Chapter 7

Schubert's wife has returned to Toronto. Vexed by her departure and the accompanying loneliness, he spends an afternoon with Geneviève Sinclair. We learn more about Schubert's family and well as Geneviève's. 

Chapter 7

December 11. Schubert began to dread coming home to a cold, empty house. The emptiness within became a mirror of his own. No amount of single malt and singing Lieder would ease the fact that Louise wasn’t coming back and this his marriage was over. He blamed himself, wondering where it went wrong; he risked becoming depressed, brooding as he did. 

Eating alone only served to reinforce his failure, plus he was a poor cook and couldn’t be bothered to eat properly. That evening, he fried a couple of eggs, an onion and toast. He made tea and as he took a first sip, the cup slipped and he spilled on his shirt. His temper quickly flared. Washing the stain with a hand towel didn’t work. He stripped off the shirt and threw it in the laundry upstairs. The hamper was overflowing. He needed to do a load soon but with a wringer-washer, it would take most of a morning. 

He debated calling Toronto again but he knew Roy wouldn’t budge. But he hadn’t counted on the level of antipathy Roy had for him. Maybe she doesn’t want to speak with me, he thought. How blind was I to who she really is? This is my life now. Get used to it. 

He went upstairs to bed. A Reader’s Digest lay on the night stand. He turned to “Smash the Luftwaffe to end the War!” but that held no interest. He flipped over a few pages to “The Rheumatic Murder Mystery” and eventually threw the magazine onto the floor. He switched off the light and hoped for a dreamless sleep.

The phone woke Schubert at six the following morning. He debated letting it ring but at this early hour, it was probably the station. He threw on a dressing gown and slippers and walked heavily downstairs.

He lifted the receiver. “Schubert,” was all he said.

In the intervening seconds, a loud hiss was all he heard. Long distance, he thought.

“Louise? Is that you?”

“Hello, Karl,” a voice said at last. It was Mabel, his mother-in-law.

“Hello Mabel,” he answered. While his father-in-law may have been a devil, Mabel was the long-suffering servant.

“I’m sorry about Roy’s demeanor when you called,” she offered.

Demeanor, he thought. Asshole, was what he wanted to say. He decided to cut straight to the heart of the matter.

“Is Louise incommunicado? This is all a little juvenile. I would appreciate a conversation with her, if only for a few minutes.”

“Karl,” she began, ignoring his request (something learned that from her husband, no doubt), and then she said, “Remember our conversation a few months before the wedding?”

“Yeah.”

“You thought I was unkind, characterizing my daughter as I did.”

“I guess I didn’t want to believe it.” Both his father and mother-in-law had seen the futility of his marriage. 

“We believe what we want to until it’s too late to turn back. Marriage doesn’t alter a personality, no matter how much we want them to change.”

Silence.

He wondered if she was speaking from experience. Then, Schubert’s tone became aggressive. “What keeps you with Roy? Aside from his wealth?”

“That’s unkind, Karl.”

He wanted to apologize but didn’t.

“Roy doesn’t know I’m calling. Neither does Louise. I’m calling because you need to know you’ve done nothing wrong. She’s playing the fool but doesn’t care. It’s so typical of her. I know how good you are for Louise, that you love her.”

“It doesn’t seem love is enough to keep her here.”

“Louise has never wanted for anything. It’s the curse of wealth, Karl. Money will change people, and not always for the better. Why she doesn’t realize you love her, well, I don’t know. I imagine it’s because we failed her as parents.”

Schubert didn’t know what to say or how to respond.

“She’s never had to fight for anything,” Mabel continued. “It’s all been too easy. And her father has enabled her in that regard. I’m truly sorry, Karl.”

“I appreciate the call, Mabel.”

More silence.

“Please look us up when you’re in Toronto. Can’t we be civil? There’s enough war going on without us resorting to hostility.”

“Sure, Mabel, I’ll do that.” Schubert had no illusion that Roy would ever consider showing him hospitality again. Mabel, yes, but she was tied to her husband. 

“Goodbye, Karl.”

“Tell Louise I love her.”

“Yes, I will.”

But it will do no good, was the unspoken sentiment.

He went to the bathroom to wash his face. He face in the mirror told him all he needed to know, and the bruise around his eye had turned a mottled yellow and purple, reminding him of his folly a few days past.

After the conversation with Mabel, Schubert spent the remainder of the morning reading reports. By the afternoon, he became restless. He took the rest of the day off. There was something he wanted to do, something to take his mind off Louise. He didn’t tell Peters what he was doing or where he was going. 

