The Best Laid Plans Part 9

Friday, October 11

My Love,

I have truly enjoyed my time in this remote corner of Papua New Guinea. It is a unique slice of the world completely at odds with our own. Where we have our blessed technology and all the modern conveniences of life in millennial North America, the lever and the yoke remain leading edge here where I write these words. Where we drive on smooth, wide asphalt highways that link one mall to the next, a cow path takes me from the village shanties to the nearly arid fields where struggling crops are grown on the village outskirts. Where we pa.s.s hundreds of strangers on our streets with nary a sidelong glance, let alone a greeting, it takes me a half hour to walk the hundred metres to the village square for all the friendly banter and offers of food I encounter. How can people with so little give so much? It is a humbling and grounding experience shared by all too few from our part of the world.

We've made tremendous progress on the water-purification system here since my arrival. Our experiments in the lab have translated better than expected into this real-world setting. We've made a couple of adjustments to valves and have added better filters to accommodate the perpetual dust that hangs in the desiccated air. Other than that, the 200 people in this village now walk 40 metres for a plentiful supply of fresh and clean water rather than the thrice-weekly four-kilometre trudge they've faced before. As well, these parched pastures can now be irrigated, increasing agricultural efficiency, not to mention yield quality. The people here are amazed at the change in their world our work has wrought. They are also grateful beyond measure. They have placed me on a pedestal at a frightening alt.i.tude. I have tried to convey that my reward is in witnessing the change in their quality of life, but it is to no avail. It leaves me feeling uncomfortable at best, embarra.s.sed at worst.

However, I do feel renewed and totally rejuvenated. I've spent the last four days training two young men and three young women in the care and maintenance of the system and in the critical weekly testing of the water quality. If the filters are not carefully monitored and become clogged, impurities that can carry nasty bacteria can find their way into the water supply. Educating these five eager young people is critical to the long-term success of the system, the cleanliness of the water, and the health of the villagers. Better to teach them to fish than to deliver a skid of tuna and then bail out. Upon my return, I have some new ideas I intend to explore on how the filtration system might be expanded to serve larger but similarly challenged villages. With adequate clean water, there may be a chance to nurture the seeds of industry, exports, and perhaps even self-sufficiency.

You would have loved it here with me in this faraway land. I would have loved it, too. There is a fledgling movement towards equality though still in its nascent stage. The men are still the decision-makers, but I see among the women, particularly the younger, a growing sense of their own, if not, power, at least leverage. The exercise of their leverage is manifest in modest ways, but the ripples of which you so often spoke are evident for all to see.

Aye, you're right, I'm feeling stronger, and my dark times are fewer and shorter. But I find I do need at least your spirit with me.

AM.

CHAPTER NINE.

You know how sometimes, after a really bleak and demoralizing experience, when all hope seemed lost, you awake from a fitful sleep to a sunny morning and just like that, the world doesn't seem quite so malevolent? When after what seemed dark and depressing the night before isn't nearly so threatening in the light and warmth of a new and promising day? Well, that didn't happen to me. When I awoke the morning after the real Eric Cameron was laid bare for all Canadians to see, I had absolutely none of those redeeming and hopeful thoughts and feelings. None. Nada. Zilch. I was positioned directly in front of the fan, and a whole lot of s.h.i.+t was arcing my way.

So, already depressed and anxious, I opted for the full-meal deal and turned the TV back on. Lucky for me it was still tuned into the Fox News Network. As I waited for the pharmaceutical commercial to finish (10 seconds of product promotion, 50 seconds of detailed descriptions of side effects), I wondered how on earth things could get any worse. How about like this?

We are back on "Fox News Sat.u.r.day." I'm Aaron Olson, and we are going deep on the s.e.x-crazed Canadian Finance Minister. Fox News has obtained exclusive footage recovered from the scene of yesterday's fire in c.u.mberland, somewhere near Ontario, showing Finance Minister Eric Cameron engaged in very naughty s.e.x games with his chief of staff and dominatrix, Patty Boochard. Joining me now to guide us through this extraordinary video is noted s.e.x therapist Judith Humphrey, whose particular specialty is S and M. h.e.l.lo, Judith, and welcome to "Fox News Sat.u.r.day."

