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No sign of distress, nothing out of place, save for the usual: a dish in the sink, a hand towel on a kitchen counter, books on the living room sofa. In the bedroom: magazines on the floor and clothes harvesting dust beside the bed. The man had been dead a week or so but the house still felt like it was waiting for his return.

Mr. Smith had been, in his way, considerate. He'd left a handwritten note on the kitchen table, in plain view:

Mother,

I am sorry to disappoint you, but I cannot carry on.

I will see you on the other side, I suppose.

If there is another side.

John

You couldn't get more succinct than that. There remained the matter of verifying the handwriting, of poking around a little to make sure there were no untidy details. After that, they would allow the family in. Mandelshtam would do the paperwork and, if it fell to him, speak to the press, since Mr. Smith, a writer, had won awards for his work and had some degree of esteem.

For the detective, Smith's death was not complicated. As far as Mandelshtam was concerned, the only thing that distinguished it from other suicides was that he himself knew the work of John Smith. Not two months previously, he'd read what was now, sadly, Smith's last book: Termagant: A Love Story. He'd liked it.

– It's a nice house, said Constable Lewis.

– It is, said Mandelshtam.

– What do you think they'll get for it?

– The man's just dead and already you want his house?

– No disrespect, said Lewis. You know Jean and I've been looking.

– Well, it's Parkdale, said Mandelshtam. Prices are going up around here. Five at least.

– Five hundred thousand? For Parkdale? I should have married money.

*****

In the weeks that followed, Mandelshtam did not quite forget John Smith's suicide. Lewis had dealt with Smith's family and Lewis had dealt with the press. As a consequence, the matter lay somewhere at the back of the detective's mind. He had more pressing concerns. There had been, in the Annex, a series of break-ins, all with the same modus operandi. They'd been assigned to him. And then, of course, there was paperwork, more paperwork, and still more paperwork. These days, a detective couldn't fart without writing about it in detail and sending the file to three places. But although he didn't enjoy paperwork Mandelshtam had a Zen attitude towards it: If you do it, it will be done.

He was writing up a victim's statement – the words of a man whose home had been broken into – when Constable Lewis stuck his head in the office.

– Detective? Mrs. Smith would like to see you.

– Mrs. Smith?

– The suicide the other day. Body in the lake, house in Parkdale.

Waiting for him in the first interview room – sitting with a beige, crocodile shoulder bag on her knees – was the writer's mother, Mrs. Smith, a woman in her 60s by the look of it. The hair on her head was grey with black streaks. Her eyebrows were dark. Her eyes were brown and, incongruously, youthful. She was discreetly well dressed.

– I'm Detective Mandelshtam. How can I help you?

– You're black, she said as he sat behind the desk.

– That's true, said Mandelshtam.

– I don't mean any offence, said the woman. It's just that with your name, I thought you'd be Jewish.

Mandelshtam smiled politely, then asked

– What can I do for you, Mrs. Smith?

The woman took a deep breath, then touched the side of her head, as if to make sure her hair was tidy.

– My son was murdered, she said. I want you to do something about it.

– Your son, John Smith? The writer?

– He wouldn't have killed himself on his own. He was pushed to do it. I have proof.

She was doing her best to seem reasonable and calm. Her voice, though, held a kind of panic. She opened the crocodile bag and extracted a piece of paper.

– You can see for yourself, she said.

She unfolded the paper and laid it flat on the desk between them so that he could read it. It was the printout of an e-mail dated Nov. 21, about a week before Smith's death.

John,

You're asking me if you have the talent to write or if everything you've done has been "no good." You want to know if you should go on or stop writing, even if not writing means you're going to kill yourself. The answer to all of this is that I don't care. No, you're not a good writer. Yes, everything you've done has been a waste of time. There's no use your going on. Kill yourself if you must, but it's none of my business. Don't bother me again with all this.

Peter

The e-mail, which was, admittedly, a little brutal, was from Peter Bhave, a well-known and successful novelist.

– I'm sorry you had to read this, said Mandelshtam. It's pretty insensitive.

– It's more than insensitive, Detective. The man pushed my son over the edge. It's not right and I want you to do something about it.

– What would you like me to do? asked Mandelshtam.

All of the stiffness went out of her.

