6 Could it have been something in the paella? Except that her stomach felt fine. Or the after-dinner drink, a coffee-and-rum concoction called carajillo? Except that her sleep was never affected by after-dinner coffee when she had it with a little milk, and when she told that to Emilio, the waiter, he said, “No problem,” and poured a little hot milk into the cup, adding, “Now is called trifásico.” Emilio, who had flirted with her the whole evening. When he greeted them at the door like an old friend, Megan had introduced her to him as Daniel’s sister. He then told the rest of the staff Es la hermana de Daniel, turning them momentarily somber-faced. But even her blatant display of her wedding ring hadn’t stopped him from flirting with her. It was something she was unaccustomed to, since she hardly ever went out without Paul, and it had felt uncomfortable at first, but after the first glass of wine it had become a part of the ambiance, and a pleasant part at that, like the flamenco music in the background. It turned out that it was Daniel, on his first visit to Toronto after Megan had moved there, who had taken her to that restaurant for the first time; some Spanish friends had told him that Casa Fernández made the best paella in Toronto. With his fluent Spanish he quickly made friends with the Fernández family, especially Emilio, the owner’s son and headwaiter, who was just his age. It was now past one o’clock, and Betty still hadn’t slept a wink. No, she told herself, it wasn’t the food or the drink. It was the way everything came back to Paul, to the strange conjunction of his absence in the flesh and his presence on her mind. Her response to Emilio’s flirting: Paul. Her loss of closeness to Daniel: Paul. Her almost-maternal love for Sam: Paul, who had insisted that they weren’t ready for children. Her sudden sister-like closeness to Megan: Paul, who had discouraged her from seeing friends other than the ones from McGill. And yet in those eight years she had never felt herself ruled, controlled or manipulated by Paul. Nor had she idealized him beyond his faults, let alone placed him on a pedestal. She had simply trusted his good judgment, and let his caring, affection and sexual skill smooth out any ruffles in their relationship. Was that era over now? It was beginning to seem that way. Having grown up with a single mother, she had seen no model of husband-wife interaction other than Greg and Marcia, and it was that model that she and Paul had unconsciously – at least on her part – followed. But was it really as smooth between Greg and Marcia as it had always seemed? She would find out that afternoon. In a Toronto tea house. Within a few seconds he was wide awake. His watch read 02:48. The woman was sleeping quietly on her side, in her bed, facing away from him. Her name was Julia. He had not been particularly attracted to her, especially after running into Claire Chen, dressed to show off her spectacular figure. Claire Chen, who had developed some software that she sold to Microsoft for millions, and whom he had met at the initial inquiry into Daniel Wilner’s death; her number had been one of the last in Wilner’s call log, and it turned out that they had dated off and on since their student days at Columbia. But Claire was with a guy; whether it someone she had met there or come with was not clear. Tom had briefly chatted with Julia at the bar – she had told him, among other things, that she was from Albany, and he had joked about their being in an Albanian bar – and they had left at the same time, around twelve-thirty, chatting some more on the way to the subway. Finding out that, like him, she was going to 96th Street, he had offered to walk her to her front door, and once there she had invited him to come up for a little bit. Well, he now thought, two hours was “a little bit.” Actually it had been rather nice with her. The first time he had imagined that he was with Claire Chen, and the second time – when Julia had taken the active role – with Megan Kenner. But now it was time to go home. He was used to moving stealthily. He got up without ruffling the bed and began to put on his underwear. When his T-shirt was beginning to go over his head he suddenly remembered that two nights hence he might be sleeping with Megan. The reminder affected him so powerfully that he quickly undressed again, fished a condom out of his pants pocket (Julia had supplied the first two), put it on himself and crept back into bed, pressing his thighs against Julia’s buttocks and making sure that she felt his readiness. Without seeming to wake up she turned onto her back and opened her legs. She was still wet from the previous time and he entered her with ease. It was over quickly and, if