His first stop was the American base. He pulled up to the guard house and rolled down his window.

“Good morning,” Schubert said, handing over his ID. “I’m here to see Sgt. Herschel at the PX.”

The guard said: “You’ve been here before? You look familiar. What the hell happened to your eye?”

Schubert nodded. “Tripped at home, if you must know and ‘yes,’ I know the way.”

“Looks like you lost a fight with a brick,” the guard said, and then motioned Schubert through. He parked beside a Willis Jeep. When he stepped from the car, he slipped on the ice, nearly falling. He chastised himself for his poor choice of footwear. I must get proper boots, he thought. I can’t afford a broken arm. 

Sgt. Herschel stepped outside as Schubert regained his balance.

“You OK, Carlos? Looked like you were about to head ass over teakettle. Well, shit!” Herschel leaned in for a closer look. “Who gave you the shiner?” he asked, examining Schubert’s face.

“I went on a bender and paid the price,” Schubert answered, truthfully, this time. 

“Well damn, now you look like a barroom brawler. Should give the local riff-raff second thoughts about resisting arrest.”

From the first time Herschel met Schubert, he had called him “Carlos.” Schubert never asked why. He just accepted it as part of Herschel’s unconventional nature—like doing off-the-book favors for the chief of the local RCMP detachment.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Schubert replied, wiping the grime from his hands onto his coat. “Another reminder that I’m not prepared for winters up here.” 

Schubert retrieved a paper bag from the back seat.

“No one is,” Herschel replied, holding the PX door open for Schubert. “You can’t prepare for minus 50 Fahrenheit. You just get hit by it and try to keep standing.” 

Herschel leaned against the counter. “What do you need, Carlos?” he asked, picking up a smoldering cigar from the ashtray.

“I’ve got a window to repair. You wouldn’t happen to have four small redundant panes of glass?”

Herschel chuckled. “‘Redundant’—you Canucks and your sense of humor. Give me a couple of minutes.” 

Herschel disappeared into the maze of a warehouse behind his office. In less than five minutes, he returned with a small parcel wrapped in brown paper.

“What do you have to trade, Carlos?” Sgt. Herschel eyed the bag in Schubert’s hands. “Is that what I think it is?”

Schubert pulled the bottle from the bag. Over the past year, he’d introduced numerous single malts to Herschel. The man had already become something of a connoisseur.

“This is a Tamnavulin, ten years old. Comes from the isle of Speyside. You can taste the salt air riding on the peat.”

“Deal,” he said, even before Schubert completed his sentence. “Gotta say, Carlos, until I met you, I thought Jim Beam was the king of whiskies.”

Schubert laughed. “I hope you like it. It’s one of my favorites.”

Schubert returned to the station, glass in hand. He asked Sylvia, the receptionist, if there had been any calls. 

“No sir, the lines have been quiet today.”

He couldn’t believe his good luck. Buoyed by the news, he told Sylvia he would be out until the following morning. Before he left, he remembered that tomorrow was Sylvia’s birthday. He would bring her something from Geneviève’s bakery.

Schubert made his way to Le Petite Pain carrying a box of tools in one hand and the glass under his other arm. Keeping busy was probably the best remedy to take his mind off Louise. When he was at home, he felt her presence around each corner. 

Geneviève greeted him at the door. 

“Hello, Inspector.”

Schubert quickly pushed through the door, trying to keep the cold air from stealing in behind him.

“Karl, when I’m off-duty. Agreed?” 

He set the tool box on the floor and placed the package on a table. He thought about how their conversation ended a few days ago.

“Look, I’m sorry about my comment, spouting Horace. It seems I…”

Geneviève closed the door behind him. 

“Please, no need to apologize. It had…well, it had been a long day.” 

She noticed the package beside him and easily discerned its contents. 

“Wherever did you find glass?” she asked, unable to disguise her pleasure.

“I also have a friend at the American PX, the same sergeant Herschel whom you know as well,” Schubert replied, pleased to see her happy. “He could spare glass this week and I could spare a bottle of single malt. We occasionally trade favors.” 

He began repairing the window. It felt good to be doing something with his hands. After a while, as he became used to all the scents in Geneviève’s kitchen, he caught a faint whiff of apple and cinnamon. At first he thought it might be pastry except the fragrances seemed to waft from behind a closed door. Curious, he opened the door, nearly tripping over a large, copper still. He laughed, impressed by her resourcefulness—it must’ve been something she brought with her since copper was in very short supply. He shut the door and returned to the window, humming a tune.

