32   26 August 1992   Daniel is coming tomorrow. He called me from Israel a few days ago to tell me his plans for his very brief Montréal sojourn. He told me that on Friday (that is, the day after tomorrow) he has an appointment with a lawyer, not Greg obviously, something to do with Miki’s exhumation. It was a topic he had not mentioned in a long time and I thought that he had dropped it. Something has been going on, then, and he has not confided in me. Is it fair of me to expect him to confide in me? Of course not. All in all he has been far more frank with me than I could ever dream of being with my parents. But I had Tante Clotilde. Does he perhaps have a parent substitute somewhere, unknown to me, that he confides in? Ignoro, ignorabo, I am afraid. It will remain unknown to me. But he has confided in me, to some extent, about his private life. About Vicky, who he said he was in love with. Oddly, he didn’t mention her when he called the other day. Somehow I have my doubts about that great love. Even if it is true, it probably isn’t meant to last. It is probably écrit dans le sable, ce rêve insensé d'un amour, que le ciel n'avait fait durable que pour un instant, pour un jour. (Des Grieux dans Manon de Massenet.) Oui, cher Daniel, maman et ses citations d’opéra. Am I being cynical? Perhaps. Perhaps because it is over with Bob Cloutier. It was fun while it lasted, my two years with Bob. Much more than my three years, off and on, with George Kenner. But it’s over. I wish I could say good riddance, but it would not be true. I was never in love with Bob, but I was fond of him. I still am. But things started to go wrong on our vacation in France. We had a good time in Paris. Things began to change when we got to Marseille. One of the problems was that Bob (whom I had not known to be a sports fan), together with his cousins, became glued to the television when the Barcelona Olympics began. But a much more serious problem was that in speaking to his family he had, unbeknownst to me, qualified me as his fiancée. Of course we use that term to mean someone with whom one has a “serious” relationship, but Bob’s relatives (who made no attempt to hide their attitude toward me) took it as meaning someone that he intends to marry, and while they thought that I am pretty enough, I had two “strikes” against me: (1) I am too old and (2) I am not Jewish. The age issue, that I could understand, but the Jewish issue baffled me, until I found out that Bob’s father had converted to Judaism, something he never told me because he did not think that it was important. And things did not get any better when we got to Corsica. We spent the first night, exactly two years after our first date, at the “romantic” beach hotel. But while the place was really lovely, either the pressure of Bob’s family got to him, or his romantic past caught up with him, or perhaps the Olympics (especially the image of our beautiful compatriot Sylvie Fréchette, heroically competing in the solo synchro swimming soon after the suicide of her – yes! – fiancé) distracted him, because he could not perform with me. (He had told me some time ago, in jest, that he has a crush on SF.) Things seem to be getting better when we got back to Paris, but then came the scandal of Sylvie Fréchette being deprived of the gold medal because a judge had mistakenly entered an 8 instead of a 9. Bob, whom I had always thought of as mild-mannered, was beside himself, hurling the choicest Québécois oaths at the Olympic officials who did not allow the reversal. He was in a foul mood for the rest of our time together, and there was nothing I could do to change it. Back in Montréal we agreed to stay apart for a week, but when I called him he was still not the Bob that I knew. I told him that I would wait for him to call me, but when ten days passed I decided to call it quits. I called him and told him so. He apologized, he cried, he said it was a big mistake to take me to meet his family without telling them more about me, he promised it would never happen again. But the more he went on, the more I felt that he was not the man for me. It has been 3 days now and I still feel the same. So long, Bob, it’s been good to know you. Good night, my journal.   