Face/Mask, page 24
“I am not so old, Allen, and once I was young. I see and hear many things in Italy and when I come here I want that things be better. When I see there are people brought like cattle, put behind fences and walls, it remind me of stories from my Uncle Silvio.”
“I never heard of Silvio. Does Terry know him?”
“No, he die when I am still young like your Richard.” Joe looked around conspiratorially, then leaned forward and whispered through the partition.
“When Silvio was young man, he work in concentration camp, Allen…for Nazis.”
“Jesus,” Janus whispered, unable to repress a shudder.
“Is true. He tell me story of how they take the Jew, Allen. He tell me they are not looked at like real people. They are taken out of their houses and put in big camps.”
“But Canada isn’t a Nazi country, Joe.”
“It is all the same. Here, you have secret police. In Italia we have Camacia Nero. What you call Black Shirts. This is how Nazis begin. And concentration camps is how it ends, Allen. You will see.”
“Christ, you’re really exaggerating things. It’s not like that here, Joe.”
“Is it not?”
“We don’t put the Muslims in ovens here. There is no mass extermination.”
“No. That is true. The Muslims can survive with only a little food, and try to find work even if there is none, yes? But they are in one big jail. So we do not have to go to war to free them. Not yet. For now we raise money to buy medicine. Sometimes we write letters and make signs. We remind everybody, the good Canadians, you Allen, that freedom is allowed for even these people. It used to not be illegal for people to write letters and make signs.”
“A lot of things used to not be illegal. That time has passed us by. But it isn’t just the administration, anyway. Since Quebec City, the nuke I mean, well, there isn’t a lot of sympathy for Muslims over-all in the general population. I’m a bit surprised that you’re really that concerned about them, to tell the truth.”
“How come you are surprised, Allen? Are they not the same as my mother?”
“I’m not sure I understand. What does this have to do with your mother?”
“Allen. How do you not know this? Does your wife not tell you this thing?”
“Okay, now I’m really lost. What thing? What didn’t Terry tell me?”
“Allen, you must know. Mia madre era Musulmana.”
“What? Your mother?” Janus came close to shouting, then lowered his voice abruptly, more worried than ever about being overheard. “Joe, did you just say your mother was Muslim?”
“Of course,” Joe answered with an exasperated wave of his hand. “How come this is surprise to you? Must this be a secret as well?”
“Well, it sure as hell seems to have been a secret. You’re talking about Terry’s grandmother? She never mentioned that to me. Is it possible that she didn’t know?”
“Impossibile. My mama tell us many time how when she marry Papa she came to Italy and found Gesù Cristo. She tell story to her grandchildren also. Teresa very close to my mama; love her very much. Learn to cook from her. Of course she know this.”
Janus rubbed his head and looked toward the guard, who had his eyes glued to the timer on the wall. He worried about how this information could be used against him at work if it ever got out. He wondered how many more surprising things there still were to learn about this little man who, until recently, had been nothing more than a thorn in his side. He was afraid to ask any more questions, for fear of getting another answer he didn’t want to hear.
Joe sat quietly while Janus tried to take this all in. He turned his head at a noise from behind him. Janus’s eyes followed the direction of Joe’s look and saw that the guard had gotten up from his seat and begun coming toward them. Their short, but very disturbing, visit was coming to an end and they had never even spoken about the bribes.
“Joe,” Janus said, “we don’t have much time. Silver has an idea that might get you out of here.”
Joe turned back and looked at him with an expression that was devoid of all hope. The guard was preparing to unlock the door on the other side, so Janus spoke in an urgent whisper.
“There are people we can pay to get you out. I can’t tell you more now. But there’s still a chance, Joe.”
The baton-wielding guard opened the door and Joe stood up right away, a look of fear on his face. He headed toward the open door then turned a last time to face Janus.
“Thank you for helping me, Allen.”
The guard led Joe away, and Janus watched the broken-down old man shuffle out of the cubicle with his head hanging.
A few minutes later he was in the jail’s parking lot. He walked toward his car, but then he stopped. He didn’t like the smell of the air. He looked up but noticed no change in the colours of the sky. He put on his air-mask anyway. It was supposed to be a yellow alert day, but he doubted that weathermen had become any more accurate than they’d been when he was a boy.
He got in his car, started the engine and drove out of the lot, joining countless other vehicles in a never-ending stream of traffic.
October 2, 2039:
Janus found Terry’s dinner surprisingly tasty, even if the ingredients were all bought from the administration grocery store. He’d forgotten that she used to be a good cook, back before Uncle Joe had taken over the kitchen. She had learned at her grandmother’s side, after-all.
In the weeks since Joe’s arrest the family had gotten into a routine. Terry spent much of the weekend preparing meals which were then reheated for each evening’s supper. Richard spent more time helping his brothers with their homework, when he wasn’t meeting with his after-school study group. Janus was proud of how his eldest son had stepped up and helped out since Joe’s arrest, and hoped his smile said the things he wasn’t able to say out loud.