Geneviève came by with coffee. 

“That’s a lovely melody.”

“Hmm?” Schubert said. “Sorry?”

Geneviève passed him a cup of coffee.

“The song you were humming.”

“Ah yes, bad habit,” Schubert confessed.

“Not at all. Lovely, in fact. What is it?”

“Adelaide. A song by Beethoven. Like many of his age, the poor old boy had an idealized picture of love and remained single his entire life.”

“Yes, the ideal and real, kind of like night and day, I think.”

“Lucky is the person who can reconcile the two and live contentedly.” 

“I once heard the Philharmonie de Paris play his Sixth Symphony.”

“Ah yes, the Pastoral symphony.”

Geneviève seemed to be looking deep into the past, almost taking no notice of Schubert.

 “I think Beethoven composed some of the most beautiful music ever written. He may have lived by himself, but I don’t believe he was alone. Maybe Beauty chooses a wounded, solitary heart. There’s a wildness to beauty that can’t be tamed.”

Her words were more incisive than he cared to admit. 

“Well, Beethoven hardly had an ideal start to life. His mother had syphilis when he was born—probably why he went deaf. His father beat him, locked him in the cellar, and made him practice until his fingers bled.”

“And yet he could write sublime music. It’s incredible when you think about it.”

“Yes,” nodded Schubert. “But it’s no wonder he was a loner. He had very few friends—he was incapable of suffering fools. He made it his aim to ridicule all the piano teachers in Vienna by showing them how awful they were. To be fair, there wasn’t a soul who could play like him. A few came close. Regardless, his art, it was, it is sublime.”

“I never knew Beethoven had such a troubled life.”

“Like all of us, I guess. I must admit that I see my art differently now that I’m older, looking back from the outside. Ironically, I have physical wounds but my art is silent.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “You might not be singing professionally but who you are at the core of your being, I doubt that has changed.”

“I’m not sure. I would like to believe that’s true. But isn’t it the same for you? What you do here is a reflection of who you are.” 

“You’re kind to gift me with those words, considering we’ve only just met. Thank you.” 

He could sense the sincerity of her appreciation as much as he could feel the pain that crept through her smile. He tried to lighten up the conversation.

“Tell me about your life in Paris. I once sang Don Giovanni at the Paris Opera but I must confess, I frequented very few bakeries,” he said, scraping putty from the broken pane.

She followed his cue, easily changing subjects. 

“When James was hired at the Louvre I apprenticed at the Georges Cinq under Gérard Coutin. He was a real terror in the pastry world but also a magician. He could transform butter, eggs, flour and sugar into something otherworldly.”

“Not unlike Beethoven, I’d say,” replied Schubert. “Everyone starts with the same twelve notes.”

“True, Coutin was a genius in my world and a composer of sorts. Pastry was his only love. He was second to none, and a taskmaster. Perfection was his only goal.”

“I’ve known a few people like that. They can be a real killjoy at times.”

“Nevertheless, judging by the frequency of your visits, I’d say I was a good student.”

Schubert nodded, glad for the banter. 

“The best, but I must admit I have a weakness for pastry—must be my German heritage.” 

He placed the final pane and applied putty. 

“There we have it,” he said, standing back, “Good as new.” 

“Thank you,” she said. 

They shook hands. She held a beat longer than he expected. He was taken in by her hand’s gentleness and the silken smoothness of her palm. Then, just as quickly she released his hand and felt for any drafts near the window. 

“A perfect job,” she said, gathering their cups. “Stay for dinner,” she offered, “unless you have plans.”

Plans, he thought. My house is empty, the fire is cold, I have numerous cases to review and a bottle of single malt waiting for me. He did a quick review of what was in his pantry and came up with nothing even remotely appetizing. 

“Thanks for the offer. Let me wash up and give you a hand.”

She smiled, obviously pleased. 

“I’ll prepare salmon crepes and hollandaise. The salmon is canned—I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

In less than an hour, dinner was ready. 

“Explain to me again how you manage to create what you do and with a wood-fired oven. These crepes are delicious.”

“No revealing trade secrets,” she said, pouring another cup of coffee. 

“Tell me Karl, how did you ever wind up in Whitehorse? I’m sure you’ve told the story many times—I hope you’ll indulge me.”

“Crimes occur regardless of location, be it city or a frontier outpost but, in truth I had little say in the matter.”

