And we were bundled into a concrete building, a block of flats, and that’s where we met Ruslan and a few of his band.
Ruslan Kolkov is like the local leader of the BDRF, and he’s a story, and he had lots of them to tell, he must have thousands. About fifty years old, I’d say, looks like Redbeard the pirate, with the scars and the black eye patch to prove it — he’d been tortured, escaped, spent years on the run. Russian-born, from the steppes. Right now he’s our driver, up in the cab with hunky Atun, who arrived during the evening to cheers and kisses and back-slapping.
They broke out the vodka and made toasts to us, to our heroic Canadian soldiers, to all Canadians, to peace and freedom and also to some guy named Abzal Erzhan, who is their great national hero, like Tommy Douglas is to us, I guess, and it turns out he’d been living in Canada, a suspected assassin or bomber. Very confusing. Ruslan did a Russian folk dance (boy, can he do the prisyatki).
It was after midnight when we sneaked out of town, slipping and sliding, heading down into a valley, travelling for eight hours. At dawn, we veered off into this forest glen, where the snow is less dense. Cold potato pies and yogurt, more stories from Ruslan Kolkov. (Do I believe he wrestled a ravenous bear, felling it with a blow between the eyes?) Tonight we’ll continue toward the Altay Mountains, beyond which the rivers flow north, to Russia.
It has become dark, and we are moving.
17
Arthur leaned over the railing of his apartment balcony, bundled up against the chill wind, his pipe blowing sparks. There was an eerie, almost spooky, feeling about the city spread below him on this Wednesday, December 8. The streets were almost deserted of traffic, as if Ottawans had been too depressed to leave their homes. Few skaters on the canal. From somewhere, a sullen wail of siren. Adding to the sombreness: a dirgelike oratorio from apartment 1 °C.
It was two days after the abortive raid on the Igorgrad jail and the sudden death of the country’s P.M. Acting Prime Minister Clara Gracey had immediately declared a day of mourning, and the entire nation was still in a torpor, numb with disbelief and shame.
But life somehow goes on. Arthur would soon be off to Parliament Hill, where Question Period started at two-fifteen, with opposition members lining up like a firing squad waiting to let loose their volleys. Margaret wasn’t on the Speaker’s list, but her friend Julien Chambleau had earned a turn.
Returning inside, he was drawn to the computer, still open to the video on YouTube. He couldn’t help himself — he clicked on it again, number one on the most-watched list.
“Hello, especially to unhappy viewers in Canada. This is Mukhamet Khan Ivanovich, and the breaking story we are working on today is how Bhashyistan sent your invaders to glorious defeat.”
Arthur was mesmerized by the taunting third son and his cherubic, confident smile. This was the third time he’d watched this clip, a form of self-abasing penance.
“Correcting lies of international news like CNN, we showing graves where many Canadian soldiers paid ultimate price after repulsed by glorious national army.” Mounds of earth in a barren field. “Yes, Canadians, I trick you by showing state prison, making you think oil company spies are in there with common criminals, but surprise — we have other, secret jails.”
The Calgary Five were shown, unshaven, in prison clothes of loose orange fabric. They didn’t look ill fed, and had managed to secure playing cards and board games.
“Today we celebrate while you Canadians mourn leader, who was brought down by mighty strike from invisible hands directed by National Prophet.” Finnerty had been felled by a coronary, but the allusion seemed symbolically correct.
“Here we showing victory parade.” Another procession of soldiers and tanks. A shot of Mad Igor on the dais pinning medals on army officers. “In other news, December sixth is now proclaimed Illustrious Victory Over Canada Day. And coming soon, we hoping all viewers tune in for unveiling plan to make Canada pay for failed insult to national pride. Operation Beaver — hah! Is big rat with flat tail for slapping water when scared. No recession here, Canada! No unemployed! From secret location in Igorgrad, this is Mukhamet Khan Ivanovich signing off.”
Arthur stomped off to the elevator, where he encountered a few nodding acquaintances who avoided eye contact, as if embarrassed for their country. Yes, Canada had replaced Bhashyistan as the world’s laughingstock, the joke all the more hilarious because of the helicopter rescue of several prostitutes. They were freedom fighters, they’d claimed, jailed for their views, not their ancient practices.