– I don't know, she said. I'm not a policeman. I just want what's right.

– I understand, said Mandelshtam, but I have to tell you: What Mr. Bhave wrote – harsh as it is – isn't illegal. Your son asked for his opinion and he gave it. I'm sure we all wish Mr. Bhave had been kinder, but you can't enforce kindness.

– Are you telling me you won't do anything, Detective? Even after you've read this? You can't be telling me you'll do nothing. You can't be telling me that.

Mrs. Smith began to cry. She rummaged around in her shoulder bag until she found a tissue with which to wipe her nose.

– My husband told me I was wasting my time, she said, but this Bhave deserves to be punished. You can see that, can't you?

– There really isn't much we can do, said Mandelshtam, but I'll talk to Mr. Bhave.

– And don't be polite, said Mrs. Smith. He doesn't deserve it.

*****

The situation – a cruel letter followed by a suicide – reminded Mandelshtam of something he'd once read, something European and amusing. But, of course, he took no pleasure in the version he was living. Mrs. Smith's distress had been almost palpable.

That afternoon, he left work early. From what would always be (to him) the "new station," he went up to Bloor, over to Avenue, and on to Walmsley. An hour and change, passed businesses done up for the holidays. There were more pleasant routes home. But Bloor almost never failed to brighten his mood because Bloor in the afternoon was inevitably crowded and Daniel Mandelshtam loved people.

It was the evening of the Mandelshtams' annual pre-Christmas party. Fiona was not yet home when he got there, but the caterer had delivered their goods: salamis, cheeses, crackers, cakes, mincemeat tarts, chickens and roast beef. He and Fiona had seen to the alcohol the previous weekend, so bottles of wine lay prone in the fridge or stood up on counters in the kitchen. His sons – Jacob and Kyp – had taken care of the decorations and, no surprise, they'd turned the place into something that looked half-Christmas, half-bordello: red lights everywhere, offset by green streamers and by the white, plastic Christmas tree that stood, a little forlorn, in its corner of the living room.

Every year Daniel made latkes for the party. It was time-consuming work, but he did it with warm efficiency, sticking always to the same routine, the same steps in the same order:

1. peel 10 potatoes, grate them by hand

2. grate four onions (also by hand)

3. beat six eggs

4. put potatoes, onions, eggs and just enough matzo meal in a bowl

5. add two teaspoons of salt and one of pepper

6. mix everything together by hand until it had the "right consistency"

7. fry a first batch of latkes for 7 o'clock when the party officially began

8. fry a second batch at 8 o'clock, so the latecomers could have some

Nor did he like to be disturbed while making latkes. There was, as there was with his administrative tasks, a pleasing mindlessness to it. But there was more as well. Whether consciously or unconsciously, the hour and a half it took him to make latkes was time with his father, the late Baruch Mandelshtam: proud atheist, loving father, the one who'd taught Daniel to make latkes, who'd taught him that the small details – grating the potatoes and onions by hand, for instance – matter.

*****

Late in the evening, when most of the guests had gone and those who remained were sitting around the dining room table talking, one of Fiona's friends – Corrine Speke – casually mentioned John Smith's name. Corrine, a writer herself, had known him fairly well. (It was startling just how many writers there were in Toronto. Everyone seemed to write or want to. It made Daniel feel that, some day, he ought to try it as well.)

– What was Smith like? Daniel asked.

– We weren't close, said Corrine, but we were friends. I liked him. He was funny.

– He wasn't depressive?

– Not that I ever saw. I was shocked when he killed himself. People keep themselves so hidden, don't they?

– Do you know Peter Bhave?

– Peter? said Corrine. Who doesn't know Peter? He grabbed my boobs one night when he was drunk. I don't think it was personal. He just gets all octopus when he drinks.

– Is he unpleasant?

– No, no. Not at all. That's why no one slaps him. He's really nice when he's not drunk. He's kind and he's helpful and he's married. You know, even when he's drunk he's nice. He just goes for your boobs. It's funny you should mention him. I was talking to his wife the other day. I think they're having a hard time since John died, actually.

– A hard time? What kind of hard time?

– I don't like to tell tales out of school but it looks like John's parents blame Peter for John's suicide. John's mother has been making their life absolutely hell. Calling all the time. Putting up copies of an e-mail Peter sent John just before John committed suicide…

– What kind of e-mail? said Fiona.