Janus wondered how to bring up what Joe had told him the day before, not sure if this was something he should confront Terry with, or just mention casually at the dinner table. As he sat down at the dinner table, he took a calming breath and chose the latter strategy.
“You know I saw Joe yesterday,” he began tentatively.
“You saw Uncle Joe?” Rollie jumped from his seat as if Janus had announced that he’d won the lottery. “How is he? When’s he coming home? Can I see him too?”
“Easy there,” Janus laughed, for once not resenting Joe’s popularity with his family. “Let Mom and Dad talk here, Rollie.”
Terry put down the dishes she’d been carrying and sat down.
“I didn’t know you went to see him.”
“Yeah. I had to let him know how things were going with, you know, his defence.”
“And how was he? Are they feeding him?”
“He’s fine, he’s fine,” Janus lied, not wanting to tell her about the mistreatment the old man was being subjected to. “He asked about all of you. We had a very nice conversation.”
“You’re kidding,” Terry replied skeptically.
“No, really. He was telling me about his life in Italy, about your youth there too. Even about how you learned to cook from your grandmother.”
Terry’s expression changed subtly, as if she was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Joe’s in jail and you guys talked about my grandmother?”
“I think Joe missed talking to someone about, you know, normal things. Like family history, food. I bet she taught you to make kibbe.”
“What’s kibbe, mom?” Francis asked.
Terry looked at her husband with an expression of surprise, but he was the one who answered his son’s question.
“It’s a kind of meat dish...the Arabs make.”
“How come your gramma cooked Arab food, mom?”
Terry’s face reddened but she didn’t answer, keeping her eyes on her husband. Janus realized that she was waiting until she was sure of his own attitude before saying anything. It saddened him to know that his mood swings were such that his wife was a little bit afraid of him.
“Because her grandmother was Syrian, Francis.”
“Syrian? Isn’t that-”
“Arab, yes,” Janus answered for his wife who continued to look at him silently.
“I didn’t know that,” Francis complained.
“Neither did I, Frankie. Until yesterday, that is. Funny, huh?”
“She died before we met,” Terry finally spoke up. “It never came up…after that.”
“What was she,” Richard asked. “Catholic or Orthodox?”
Janus laughed before Terry could answer. “She wasn’t Christian, Richard. She was Sunni.”
For a moment there was silence around the table. All eyes were turned toward Terry, who was blushing furiously and struggling to keep the tears from her eyes. After a few seconds, Rollie spoke up.
“What’s Sunni?”
“Shut up, Rollie,” Richard snapped at him.
Terry reached out and squeezed her oldest son’s arm.
“Don’t. He’s right to ask. It isn’t such a big deal…now.”
She turned to Rollie and spoke softly.
“She was a Muslim.”
“Like the ones on the news?”
She cleared her throat and glanced at Janus who leaned back in his chair, letting her say what she had to. “No, not like them. Anyway, she was. Past tense. She converted to Catholic when she married my grandfather.”
Rollie, always wanting to understand how everything worked, needed more details. He asked, “Did she have to convert?”
“No, sweetie, she wanted to. There was a big ceremony at the village. I saw the video. You know, boys, in 2D like the movies Uncle Joe showed you. The archbishop came down from Trieste to baptize her. Her parents were very angry though. They refused to come to the baptism, or to the wedding.”
Richard lifted his hand like he was in class. When he spoke, it was with a nervous tremor in his voice.
“Aren’t you supposed to report this?”
“Yes,” Terry answered patiently. “It’s on the census forms your father makes me fill out every three years. I’ve reported it ever since the law changed, which was well before we were married, by the way.”
She was looking at Janus who decided to ask the one question that had been on his mind since his meeting with Joe. He was barely able to suppress the frustration in his voice when he spoke.
“How could you not tell me this?”
“How do you think you passed those lie-detectors?”
Janus was taken aback by the coldly-calculated logic that lay behind her answer. She looked at him straight in the eyes, wearing an expression of determination he wasn’t used to seeing. He realized that she hadn’t just lied to him; she’d lied for him. He took another deep breath, understanding that he had no reason to be angry at his wife.
“OK,” he said, beginning to relax. “Is that everything you have to do? Report it?”
“Yes, my dear. One grandparent, you only have to report it on the census forms. Two grandparents and they have a whole hearing on you.”
“What if it’s both your parents?” asked Francis, who was leaning close to his mother.
“Then you wouldn’t be born, because your daddy here would never have met a girl from the Laval camp, and that’s definitely where I would have been living.”
Francis turned to his father. “Is that right, dad?”
“I’m afraid she’s right.”
“But Dad-”
“Don’t look at me, Francis.” Janus felt himself blush, thinking of Sahar. “I don’t make the rules. I only live by them.”
Later that night Janus closed the door of his basement office and made the call that he’d been dreading. When Walid answered it was obvious the man had never doubted that Janus would call. Janus kept his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, and Walid often had to make him repeat what he said.
“Normand Leblanc,” Janus said. “He’s a section head where I work. At Municipal Infrastructure.”
“Where you work? A section head?”
“Yes, section head.”
“That sounds like a fairly important position.”
“It’s one step below mine,” Janus.
