I'll See You in My Dreams: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel (50 page)

The last one, if I make it out correctly, has Mulligan wearing what look like stretch nylon panties and masturbating into them while standing before the mirror. I study it numbly, the literal climax to a sad little show.

Dermot finally got into his own clothes and made his exit, allowing Jimmy Fingers to come in from the cold. He retrieved the soiled panties from the laundry hamper, stuffed them in his camera bag. “Embroidered with little daisies, I remember. No idea what I did with them.”

“Did you show these photos to Professor Schumacher?”

“Just the ones of them fucking. I still wanna laugh when I think of his expression.”

“When did Mulligan come to your office?”

“Maybe four, five days before Easter, as I best recall.”

“He came down from Squamish?”

“Yeah, that's where I phoned him. I was up there once, nosing around.”

“Find anything?”

“Nope. Walked past his old lady but she had no clue who I was. Just a birdwatcher with his camera and field glasses.” With that, he closes his eyes in sleep.

“A bird does not sing because it has an answer,” I say, placing the photos in my briefcase. Gertrude gathers her equipment and follows me out, giving me a puzzled look.

“It sings because it has a song.”

“Oh.”

“Call Tim Dare at his unlisted number. Tell him I must see him today.”

“Yes, I think it's about time you checked in with a psychiatrist.”

From “Beauchamp Behind Bars,”
A Thirst for Justice
, © W. Chance

YOU WILL NOT HEAR BEAUCHAMP ADMIT IT, but his well-known antipathy to Ottawa stems mainly from a significant loss of face he suffered there. Until then he'd been rather a popular figure in the capital, beloved by the media, always ready with a quip, and he'd been garlanded for his international heroics in the Abzal Erzhan case.
^*

Beauchamp had been brought
(dragged
is how he put it) before the royal commission inquiring into the case and was accused of hiding vital information in an email from his deceased client. In declining to breach solicitor/client privilege, Beauchamp got into a spat with the chair and was ordered incarcerated until he purged his contempt of court.

No one expected that order to stand – expert consensus was that it would be quashed within the day. But unfortunately a supposedly respected counsel retained by Beauchamp turned out – and I choose my words carefully – to have a problem involving chemicals, and the motion to quash was fouled up. So poor Beauchamp spent three nights in a cell before matters were put right.

The whole episode has taken on the flavour of humorous folk tale told and retold where lawyers gather. All in all, a rather tragicomic note on which to end the legal career of Arthur Ramsgate Beauchamp, Q.C.
^†

I
am thirty-five thousand feet above the golden wheat fields of Saskatchewan. Far to the north is Torch River and the rubble of what was Pius XI Residential School, demolished two decades ago. Relics from the discipline room were retrieved for display in a Native museum.

April Wu has hit a roadblock in trying to track down a woman who may be the last remaining descendent of Dermot Mulligan. Marie Snow, born in Fox Lake, Manitoba, in 1978, daughter of Sebastien, who was born of rape. Marie lost both parents at seven – Sebastien to suicide, her mother after a miscarriage – and was adopted. The trail ends there, adoption records closed to public view.

Open in front of me is a learned article by Dr. Timothy Dare in which he calls for a firm diagnostic distinction between openly gay transvestism and the cross-dressing fetish of heterosexual men. I am finding it hard to concentrate, however; unable to suppress images of a tactical drug squad combing through my barn.

I tried to reach Stoney last night but he seemed to be out of range. I will keep after him, despairingly. I don't dare tell Margaret what I have allowed to happen. I already have a sense that over fine dining this evening she intends to explain why our marriage isn't working. She will tell me a little about Les, so daring and brave, yet tender, this Greenpeace activist. She hopes the Beethoven and Dvořák will soothe the pain. She hopes we'll still be friends.

No, that isn't Margaret Blake; she's more thoughtful than that. She will delay her announcement until the Swift appeal is done, knowing I am stressed enough. She has warned Les Falk not to contact her during the time I'm in Ottawa. Only two days. I have the stash-hole to worry about, and the appeal begins on Wednesday.

I return to Tim Dare's article. It is scathing about the
DSM
, the
Manual of Mental Disorders
, for suggesting that a gay man who dresses as a woman might be suffering from a disorder. Tim has just published it, proudly, and was a little full of himself yesterday. But he gave me two hours. He is the coast's sharpest forensic psychiatrist, and a specialist in kink.

He was fascinated by my case, delighted by my ex-icon's history as the campus horndog, “getting nookie right and left,” as that gossipy old bore Irvine Winkle put it. More fuel for Dare's thesis that most cross-dressers typically have strong masculine drives.

“We come out of the womb homo or hetero or something in between,” he instructed. “Sexual orientation is something you come installed with. Paraphilias are learned. These are what we called perversions in more robust times – exhibitionism, fetishes.” The latter involves sexual arousal spurred on by inanimate objects – in Mulligan's case, female clothing. Transvestic fetishism is the formal name for such cross-dressing. It likely finds its provenance in childhood, the result of a pattern or a trauma. An example of the former: a son getting the wrong signals from a mother who badly wanted a girl.