I'll spare you the blow-by-blow (literally) a.n.a.lysis provided by the inimitable Dr. Humphrey. I initially thought it was satire a big joke. But no, for the 34th time in the previous two weeks, I was wrong. My fervent hope that only Andre Fontaine and Muriel Parkinson had copies of Cameron's amateur s.e.x-slave videos was faint and fading fast. If Fox News had footage, every media outlet in Canada and most in the United States had it, too. Preceded by a parental discretion warning, the American network aired the entire 17-minute video of Cameron and Borschart well on their way to sadomasochism nirvana. With an endless stream of expert colour commentary from Dr. Humphrey, it was kind of like watching an NHL hockey game, except this action was much rougher and the players were wearing next to no equipment.

A quick surf through the other channels, American and Canadian, confirmed my worst fears. They were all running unexpurgated footage (each station apparently with a different video) starring Eric Cameron and his sidekick (an apt term in three different clips). I had no idea Canada boasted that many bona fide s.e.x therapists.

Satellite trucks were still staked out in front of the Borschart home. At least three networks had set up anchor desks and were presenting their entire newscasts from her front lawn as if it were the site of some natural disaster. I knew this story had legs when four out of five networks developed scandal-specific graphics and theme music to enhance their ongoing coverage of what had been coined "Leathergate." Coining a phrase usually meant the media were in for the long haul. You didn't "brand" a scandal unless you were going to ride that horse for a while. Another indication was one network's use of the positioning phrase "a scandal for the ages." Great, just great. On the bright side, to the best of my knowledge, no reporter at the scene of the fire or in subsequent coverage had yet uttered, "Oh, the humanity," but it was still early days.

Were I still working on the Leader's staff, I'd have been doing handsprings at the prospect of seeing Cameron finally go down in flames with a huge explosion and fireball, sending shrapnel careening through the Tory Party. But I was no longer on Parliament Hill. I was in c.u.mberland, impaled on a long-shot crisis so unexpected, Vegas bookies would need a supercomputer to calculate the odds. While Liberals across the country convulsed in glee, I was torn between hara-kiri and the Witness Protection Program. I turned off the TV and weighed my three options: Option One: I could fill my pockets with stones and pull a Virginia Woolf in the Ottawa River. No thanks, I've always been terrorized by the thought of drowning. There's just something about not being able to breathe. I cannot envisage a more horrible way to go. It was just slightly worse than being strangled by an aging and demented Scot who'd gone plumb postal.

Option Two: I could hightail it out of Dodge and lay low until the count was in. No, I don't think so. I had too much at stake like my future, for instance.

Option Three: I could cling against all logic, evidence, and common sense to the faint and wispy hope that the Tory vote in c.u.mberland-Prescott was so rock solid that Cameron would still win. Local Tories could then pursue a recall and force a by-election to crown a new Tory MP.

I went with door number three. Rather than sitting on my hands, I decided to do what I could to right the good s.h.i.+p Cameron. As you can imagine, for me, this was very much counterintuitive a "man bites dog" story, you might say. The worst part was that I had to turn my back on a possible Liberal victory in the safest Tory riding in the country. But I had to honour my promise to Angus McLintock that he'd still be an engineering professor on October 15.

I called the two Petes, and with a little cajoling they revved up their home computers, as I did mine, and we sprang into action. We started by setting up scores of different hotmail accounts and sending dozens no, it was hundreds of e-mails to editors, producers, and a.s.signment editors in respected media outlets across the country. We put heavy emphasis on newspapers, radio stations, and television stations that served eastern Ontario in general and the Ottawa area in particular. Although I phrased our message in countless different ways, I made the same, single point relentlessly: "We've all seen just about enough of Eric Cameron's cameo performances. He is a great Canadian, who deserves some respect and understanding from the media."

Blah, blah, blah. You get the idea. I had no illusions that we'd make much of an impact, but it gave us something to do, and at that point, I was ready to try anything. Among the three of us, we sent upwards of 500 e-mails to the same 40 or so media outlets in about two hours. Pete1 and Pete2 were a little perplexed by the whole exercise but pitched in, anyway. We received few if any answers in the first hour, but as our messages piled up in the media's inboxes, we did prompt a reaction. The responses were cla.s.sic: "We welcome your comments and appreciate the time taken to share your views with us." Etcetera, etcetera. I knew the style well. After all, I'd started in the Leader's correspondence pool where I daily crafted such messages by the dozen.