“And what’s his name again, Monsieur Janus?” Walid asked.
Janus squeezed his eyes shut and leaned back in his chair. His wife and children were asleep, but he’d hardly slept in the three days since meeting Walid at the dogfights. His decision to finally give him Leblanc’s name was due as much to his overwhelming fatigue as to his desire to help Joe.
“Normand Leblanc,” he answered. “L-e-b-l-a-n-c.”
Janus had wracked his brain trying to come up with some other name, or other information, that would suit Walid’s purposes. The fact was that his lifestyle didn’t put him into contact with many people who’d interest Walid. Other than Leblanc, of course, who paid off his gambling debts by awarding city contracts to his underground friends.
Janus hoped that Walid had meant it when he said that Janus was on the list of friends he’d never betray.
Not that it’s so hard to betray friends or family once you put your mind to it.
“And this Leblanc,” Walid asked, “he is in charge of sub-contracting some of the work your department does?”
“Not really in charge. He studies the bids and makes recommendations, but usually his opinion is followed. Nobody really questions his paperwork.”
“And the contracts he can give to my friends, they are lucrative, yes?”
“Annually, they can run into the low seven figures.”
“Well, that is interesting, Monsieur Janus. And you think he will let my friends have some of these contracts when we tell him we know about the money he has lost at the dog-fights?”
“He won’t have a choice, will he? I know for a fact he owes a lot of money there. A lot. It’s a situation which has made him vulnerable to outside influences, if you see what I mean. A situation that forced him to compromise…” Janus paused, wondering if this was the lowest he’d ever sink, before continuing.
“He’s deep in debt. He had no choice,” he added weakly in his friend’s defence.
“Bien oui,” Walid replied. “A man may do things for money that he would never consider doing otherwise.”
Son of a bitch is actually mocking me, Janus thought, knowing full well that he deserved Walid’s scorn.
“He won’t want anyone to know how he’s been paying off his debts. So you can use that to pressure him. But you have to promise to not let anyone else know what he’s done.”
“Monsieur Janus. We are looking to make a profit, not destroy a man’s life.”
Janus didn’t mention to Walid that Leblanc might already be facing the administration’s expected audit. The audit would probably uncover Leblanc’s corruption without Janus’s help, and that fact helped him rationalize giving his friend’s name to Walid. If all Walid did was get some contracts for his people, then Janus could tell himself that he’d done nothing to hurt his friend. It wasn’t as if Walid would be asking Leblanc for the blueprints of the electrical grid...at least not as far as Janus knew.
The idiot hasn’t even slowed down with his gambling despite all his fears of discovery. Why should I be so worried about him when he’s done nothing to help himself?
Leblanc was going to get a black mark on his record, and fired, with or without Janus’s help. And what if he was fired? Was that as bad as the years in jail and deportation that awaited Joe?
“You will flash-text me the details I’ll need,” Walid said, interrupting his thoughts. “Upcoming work, submission forms and so on, yes?”
“You’ll have everything a few minutes after you hang up. As for the money...”
“Don’t worry, Monsieur Janus. It will take me a little time to look into what you’ve given me, to weigh it, if I may use the expression. But I believe you have adequately satisfied our needs. For now, of course.”
“For now? Why only for now?”
“Monsieur Janus, soyons sérieux. You are getting two hundred thousand dollars, interest-free, with a very generous reimbursement schedule. This Leblanc fellow proves your bona fides, of course. But we may, in the future, require more from you. You understand this, n’est-ce pas?”
“Yes. I understand.”
“Excellent. So, we will speak tomorrow evening, yes? And you will have all your money, be assured of that.”
October 3, 2039:
Terry sat at the small window in the downstairs bathroom, blowing cigarette smoke into the vent which led outside. Janus had installed the vent years earlier so she’d have a place to smoke when the air was too bad to step out onto the back stoop. The small rattling sound let her know the fan was functioning, blowing her cigarette smoke out without letting any of the foul night air in.
She’d quit smoking after getting pregnant with Francis, their second child. After Joe’s arrest she’d bought a pack at the administrations supermarket, shocked at how expensive it was, and then kept going back for more. She’d been spending much of the last few days in this bathroom, her one private space in the house, and smoking more than she had years before. Allen never criticized her for it, understanding that it helped her cope. She felt trapped, helpless by what had happened to her uncle. Life had been far from perfect before, but Allen’s position had allowed her a certain feeling of security. Now her safety net had been pulled away.
Not even Allen’s administration job could have stopped the police from acting once they suspected someone of aiding terrorists. That’s fucking crazy, she thought, allowing herself an expletive she’d never have voiced aloud. The man just bought some fresh lamb!
The court wouldn’t even give details of what he was suspected of. The administration only had to raise a red flag and the security apparatus went into full damage-protection mode. Redacted police reports. Unnamed informers. False witnesses, she had no doubt. She half-expected her uncle to be spirited away to some foreign jail where he could be tortured. Rendition, Richard had called it, before explaining that under the Enhanced Homeland Security Act it was no longer necessary to send prisoners to foreign countries to be tortured.
