“Which lands would those be?” I asked.
« Don’t bother with— » the agent began.
“The whole province,” she replied. “I studied law. I’m going to enter the system and ruin it from the inside. Plant a time bomb under Western capitalism.”
As I examined a turquoise necklace that I thought Céleste might like, turning it over in my hands, the agent whispered into my ear, « I wouldn’t go north of a hundred large on that property. In fact, if I was you I wouldn’t go there at all. It ain’t worth the back taxes. »
Unusual advice from a real estate agent. I gave the woman what she asked for, along with a twenty-dollar tip.
A look of disbelief, of befuddlement, warped the agent’s features. « What the hell did you just— »
« Why isn’t it worth the back taxes? »
« Did you tip her, for God’s sake? Are you from the bozo farm? »
« It’s freezing out here, » I said by way of explanation. « So why wouldn’t you buy the church? »
The agent, still shaking his head, opened the bank door and walked in. I followed. We paused under the fluorescence of the vestibule, next to two cash machines. One of them had a smashed-in screen with an Hors Service banner draped over it. Beside the other, taped to the wall, was a missing-girl flyer I’d seen before.
« Because it’s an Anglican church,” the agent explained in a low voice, “and it’s gonna get torched one of these days. Or its bone zone is gonna get bulldozed. »
The question was hanging there, so I asked it.
« Why? » repeated the agent. « ’Cause people blame it for the lack of investment up here, at least in Ste-Davnet. Nobody wants to sink money into a town that’s haunted. With squarehead ghosts. »
« Squarehead? »
« Anglo. »
« Right. »
After the agent spoke briefly to the receptionist, we sat down on a bench and waited. For some reason, drops of perspiration began to trickle down the side of his face.
« But why are there swastikas on the crosses? » I asked. « Are there Jews buried with the Protestants? »
« I don’t know, I don’t think so. But … it kinda makes sense. They both speak English, eh? »
Is there a toxic chemical up here, I wondered, making people taller but shrinking their brains?
« Plus—you’re not going to believe this—they used to hold same-sex marriages there, eh? »
I looked suitably aghast.
« Plus they bury animals there, eh? » He snorted horsily. « They bury their goddamn pets! »
« Yeah, I saw some of the inscriptions— »
« And Indians too. Plus the Bogs is bad country, eh? Stinkin’ black mud—with evil vapours, so they say. Something real bad is going to happen in the Bogs. A pond like that with no bottom. Marsh like a sinkhole. Hunters lose their dogs in there. A team of horses went down, way back when, dragging the driver with them. »
So that’s why they dumped Céleste there. “What would a team of horses be doing in a cemetery? »
« The dead rich Anglos used to be carried in by horse-drawn carriages. After dark. With mourners carrying torches. »
« And hunters lose their dogs? What would hunters be doing in a cemetery? »
« Chasing lions. »
« I’m sorry? »
« Mountain lions. Cougars. »
« Eastern cougars? But … aren’t they extinct? »
« There’s been sightings, eh? Maybe one a year for the past fifty years. Plus there’s this … local legend or myth or whatever you want to call it. Total crock, but some people claim there’s a kind of monster in that swamp. A diable des marais. Cross between a Jersey devil and a mountain lion. »
« So the holes in the facade of the church? That’s from … »
« Nah, nothin’ to do with people chasin’ cougars or bog devils. I wouldn’t worry about that. Just hunters havin’ some fun. Tryin’ to ring the bell. »
The bank manager, in a grass-green suit and wide flowered tie, leapt out of his chair to greet us. His hair was as short and neat as synthetic turf and seemed to have been glued on. When we shook hands I was distracted by his tan belt, which was about six inches too long, with the end curling out limp from the buckle.