Next, I drove over to the Borschart house and, as campaign manager for Angus McLintock, did live interviews with each of the networks still camped out there. I was magnanimity personified. I went on at length in each interview about Canada being different from the United States and that this was not how we treated our respected political leaders when they erred. I took such a high road that vertigo was a clear and present danger. I spoke with pa.s.sion about Eric Cameron's stellar record of public service and declared that it should not be dismantled on live television over what was strictly a private matter between his chief of staff and him. I decried attack-dog journalism. I talked of high-minded ethics, the pressures in public life, and the need to search our hearts for understanding and forgiveness. It was great TV, and the networks were dying for material.

Who would have expected the local Liberal campaign manager to be the lone voice of support for a disgraced Tory Finance Minister? When the anchors commented, which they all did eventually, that it was strange to hear me defend Cameron on the eve of the vote, I climbed still higher, noting that this was much bigger than a single election. It was about the decency of our society and the civility of our democracy. I even invoked Angus's name, claiming that he was very troubled by the media's reaction to the Cameron affair and that he was not interested in winning if it marked a watershed in the decline of our democratic values. Eric Cameron had given much and deserved better. Blah, blah, blah. I was quite proud of my performance.

As expected, my phone was hot when I stepped back in the door. I knew what was coming. The Leader's chief of staff reached me first, followed quickly by the national campaign chair, and then by the president of the party. They were all livid and aghast at my unsanctioned performance. When the bl.u.s.ter and heat were removed, I was left with a clear chorus of "what the h.e.l.l were you thinking?" I'd prepared for this, albeit only as I was driving home with my makeup still fresh. I calmly and patiently walked them through my rationale. Even though I didn't believe my own words, I knew the political veterans on the other end of the phone would buy what I was selling. I was selling hope the most sought-after commodity in any close campaign.

I told them Canada's most popular Finance Minister was already dead and buried. I told them that courtesy of Angus McLintock's a.s.siduous campaigning (I had to stop and define a.s.siduous for two of them before continuing), we were poised to capitalize on Cameron's flame-out. Therefore, in doing the interviews, I was merely staking out the moral high ground Liberals should always occupy. I reminded them that it was in keeping with the best traditions of our party. I told them it was Laurier's legacy. That was my message in a nutsh.e.l.l.

The Liberal campaign brain trust wasn't thrilled, but my point was made. And I hadn't even had time to sharpen my skates. I did get my wrists slapped for doing national interviews without approval from the Centre, but I was definitely operating in the "seek forgiveness rather than permission" zone.

Understandably, my political masters wanted me to kick Cameron while he was down. I was more interested in offering him the Heimlich manoeuvre and CPR at the same time. I, too, was running on the fumes of hope.

Finally, I issued a brief statement from Angus, reiterating my media message. In the statement, Angus announced that he would make no public appearances for the rest of the campaign out of respect for Eric Cameron's extraordinary contribution to Canada and out of disdain for the media's treatment of the former Finance Minister. As part of standing in solidarity with Eric Cameron, I actually contemplated distributing a news release, revealing that Angus McLintock had also explored new s.e.xual frontiers and could sympathize with the Finance Minister's position. (I know, I had gone completely off the air. I thought better of it long before my fingers ever hit the keyboard.) By this time, the morning had become early afternoon. I was fine when I was busy. Running around doing interviews and fielding calls kept my mind in a more pleasant place. With the flurry of activity in the morning now behind me, I felt fatigue encroaching on my high spirits, and with it returned the amorphous malaise I'd been trying to shed since the smoke cleared at Petra's house. At that moment, there was only one thing that could distract me from the gathering perfect storm. She knocked on the door at about two o'clock. Lindsay looked like she'd just stepped out of the shower, sans makeup, with her hair still damp. She wore those great jeans again, some sort of athletic sandals, and an oversize, orange golf s.h.i.+rt, untucked.

