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all at once, Philippe appeared in Cobble Hill Park in Brooklyn, taking a break from his campaign. Béatrice had goofed and told him about it. He was furious at Roberge’s blackmail. She admitted to being the origin of Max’s silence in the International Herald Tribune. She drove the two brothers apart.

      “Why didn’t you say anything to me?”

      Max sighed. What difference would it make?

      Philippe grabbed him by the lapels. He’d never been violent with his brother before, and now this. “Blackmail is the worst cowardice of all.”

      “I don’t care. I’m ready for it.”

      “Well, I’m not. What more will Roberge want after this? Favours, free passes, special treatment? Today it’s you he wants, but tomorrow what? An in-ground pool, a new car, a cottage in the Laurentians, huh?”

      Max broke free. Okay, so Philippe was right, but Roberge’s threat couldn’t be ignored. He moved away, and felt his brother’s arm locking with his.

      “I’m not getting into politics to put myself at the mercy of the likes of Roberge, get it?”

      “That’s just crazy.”

      “Oh no, it isn’t. Honesty and guts …”

      “Your voters don’t care about all that.”

      “You’re wrong. You are so used to dealing with people’s weaknesses you’ve forgotten they have their good points, too.”

      Already the politician, Philippe was gearing up for a speech, and Max reproached his naïveté, but big brother wasn’t having any of it. Did Max really want to prove that people couldn’t be trusted? He could’ve just ignored Philippe’s visit and turned himself straight in to Roberge as planned, but he’d never be forgiven, so maybe Philippe was right. What Max took to be candour was perhaps just courage and determination.

      Banking on human weakness was his daily bread, his specialty. Philippe, though, was devoting his life to proving the contrary. His entire existence, it seemed, was based on the notion of pardon and redemption.

      Take Kavanagh, for instance. He’d saved the man, even if he didn’t deserve it; Solange, too, and now Roberge. Philippe was not going to play the game by the cop’s manipulative rules and threats, even at the risk of losing his career.

      So it was Max in shadows and silence, and his brother in the spotlight, as always. On the dais, Béatrice was silent and retiring. Wonder what she thought of all this? On TV, she was all smiles, elegance, and refinement — no way to guess what she felt — but Max knew she’d never forgive his selfishness: “You had a chance to redeem yourself.” What if Philippe was right, and he, not Max or Béatrice, was in touch with the truth about human nature? Max hoped so with all his heart, but didn’t believe it for a second.

      The news seeped out discreetly, as though the journalist wanted to apologize for being such a party pooper. A short insert in an out-of-town daily hinted that Philippe had an “invisible brother.” Maybe it was worth looking into. Was the public aware that Max, the younger one, was a notorious con man, a chronic repeat offender whose comings and goings were as mysterious as his present location? An interview with Detective Sergeant Luc Roberge, economic crimes specialist, gave a few more details. Roberge painted the picture, true, alas, of an unscrupulous fraud artist, and went on to relate his endless pursuit of this international bandit whose misdeeds sapped the very basis of our society.

      It was a juicy accusation that made headlines in all the dailies and news bulletins. Suddenly, Max was the one in the spotlight. Old newspaper photos revealed what had happened to some of his victims, who were only too pleased to soil the older brother’s reputation along with that of the younger. All of a sudden, “the successful diplomat” wasn’t what captured people’s attention, and his exploits in Asia seemed boring. Now what they wanted was his explanation, more information, heartfelt accusations, and fratricide. His advisers thought the same way. Philippe would have to disentangle himself from his wayward brother, a stain on the family’s reputation, or watch his rise come to a halt. Internal polls were already dipping, and the Opposition wanted his head before he’d even been elected! The lions were already on him before he even entered the arena.

      Philippe insisted on continuing to believe in the power of the truth, and he went into lengthy explanations on TV. He opened himself up wide to the public, asking for their loyalty and confidence.

      “If you choose someone, trust him, not those around him.” But it only made things worse. His frankness was questioned, and he was suspected of covering up even more crimes.

      Official corruption and complicity were implied. What if the failure to put a stop to Max was due to his brother’s intervention with the Department of Justice, where he surely had contacts? This was the man to whom they were going to entrust major governmental responsibilities? It would surely come to light that the two brothers were partners in crime with a precise, detailed plan that had been in place for years.

      Philippe couldn’t sleep. The perfect diplomat by day, he gave the impression this mudslinging wasn’t affecting him, but alone with Béatrice at night (David was staying with the Pattersons in Repentigny) he spent long hours at his work-table, haggard and wondering. It seemed that, no matter what he said and promised, his political career was in ruins.

      At Dorval Airport, Philippe climbed into Max’s car, and the two drove away along the highway to the countryside without saying a word for a long time, till they got to the river’s edge, and around them nature in the form of an unattractive, untended forest that guaranteed them privacy at least. For a while, they both stared at one another, not saying a word.

      “I could do it this afternoon, if you like,” Max said. “I’m already in touch with a lawyer, and he’ll make sure it attracts the least possible publicity …”

      Philippe smiled sadly. Minimum publicity? There was no such thing. No maximum, either. Just publicity, period. The trap was shut around them. There was no escaping now. Too late for that. Max had been right, of course. Philippe was naive, an innocent soul who did not belong in politics.

      For the sake of it, Max went on, “They’ll jump on me for sure, but you know what they’re like. In a week or two, there will be some other bright and shiny object.”

      “This Roberge, do you think he’ll be content to keep his victory under wraps?”

      “I’ll make sure of conditions.”

      “That he’ll pay lip service to. He’d be crazy to do any different. All that matters is getting his man. The rest he doesn’t give a damn about.”

      Max kicked a pebble into the river.

      “Besides, what difference will it make? It’s over, anyway.”

      Philippe went back to the car and got in. Max hesitated, then did likewise and got behind the wheel. Philippe looked straight ahead without a word. He just stared at the current.

      “I’m truly sorry,” said Max.

      Philippe turned to his brother, smiled his resignation once more, then ran his fingers through his hair the way he did as a boy. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine, my mistake. I don’t blame you.”

      That evening at the Ritz Carlton, he stood behind the mic, surrounded by distraught supporters and announced his retirement from politics. The hall was deathly silent, funereal. This cadaver exhibited himself returning into the earth before the living. He never should have emerged in the first place. In mere weeks, all of his hopes had been swept away. The solitary man who remained on the stage, deprived of the role he’d prepared for since the beginning of his diplomatic career. Philippe refused to answer questions and comments that came from all sides, leaving that to a volunteer. Backstage, Béatrice embraced him tightly, the only person besides Max he could cling to in this senseless storm, and of course Béatrice hated Max and could never forgive him.

      Lost among the gabbling flock of journalists drifting away to the exit, Max was a statue, though inside he felt a strange

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