– A pretty unpleasant one, actually. Not the kind of thing you'd think Peter would write. I don't remember it word for word, but it basically said John should go kill himself. I'm sure Peter's sorry he wrote it, but you can see why John's mother is upset.

Another of Fiona's friends spoke up.

– One writer telling another writer to kill himself. That must happen all the time.

– Not as often as you'd think, said Corrine. Anyway, even if Peter was stupid to write the e-mail, I don't think his family deserves to suffer for it.

Daniel himself changed the subject.

– What's the best book you've read recently? he asked.

But when Corrine was leaving, he took her aside.

– Do you think your friend would like to speak to someone about his predicament?

– Who? Peter? I don't know, said Corrine. I think he's putting up with John's mother because he feels guilty and because he feels sorry for her. I don't think he'd want to get her in trouble.

– Well, if he'd like to speak to someone, I'd love to speak to him.

– The next time I see him, I'll ask, said Corrine.

They left it at that.

*****

Mr. Bhave did not wish to speak to the police. It was out of the question. He would say nothing about Mrs. Smith. There was nothing to say. There was no reason for him to talk to a detective and, yet, if Detective Mandelshtam were ever in the Annex, if he ever had cause to be near Manning and Barton, Mr. Bhave would not refuse to offer him coffee, seeing as he was Ms. Speke's friend.

Daniel knew Mr. Bhave's public image, had seen him on television, had read about him. It was strange – a statue coming to life – to see the man himself: his white hair, white since he'd been in his 20s, his rounded cheeks, the jaw that did not come to a point, exactly, but still kept the head from being square.

– I know I promised you coffee, he said when Daniel entered his home, but Deborah drank the last of it this morning. Would you care for a tea, Detective? We've got all sorts of strange teas. My wife collects them, but then she drinks my coffee.

– No, I'm fine, said Daniel. Thank you. I don't want to take up too much of your time. I know you're a busy man.

– I haven't been busy lately, said Bhave. I'm afraid this business with John's mother has taken me away from work. I find it hard to concentrate, not knowing how to help her.

– I'm not sure there's anything you can do, Daniel said. Her son's recently died and she blames you. You're maybe the last person who could help.

Bhave stared at him a moment.

– I suppose you've read my stupid e-mail as well.

– I have, yes.

– It's so unfair, not just to me but to John. It makes me out a callous prick but it's an insult to John's work. It upsets me that people might take my words for the truth. Unless you know the context of that e-mail, you can't understand how much I loved John's work. The last thing I'd have wanted was for him to stop writing.

– With all due respect, Mr. Bhave, that was a strange way to show your affection.

Bhave sighed, but he sounded weary not offended.

– Let me show you something, he said.

The house was large and beautiful: Georgian and wide, its rooms spacious and tastefully furnished. On the walls there were paintings by Mrs. Bhave, an artist, but there was also work by better-known painters. In the living room, for instance, one of Harold Town's Toy Horses hung brightly above a white chesterfield. The painting alone made the room feel warm.

They went upstairs to the room Bhave used for an office. It was at the back of the house and held two, tall windows that looked out onto a surprisingly modest yard. The ceiling was 12 feet high and the bookshelves that took up most of the wall space were only a foot or so shorter, filled with books. Facing one of the windows was a plain, wooden desk on which there were three things: an open laptop, an open Moleskine notebook and a silver pen that lay on the pages of the notebook. Beside the desk – between the windows – was a dented, grey metal filing cabinet, on top of which there was a printer.

– I met John when he was a student, said Bhave. He was very talented, but he was the most needy human being I've ever met.

– It sounds like he was more than needy. It sounds like he was disturbed.

– You're right, said Bhave, but most writers are disturbed in some way. John didn't stand out in that sense.

He took a folder from the cabinet, opened it on the desk and lifted some 20 pages from it. The pages were printouts of e-mails from John Smith. In each of the e-mails, there was a humorous or serious or offhanded or desperate version of the same question: Should I go on writing? To each iteration of the question, Bhave had answered with reassurances and encouragement: Smith was talented; he would do well; he should go on, as writing was his life's work; he was not to worry about the value of his work; it was his duty to go on.