She'd called earlier and must have detected the crazed edge to my voice. She had ended the call with "I'll be right over." I'd hung up and realized I was looking forward to her arrival. Since our long talk at Starbucks some weeks earlier, I'd been so consumed with the campaign, not to mention the previous evening's "scandal for the ages," that we'd not advanced what I thought might turn into a real relations.h.i.+p. Of course, we both knew I was on the rebound in a big way. Forewarned is forearmed. An image of Rachel flashed into my head, but I blocked her out with an imaginary rubber tree planted in my mind's eye.

"Hey, Daniel, turn on CBC. The PM is about to make a statement on the Cameron affair," Lindsay announced as she strolled into the boathouse and flopped onto the couch.

"Really? How do you know that?" I asked.

"I just heard it on the news coming over. I'm not sure why he's waited this long," Lindsay noted.

"They needed 24 hours to do a quick and dirty poll before deciding how to respond," I sneered. "Plus, the PM took a walk up the TV dial and was shaken by what he saw."

I plunked down beside her and tuned in CBC. As our legs touched, neither of us s.h.i.+fted to break the contact. A warm sensation washed over me. The TV flickered to life, and the Prime Minister emerged from 24 Suss.e.x Drive, his face nothing short of ashen. Following his prepared statement, he would fly directly to Calgary on a government Challenger to be in his riding when the polls opened on Monday. The standard photo op of him casting his own vote was already arranged for the morning. He stood in front of a single microphone on the front steps of the Prime Minister's official residence, wearing a dark blue suit, white Oxford broadcloth s.h.i.+rt, and an ugly tie, knotted in a less-than-perfect single Windsor. (Prime Ministers really should always tie double Windsors.) All Canadian networks broke into regular programming to carry the PM's words live: Fellow Canadians, good afternoon. In the last 24 hours, we have witnessed the sad and sorry end to a proud and prodigious public-service career. I'm as troubled, shocked, and disturbed by what I've seen as are all of you. When the news broke, my first priority was to reach and speak to Eric Cameron himself before I made any decisions. Unfortunately, that hasn't been possible. In fact, despite our best efforts to contact him, we simply don't know where Eric went after being released from police custody late last night. Speculation abounds, but one cannot govern on rumours and conjecture. What's important now is that we act in the best interests of our country. And that's what I intend to do.

I have relieved Eric Cameron of his Cabinet responsibilities and have expelled him from the Government caucus. I've spoken at length with the Chief Electoral Officer, and it is simply too late to remove his name from the ballot, or replace it, before Monday's vote. If Eric Cameron is elected, he will sit as an independent.

I've taken this action not because of what he has done in private with other consenting adults but because of the distinct lack of judgment he displayed and for exposing himself, the party, and the Government to ridicule and derision, bringing our entire democratic system into disrepute.

When the Prime Minister uttered "exposing himself," he winced slightly. Somewhere else, a lonely speech writer said, "Oops." The PM continued: I do not condone what I've seen what we've all seen. It flies in the face of our party's and our Government's deeply rooted commitment to moral family values. Eric Cameron's fate now rests in the hands of the thoughtful and fair-minded voters of c.u.mberland-Prescott.

I will not comment further on this unfortunate situation. It has consumed quite enough of our time and attention during what is a very important election. I intend to refocus my mind and energy and I encourage Canadians to do the same on the very real challenges we confront together as a nation. The platform the Government has laid before you will carry Canada into a new era of economic and social prosperity. Please consider the issues carefully because you will have your own say on Monday. Good day.

The Prime Minister folded his notes, turned on his heel, and walked back into the front door of the house he hoped to continue occupying for another four years. As a student of public speaking and a writer of speeches, I actually thought the Prime Minister had done very well under trying circ.u.mstances. I clicked off the TV and let my head loll to the right until it rested on Lindsay's shoulder.

"What am I going to do? Six weeks ago, I couldn't find a candidate and thought nothing could be worse. Then, Angus agreed to stand but only if I promised he would go down to defeat. Now, it's quite possible that the guy who ran to lose may actually win the d.a.m.n seat. I've now discovered there's something worse than having no Liberal candidate."

