Ariel waits for the renewed surge of applause to abate. Though he cannot see them, he can guess where his crew of strategists is standing. Their hands clap with metronomic regularity and self-congratulatory strength, with the satisfaction of a job well done and the smugness of victory. Deep in his heart Ariel is jubilant. He is no longer working for them. His address continues, full of promises and acknowledgements. He had the feeling he had not properly rehearsed his speech, but now that he is on stage, looking out at this sea seething with such a wild, collective joy, the words come to him so naturally he could just as well be extemporizing. Last night’s anxiety has given way to that almost unseemly euphoria that grabs hold of him whenever he addresses a crowd. Years ago, a comrade asked him where he drew his confidence when speaking in public. “I always have the feeling I’m speaking to just one person,” Ariel had replied. It was true before he met Marie. Ever since, he knows he was always speaking to her.
The celebration explodes into a strange blend of dignity and excess, in which the desire to project the right image is at odds with the heady sensation of seeing the horizon open up before one’s very eyes and with the need to dance at the prospect of all the new possibilities. Once the evening is over, only Marie, Ariel, Marc, and Emmanuelle stay behind, drinking spring water in the hope of recovering a semblance of respectability before dawn. Jubilation gives way to the contemplation of the months ahead, the anticipation of the time of major reorganization that awaits them.
“It’s strange,” Marie says. “It’s as though everything has just shifted. And it took just one day.”
“And 11,558 votes,” Ariel adds.
“That’s politics for you,” Marc observes. “There are two possible worlds, and in a few brief moments everything gets decided, we’re thrust into one or the other and our lives are transformed.”
“It’s like falling in love!” Emmanuelle exclaims, her cheeks gone crimson.
“I don’t agree,” Marie retorts. “Love isn’t a momentary thing. It’s something that has always existed deep inside us and that rises to the surface when we summon it. Like a permanence of being.”
The four comrades fall silent, but then Marc lets out a dry little laugh, which is immediately cut short by Emmanuelle, whose gaze is fixed on Marie.
“Shush. It’s important, what she just said.”
Cursing the Ontario wine that loosens her tongue like this, Marie tugs discreetly at Ariel’s sleeve. His voice exhausted by the evening’s speeches and endless conversations, Ariel announces they are leaving. Hand in hand, Mr. Prime Minister and his wife go out into the bracing air and take their seats in the car that is now theirs, with two bodyguards sitting up front. Marie shivers. They’ve become bodies that must be guarded. From now on something vague and evil lies lurking and must be fended off.
The cat did not enjoy the trip to the capital. As soon as the car set out, he began to snarl in his cage and scratch at invisible adversaries. Since arriving at the official residence two weeks ago, it has lost none of its rancour; it hisses whenever anyone approaches and leaves puddles of urine in different corners, forcing the residents to spend hours sniffing out the exact spot like clumsy creatures. Neither Marie nor Ariel understands exactly why the animal — which they’ve named Wretch — has adopted them. It does not seek their care or affection and turns its nose up at most of the meals they serve it, insisting instead on rustling up its provender outdoors. They are even more at a loss to explain the docile attachment they feel toward it.
The official residence is inhabited by shadows, by ossified, impassive mirages, the legacy of generations of people who lived there knowing they were only passing through, dreading they would be driven out too soon or sometimes horrified at feeling imprisoned there. A long line of prime ministers’ spouses has repainted, changed the wallpaper, and refurnished in the hope of making the premises their own, but without ever managing to feel at home inside these walls, which close in imperceptibly from year to year, thickened by the layers of colour added over and over.
Marie was not planning to redecorate. For her, this dwelling is just a pied-à-terre. Her home is still Montreal, the little house where she and Ariel have lived since their wedding, with its cracked walls, creaking beams, unkempt yard, and misty windows. But Ariel, in a surprising display of superstitious inclinations, got very worked up. Living amid the decor of the previous government would surely bring bad luck, politically speaking. So Marie has hired a marvellously authoritarian designer and bows unquestioningly to his directives. Yes, acid green in the kitchen. Very well, a mauve wall in the living room. Oversized light fixtures. And a giant steel egg in the hall — why not?
Reassured by the makeover of his new house, Ariel tackles the transition process with renewed vitality. He has put the ups and downs of the election campaign behind him and is prepared to wipe the slate clean; between meetings, he repeats ready-made phrases that bolster his morale. In the morning, Marie hears him mumbling words that sound like “first day of the rest of my career” while he knots his tie. The reins of the nation weigh a ton and the team under harness is made up of dogs who ignore each other. He needs such maxims to convince himself that he will be able to lead them in the right direction.
As for Marie, she tries to adjust to the numbing pace of working at home. She is unused to the fuzzy boundaries between work and private life, and the borderline seems to be disappearing in every area of her life. She wanders around in pyjamas and wastes hours viewing rubbish instead of organizing her symposium on the death penalty. The cat claws at her ankles when they cross paths, believing that there are enemies hiding under the long panels of her dressing gown. This is the state that Ariel’s parents surprise her in when they show up unannounced.
“Are you ailing, dear?” her mother-in-law immediately inquires as she presses the backs of her thin fingers against her daughter-in-law’s cheek.
“No, no, I’m simply a little slow today,” Marie replies, aware that her dazed appearance is only fuelling the Goldsteins’ conjectures as to her first pregnancy, which they anticipate nearly more impatiently than she does.
Under their inquisitive gaze, she shows them around the house while attempting to collect the scraps of herself adrift on the floor. The Goldsteins fan out like a flock of birds, their frenetic presence fills the sealed up boudoirs, and their flapping wings upset the silence in which Marie has wrapped herself. After taking the kitchen, the television stations, and the arrangement of the closets by storm, they direct their efforts to training the cat. Marie takes refuge in the bathroom and gulps down some pills that dampen the invasive commotion going on around her. In the evening, her guests refuse to go to bed and stay up until midnight waiting to welcome Ariel home. When he arrives, they ignore his tiredness and bombard him with a jumble of high-handed questions and advice. The Goldsteins have never been able to share their son, but this is the first time it has made Marie feel sick. After a few days, she announces she has to go to Quebec City to take care of some urgent matters. She boards the train and watches the kilometres between her new and old lives slip past like prayer beads. Back in his office, Ariel experiences a swaying sensation. He misses his wife already.
The winter holiday festivities have gotten under way weeks ahead of time. Labour’s Christmas party. The donors’ cocktail party. The media gala. The cabinet dinner. But the event that does Ariel the most good is the private meal with Marc and Emmanuelle. Alongside the mass of adversaries and false allies that have been crowding him for months, his right-hand man has stood out as a true friend, one who does not indulge in whispered slander and backstabbing. In their beloved old house in Notre-Dame-de-Grâce, flanked by Marie’s boreal beauty and Marc’s solid, upright presence, Ariel finds that all’s well in his world. Emmanuelle, with her perennially sullen air, is the only one out of tune. She chafes at Marc’s new schedule and constantly insinuates he is unfaithful to her. Evidently, spending Christmas Eve in the prime minister’s company was not part of her vacation plans. Ariel tries to ignore the sour mood radiating from Emmanuelle by stroking his wife’s knee. Marie clutches his fingers with an almost animal violence, which each of her gestures has evinced since the evening began. He could make love to her right here and now.