– That isn't half of them, said Bhave.

– I admire your patience, said Mandelshtam.

– It's got nothing to do with patience, Detective. I love what I do. Writing's an art I adore and I try to keep it going, to pass it on. When I sent John that stupid e-mail, it was only meant to wean him from his need for reassurance. It's a poisonous need, Detective.

– Have you shown his mother these things? It might change her mind.

– Detective, have you met Mrs. Smith? I'm not sure anything could change her mind. Don't you think she must have seen all of these e-mails herself, if she went through John's mail? And if she's seen all of these then she's seen all my answers, all my encouragement. That hasn't stopped her from posting copies of the one stupid e-mail I sent up and down Barton, all over the Annex. I'm used to it, now. I don't take them down, because she just puts them back up again. But for John's sake, I wish she wouldn't do it.

*****

Daniel had written an account of his interview with Mrs. Smith. He'd written of his time with Mr. Bhave. In language as dry as he could make it, he had suggested that John Smith had committed suicide and that, in his opinion, there was nothing suspicious about the death.

There remained the matter of telling Mrs. Smith that he'd spoken to Peter Bhave.

As this was no longer police business, none would have blamed him for dealing with it as efficiently as possible. It was important to keep a proper perspective on cases like these. What did it matter, really, that a powerless older woman held a grudge against a man who did not deserve her rancour? A man who, moreover, refused to complain about the woman's behaviour? With so much injustice in the world, why not let the parties work it out for themselves? Ah, but there it was, his bête noire: small, irresolvable matters irritated him almost as much as great injustice did. He knew the origin of his bugbear, of course. It was his father asking him

– You want to be a policeman? Why would you waste your intelligence serving the masters, Danny?

Daniel had resolved then and there to prove to his father that one could serve both great and small, even if serving those with little power was often more difficult. Baruch Mandelshtam – anarcho-syndicalist to the end – died unconvinced that any policeman could serve the powerless except by accident but, as he loved his son, he'd accepted that Daniel might – if he were dedicated – find some way to be just. It was, thought Baruch, a matter of having the right priorities and being faithful to them, however uncertain other things were in the world. Priorities and fidelity. On this, he and his father agreed.

Then again, in this matter, one could reasonably ask whose interests needed defending. Those of the wealthy, bereaved Smiths? Or those of the well-to-do Bhaves? Did Mr. Bhave's renown make him one of the "masters"? Or did his origins – East Indian – disqualify him? Hard to say and, in the end, impertinent, though it seemed to Daniel that Baruch might have had more sympathy for Peter Bhave.

By the time Daniel spoke to Mrs. Smith, a month had passed since their first interview. That was too little time in which to recover from the loss of a child. It was no time at all, really. And, yet, the woman he spoke to in January was not the woman he'd met in December. Physically, she was much the same, but she had hardened. Then again, their second interview took place in a different room: not in the station proper but in the public meeting hall at the entrance to 14 Division. The hall, with its long tables arranged in a square, was unoccupied, so Daniel invited Mrs. Smith to sit with him.

There was another difference. On this occasion, Mrs. Smith was accompanied by a tall, placid older man. The man was impeccably dressed: a dark, double-breasted overcoat under which he wore a simple, navy blue suit, a white shirt, a yellow tie. His hair was entirely grey, but he looked slightly younger than she did: less haggard, less harried, less distraught. His glasses were perched on top of his head.

– This is my husband, Mrs. Smith said.

– Pleased to meet you, said Daniel, extending his hand.

Mr. Smith said nothing, avoided the handshake, and sat in a chair beside his wife. Both of them mistrusted detectives, it seemed. Daniel gave them the bad news at once.

– I'm afraid there's nothing we can do about Mr. Bhave, he said.

Mrs. Smith turned to her husband.

– I told you so, Mr. Smith said. These people only help drug addicts and prostitutes.

– I understand your feelings, said Daniel. I'd be upset too, if my son had committed suicide. But strictly speaking this isn't a police matter. Mr. Bhave has done nothing illegal.

– I see where this is going, said Mrs. Smith. You're trying to get us to let Bhave off the hook. I'll defend my son's name with every breath I've got left.

Mr. Smith put his hand on his wife's arm.

