asked one time too many why Vanier was eating so often in the restaurant.
“Alex tells me that he is doing important work in your part of the world. He seems to think that he is making a difference,” said Vanier.
“Making a difference? If only you could know, Luc. He is changing the world and making it better. I wish you Canadians knew how important it is. You should be bloody proud, Luc, a son like that.”
“I am, Midhat. But you know how it is with fathers and sons. We can’t say what we want to say. We think a nod is a paragraph and a sentence is a book, and, in the end, all that’s important is left unspoken.”
“We keep a lot inside, Luc, that’s true. Too much, maybe. But you tell Alex when he comes back here to get his skinny Canadian ass down to Ganges, and we will fatten him up, all on the house. I don’t think they serve good Indian food in the military.”
“They probably don’t serve any Indian food in the army. I’ll bring him down myself.”
“And Elise? Tell me, how is Elise?”
“I spoke to her this morning. It seems like a long time ago. She called to wish me Merry Christmas. She’s with her mother in Toronto. Still studying. She goes to university next year. Journalism. Maybe one day we’ll be looking at her on television. I can just see it now. Alex fighting in some foreign war, and Elise reporting on it, and me down on my knees in front of the television praying for both of them.”
They laughed again.
“Already, they are adults.”
“It happened too quickly, Midhat. Twenty years in a heartbeat. One moment, you’re building sandcastles in Kennebunk, and the next you’re waiting for a phone call from Kandahar.”
The food arrived, bubbling in stainless steel bowls on a hot plate with two candles. Vanier had ordered for one, but Midhat gestured for an extra plate, sitting with his friend through the meal, and helping himself to the comforting food of a homeland he hardly knew.
When they had both eaten their fill, they sat in silence listening to a plaintive sitar solo. A waiter took away the plates and came back with a brown bag with the leftovers. Vanier left a fat tip, because he knew that when he got home he would be amazed at how much food he had been given to take home. Enough for two meals during the week, even things he couldn’t remember ordering.
A honking noise broke through the sitar music and brought them back to Montreal. Tow trucks were cruising up and down the street, blaring their horns as a warning that any cars on the street were about to be towed to allow the plows to remove the snow. Vanier rose slowly, lifted the bag from the table, and reached for Midhat’s outstretched hand.
“You take care of yourself, Luc.”
“You too, Midhat, you too. Give my love to Jamilah and the children.”
“To be sure.”
Vanier walked out into the night, accelerating with each step, as he pondered the possibility of his car being towed. It was still safe. He opened the back door of the car and put the brown bag carefully on the floor, snug between the seats. Settling into the driver’s seat, he turned on the radio. Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas.” He turned off the radio and drove home in silence.
FOUR
DECEMBER 26
5 AM
Vanier was nervous, preparing himself to talk to a boy who was a man. Not a man, a soldier — a different kind of man. Vanier knew soldiers. On his mother’s side they were all farmers, tied to the same patch of land for generations. But his father and his father’s father had been soldiers. His father had dragged the family to every military base in Canada. Often to leave them waiting while he served overseas. More often to leave them waiting while he drank with his soldier buddies. Then one day he left them for good with an inconvenient bullet that entered his brain through the roof of his mouth and left a red splash pattern on the living room wall for Vanier’s mother to clean off. Vanier had watched while she did it.
All Alex knew of his grandfather were the photos and medals, a hero his father never talked about or explained.
The phone rang at 5 minutes after 5 a.m.
“Alex?”
“Hey. Merry Christmas, Dad. How’re you doing?” Vanier tried to picture his smile.
“It’s me should be asking that. I’m fine. Stuck in the snow and the cold as usual. Hey, Merry Christmas, Alex.”
“It’s got to be better than here. Fucking desert gets to you pretty quick. So what’s new with you?”
“You know how it is Alex, crime’s a growth business. Close one file, open another. There’s always something going on. For everyone we put away, there are two more getting out. And there are always the kids following in the father’s footsteps. I guess we’re fighting our own war over here.”
“Yeah? They got IEDs in Montreal?”
“Well no, it’s not a war, Alex. Not like what you’re doing. Sorry. I just meant…”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I suppose we’re both fighting evil, eh?”
“I suppose. But I got bigger guns!”
“They won’t be issuing C7A2s here for a while. But I bet it would get me respect in Hochelaga.”
“We ain’t getting respect here. They’re laughing at us. Fucking government is corrupt, and we’re getting shot at to keep them in business. The Afghan soldiers would sell you out in a second if they could make a deal. The place stinks.”
“Alex, I saw your guys on TV the other night. It looks pretty rough over there. I worry.”
“Ah come on, Dad, don’t start that again. I’m here. I’m serving in this shithole, but it doesn’t do me any good to know you’re worrying about me. I’m not a kid.”
“OK, Alex, but I’m your father. That’s what fathers do, they worry.”
“Yeah, but that puts pressure on me, you know.”
“Look, I’m sorry. It’s just that what we see here is the worst. On TV, it’s always the bad stuff.”
“There’s a lot of bad shit to film. It’s fucking dangerous, but I’m surrounded by great guys, and we all look out for each other. So the journalists want blood and guts and blown-up troop carriers. Maybe that’s a good thing, let people know what the fuck is going on, you know?”
“I suppose. But you don’t see much good news.”
“Good news? There isn’t any. And if you read crap in the papers about how we’re changing lives, don’t believe it. It’s a gang of fucking thieves running the country, and another gang of murdering bastards trying to take over — and neither side gives a fuck about the average Afghan.”
“So you think we should leave?”
“No. Just let us do the job. We’re fighting people who don’t give a fuck about the Geneva Convention, and we have to do it like Boy Scouts. It burns me up.”
“Don’t worry, Alex. Your tour is up in four months and you can come home.”
“Yeah. I guess. Anyway. Change the subject.”
Vanier changed the subject. “I spoke to Elise yesterday, she sends her love.”
“I know. She sent me an email. She said that you might be thinking of joining the human race and getting Skype.”
“Ha. Well, no promises, but you never know. I’ll give it serious thought. Elise said she’d help me.”
“Do it. You’ll be amazed how easy it is once you get started.”
“So, tell me, what do you do for relaxation?”
“Well, last night we had a concert with Blue Rodeo and a bunch of comedians. And we had a Christmas supper, turkey, roast potatoes. The food was good. We even had the Minister of Defence spooning out the gravy.”