“Why not? A man of culture like yourself, wouldn’t you be better suited to Vancouver or Victoria. Couldn’t you have requested another city?”

“It’s more complicated than I first let on. My request for another posting was refused. I was put here to fail. You see, my commander resented my discharge from military service. He lost a son in Belgium. I came from German parents. Because I was of German parentage, those were two marks against me. In his mind, I was tacitly complicit in his son’s death.”

She made to object.

“I know, it makes no sense at all,” Schubert continued. “Then, when he discovered I had spent my pre-war years singing German art song…well, I imagine you can guess the rest. ‘A wasted occupation for upper class socialites,’ was how he described my work. I believe he did everything he could to have me sent far away, hoping I would fail and eventually quit.”

“‘A wasted occupation,’ seems awfully harsh. There was nothing you could do to appeal?”

“Nothing. Some commanders think themselves on par with God. I didn’t even try because I knew nothing would come of it. My choice was Whitehorse or quit before I’d even started.

“But I imagine I could ask the same of you, a Parisienne baker in Whitehorse, leaving the epicenter of haute cuisine only to find yourself in a frontier outpost. Surely, a hotel in Montreal or Chateau Frontenac in Quebec City is more apropos to your talent? Or  even the Hotel Vancouver.”

Geneviève answered, but Schubert sensed it was only part of her story. What the rest was, he didn’t know and detective or not, it was probably none of his business.

“For a time, we lived in Montreal but James, the war…he’s all I have. He needs solitude and wide open spaces. The city was hell for him—all the traffic, construction, noise. It took him back to the battlefield. When we lived in the city, he would stay in his room for days, the terror was so strong. He became a hermit of sorts, unable to be around people.” She shrugged. “Like others, we came here for the opportunities. I feed the locals and James can trap.”

“From ancient Sumaria to Whitehorse—it is remarkable where people come from. Is your brother in town often?” 

“Usually every six weeks or so. Sometimes sooner but rarely later.” 

Schubert sensed she had something more to say. 

Geneviève continued: “He should’ve called by now.”

“I take it he’s usually not late. Are you concerned?” 

“Yes, and no—perhaps not overly concerned, at least not yet. Any number of things could’ve delayed him. He’s capable and able to look after himself, but if he’s injured…well, that’s what worries me the most.”

“Do you have anyone who can check in on him? See if he’s OK?”

She shook her head. “I don’t have anyone to call on, I’m afraid.”

Schubert thought a moment. 

“Let me help. You said it wasn’t that far—what, a few hours?”

“A few hours by dogsled, that is if you first drive a ways up the back roads, assuming they’re accessible.” She shook her head, unwilling to accept his offer. “No, I couldn’t. You’ve work to do and I’ve a shop to run.”

Schubert calculated the amount of overtime he’d collected in the last few weeks. 

“With the hours I’ve put in, I can take some time off.”

“I have neither a sled nor the money to hire dogs,” she said, trying to hide her excitement.

“One of my constables, Bart Peters, he’s got dogs. Perhaps I can order him to take a day off.” 

He took her silence as an expression of thanks. 

“So, that settles it. We’ll check in on your brother. I’ll talk to Bart and get back to you.” 

He stood, fetching his hat and coat. 

“Thanks for a superb dinner.” Then, he remembered Sylvia’s birthday. “Do you have a cake I could bring my secretary? Her birthday is in a few days.”

“I’ll bake one tonight and give you a call tomorrow.” Geneviève handed him his tool box, then leaned in and kissed him on his cheeks. “Merci, mon ami. Good night.”

The soft caress of her lips on his cheek took him by surprise. He wondered why guilt was his first response—he’d been alone long before Louise left. Geneviève thought he had something to say, but instead he buttoned his coat and turned to leave. She watched him until he was lost to the darkness. 

After leaving Le Petite Pain, Schubert went home and poured himself a double scotch. His mind was troubled. What am I doing with this woman, he asked himself. Offering to check on her brother; volunteering Peters and his dogs, too. He shook his head at his foolishness. 

That night, Schubert felt as if he’d not slept at all. His sleep had been plagued with dreams. He rose early, in a kind of haze, sweating despite the cold. The dreams had been frenzied, erotic, and troubling. A woman figured prominently in the dream, but he couldn’t discern who she was. She was a shadow. He knew it wasn’t Louise; it could’ve been Geneviève. Those thoughts ushered in another wave of guilt.

When he met Peters that morning and told him his plan, Peters seemed happy for the day off, a day with his friend, mushing his dog team.