"Would it really be so bad if Angus won?" Lindsay asked. "Isn't he just the kind of candidate you've always wanted to support? He speaks his mind, does the right thing, and is as honest as his beard is long."

"Yes, but he's halfway around the world, blissfully unaware that Cameron's star has not just fallen but been blown out of the sky, and he has no desire or intention to represent this riding in the House of Commons. He has his research, his water-filtration systems, and that hovercraft thingy right below us. He's 60 years old, looks like a vagrant, and is fond of late-night skinny dipping. He's not built to serve, he doesn't want to serve, and I promised him he wouldn't have to serve. No good can come of this," I moaned.

"Aren't you being just a tad pessimistic?" she persisted. "Perhaps if victory is handed to him on a silver platter, he may just say 'what the h.e.l.l.' How often does an opportunity like this come along?"

"Lindsay, I've played chess and talked politics with him for hours on end. His views may be valid and just, but they are also naive and innocent. Ottawa is a giant meat grinder that takes in idealism at one end and spits out cynical sausage at the other. I love him, but he's a relic. They'd have a field day with him on the Hill and in the House. Besides, he has a life here and doesn't want a new one there."

"I just think that in your zeal to find an escape hatch, you may be overlooking the perfect solution. If Angus does win, persuade him to serve. Marin Lee wrote in her last book that she always regretted not running for public office and trying to change Canadian society from within our democratic inst.i.tutions. She spent her life on the outside. She made a real difference, but I can't help wondering what she might have achieved if she'd sat around the Cabinet table. Maybe Angus doth protest too much. It's worth a try, particularly if it's all we have," she concluded.

I knew she was right, but I was still stuck on trying to make sure that Eric Cameron somehow retained his seat.

"But what will you do if Angus wins and agrees to serve? He'll need a lot of help," she remarked.

"I can't even begin to wrap my mind around that one right now. I'm really focused on the here and now and making sure Angus doesn't arrive back here on Tuesday as the MP for c.u.mberland-Prescott." I s.h.i.+vered involuntarily. "Gives me the w.i.l.l.i.e.s just to say it."

"Well, don't wait too long. The way this is all playing out, you may not have much time to make a decision," she said.

"I'm feeling a little claustrophobic, and I really don't think we're helping Cameron's cause stewing about things in here. Are you up for a late lunch?" I asked, hoping it didn't sound too much like I was asking her out on a date.

"Great," was all she said as she rose from the couch.

We went to Mabel's right in the downtown core of c.u.mberland. Lindsay ordered a Greek salad while I opted for a bowl of minestrone soup and the club sandwich. Just like our earlier get-together at Starbucks, time again stood still and flew by at the same time. We appeared to click on a whole range of different levels. At least, that's how it seemed to me.

To her credit, Lindsay knew I was carrying a lot of election baggage around with me, so she studiously steered our conversation away from anything related to Monday's vote. We talked about university, how her master's was going, and what she thought about tenure, capital punishment, and ketchup on macaroni and cheese. While we talked, a great weight lifted from my shoulders, albeit temporarily. At one point in our conversation, she rose to head to the washroom, and I stood up on instinct. When she returned, I again got to my feet and held her chair as I had when we'd arrived.

"Do you always do that?" she asked through a bemused look.

"My dear departed mother is always watching. She was a stickler for manners," I replied.

"You don't consider holding a woman's chair an anachronistic manifestation of a patriarchal society?" She was still smiling sweetly. I'd certainly heard this line of thinking before.

"I really hope and believe that feminism has moved beyond that," I started. "I remember attending a meeting of the National Union of Students in Saskatoon years ago when I was involved in student politics. On instinct, I held the door for a fellow delegate as we both headed into a lecture hall for an organizing workshop. She called me a misogynist at the top of her considerable lungs. That has stayed with me as a symbol of the misallocation of precious resources in the fight for women's rights. I was on her side." Lindsay nodded, and I continued. "Anyway, I've never considered good manners and equality mutually exclusive. Good manners may regrettably be an anachronism, but its roots are in common courtesy, not patriarchy. Here endeth the sermon," I concluded, praying we were on the same page. When I was nervous, I sometimes sounded like a Victorian novel.