he was not mistaken, she had an orgasm in her sleep. He got up again and put the used condom on a tissue on the bedside rug, next to the other two. Something for her to remember him by, he thought. He picked up all his clothes, sneaked into the bathroom, got dressed and left Julia’s studio, making sure that the door snapped shut as softly as possible. There was nothing he could do about the deadbolt. He had not gone to Old Nick’s in order to pick up a woman but to reacquaint himself with the place, eight months after the incident. Of course, October 15 had been a Thursday, not a Friday, and the place had been far less crowded. He had mentally restaged the intrusion of the Gremnik Boys, six or seven or eight of them; the number varied from witness to witness, and only three were left when police got there – Safet Murova, Thelu and Karimaj. It was Steve Lusha, the owner, who had called 911. The guns had disappeared, and the men left on the scene denied ever having held one. They were gathered around the victim’s body, affecting concern and remorse. “I’m so sorry,” Steve was saying... This time he had talked to as many people as he could, asking if any of them had been there the night of the shootout, or heard about it shortly afterward. There were three of the former; he had already interviewed two of them, and the third – a nerdy guy in his twenties – had nothing new to tell him. Of the latter there were about ten – Julia among them – and some of them suggested some possibilities that he would mull over at his leisure. Julia was not one of these. In the lobby of her apartment house he remembered that he had turned his cell phone off. He turned it back on. There was voice mail: “Hey, it’s Orsini. Lejla has passed away. Call me ASAP.” As he was listening to the message while opening the front door he glanced at the array of doorbells on the jamb. The nameplate next to Julia’s apartment number read LUSHA J. So she was Albanian! An Albanian from Albany! Steve’s sister? Cousin, more likely. She had no trace of an immigrant accent, while Steve, who had fled Albania during the communist era and was a naturalized US citizen, had a strong one. But the coincidence made him suspicious. Was it really pure happenstance that she was walking out of the bar just when he was? Steve knew him, after all; the night of Daniel Wilner’s killing had not been the first time that police had been called to Old Nick’s. And of course Tom had identified himself to all the people he had questioned. Now he had slept for an hour or so in Julia’s bed. Could she have gone through his things? Not that he had anything of a police nature on him – for him the weekend had begun – but she may not have known that. Except for his cell phone. During the hour or so that he had slept, could Julia have turned it on, checked his log, listened to his voice mail? Had he cleared his log? He wasn’t sure. And Orsini’s voice mail was new. When he had received his sleek new Samsung phone some months earlier he had chosen to skip the password for accessing voice mail, in order to save time. A mistake, obviously. Well, suppose Julia had listened to Orsini’s message about Lejla. So what? Steve and his gang had no connection to the choking of Lejla Begović; that was a Gremnik Boys affair, and probably just one or two individual member of the Boys. He still believed that Safet and Omar Murova were behind it. Unless there was some basis for the rumor of cooperation between Steve and the Gremnik Boys. Could Steve have called them in in order to stage a shootout? Or vice versa? By now, of course, the trail of phone calls and such was cold. But the idea of a pan-Albanian conspiracy, reaching from Kosovo to the Bronx, was also far-fetched. More to mull over. He decided to interpret the P of Orsini’s ASAP as practical rather than possible, and so to call him back when he had a moment to himself some time in the morning, maybe while driving from Gabe’s house to Karen’s. After all, what difference would it make? Safet Murova was out on bail, ridiculously low bail, which Silvana DiMaggio paid in cash. The ADA had not prepared the case with any attention. He had not checked with the hospital to corroborate Lejla’s precarious condition, and when he mentioned Safet’s supposed sexual involvement with Lejla, what he provoked in Safet was not consternation but laughter, in which Silvana joined her husband. Safet’s My wife? Please, no! seemed to have been a joke. Silvana DiMaggio was a tough broad who didn’t feel threatened by her husband’s fling with a little tart like the late Lejla Begović. Rita Clementi: another tough broad. And Julia Lusha. She probably hadn’t slept a wink but faked it all, the sleep and the orgasms. Albanian women – tough. Back in his apartment he turned his phone off, undressed quickly without bothering to arrange his clothes, and slipped under the covers. Being in his own bed, alone, after having shared the bed of a woman for whom he had no feelings, felt delightful. Sam was talking in his sleep. Softly, but loud enough to wake his mother. Unlike the clear, crisp, concise two-word phrases of his daytime speech, the unintelligible babble of his somniloquy was continuous. Megan guessed that he had been mentally practicing extended sentences while awake, and the practice had entered his unconscious. After a short while he was quiet again. It was a little after four. It was at moments like this that Megan missed having a man’s body nearby, and specifically Daniel’s. And, as usual, she remembered Daniel’s last visit, newly returned from Kosovo, where the horrors he had witnessed had been such that he couldn’t talk about them yet but wanted to temporarily forget them by living life at its liveliest, which for him meant playing with his one-year-old son and having endless sex with Megan. He had admitted to her that in some of their encounters he was unwillingly reenacting rapes that he had seen. She remembered thinking that, had the time of the month been right, she would have liked to get pregnant again, though it would have been unlikely, since she was still nursing Sam. Mireille, when Megan later told her about these feelings, said that she knew exactly what she meant, and that this was how Betty had come into being. And then she remembered with a start that in a couple of nights she would probably be having sex with Tom Radnovich. What was she to do for birth control? Throughout her sexually active (some might say hyperactive) life, from the age of thirteen till she decided to have Daniel’s baby, for eleven years, she had used the birth-control pill. But her doctor had advised her to give herself a break from the hormones while she was lactating, and after she had weaned Sam she had not bothered resuming the pill, since there were no new men in her life, and she had no interest in the old ones. She couldn’t just suddenly start taking it now. She had no diaphragm, nor was there time to get one, and condoms were an option that she didn’t particularly care for. How about the morning-after pill? Since her pill-taking had always been scrupulous, she had never needed it. It was still illegal in Canada, but some of her fellow actresses – for example Laurie Lyon (real name: Goldie Milner) and Kathy Harris (real name: Kathy Harris) – used it routinely. She would call Laurie or Kathy in the morning and see if she could score some contraband RU-486. Preferably Kathy, and maybe she and Donna could come for breakfast. “Harvey?” Paul answered the phone instead of Hello. “Yes,” Harvey said. “What part of ‘as soon as possible’ don’t you understand? I called you last night around seven. I haven’t slept all night.” It was true: Paul’s message did say Call me as soon as possible, whatever the hour. But still... “I didn’t get home till midnight, I was tired...” Harvey had noticed the message flashing when he got home from taking Audrey to the Central Bus Station after dinner and a movie (Election, which he had enjoyed far more than she). Audrey didn’t like flying; she had made an exception for going to and from Israel, but for the trip to Montreal she had both come and gone on the overnight Trailways bus. Harvey, on getting home, decided that the message could wait until morning. “Audrey tired you out, did she?” “Yes, Sir Paul,” Harvey said, as he usually did when his brother’s speech took a British turn. That, too, was true: it had been fun with Audrey. There was no future in it, and it was just as well, because she could be a bit of a ditz at times, and her fanatical Zionism, coupled with a knee-jerk obsession with antisemitism, could be overwhelming. But Daniel had been right about one thing. Audrey’s a pretty good dresser, he had told Harvey, but she’s a fabulous undresser. Not a striptease, but undressing as performance art. What followed the undressing could be anticlimactic, but all in all it was fun. “So what’s it like, fucking one of Daniel’s old girlfriends?” “Shut up!” Harvey exploded. “Not that it’s the first time – didn’t you fuck Vivian after Daniel did?” “Is that what this is about? ’Cause if it is, I’m hanging up.” “No, it isn’t. This is just procedural wrangling.” “And what do you mean, you couldn’t sleep all night? Where’s Betty?” “In Toronto.” “With our mom?” “Mom’s in Toronto?” Paul asked. It didn’t surprise Harvey that his brother didn’t keep up with their parents’ comings and goings, despite working in their father’s office. “Well, she was supposed to fly there this morning. She