Permission   While the flight took seven hours, the arrival time on the clocks was only an hour after the time of departure. He was home before three; neither Mireille nor Betty was there. He called his mother’s office and asked Sylvia, the receptionist, to tell her that he was home. He called Will Prosper’s office to confirm the next day’s appointment; the secretary told him that Mr. Prosper may be in court at the time, but that Daniel should come in anyway, since there were documents waiting for him. He did not need to wait for the scheduled time of his appointment but could come any time after nine. He called Megan and left her a message telling her that he would like to see her during his very short stay in Montreal, only four nights until his flight back to New York on last day of August. Finally he called Fela, and for a change got to actually speak to the person he was calling. Her condition was better, and she would love to see him on Saturday. Mireille and Betty came home together, chattering in French but switching to English as soon as they greeted the prodigal son and brother. Betty wanted to know about Vicky. Daniel admitted that he was no longer in love, and perhaps never had been. Mother and daughter exchanged knowing glances. He felt embarrassed. He changed not only the subject but the language and launched into an account of his experiences in Israel, omitting those with Sabine. It was actually easier in French, since that was the language he had used there. They went out for dinner with the Bermans. Betty and Paul seemed as lovey-dovey as ever; Betty seemed to have resolved the money issue. Harvey was seated between Daniel and a new girlfriend named Sarah, who made a habit of interrupting the old friends’ conversation with ostentatious displays of affection. This ain’t gonna last, Daniel said to himself after the fourth such interruption. By dessert time jet lag caught up with him, and he could not stifle his yawns. Sarah suggested after-dinner coffee, but he declined, thinking that it would disrupt his sleep even more. When they got back there was a message for him from Megan; she was free to see him the next afternoon. He slept with many dreams and many wakings. His dreams were filled with women who were composites of ones that had known – there was a Vivian/Cici, a Gen/Sabine, an Angie/Audrey, a Karen Witte/Karen Litov. He could not remember a Vicky. Only Megan was her undiluted self, as May Green. He woke up for good at eight-thirty, feeling like a Marcello Mastroianni character in a Fellini movie. (Lately he had been told a few times, most recently by Marisol Vidal, that he looked like a young Mastroianni.) He felt fully rested, and it was only then that he remembered his upcoming visit to Will Prosper’s office.   Prosper’s receptionist was just as English as he, though the French that Daniel heard her speak on the phone as he entered the office was fluent. “Good morning, Mister Wilner,” she said when she hung up. “Did you have a nice trip?” “Very,” Daniel said, not feeling like chitchat. By now he felt that he didn’t really know what he was there for, and wanted the transaction to be over with. “Yes,” the woman said, apparently catching his mood. “Well, as I said, Mister Prosper is in court, but he left this for you.” She handed him a large manila envelope that had been on her desk. “He told me to tell you that you should read the material thoroughly, as soon as possible.” “Thank you,” Daniel said, “and give Mister Prosper my thanks and my regards.” “You’re welcome.” He took the metro back to his mother’s house – he no longer thought of it as home – and opened the envelope. Betty was in her room, with music – it sounded like Madonna – that could be heard through the closed door. He guessed that she had bought herself an expensive new sound system with her money. He sat down at the kitchen table and opened the envelope. There were a great many pages – computer printouts of imaging results, charts and the like – and a two-page summary result. He scanned idly through the technical language till he came to the last paragraph. On the basis of the preceding, it is our conclusion that the presumed Michael Wilner is, with a probability of 91% ± 3%, the father of Elisabeth Zoé Wilner, but, with a probability of 87% ± 4%, not the father of Daniel Martin Wilner. It took a good minute, perhaps more, before the import of the conclusion’s last clause entered Daniel’s consciousness. What it said was that, barring some mistake, the man whose remains were analyzed was Betty’s father and therefore Miki Wilner, but Miki Wilner was not Daniel’s father. Miki Wilner is not my father, Daniel said to himself, over and over. Then who was? He needed the answer immediately. He called Mireille’s office and told Sylvia that he was coming in to see his mother and that it was