– You're a rotten policeman, said Mr. Smith, if you can't do anything with the evidence we've given you. I hope you realize this is the kind of thing that makes people take matters into their own hands.

– As far as I can tell, Daniel said, Mr. Bhave doesn't deserve your hatred. Over the years, Mr. Bhave has been a great help to your son. His last e-mail was … unkind but it's possible his previous e-mails are what kept your son going, no?

The two stared at him, as if he were speaking a strange language. Mrs. Smith said

– No one who cared about our son could have sent him the e-mail that man did.

She was furious. Her husband again put a hand on her arm. The two of them got up. Daniel rose with them.

– I'm truly sorry for your loss, he said. But there's one thing I don't understand. Why are you helping Mr. Bhave?

Standing together as they were, side by side, the Smiths looked a dignified older couple. If you had seen a picture of them, taken in this place – with all its wood and natural light – and at this moment, you might have thought that they were sombre but at ease. Standing in the room with them, Daniel felt something entirely different. He could feel their outrage, its violence. How often had John Smith seen his parents like this, he wondered. How often had he felt their ire?

– You say you dislike Mr. Bhave, said Daniel, but what you're doing is spreading his words and his opinion of your son. If you two are right and Bhave really disliked your son and your son's work, why would he mind your posting his insults? In a way, you're doing his work for him, aren't you?

The Smiths both stared at him and opened their mouths, but Mr. Smith spoke first.

– You're not very bright, are you? he asked.

– No, said Daniel. I'm afraid you're right. Again, I'm sorry for your loss.

*****

Weeks later, just before new year's, Daniel lay in bed, sleepless, with Fiona's head in the crook of his right arm.

– If you can't sleep, she said, why don't you drink some camomile?

– I'm thinking about work, he answered.

– What about it?

That day, he'd walked home, turning onto this street or that one without much forethought, veering into the Annex to walk among the old houses. At the corner of Bathurst and Follis, he'd seen one of Mrs. Smith's posters stapled to a telephone pole. One of the new posters, you could call it. It was certainly different from the ones that reprinted Peter Bhave's unfortunate e-mail. The new poster had a short passage from a story by John Smith. Beneath the passage were the words

John Smith (1985 – 2015)

Beneath that was a photo of Smith as a young man and, finally, beneath the photo, carefully written with a black sharpie, were the words

Peter Bhave is a Cad

Even for Daniel who knew the story behind it, the poster was disorienting. At first glance, it looked as if the name "Peter Bhave" were referring to the one whose photo was above it. The Smiths had, evidently, taken his advice and left the e-mail off. But Daniel wondered if they'd made things better or worse.

Fiona said

– Why didn't you try to stop them from putting the posters up in the first place?

– It wasn't the poster that bothered Bhave, said Daniel. It was the insult to John's work.

– You think the Smiths could turn violent?

– No. They aren't vicious. Well, they're a little vicious, but they're mostly stubborn and hurt and I feel sorry for them.

– Don't you feel sorry for Bhave?

– I'm sure he regrets his e-mail, but being called a "cad" isn't the worst thing that can happen.

– So, said Fiona, it's a victory. A very, very small victory.

*****

The house was warm, the wooden floor cool. The winter moon set the dining room windows palely alight. In the silky darkness, the kitchen seemed exotic, almost strange.

As Daniel put on the kettle and took two cups down from a cupboard, he thought about the word "victory." For whom was this Smith business a victory? Not for Smith's family. Nor yet for Peter Bhave. Maybe, in some way, it was a victory for John Smith. A few people would, if any stopped at all, read a passage from his writing rather than a cruel e-mail. And so, in the end, Daniel had managed to negotiate a small favour for a man who was already dead. There was a victory for you.

Then again, victory was always fleeting, usually polluted by regret, sadness or doubt. In fact, he didn't entirely believe in it. His father, a staunch idealist, was the one who'd believed in victory, in men and women overcoming oppression and injustice.

If only Baruch – atheist though he'd been – had passed on his faith and certainty!

As he returned to the bedroom carrying two cups of tea, each on a saucer, he thought again of John Smith's suicide. Rather, he thought about the short story it had called to mind: something European, the author's name un-memorably memorable. He stopped on a stair to see if the name would come back, but it was well and truly gone.

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