this argument, her mind full of policemen’s hands in transparent gloves working their way through their underwear drawers and cupboards and closets. The police, so callous and insistent. She wanted Graham to say: This is outrageous. She yelled at him: Aren’t you on my side? She had the alarming sensation of the whole world tilting sideways.
After she was charged and booked and allowed to go with restrictions — unable to use a credit card, not to approach within twenty metres of any of the stores from which goods had been stolen, including the two big downtown department stores — she took a bus back to the apartment on de Maisonneuve, which was still technically Graham’s, locked and bolted the door, and didn’t call Graham but lay in her boots and sheepskin coat and the cheap sunglasses she’d bought on the way home on the sofa that was also his, and in those moments the most stunning sensation had been her absolute loss of control, a vertigo of wondering what she had done to make Colleen Bertucci convinced that she was the thief, the police believe Colleen not her, the store clerks unwavering that she was the one, her own helplessness. Her adamancy that she had done nothing made no difference. Lying on the sofa, she began to cough and couldn’t stop.
All this remained alive in her. The catch in her throat. Such a thing could happen to anyone. Couldn’t it? Small things cast long shadows. Somewhere a raccoon shrieked.
The next morning, Tuesday, the streetcar that Sara rode to work was filled with children, teenaged girls in tiny kilts, small kids weighed down beneath oversized knapsacks, all of them chattery with the return to school. The newsroom had an autumnal buzziness, despite the heat of the day outside, or else simply a social fervour after the long weekend. People gathered, mugs clasped in hands, to chat about the American air strikes against Iraq
and
the royal divorce. Within the flimsy barricades of her cubicle, Sara swung a sweater over her shoulders and called Juliet at home, and Juliet answered on the first ring.
Keeping her voice down, she explained how the performers had fled the hotel at night and spelled out what the allegations against Raymond Renaud were.
All those things, Juliet said.
Julie, when you were there, I have to ask again, did you notice anything, anything at all that struck you as suspicious?
No, Juliet said, and I really didn’t feel like he was trying to hide anything from me, but now everything looks suspect.
What about your assistant?
I haven’t called him yet.
Julie, are there people I can talk to, in Addis, say, who might know more?
Are you going to write about this?
No. No. That isn’t why. I’ll pass on to you whatever I find out.
Maybe I should be the one doing this, Juliet said. But right now I feel so stunned, I can’t.
Would you be willing to show me some of your footage?
I guess. Sure. Why?
I’d be interested in seeing what there is to see, of him, and the circus. I’m curious to see what it looks like. You know there’s still a film to be made of all this.
Sara wanted to see him again in whatever way she could. She needed to sense if there was something crucial about him that she ought to have noticed. And, if she had missed some sign of deeper corruption, after spending all those intimate hours in a car with him, what did this reveal about her? Not to mention her uneasy sense of feeling implicated because she had helped him return to Addis Ababa and the circus children.
Juliet said, Only I don’t know if it’s a film I want to make.
Tomorrow’s not good, Sara said, but what about Thursday after work?
Juliet held open a glass door that led into the cool, dim vestibule of a small warehouse building on Bathurst north of Queen. Immediately behind her, a flight of stairs led upward. Sunglasses off, eyes adjusting, Sara stepped in from the heat, the outside air thick and sultry even though it was September and afternoon shadows were creeping
After she was charged and booked and allowed to go with restrictions — unable to use a credit card, not to approach within twenty metres of any of the stores from which goods had been stolen, including the two big downtown department stores — she took a bus back to the apartment on de Maisonneuve, which was still technically Graham’s, locked and bolted the door, and didn’t call Graham but lay in her boots and sheepskin coat and the cheap sunglasses she’d bought on the way home on the sofa that was also his, and in those moments the most stunning sensation had been her absolute loss of control, a vertigo of wondering what she had done to make Colleen Bertucci convinced that she was the thief, the police believe Colleen not her, the store clerks unwavering that she was the one, her own helplessness. Her adamancy that she had done nothing made no difference. Lying on the sofa, she began to cough and couldn’t stop.
All this remained alive in her. The catch in her throat. Such a thing could happen to anyone. Couldn’t it? Small things cast long shadows. Somewhere a raccoon shrieked.
The next morning, Tuesday, the streetcar that Sara rode to work was filled with children, teenaged girls in tiny kilts, small kids weighed down beneath oversized knapsacks, all of them chattery with the return to school. The newsroom had an autumnal buzziness, despite the heat of the day outside, or else simply a social fervour after the long weekend. People gathered, mugs clasped in hands, to chat about the American air strikes against Iraq
and
the royal divorce. Within the flimsy barricades of her cubicle, Sara swung a sweater over her shoulders and called Juliet at home, and Juliet answered on the first ring.
Keeping her voice down, she explained how the performers had fled the hotel at night and spelled out what the allegations against Raymond Renaud were.
All those things, Juliet said.
Julie, when you were there, I have to ask again, did you notice anything, anything at all that struck you as suspicious?
No, Juliet said, and I really didn’t feel like he was trying to hide anything from me, but now everything looks suspect.
What about your assistant?
I haven’t called him yet.
Julie, are there people I can talk to, in Addis, say, who might know more?
Are you going to write about this?
No. No. That isn’t why. I’ll pass on to you whatever I find out.
Maybe I should be the one doing this, Juliet said. But right now I feel so stunned, I can’t.
Would you be willing to show me some of your footage?
I guess. Sure. Why?
I’d be interested in seeing what there is to see, of him, and the circus. I’m curious to see what it looks like. You know there’s still a film to be made of all this.
Sara wanted to see him again in whatever way she could. She needed to sense if there was something crucial about him that she ought to have noticed. And, if she had missed some sign of deeper corruption, after spending all those intimate hours in a car with him, what did this reveal about her? Not to mention her uneasy sense of feeling implicated because she had helped him return to Addis Ababa and the circus children.
Juliet said, Only I don’t know if it’s a film I want to make.
Tomorrow’s not good, Sara said, but what about Thursday after work?
Juliet held open a glass door that led into the cool, dim vestibule of a small warehouse building on Bathurst north of Queen. Immediately behind her, a flight of stairs led upward. Sunglasses off, eyes adjusting, Sara stepped in from the heat, the outside air thick and sultry even though it was September and afternoon shadows were creeping
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