“Sounds fine by me,” Peters said. “The dogs need the exercise and you could use a break. I’ll be ready tomorrow morning. Meet my at my place around six in the morning.”

They left the following day.

“The weather seems to be holding steady,” Peters shouted. “We should easily be in and out in five, maybe six hours.”

Schubert had taken the back seat. Geneviève sat in front. 

“Mind if I lean back,” she hollered.

Schubert drank in the sun’s dazzling array of diamonds and sapphire on the snow. 

“Not at all,” he said, trying to be heard above the barking team and the cold, silver swish of the sled.

Geneviève settled into his arms. She turned and smiled, her face circled by coyote fur and her cheeks, cherry red. She pulled a small pewter flask from her jacket and took a long pull. 

“Here, have some. It’s my moonshine,” she called out.

Schubert admired the Celtic design of two interweaving snakes etched into the pewter. 

“Lovely design—what does it mean?”

“In Celtic lore, two snakes intertwined signify the renewal of life.”

Schubert took a short pull from the flask. 

“Lord God, have mercy!” he coughed. He passed the flask back to her. “And yes, by the way, I know you have a still in your kitchen. Your thieves may have been after more than pastry.”

“Guilty as charged, Inspector but I will not pay Murdoch’s prices. And what’s the harm? I’m not selling it.”

“You expect me to turn a blind eye?”

“I expect you already have,” she said, teasing him.

The warmth of the liquor and her body against him reminded him of last night’s dream. In the daylight, the intensity seemed to have diminished, or at least he hoped. She settled further into him, wrapping her arms around his legs.

The sun had nearly reached its zenith but the shadows still spoke of morning light. Schubert felt the sled beginning to slow.

“H’yah! Easy!” Peters called and the dogs slowed. “Whoa…” he said, pulling the reins. “We don’t want to surprise your brother. Does he have firearms?”

“Yes. A shotgun,” Geneviève answered.

“We’ll walk from here,” Schubert offered. “You can call out his name as we get closer.”

“He’s not murderous,” Geneviève said. “You’ve nothing to fear.”

“No, but if he has shell-shock like you say, he may respond warily to uninvited guests.” 

A small cabin emerged from the spruce forest. Geneviève called in a high, clear voice. A thin wisp of smoke rose from the sheet metal chimney. She called again, unable to hide her concern. 

Schubert was the first to the cabin steps. A light dusting of snow lay undisturbed. No one had been in our out.

“James?” Geneviève said, pushing open the cabin door. 

A lone figure lay on a cot. Geneviève ran over. 

“He’s unconscious.” She felt his forehead. “Fever. Help me undress him, get him into dry clothes.”

Schubert began pulling clothing from the man’s body. He was shocked by what he saw: a gash on the torso, a bullet wound high on the shoulder and most of one calf, gone.

“Shrapnel,” Geneviève said. “No one knows how he survived.”

“A fighter,” Schubert offered, filling the silence. He wrapped James in dry blankets while Geneviève stoked the fire. 

“I’ll prepare tea. Perhaps we can wake him,” Geneviève said.

Peters, having settled the dogs, entered the cabin. 

Schubert said: “Peters, James is ill. Would you mind fetching water and firewood? Let’s get this place warmed up.”

While Geneviève prepared tea, Schubert examined the contents of the cabin. On the walls were numerous watercolors, many, he surmised, of life in Paris and a few more recent ones of Yukon landscapes. A single shelf of books carried titles of poetry and tomes on Sumerian antiquities, Babylon and ancient Greece. An old double-barreled twelve-gauge shotgun leaned against the bottom shelf. He cracked it open. It was empty. Schubert rummaged behind the books, looking for shells.

“A trapper with a library. Certainly a first,” Schubert said, mostly to himself, setting the shotgun down. He turned to Geneviève. “Are the watercolors his?”

She nodded. “Worthy of more than a trapper’s cabin, don’t you think? The war took much from my brother, but he still paints.”

This man is a true hero, Schubert thought. He suffers in silence. He’s highly educated but society has ignored him and yet, he still has the will to live.

Geneviève sat next to her brother. 

“James, it’s Geneviève. I’m here now. Drink your tea.”

Her tone of voice told Schubert all he needed to know about their relationship: she loved her brother very much.

James mumbled something neither understood. Then, his eyes fluttered open, just for a moment and his lips parted.

“Karl, fetch some soup bones from the meat cache. I’ll cook up some broth. He needs more than tea. Have Constable Peters bring more water and wood. I need to wash him.”