Tim offered a far more graphic and germane example of how a lengthy trauma could exert a similar influence: a boy in a deeply Catholic home (in Montreal, say) watches as his beloved older sister (let's call her Genevieve) wastes away from leukemia.
There followed a wretched time – years, it seemed – when I ached for the smiles and hugs and words of comfort …

The Prius taking me from airport to city is Margaret's, and it's being driven by her elf of a parliamentary assistant, Pierette Litvak, whose youthful exuberance and optimism often leave me exhausted, even depressed that I no longer have that vigour. It's a crisp, clear evening in Ottawa, with a sharpness that warns of the brutal months ahead. The cruelty has already been felt, the outer branches of maples bleeding red.

“You're all set for tomorrow, Arthur. The archival officer who tends to the Dermot Mulligan collection is named Shaheed Khan, and he'll take you in hand. Expects you around ten.”

I insist she's done far too much for me. She waves it off, takes a call through her headset. “Yeah, I got him.” Pause as she glances at me. “No, not too bad. A little rumpled from the flight. Usual dour mood.” Another pause. “I'll do that right now.” Pierette passes along Margaret's air kiss. “Unless you feel a burning need to freshen up, we'll go straight to the Bretonne. I'll drop you off, then pick her up. She's running late.”

“That's fine.” Pause. “Running late doing what?”

“Ottawa Valley Environmental Coalition. The usual subversive elements. Heated debate about how to deal with threats to a fish stream. Some guys want an aggressive response – occupying a chemical plant.”

“Ah. That would be coming from the Greenpeacers, I suppose.” I take a breath. “They're there, I assume. Greenpeace.”

“Of course.”

I almost falter, but press on. “So I would imagine Les Falk is among the, uh, aggressive responders.”

“Yeah. How do you know her?”

“Who?”

“Les. Leslie.”

I'm hugely flustered. “I don't, really. Know her, I mean. As Leslie. I've brought a letter from her.” Seeking an excuse to hide my flushed face, I swivel, fish around in my shoulder bag for Margaret's mail. “Yes, here. Les Falk, Greenpeace. Marked ‘Personal.' ”

Pierette glances at me oddly, as if suppressing an urge to call me a suspicious old goat. “It's a copy of the meeting notice. Les thinks slow mail is more secure. Maybe she's paranoid. Maybe she's right.”

“She doesn't know our local postmaster.” Suddenly I am looking forward to the evening with high anticipation. A terrific date, an excellent restaurant, a concert. Ottawa is a fine place to be right now.

La Bretonne is in a refurbished mansion, a genteel space with many dimly lit alcoves. It's too expensive for journalists, so cabinet ministers often come here with their mistresses or corporate sponsors. I have learned to identify the lobbyists: handsome, tanned men and charming, sexy women, skilled in the art of eye contact, casually bilingual, knowledgeable about food and wine, coolly indifferent to the cost of everything. The owner/chef is a secret Green, a contributor, and Margaret pays only for wine and cocktails. The one drawback to the place: a fellow at a baby grand playing routine so-called stylings.

I have Margaret's place of honour by a little bay window, and I am not here long before she hurries in. We embrace, and when she sits, still out of breath, she finds a glass of Merlot waiting for her. “You're a darling – I am in need of this.” She looks a little overworked; there has been weight loss. What a tough life being leader of a small party, yet she's unflagging. Hearings, meetings, constant conflict, constant bullshit.

She sips. “Mmm, a majestic, fruity nose with subtle undertones of acorns roasting by the fire.” More good news: she's no longer taking Caliginis seriously.

“And a gentle, teasing hint of pontifical grandiloquence.” But I don't want to jest about the fellow; that could lead to a maze of complications.
What could possibly have been in your mind to give him Annabelle's invitation? And why haven't you mentioned her to me?
I can't imagine Stan has taken me seriously, that he will actually go.

I sort through my extensive repertoire of recent jokes upon myself and choose the contretemps with Officer Wong. I carry on at my self-deprecating best, and Margaret laughs merrily.

We have ordered by now and have our starters, her green salad, my onion soup. “Let me introduce you to the fascinating world of cross-dressing.” Jimmy Fingers' tale of watching Dermot Mulligan trying on dresses and climaxing into a pair of panties gets us well into my Arctic char and her
canard à maquereau
.

Margaret seems content to let me ramble on about paraphilias and fetishes and cross-dressing, and I sense her relaxing. Though
overworked, she seems happier here, in Ottawa, than on Garibaldi. We get along better here. Maybe it's as Annabelle said:
marriage survives best taken in short dollops
.

“We're talking about a male-only fetish, by the way. Ladies tend not to masturbate with men's jockey shorts.”

I have said this too loudly – blame it on a pause between piano stylings – and am heard by a couple being led to their alcoved table, a portly older man and a pretty Asian woman some years younger. Both flick looks our way.

Margaret waits until they're gone, then leans forward. “Supplies minister on a clandestine date. He's pretending we didn't see each other.” Darkly: “She reports to Beijing.” She is on her third glass of wine and feeling quite gay. “I'm so relieved to hear women don't do it in men's jockey shorts. More evidence as to which is the more sensible sex.”

The wine and a sobering coffee impel her to the washroom, giving me a window in which to pull out my cell.

This time Stoney answers. “Hey, man, am I glad to hear from you. They want two hundred bucks for towing and stowing my Mustang. I'm gonna have to call on your good offices –”