told me yesterday, but she didn’t say anything about Betty.” “Anyway,” Paul went on, “Betty went there on her own, and she’s with Megan. And that’s what I’m calling about. How come no one ever told me about Daniel and Megan and their bastard?” Harvey had been preparing for this question for a year and a half, but its crude formulation took him aback. He decided not to take the bait. “I guess it never came up when you were around,” he said, unwilling to admit to the family’s tacit conspiracy of silence on the matter. “We all found out about it pretty gradually,” he went on before Paul could begin carping, “almost by accident. Megan didn’t particularly want it known in Montreal, given her reputation, I guess. I don’t know when she told her family, but I know that even Daniel didn’t know till he came to Toronto, after some months of globetrotting, and found her seven months pregnant.” “When did you find out?” “In December of that year.” “You mean ninety-seven?” “Yes. Daniel and I had arranged to meet in Toronto and he took me to see Megan and Sam. Mireille was there too, and I think she knew about it from the beginning – she may even have been at the birth – and some time last year she told mom and dad. I don’t know when she told Betty.” “But no one told me! I feel like I’ve been cheated!” “As I said, Paul, it just never...” “Oh, fuck that, Harvey. I think I had a right to know that my wife had a nephew.” “She wasn’t your wife until just before Daniel died, just your girlfriend.” “She was my fiancée, we lived together, we were planning to get married. And what about after we were married?” It was time to tell Paul the truth. “We – some of us – thought you’d make trouble with the will.” “Damn right I would have. Leaving everything to that little bastard? Including what Daniel inherited from Fela, when Betty got nothing?” “We’ve been through that, Paul. Daniel had a relationship with Fela, and Betty didn’t...” “She had a family relationship, which is more than Daniel had, biologically. And speaking of that, did you know that Betty never knew about it?” “You mean, that Miki wasn’t Daniel’s biological father?” It was Harvey’s turn to be surprised by the revelation. “That’s right. No one ever told her. Not Daniel, not Mireille.” “So I take it you told her, in your delicate way!” “It just came out. I was sure that she knew. It just hadn’t come up.” “See what I mean?” “No it’s not the same thing at all. Daniel’s biological paternity had no legal consequence. But this kid does. I even wonder if the will is genuine.” “Audrey told me that her brother did it. He’s a probate and estate lawyer in New York.” “I still have my doubts.” “Suit yourself, Paul.” The call-waiting beep came on, just in time, Harvey thought. “I’ve got another call. Paul. Get some sleep.” The call was from Audrey. She was calling to tell him that she was back at home, that she’d slept well on the bus, and that she’d had a great time in Montreal. “Next time in New York!” she concluded. “Sounds great,” Harvey said, not really meaning it. The sounds of the doorbell, of Sam’s voice and then Megan’s, then another and yet another woman’s, gradually made their way into Betty’s auditory cortex, as though someone had been slowly turning up the volume control. The clock read nine o’clock. Good, she said to herself, so I got seven hours’ sleep. She threw off the blanket, sat up with her feet on the floor, and looked down on herself. The nightgown she was wearing was perfectly presentable, at least in female company. She got up as she stepped into her slippers and walked out of the study in the direction of the kitchen. “Good morning!” she heard Megan say. “Just in time for breakfast!” “‘Tie Betty,” said Sam, who was already in his high chair. “Beffas.” “He calls her Ti-Betty,” said one of the two strange women, the older and plainer of the two, with very short dark-blond hair, “just like Ti-Jeanne in that book.” She was dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved denim blouse. “Brown Girl in the Ring,” said the other woman when she saw the puzzled look on Betty’s face. She was glamorous-looking with long jet-black hair and a revealing sundress. “By the way, I’m Kathy.” They were seated next to each other at the table, holding hands. “And I’m Donna,” the short-haired woman said. “Have you read it? It’s by a friend of mine, here in Toronto, and won a bunch of awards.” “I’m afraid the only Canadian writers I have time to read are Quebeckers,” Betty said. “Or Québécois,” she added with a laugh. “For my thesis.” She sat down on the remaining free chair at the table and helped herself to a cup of coffee and a still-warm croissant from an open bag in the middle of the table. “By the way,” Donna asked Betty, “how