Schubert returned from the cache, bones in hand. While Geneviève prepared soup, Peters stoked the fire. Gradually, the cabin warmed. Schubert shucked off his parka. 

“Feels like Aix en Provence in summer,” he said. “How’s James faring?”

“I won’t know until his fever breaks. The soup will give him strength.” Geneviève answered.

“He’s in no shape to travel back to Whitehorse, I should think. I imagine we’ll be here for the night?”

 Geneviève nodded. “Traveling in an open sled for hours would be a bad idea. He needs to stay warm.”

“Shall I make more tea?” Schubert asked, taking a page from Arnie Falk’s book. “Do you have more moonshine?” he asked, hopefully.

“No, but James will have a bottle in here, somewhere.”

Schubert pulled corks, coaxing scents from long necks. Eventually, he found it. 

“Thank you,” Geneviève said to both of them, “for your help today.”

“Helping folks is part of northern hospitality,” Peters said. “I’ll go fetch more water.”

Schubert said: “I’m glad we could help and more importantly, got here in time.”

“Thank God we didn’t delay—he could’ve been much worse.”

He brought her a kettle of warm water and she began to wash her brother.

Schubert thought back to his own time in hospital. “When I slipped into a coma, Louise said I was hot as hell, but completely unresponsive. I…I have no memory of any of it. It must have terrorized her.”

Peters returned with the water. 

“I punched through the creek with an iron bar. This should last through to the morning.”

“Thanks, Peters. Once the dogs have rested, get back to Whitehorse and inform Doc Pedersen we’ll be bringing a patient in for observation. You have adequate time for the return journey?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem. The weather’s good—barometer is on the rise. I’ll be back tomorrow around noon.”

“We’ll need another sled,” Schubert said. “Can you manage it?”

“I’ll find someone to pilot. Is there anything else I should bring?” Peters asked. “If not, I’ll tend to the dogs.”

Schubert closed the door behind Peters, while silence slipped in. Firelight danced a drunken jig on the floor and the shadows lengthened through the small window.

A pot began rattling on the stove. The broth was boiling. Schubert brought a bowl to Geneviève but James had fallen asleep. She sat by his side caressing his forehead. 

Schubert ladled two mugs and passed one to Geneviève.

“Tell me about your family, Karl. It seems we have time as our ally. Your family’s name, for starters.”

“It was Austrian, originally. My father is the great-great grandnephew of Franz Schubert. Ring any bells?”

Geneviève shook her head. “Not unless he was a French baker.”

He laughed, glad for the conversation. 

“Franz Schubert was an eighteenth-century composer—prolific too. And met Beethoven, by the way. Franz was a friendly fellow, generous to a fault but died penniless. The establishment never recognized his genius. That came a few hundred years later. He was loved by the common folk but unfortunately, the poor don’t attend concerts.”

“I see…you aren’t just a singer. Music is the very fabric of your soul. Now I understand.”

He nodded. “I suppose that’s true,” he said, as if he’d never thought of his lineage in that way. “My father was a concert pianist. He studied in Hannover and immigrated to Canada in 1938. He met my mother in Germany.”

“Also a musician?” she asked between another spoonful of soup.

“No, my mother was from humble stock. Unremarkable in that respect but an extraordinary homemaker who admired her husband and loved her children. They met at a concert. She went backstage after a performance to catch a glimpse of my father.” 

“What about brothers? Sisters? I’m afraid you’ve already met my entire family.”

“My brother Eric is serving in England, at Latchmere House. I’m sure his PhD in mathematics is a clue but I have no idea what he does there. He sends the occasional letter, mostly about night raids, bombings, the food. I’m sure his work is highly classified, which is probably why his letters are mostly generic.”

From outside, somewhere in the distance, a lone wolf called. Schubert lit the lantern and a warm glow pushed back the darkness.

“Better,” he said.

“Afraid of wolves?” Geneviève teased.

“Give me a city with traffic and the constant hum of life. Silence in the wild is unnerving.”

Geneviève waited for him to continue.

“I’m used to silence, but of a different sort, like the kind before a concert. But this out here, it seems absolute, bottomless, like its probing, almost hungry and it won’t stop until you relinquish what you’re hiding.”

“That’s an unusual analogy. I’ve always thought of silence as a canvas to paint my thoughts.” Geneviève paused. “What are you hiding from?”

God, she’s incisive, he thought. He considered asking her the same but resisted. He wiped frost from a window pane.