"You're a very complex person, Dr. Addison," she said, still smirking. She rested her chin in her right palm and held me in a rather intense gaze. Hazel eyes. "Do you always talk that way?"

"Sorry, it's the curse of loving the language. I'm a charter adherent of the 'why use five words when 35 will do' school of English. As such, I'm often wrongly accused of high pedantry. I'm working on my ability to speak in monosyllabic grunts, but it's tough going."

More smiling. "We think very much alike," she said. "In fact, it's a little eerie. It's as if you've done some kind of a Vulcan mind meld on me. You haven't, have you?"

"Scout's honour," I replied.

She burst out laughing because I'd raised my hand in the traditional Vulcan split-fingered greeting when invoking Baden-Powell's promise. What a guy. What a wit. I figured I should strike when my stock was high.

"When all of this insanity is over, could we actually go out for dinner without my future hanging in the balance?"

"I'd like that." She beamed. I beamed. We were one big beam.

When I got home around six-thirty, the phone was ringing. I'd made the mistake of plugging it back in.

"Daniel? It's Michael Zaleski."

"Hi, Michael, what's up?"

"I thought you might be interested in some data I just pulled out of c.u.mberland-Prescott. Quite interesting."

"What do you have?" I inquired with a flicker of interest.

"We were in the field over the last eight hours, and the results are not yet conclusive. In fact, they're quite fluid. If the vote weren't until next Wednesday, I'd have held off until Monday to go into the field, but we just don't have the time. Anyway, the Cameron s.e.x thing is still developing, and so is its impact on the voting patterns." He paused.

"I'm still here, Michael. What do you have?"

"Well, Leathergate has already left a mark," Michael began. "Support for Cameron has plummeted with almost all of it now parked in Undecided. Because of the unique nature of c.u.mberland-Prescott and this particular situation, we added a new category to our standard voter intention question. Along with PC, Liberal, NDP, and Undecided, we've added Spoil Ballot to give respondents another option. In view of time constraints, we were forced to start calling early this morning before many voters had fully considered what Cameron had done. His support was moving fast to Undecided, but there was virtually no activity in the Spoil Ballot column. But by late this afternoon, when the media coverage had just about reached the saturation point and the actual footage of Cameron and Borschart had been airing for several hours, we started to see heavy action under Spoil Ballot. If the election were held right now, Cameron would still win, but there're a lot of votes still camped in Undecided, and it's unclear how they'll break."

"Why would voters bother to spoil their ballots when they could just stay home and achieve the same thing?" I inquired.

"I'm guessing two reasons," he answered. "Number one: Opposition to the Liberal Party is so strong and so deep in C-P that voters want to register that they still refused to vote red. They want to rub our noses in the fact that even when voting Tory is not an option, they'd rather spoil their ballot than support a Liberal. Number two: Next to Prince Edward Island's Cardigan riding, C-P always has the highest voter turnout in the country. It's a tradition that's become a point of pride with the people of this const.i.tuency. We threw a question about this on an earlier poll. By spoiling their ballots, the good citizens of C-P are still considered by Elections Canada to have voted, thus keeping the high-turnout tradition alive." Michael fell silent.

"Right now, what's your best guess, Michael?"

"I wish I knew. It's going to be very, very close. It all comes down to where the Undecideds go and how the Spoil Ballots fall." He paused and then went on. "Angus must be excited."

"Oh yeah, he's flying high right about now," I said, before thanking him and hanging up.

If the numbers broke the wrong way, Angus would land, see the front page of the Globe and Mail, and start planning his first homicide. If something didn't turn our way soon, I might even save him the trouble.

DIARY.

Sat.u.r.day, October 12

My Love,

I'm sitting on the plane in PNG, getting ready for takeoff. I was feted last night and escorted to the airport, a four-hour bus journey, by virtually the entire village. I have been treated like a demiG.o.d, and it has left me feeling distinctly uncomfortable. The plane I'm on must be 50 years old if it's a day. It's an ancient, twin-engine Russian Aleutian. The port engine started normally, but three members of the ground crew literally had to spin the starboard propeller by hand until the aging radial engine kicked to life in a puff of black smoke and a backfire that sounded like the Amchitka Blast.