do you spell Quebecker? With a k or without?” “With. I used to spell it without, but my husband insisted on it.” “Me too,” Donna said. “I spell it without,” Megan said. “I mean, if you can say soccer...” “You mean,” Kathy asked with a giggle, “it’s not soxer?” The women laughed. “You wouldn’t believe it,” Megan said, “but Betty’s French.” “I’m bilingual, really,” Betty said, almost defensively. “And when I speak English I say croissant, not croissant,” she added, pronouncing the nasal vowel in the manner of Quebec, “or croissant,” saying it as a Frenchwoman would and making them all laugh again. They laughed even more when Sam said “croissant” in a fair approximation of the French sound, minus the r. “But you were raised French,” Megan said. “You and Daniel both.” “But I can’t recall a time when I didn’t speak English, and my husband’s Anglo – that is, he’s Jewish, which in Montreal means Anglo, unless you happen to be North African.” “So you’re Daniel’s sister!” Kathy exclaimed, before Betty had a chance to concede Megan’s point. “It figures!” “What do you mean?” Betty asked. “Well, you’re gorgeous, and so was he!” “I remember the time Kathy came home one day,” Donna said, “gushing about May’s friend Daniel who had come to visit her at the studio. She had the hots for him!” “I’m bi,” Kathy said matter-of-factly, while Betty was mulling over the references to May and the studio, which seemed to imply that Kathy had been a colleague of Megan’s in the adult business. “I guess the girls at our school did consider Daniel pretty cute, didn’t they?” Betty asked Megan. “Oh, yes,” Megan said. “The thing is,” Betty went on, “he wasn’t interested in girls till he was seventeen. Our mom was worried.” “Then what was he interested in?” Donna asked. “Books and music and movies and books and soccer and skiing and books,” Betty said with a laugh. “But then at seventeen things changed with a bang.” “A bang is right,” Megan said. “The first woman that he had, or that had him...” “Or should I say, who once had me...” Kathy sang. “... was someone he met on the bus going to New York...” “You mean when he went to see our dad’s first wife?” Betty asked. “I think so,” Megan said. “She turned out to be a sex-ed teacher...” “That’s something I could be when I retire,” Kathy said. “A sex-ed teacher. Or better yet, a private tutor, and give private tutorials, like what I suppose Daniel got.” “That he did,” Megan said. “At no charge.” “I wouldn’t charge someone like Daniel either,” Kathy said, bursting into giggles Betty found the light-hearted talk about Daniel, with none of the gravity of the Spaniards’ Es la hermana de Daniel, invigorating, like the strong coffee that she was sipping. Yes, she thought, he was dead, but he had enriched people’s lives, even hers, and so a part of him was still alive. Not to mention that beautiful child to whom he had given life... “By the way,” Betty asked, “what kind of creole do the people speak in that book? I’m asking because I took a class on French-based creoles at McGill.” “It’s mainly English,” Donna said, “with a little bit of French thrown in. She never says which island the people are from, but it must be one of the ones that used to be French and later became British.” “Except that my son doesn’t speak any kind of creole,” Megan said with a chuckle. “‘Tie Betty is just his way of saying Auntie Betty.” “‘Tie Betty,” Sam said on cue, making the women laugh. Breakfast was finished. As she was putting the bag with the remaining croissants into the refrigerator, Megan said to Betty, “Donna brought us these croissants from a French bakery in her neighborhood...” “That’s French French,” Donna explained. “And Kathy brought something else, that has to do with you.” “Oh?” “I haven’t told you yet, but I’ve got a date with Tom, the detective. As long as I’ve got a babysitter...” “That’s wonderful! When?” “Tomorrow evening.” “And?” “Kathy brought me some RU-486.” “We get it from France,” Kathy elucidated, without specifying who we were. “I mainly do Justisse, but sometimes, just to make sure...” “I remember Justisse,” Betty said. “My mom – she’s a doctor – taught me to do it with my first boyfriend. But now I’m ReAlessetic.” “I’m afraid the pill didn’t agree with me,” Kathy said. “How long have you been with your husband?” Donna asked Betty. “Would you believe it? Eight years! But married only since last October.” “Well, Kathy and I have been together six years. But we’re not monogamous.” “Well, we are... or at least I am.” Betty paused for a moment. “Until a few days ago I wouldn’t have thought of qualifying it like that. But all of a sudden I’m not sure I know my husband.” She put her face in her hands, thinking that tears might come. But they didn’t come.