He had an elongated name, Pierre-François O’Hanrahan-Latulippe, as if to compensate for his height, which was leprechaunic. So they’re not all giants up here … His office was also small—I could have broad-jumped from one side to the other without straining myself—with dark grey walls that made it seem even smaller. Even a Trappist might have found it a tad claustrophobic. On the wall above the manager’s desk was a poster of a bearded man with a long tunic, cap and winged boots, identified as “Hermes, the Greek God of Commerce.” What it didn’t mention was that he was also the god of cunning, eloquence, fraud, perjury and theft.
« Assoyez-vous, assoyez-vous, » said the manager more than once, even after all of us were sitting down. He swivelled once, twice in his chair, then shot balletically to his feet with a lightness made possible by the scant claims of gravity on his five-foot frame. In an incongruous radio announcer’s voice, rich and resonant, he described the property in impeccable French.
« I won’t detain you with its historical details, but there’s a book in the local library on it if you’re interested. Just ask the librarian. She might even let you take it out if you mention my name. She’s my wife! » Here he let out a brief, slightly scary laugh. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow before continuing. « The church, which was built over a hundred years ago, in 1906 to be precise, is yet another victim of two seemingly unstoppable forces in this province: the decline of mainstream Christianity and the decline of the English-speaking population north of Montreal … »
Here the agent’s flip phone went off, trilling out Iron Maiden’s “The Number of the Beast.” The agent unflipped and the manager yelled, « Farme ton crisse de téléphone! »
He then continued his history lesson, composedly, but not where he had left off. « Under a law passed in 1824, all church property in Quebec belongs to a corporate entity called a fabrique—not to the diocese. No one can force a church to close unless the fabrique’s governing board of wardens agrees. »
« And they agreed in this case, » I said after a long pause, because it seemed he had lost the thread. He was gazing out the window at something.
« For the usual reasons, yes. Declining attendance—nonexistent, in this case, unless you count the half-dozen old-timers bussed in from the asylum. An aging clergy—deceased in this case—as well as the prohibitive cost of maintaining and heating two edifices. And yet despite all this, the church might have been saved if it had received a grant from the Religious Heritage Foundation. »
Again I waited for a time that seemed it might extend, without straining itself, to the following morning. « But it didn’t, » I prompted. The manager remained silent, while the agent didn’t appear to be listening. With a pout, he was eyeing a number on the face of his vibrating cell.
« No, it did not, » the manager replied. « Which means that it can be converted into a living space. That was your intention, I take it? »
I nodded.
« The property abuts provincial lands, » the manager continued, « in case you weren’t aware, so there will be no … development, at least not in the foreseeable future. If that was your intention, Mr. Nightingale. The Weskarini tribe, who were thought to have been wiped out by the Iroquois in the eighteenth century, have laid claim to nearly two thousand acres adjoining it, and the litigation, which involves both the federal and provincial governments, could well stretch into the middle of this century. »
I assured him that I was not a developer and had no intention of buying up the surrounding land. I wanted him to get to the point. « What’s the asking price? »
The manager cleared his throat. « For the rectory or the church? »
« Both. »
« For the rectory, which is … in ne
ed of renovation, plus the church, which is … empty, plus four point two acres, which are … wet, two ninety-nine. »
Thoreau paid twenty-eight dollars for his peace on Walden Pond. « I’ll take it. »
The manager cocked an eyebrow. « Note that this price does not include the cemetery. Not that you’d want it anyway. »
I would actually. « Will someone … you know, come and look after it? »
« The cemetery? No. Its days are numbered. According to the Non-Catholic Cemeteries Act, a cemetery may be condemned by the Ministry of Health if it is deemed ‘dangerous to the public health.’ »
« What do you mean, ‘condemned’? »
« Bulldozed, I already told you, » said the agent.
Yes, but your information is about as reliable as Wikipedia’s. « But … why is it dangerous to the public health? » I asked the manager.