urgent. He hung up before Sylvia had a chance to answer. If Sylvia thought that a medical emergency was involved, so be it. He bolted out of the house, slammed the door behind him, and ran without stopping, except for red lights, for a quarter of an hour. It was a warm morning, and he was sweating when he got to the clinic. “Is everything all right?” Sylvia asked Daniel when he stepped into the waiting room, which was empty The air-conditioning gave him a chill that added to his discomfort.. “No, it isn’t,” he answered. “But I need to talk to her.” Sylvia rang the intercom. “Doctor Bouchard? Your son is here.” After listening for a moment she switched off the intercom and turned to Daniel. “Five minutes,” she said. While waiting, Daniel tried to reread the introduction, but got lost in the details once again. Before long the door of Mireille’s office opened and she beckoned him in. Even before sitting down, he handed the report to her and watched her as she began to read it. She, too, skimmed over the technical details and jumped to the conclusion. After her initial smile faded from her face a slight trembling started in her hands and spread to her arms and shoulders as it intensified. “Qu’est ce que t’as fait, petit con,” she muttered without looking up from the paper. Had she said it in English – using, for example, something like ‘you jerk’ – Daniel might have thought that the anger was directed at herself, but the masculine gender of the epithet made it clear that he was the target. And if a war of words it was to be, he would not cede her the advantage by conducting it in French. He waited until she finished reading. “Can you explain this?” he asked. “Explain what?” Mireille seemed to be stalling in order to gather her thoughts. “Where it says that Michael Wilner is not the father of Daniel Wilner.” Mireille took a deep breath, and then another. “Yes, of course I can explain it.” Another deep breath, and she looked her son in the eye at last. “You see, when I met your father – I mean when I met Miki Wilner – I was seeing someone. I was not in love with him by then but we were still dating. And when I met Miki I knew that I had to break up with Jean-Marc immediately. But a breakup can get pretty emotional, even when you’re not in love, and things can happen without thinking…” She looked away. “J’étais une conne…” she muttered. “I know about breakup sex,” Daniel said. “Is that what it’s called nowadays?” Mireille asked with a forced smile. “I guess so. I’ve experienced it.” He chose not to mention that his experience also involved a probability of having caused a pregnancy. Since no child resulted, it was irrelevant. “It sounds so… mechanical,” Mireille said, defensively. “It wasn’t like that. I had to tell him that I was in love with someone else, and I felt sorry for him, and he was very understanding, and I was grateful to him…” “I get it,” Daniel said with some impatience in his voice. He did not, at that moment, want to hear about the emotional circumstances of his conception. Just the facts, ma’am. “So Jean-Marc, whoever he is, is my father,” he concluded. “In a very strictly biological sense, perhaps.” “Perhaps?” “I suppose so. I never thought about the possibility. As far as I am concerned, Miki is your father and always will be. You look so amazingly like him, and not so much like Jean-Marc! It must be some sort of biological fluke.” “Did you take precautions when you broke up with Jean-Marc?” “I don’t know. Probably. Maybe not. It was something I needed to… en finir avec. Uh… get it over with.” “Do you have any pictures of Jean-Marc?” Daniel didn’t quite believe that he did not look at all like his biological father. “Of course not. He meant nothing to me, at least after I met your fa… Miki.” “Can I meet him?” “I’m afraid not.” “Why?” “He’s dead.” “Really? Physically?” “Yes.” “What happened to him?” “Well,” Mireille began hesitantly, not sure of how to get into the subject, “after we broke up he became very promiscuous – or rather went back to being very promiscuous – and a few years later I discovered that he was bisexual. He was among the first people to develop AIDS. Have you heard of Patient Zero?” “You mean the flight attendant, Dugas? I thought that story was debunked.” “It was. But anyway, Dugas was one of Jean-Marc’s lovers. And Jean-Marc died about five or six years ago.” The intercom buzzed. “Doctor Bouchard,” Sylvia’s voice said, “Miss O’Neill is here.” “Yes, Sylvia,” Mireille said, “just a minute.” And to Daniel, “We’ll have to continue another time.” “Maybe,” Daniel said. He gathered the papers back into the envelope, got up and left without another word and without looking back at his mother. He walked back to the house, slowly this time, but still feeling agitated. It took about half an hour. It was warmer than before, and even without running he felt sweaty by the time he was halfway there. He would need to take a second shower before going to see Megan. The thought of Megan gave him a sudden sense of calm.   