of course. The only small problem was that Alphonse, a small rotund man with dark Brylcreamed hair and a thick bristling moustache, who also doubled as the hotel barman and receptionist, was discomfortingly gregarious and friendly. He seemed to want to tell them everything about the city — while at the same time drawing out snippets about them, ‘Dorset, huh? Sounds nice’ — practically on sight. Given their situation, she’d have preferred one of those mousy, indifferent desk clerks that barely looked up when you came in or left.
She drummed a few fingers lightly against the cassette player. Great start, she thought ruefully. They needed desperately to push, but their hands could be tied from word go.
She went down to see Lorena. She’d finished her coke, but was nibbling at some peanuts Alphonse had put before her.
‘She was just telling me all about England, the house you have there,’ Alphonse commented.
‘Oh, right.’ Elena went on alarm. Which house had she mentioned: hers or Ryall’s?
‘Sounds like a palace.’
‘Well, not quite. But getting there.’ Probably Ryall’s: their place wasn’t quite so ostentatious. But she was nervous about what else Lorena might have talked about that she could get caught out on. She was eager to leave. ‘Look, sorry. Got to dash now. Long-lost relatives to track down, and not much time left.’
‘What you mentioned earlier?’
‘That’s right.’ She fished her hire-car keys out of her bag, Lorena got up, and they hustled out. ‘See you later.’
They headed in the car towards Avenue Du Parc. If Alphonse was going to show willing, then she might as well use him to advantage. So she’d spun a story about looking for long-lost cousins, ‘the Stevens, previously Stephanou. Greek-Cypriot relatives, from my father’s side.’ She’d shown Alphonse the list of addresses she’d written down, and he’d given her a quick regional guided tour of the city: French to the East, English to the West, with St Laurent as the main dividing line. ‘Except for Outremont just north-west of St Laurent, which is decidedly upmarket and almost exclusively French. Then we’ve got the Jewish community around Main and St Laurent, the Italians of course in Little Italy around St Joseph and Laurier, and the Greeks and Hispanics spread mostly in between. Westmount is the main upmarket Anglophile area, and the few blocks wedged between St Laurent and Du Parc thirty years ago used to be a predominantly Greek area — but now the new immigrants are mostly Portuguese.’
Elena turned off of Du Parc into Rue Milton, then took the second left — the address that Terry had given her as the Stevens’ first address in Montreal — and started counting down: 67, 65…
She pulled in as the house came into view and turned to Lorena. ‘Will you be okay here for a little while?’ She didn’t just mean the few minutes she’d be now, but for the five or six calls she hoped to get in before dinner- time. ‘You’ve got the radio, or the walkman if you like.’ She glanced towards the back seat where it had been left from Lorena waiting during her earlier calls.
‘Uh huh. I’ll be okay.’
Elena patted her hand and got out. The pavement was wide, then three yards of approach path and five steps before the house. Two bells. She rang the bottom one.
A narrow brownstone with half basement, orange-painted window frames on the ground and lower-ground floors, neutral cream on the top two floors. It was obviously now divided into two apartments — but twenty-eight years ago it could well have been all one house.
A small, swarthy woman in dark-grey track-suit and floral head-scarf opened the door. She looked Elena up and down curiously.
‘I was looking for some old relatives of mine that used to live here, and I wondered if you might have known them or know where they might have gone. How long have you lived here?’
‘Four year now. Why? What their name?’
‘Stevens. But it was a long time ago — over twenty years.’
The woman considered for a moment. ‘No. No know any Steven. Sorry.’
From her appearance and her accent, Elena thought she was probably Arab or North African rather than Greek or Portuguese. The woman seemed to keep her gaze more over her shoulder towards the car and Lorena than meeting her eye directly. But then she too was looking over the woman’s shoulder, taking in the decor in the hallway and what little she could see of a room two-down through a half-open door.
Elena pointed to the top buzzer. ‘And how long have your neighbours been here?’
‘Just over a year. No longer.’
‘Right.’
She was following in his footsteps, trying to see what life he might have had after she gave him up: good environment, bad? Well cared for or neglected? Happy, sad? She snapped to as she noticed the women’s eyes on her questioningly.
‘Sorry. Thanks for your help, anyway.’ There was no way of her knowing from this postage-stamp of a garden and glimpse of a half-lit hallway almost thirty years on.
The next few hours became an increasingly wearying blur. Practically the same pitch each time: Stevens, previously Stephanou; Nicholas and Maria and baby of only eighteen months, George. Twenty-eight years ago. ‘… Relatives that my family lost contact with.’ A lot of head-shaking, shrugs and hastily closed doors. And with it dark for an hour and a half and her still calling on fresh doors, Lorena started to become agitated.
‘Still more? You haven’t found him yet?’
‘I haven’t seen him in years now: we lost contact completely. It could take a while more.’ Elena smiled sheepishly. With the long flight and perhaps some nervousness about the impending sessions, Lorena had been quieter than normal, more subdued; now she was obviously getting alert and bright-eyed again, and impatient with it. ‘Just a few more, then we’ll go grab a pizza.
She managed two more calls — the third was out — before deciding finally to call it a night. It was getting late to keep disturbing people and they were both hungry, with Lorena bordering on cranky, complaining that she’d listened to all three tapes on the walkman and there was hardly anything on the radio. ‘Most of the stations are in French.’ She sounded bemused.
But Elena now realized that it was going to take a lot longer than she’d first envisaged: three not there to call back on out of the ten Stevens so far canvassed, plus eighteen more fresh calls to go. It was going to take her all of the next day, if not spill over into the day after, especially since five of them were in far-flung suburbs.
The only brief respite — a fleeting flash of hope that had caught her breath in her throat — was a man in his twenties swinging open a door to greet her. Dark brown hair, quite tall… but as she looked closer, she realized that he was probably closer to twenty-two or three than twenty-nine. And she quickly discovered that his name was Guy, parents Charles and Madeleine.
But it suddenly struck her that that was easily how it could happen: the right door swinging open, and suddenly he’d be there. Twenty-nine years melting away in an instant: all the years she’d turned her back on him and tried not to think about him, yet in truth he’d hardly left her thoughts for a second; and she’d clutch at him and embrace him hard… or perhaps stand trembling uncertainly for a second before bursting into tears…
But then she was quickly back to the harsh reality of the head-shakes, shrugs and hastily closed doors, with her father’s voice ringing incessantly in her ears:
TWENTY-ONE
Maurice Roubilliard pulled up in front of the