« The sinkholes, for one,” said the agent. « Gangs, for another. »
« It’s an orphaned graveyard, » said the manager. « Its volunteer trustees have grown too old and feeble to clear the brush or even mow the lawn. Its fences are in ruins and its headstones are crumbling, sinking into oblivion. It’s become a target for vandals. »
« But didn’t you yourself say it had historical significance? »
« I … I was referring to the church. »
« But what if I buy the land the cemetery is on? »
« And then what? You repair the headstones, replace the fence, stop the vandalism? »
« Well … yes. »
« The cemetery’s not part of this sale, » said the agent.
« Maybe I could buy it from the owner. Who does it belong to? »
« For the moment, » said the agent, « the new owner wishes to remain anonymous. »
I’d had just about enough of the agent. He was coming very close to being slapped.
« Does this change anything, Mr. Nightingale? » asked the manager. « Are you still interested in buying the property? »
Not as much. « Yes, of course. Does it include the pond? »
« It includes right of access, » said the agent. « But I wouldn’t go near it, if I was you. »
If I was you, I’d jump off the nearest high bridge. « And why is that? »
« I already told you. It’s haunted and it’s got no bottom and everybody calls it L’Étang des Noyés. »
« Allons donc, » said the manager. « Local superstitions, nothing more. »
« People’ve drowned in there. Schoolchildren gone through in their ice-skates. Bodies never found. »
« That’s was over a half-century year ago, » said the manager. « In the winter of ’58, to be precise. Skating’s not allowed there anymore, although everyone knows it’s perfectly safe. Especially the snowmobilers. »
The agent was now fidgeting in his seat like a schoolchild. I looked down and saw a drop of blood on his shoe; I looked up at a red nostril. The exploding vessels, the burned-out septum. A snowbird: I’ve been there.
« For the rectory, you’ll want to hire an inspector, I presume? » said the manager. He adjusted the wide flowered tie covering his entire torso, which might have worked on a bigger man but on him looked like he was in the midst of the Amazon. « Before making an offer? »
« An inspector? Not necessary, I know it’s a … »
I stumbled here: other words from other languages came, but not the French or English. Years of addiction had dissolved certain words and phrases—like books you leave boxed in the basement whose pages are crumbling or stuck together when you look for them years later.
“A fixer-upper?” said the manager in unaccented English.
“A handyman’s dream?” said the agent in accented English.
I filled out forms at triple-speed before changing my mind, before some other fool put in a higher bid. When the grinning manager and sniffling agent mentioned a credit check and bank approval, I wrote a Central Jersey Bank cheque for the full amount. I also handed them the business cards of my father’s banker in Neptune and lawyer in Newark. This seemed to satisfy them, though they stressed that approval could take up to ten working days.
« You’ll be able to spend Christmas there, » said the manager, « if all works out. How nice, how fitting! »
I thought of Céleste. « Indeed. »
“Do you have a number in Quebec where you can be reached, Mr. Nightingale?” This he said in English, almost as if he were testing me.
“No, I … my lawyer’s the best one to contact.”
At that, the manager gave his knees a quick smack with two flat palms and jumped to his feet. He smiled and extended his hand, but then quickly withdrew it. Sat back down. « There’s one other matter to discuss, Mr. Nightingale, I almost forgot. I hope I’m not prying, but do you have a lot of furniture, or are you planning on buying everything new? The reason I ask is that the previous occupants’ belongings have not been cleared out yet, and … well, it looks like they won’t be. But don’t worry about that. The price includes all the furnishings, so you can keep them or dispose of them as you see fit. Once this sale is finalized, everything will be yours. So you see, you’re getting quite a deal. »
« I don’t mind returning everything. Who do the things belong to? »
« A fat old hag, » said the agent. « Who died. » He now had toilet paper cigarettes stuffed in each nostril. « And her geek granddaughter. The whale and the baby hippo. »
« They were exceptional individuals, those two, » said the manager, displeasured brow crinkled. « No-nonsense types, spitfires, full of piss and vinegar. Smart, talented, creative—Renaissance women, both. We didn’t deserve them and we won’t see their likes again, not around here, you can be sure of that. »
« Thank God. »
« Dr. Jonquères had more degrees than … than this whole town put together. In psychology, theology, mathematics. My wife loved her to pieces—she went to the library almost every day. She was the only one who read around here … And her granddaughter, Céleste, she’s a prodigy, a wunderkind. There was an article about her in the paper. An absolute genius, that girl. »
The agent stared at the manager with his mouth open.