Megan, Megan. A polestar in the night, a beacon in the storm, a buoy in a turbulent sea. (Any more navigational clichés?) A cooling comfort, like the lukewarm water that was now showering him. Did he take her for granted? Yes, but she seemed to want it that way. Always open to him, body and mind. (An unbeliever like Daniel couldn’t very well think body and soul. Corps et esprit was better, as was Körper und Geist.) Always there for him, except when she wasn’t there. And that one time – when was it? – at the end of his freshman year, just before he went to Germany, when she seemed distant. He would have to ask her about that, if she still remembered. His relationship, such as it was, with Megan was now three and a half years old. Three and a half years! That was longer than Mireille’s relationship with Miki, also contingent on Miki’s occasional visits to Montreal. True, this one turned into a marriage and produced two children, but… Well, it didn’t exactly produce Daniel. Legally, of course, Miki was Daniel’s father; Harvey had explained the presumption of paternity to him. If a child is born during a marriage or within 300 days after its dissolution or annulment, the spouse of the child's mother is presumed to be the father. Was that all it was? A legal presumption? No. There was such a thing as intellectual paternity. It was normally applied to ideas and movements, but why could a person not have an intellectual father? Daniel’s intellectual interests and ambition had been, since the age of fourteen – and perhaps in some mysterious unconscious way even before that – inspired by Michael Wilner. It was his search for this father that had led him to know himself, as far as he did so. And, to be frank about it, it was the inheritance from that almus pater that made it possible, or at least easy, for him to pursue his interests and ambitions. What about biology, then? Who was Jean-Marc? Mireille would tell him soon enough. For the moment it was enough that he was a promiscuous Frenchman, not a romantic – in the German sense – Polish Jew like Miki Wilner. Daniel came by his own promiscuity genetically, if there was such a gene, and there probably was one. He was not a mutant. Perhaps it was simply not in his nature to be in love. And he was French, one hundred percent or nearly so. The ancient Gauls were his ancestors. Nos ancêtres les Gaulois, as French schoolbooks used to say. The mostly Jewish kids on the Israel tour made fun of the line. But now he could claim it for himself. He was now dry and he felt clean, inside and out. He felt more ready for Megan than ever before. At the time that they first got together, when they were both seventeen (he was five months older), she was already experienced. In a school that was not hypertolerant like North Am she would have been considered a slut. Une trainee. Or maybe there were some who did so consider her, like Betty’s friends who called Roxane a dyke! But if Megan was a slut, then so was Daniel. Un traîné. Sluts of the world unite! Traîné(e)s du monde entier, unissez-vous! Nos ancêtres les traîné(e)s…   He told Megan about what he had just find out about his ancestry. She found it amusing. “I always thought of you as French,” she said, “not just half French.” And yes, she had a very good memory of her emotional state in May of 1990. She had recently had an abortion. There had been a slipup with the pill, and Keith, the jerk, had wanted her to keep it! “I’m sorry I was so cold to you,” she said. “I understand,” he answered, “I got to know about post-abortion hormones.” “You did?” “Yes, with Cici.” “Was it yours?” “She wasn’t sure.” Daniel and Megan laughed heartily, and made love again. There was no reason not to call it making love. The French kids in the Israel tour called their casual couplings faire l’amour. And he was more French than they were… “If I ever want to have a kid,” Megan said, “I’d like it to be yours. Would that be okay with you?” “You have my permission,” Daniel said. The word permission struck her as funny. She laughed heartily. He joined her.