“It is the violence you face everyday?” she asked.

“I imagine that’s part of it but I don’t think I’m hiding from it. Perhaps I’m trying to hold the chaos at arm’s length. The violence I encounter is singular, not wonton or random on a grand scale, like a million criminals marching to Whitehorse, hell-bent to rule the world.”

“You fear loss of control?”

“Control is a façade,” Schubert replied, still staring into the darkness. “What can each of us control? Nothing.” He paused, regretting he had spoken too freely. 

Geneviève checked her brother’s fever. 

“Fever seems to have lessened.” She turned to Schubert. “I could use another cup of tea.”

He wanted to tell her what he truly feared, but instead refilled the kettle and set it on the stove.

“Do you miss the stage? The lights? Accolades?”

“No less than you miss a real kitchen, I would guess. The art song was the lens through which I made sense of life, my life. Without the stage a clarity has evaporated, like I am looking through a glass, dimly. Without my voice, I…I can’t…”

The kettle called, its shrill whistle slowly winding up.

“God,” Schubert said. “The guilt that accompanies my thoughts is unbearable. The world is at war and I have the gall to think my life, my career should’ve been spared.”

“You’re not alone. I feel guilt, too. I’m in the wilderness, caring for my brother when my friends in Paris may be dead. I ask the same questions. I need to believe there is more to this life than killing.”

“Yes. That is what we all hope for. Are hoping for. If Hitler succeeds…” he added, setting the kettle on the table.

The wolf called again and neither spoke for some time.

“Tell me more about your family,” she said.

“My sister Charlotte, my other sister, lectures in Political Science at the University of Toronto.”

“Your parents must be proud of what you’ve all accomplished.”

Karl said nothing, slowly sipping his tea. Geneviève turned to James, wiping his face with cool water.

“You mentioned your other sister. What did you mean?”

He inhaled, long and slow, debating the wisdom of this conversation. It was a subject rarely broached and only once with Louise. 

“My youngest sister Lydia died when she was a child. Perhaps we’ll talk about it another day.”

Geneviève waited for Schubert to continue.

“The stage wasn’t an escape from reality,” he said. “It was a desperate attempt to find beauty, order, purpose—everything Lydia’s death took from us.”

“And the way back to paradise is barred by angels, whose flaming swords prevent your return,” Geneviève said.

He nodded. “I thought if I could solve or prevent such a thing happening, it would somehow bring meaning to her death. I hoped joining the police would bring an externally imposed order but it has proven to usher in a different kind of chaos.”

“You mean chaos caused by criminals?” Geneviève asked.

“Hmm,” he nodded. “The chaos and disorder that I deal with daily finally spilled into my personal life.” He paused. “My wife Louise has left me.” 

Geneviève sensed the shame behind the words, even though he’d spoken them with care, like releasing a bird to flight. 

“I had heard.”

He laughed, from scorn, not mirth. 

“I’m sure the whole Territory knows.”

“Will she return?” she asked, not knowing what else to.

“She most definitely will not,” he said, harder than he meant. “She wants a divorce. Louise loved my career because it afforded her a life of ease, parties, receptions, recognition.  It was the life she was used to. Her parents are filthy rich—old money. Broadcasting magnates. As long as we lived in Toronto all was well. Whitehorse was a death-sentence for her—for us.”

 “So much has been taken from you, but you still care for her. If she can’t see that, it is her loss.”

“I don’t think she sees it that way. She’s back in Toronto right where she wants to be, playing the rôle of socialite.” He shook his head. “God, how I never saw this coming.” 

He stood to stoke the fire, then fetched an arm-load of wood from the porch. 

“That should provide a few hours of warmth. Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll watch James.”

“Alright, but wake me in a few hours. I’ll spell you off.”

Together, they found blankets and a few hides for the floor. Geneviève knelt, pulling a few pins from her hair. Long, red locks fell around her shoulders. 

“You’ll not forget to wake me?” she said, more a command than a question. She lay down and Schubert retreated to a small, uncomfortable chair. In a few minutes, Geneviève’s breathing settled into a slow, regular rhythm. 

Schubert doused the kerosene lamp and lit a candle. The events of the past weeks, the murders in Blue River and his failed marriage, all these sat heavily in his thoughts. He admired Geneviève—she had a depth of character that Louise seemed to lack. Why is it one woman thrives in the wilds and another one doesn’t, he wondered? His intuition told him Louise had simply refused. 