“She’s gone missing, poor thing,” the manager continued. “But she’ll turn up, wait and see. Cély can outwit anyone. Mind like a steel trap. »
The agent closed his mouth. « What was it they wanted to turn the church into? What’d they’d call it? »
« An animal rehab sanctuary, » said the manager.
« And you’re gonna laugh, » said the agent, « when you hear what kind of animal they wanted to rehab. »
I asked what kind. Humans?
« Bears! » He burst out laughing.
I was puzzled. Why would bears need rehabbing?
« Céleste’s actually the one who— »
« Everything belongs to the bank, » the manager interrupted.
This was a non sequitur, but it silenced the agent. And left me thoroughly confused, and unsure of which subject to pursue: the left furniture, the bears in rehab, or the bank’s ownership of the church. I turned to the agent. « Didn’t you say the church’s previous owner was in jail? »
« Oh, that gentleman,” said the manager, « never officially owned the property. He did make an offer, and it would have been accepted if it weren’t for … well, you know the rest. »
« I don’t, actually. What’s happened. What’s he in for? »
« Illegal trading, mostly. Animal parts. Surprising for a religious man, for one educated at one of Quebec’s oldest seminaries. He used to be a diacre, believe it or not, at the Église St-François in Ste-Madeleine. As I understand it, he wanted to turn the church—the Anglican church, that is—into a … now what did he call it? »
« Field and stream emporium, » said the agent.
« Ah yes, a field and stream emporium. In fact, you might have noticed his Help Wanted sign on the front door … »
« I did, yeah. Looks like he was trying to recrui
t from the local asylum. »
« That’s because no one else would be caught dead in there, » said the agent. « I already told you—the place is haunted. »
A thought came, like the slash of a knife. « Does he own a big black 4 x 4, by any chance? With a busted headlight? And big grille out front? »
The bantam banker and beanpole realtor exchanged glances. « Not that I know of, » said the manager. The agent shrugged.
« What’s a field and stream emporium? » I asked.
« It’s a kind of animal … joint,” said the agent. « A one-stop, all-under-one-roof kind of thing. Sell ’em, buy ’em, stuff ’em, mount ’em, eat ’em, learn to kill ’em. And when the bishop gets out of prison, there’s going to be trouble. I warned you. When he gets out you might think about movin’ to China. »
The bishop?
« Now now, » said the agent, smiling the dim sort of smile seen on freshly killed corpses. « Don’t mind him, Mr. Nightingale. Everything will be fine. Always is in this town. »
I shook the agent’s big hand, which was as bony as a chicken claw, and the manager’s small hand, shaped like a dove, no bigger than Céleste’s. They each gave me their card. The agent then wagged his haircut toward the door. He opened it carefully and peered out, as if snipers awaited us. After motioning me out, he remained with the manager, closing the door slowly behind him. I stood there, listening to the babble of muffled voices inside.
Outside, through the window, I could see their shadows on the wall, as in a puppet show. They appeared to be bent over. With laughter.
VII
Inside the van I felt under the driver’s seat, then the passenger seat, and scratched a furry little head. Pulled the two business cards out of my left breast pocket, my reading glasses out of my right. The manager and agent, I remarked, had the same last name. The pygmoid strain in the blood had evidently skipped a generation.
I thought of buzzing Céleste again but decided not to bother her. She can always buzz me … I jumped out of the van and crossed the street, trying to ignore the little tingles on the back of my neck that made me feel I was being watched. To a store called Earls, a wood-framed building that looked fragile and temporary, as if abstracted from a low-budget western. Earl’s apostrophe had been covered with white hockey tape and the “General Store” lettering bleached with solvent.