He fought the weight of sleep but eventually succumbed. He slept poorly. His dreams were filled with criminals leering from the front row of a theatre, accusing him a cowardice. But standing with him in the crook of the grand piano was his sister Lydia. She was pulling on his tuxedo jacket, wanting to speak. He bent closer to hear her words. 

She whispered, I am here, in your heart.

Schubert was awoken by the sound of Geneviève grinding coffee. He had slept through the night. 

“You are a heavy sleeper, Inspector Schubert.” 

He groaned. “Damn. So sorry Geneviève,” he said through a yawn. “How’s James faring today?”

“Still sleeping and the fever is down.”

“Good.” He stood, trying to limber tightened muscles. “Shall I fetch more water?”

“Yes. Enough for tea and oatmeal. No croissants today, regrettably.” 

Schubert took the axe and made his way to the creek. The air was crisp and silent, like a thread of silver had wound itself throughout the landscape. The sun had nearly breeched the horizon but any hint of warmth was illusory. He chipped through the ice and filled the bucket.

“I’m afraid I may have spoken too freely about my family last night,” he said, lifting the bucket onto the table. “My apologies.”

“There is no apology needed. We become who we are because of our family.”

Was it Lydia’s death that spurred him to become a policeman, his career as an artist over? Or was it because of the sense of duty his father had instilled in him. He didn’t know—he doubted he ever would.

Geneviève said: “There was no judgement on my part, if that concerns you.”

“No,” he said, “it’s not that. It’s the lawlessness that surrounds my life. I spend my days trying to stem the disorder crime puts in our way.”

Even my dreams are chaotic, he thought. He felt drawn to Geneviève but at the same time feared she was the apparition in his dreams, a revelation that brought him more confusion and even less clarity.

“What you’re experiencing is normal, isn’t it? My life has followed a similar path as yours. The world is at war—nothing is as it was. September of 1939 changed everything and there’s no going back. If we expect anything else, we’re deceiving ourselves.”

“You’re probably right,” he said, pouring himself another mug of tea. “Accepting it is another matter altogether.”

From outside, some distance away, Schubert heard a team of dogs barking.

“Sounds like Peters is nearby,” he said, parting the curtain on the kitchen window.

Twenty minutes later, Peters stomped up the stairs, kicking snow from his boots.

“Right toasty warm in here,” he said, eyes fixed on the coffee pot. “Any left?”

“Grab a cup,” Schubert replied. “There’s grub on the table. Did you bring the doctor?”

“Sorry boss, but the doc is busy delivering a baby,” he said between mouthfuls of bread. “Baby’s breech otherwise he’d be here. I borrowed a longer sled from Simpson. We’ll all fit.”

Schubert turned to Geneviève. “Where will James convalesce? Do you have room at your place?” He remembered the apartment above the café had only the one bedroom. 

“I’ll sleep on the floor. James can have the bed.”

“Nonsense,” Schubert said. “That’s hardly conducive to his recovery and your rest. I’ve more than enough room. You’re welcome to it, if you wish.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want cause any problems for you.”

Now that your wife has left, Schubert thought, completing her sentence. 

“Of course I’m sure. If you’re worried about tongues wagging, I don’t give credence to gossip, never have.”

For Schubert, the issue was settled. 

“Then we accept. I’ll gather some of James’ clothes and we can be off.”

While Geneviève gathered her brother’s things, Schubert and Peters carried James outside and lifted him onto the sled.

“Permission to speak freely, sir?” Peters said after bundling James in a buffalo hide. 

“By all means, Peters.”

“People are going to talk, if you get my meaning.”

“Noted. Peters, someday I’ll tell you the story over a bottle of whiskey but the truth is, my marriage was over before I arrived in Whitehorse. Louise finally admitted it. I had hoped otherwise, but I was living in denial. The gossips? They can go to hell. If showing kindness sets the smaller minds in town spinning, so be it. Besides, what’s the greater error: living a lie or giving thanks that the lie is in the open, rendered powerless? I knew I was becoming a dead weight as far as my wife’s ambitions were for me. I didn’t choose meningitis or this goddamned war. You know what, Peters? I often wondered if Louise hoped I would be sent into action, maybe killed. That would’ve freed her to find another celebrity to attach herself to. The truth is, she’s a spoiled bitch and I’m a recalcitrant ox.”

“Seems fairly harsh, sir.” Peters recalled his conversation with Louise before her departure. His boss was closer to the truth than he cared to admit.

“Peters, it took the barren landscape of this place to reveal what city life had skillfully hidden from us both. For that, I’m glad.”