The Homeless Millionaire

It all started happening a couple of hours after breakfast. I was very happy to have feasted on scrambled eggs with bacon - Michel had bought a pack of smoked bacon along with the eggs, I was starting to really like that guy.

It was a great sunny day, warmer than the day before. We were all sitting out on the deck, sipping beers to cure our hangovers. Michel and Roch had a short discussion about driving back that day: Michel was for driving, Roch for staying. They eventually agreed to disagree for now, and decide later. I kept stealing glances over my shoulder at the house across the water. Nothing seemed to be happening there, and I felt vaguely disappointed.

I was thinking I wouldn't mind if the guys left that day when Michel turned to me and said:

"Roch tells me you're about to start your first year at the Ecole."

"Yes," I said, feeling pleased. I felt happy and pleased whenever someone mentioned my being a student at the Ecole. Becoming a student there was my first major independent action in all of my f.u.c.k.i.n.g life. Prior to that, I had always felt like my parents' pet.

"Cool," said Michel. "I'm a student there too. This is my final year."

"Congratulations," I said, impressed.

"You know we don't much like Anglos, there."

I thought it best to maintain a diplomatic silence. Michel shrugged, and said:

"Let me give you an example why. We often go the Museum of Fine Arts. It has Anglo staff, and they throw us out before closing time. You know why? Because they have to have their f.u.c.k.i.n.g tea. Sorry, no more art today, because we're busy drinking tea and eating silly little tasteless sandwiches."

"Yeah," I said. "I hear you. I hate those sandwiches. Count yourself lucky you're French."

He liked that. He laughed and turned to Roch and said:

"I like this guy. I like your friend." He turned back to me and said:

"Roch tells me you're looking for a job."

There was a new tone in his voice, and it made me wary. I said:

"I've already got a job, starting three weeks from now. But I definitely wouldn't mind making some money in the meantime. I mean, this guy over there - " I pointed out Roch with my chin - "This fool there gave me sixty bucks so that I could eat. He thinks I'm going to pay him back."

"I'm going to make you eat your own balls," growled Roch. Michel burst out laughing.

"Hey," he said. "Let me tell you a joke. Why does a dog lick its balls?"

"Why what?"

"Why does a dog lick its balls. The reason behind it."

I tried to imagine myself as a dog, and failed. Maybe I wasn't stoned enough. I said:

"I give up. Why?"

"Because it can," Michel said, and he and Roch laughed. I didn't; I smiled, and said:

"Yeah, that must be nice."

They both laughed as hard as if I'd just admitted to l.i.c.k.i.n.g my balls in my private moments. Then Michel said:

"I might be able to get you something. I'll know next week, for sure."

That didn't sound too good. I said:

"Oh. You mean it's going to be like a couple of days' work, is that the deal? How much does it pay?"

"It pays very well. Don't worry, you'll be able to pay Roch back. I think maybe that's why he proposed you for this job, so that he'll get back his money."

I looked at Roch, but he didn't look back at me. He raised his bottle instead and took a long pull, swallowing several times. I looked at Michel and said:

"I'm not smuggling or selling drugs."

"You won't be smuggling or selling anything, don't worry. We'll talk more next week, okay?"

"Okay," I said.

And that was it, as far as my job interview was concerned. I wished I knew what that famous job actually involved. I was sure it was going to be something shady, in a grey area of the law. But to tell you the truth, I didn't mind that very much, provided it wasn't too risky. If I got caught doing something criminal, I could get expelled from the Ecole.

At the same time, I thought it wouldn't be any higher on the crime scale than stuff I was doing already, like smoking pot. And if it really paid sixty bucks for a day's work, well, that would be a hell of a relief. I could pay Roch, and maybe make another sixty bucks, or even more. Something like that would help me plenty, and I decided that I'd keep an open mind about the whole thing.

Roch and Michel stayed on for another couple of hours. Michel stopped drinking; he said that he had to drive. He had a joint instead, and made a passionate speech about museums and galleries being prisons for art. Art belonged to everyone, he said. It belonged to the people. It should be made available free of charge to everyone, anytime. I agreed, while Roch didn't say anything. He just kept on drinking beer in silence, looking troubled. We kidded him about it; he said his hangover was killing him.

Eventually he got up, and told Michel it was time to go. Michel went to unburden himself in the toilet before the trip, and Roch and I were left alone on the deck.

"You okay?" I asked.

"I'm not," he said. "My head is f.u.c.k.i.n.g splitting in two."

"Maybe, I don't know, stop drinking and take a couple of aspirins. There are some in the bathroom."

"Shit, man. Don't tell me you've had some of those. They've been there for, like, years."

"They're okay. They still work."

"F.u.c.k. I forbid you to have any more of those aspirins. I'll come here again to find a f.u.c.k.i.n.g corpse. Don't you touch them. I'll bring a fresh bottle."

"Okay, fine. Hey, Roch. Do you think you could leave me some pot?"

He started laughing and then swore and grabbed his head and swore again.

"You're a snake," he said eventually. "A deadly snake. You'll have to ask Michel. It's his stuff."

"Uh, okay."

We fell silent. After a while, I pulled out my cigarettes and offered them to Roch. He - very unwisely - shook his head. When he'd finished swearing, I asked:

"Can you tell me anything about this job?"

"Not yet." He sounded terse, but maybe that was because of his hangover. I asked:

"When?"

"Shit! Get off my a.s.s, Mike. I don't feel like discussing it right now. I don't feel like discussing anything. I want to look at the lake in peace and quiet for a few minutes."

"You'll tell me in a few minutes?"

"Mike! I'm going to f.u.c.k.i.n.g kill you if you don't stop."

He sounded pretty serious, so I stopped. I smoked my cigarette maintaining a hurt silence. Michel had left the sliding doors wide open and we both heard him leave the bathroom, groaning and muttering something to himself.

"Hey, how's it going," I said, when he emerged onto the deck. He waved me off and said to Roch:

"Can we have a couple of coffees? I don't know how to operate this f.u.c.k.i.n.g machine of yours."

They both went into the house, Roch sliding the doors shut. I leaned on the railing and looked at the house, her house. I was raising the cigarette to my lips and my hand froze mid-air.

She was out on the deck, looking at me. She wasn't wearing red this time; it was something dark, I couldn't tell at this range. She was a matchstick silhouette standing in front of a matchbox house, she was so far away. I raised my arm and waved.

To my amazement, she waved back. It made me grin like the village idiot, and wave again. She didn't wave back this time, but she was still looking at me, I was sure of that. Then the sliding doors hissed open behind my back, and I saw her turn around and go inside her house.

"Hey Mike. You want some coffee?" It was Roch. I said:

"No thanks, I'm fine here."

"Okay." The doors hissed shut. With Roch gone, I was hoping she would come out again, but she didn't. I smoked another cigarette, standing alone on the deck and enjoying the sun. Then I went inside.

The guys were arguing about something in the kitchen, and they fell silent as soon as they heard me come in. Then Roch called out:

"Mike? You wanted to ask Michel something?"

I assumed he meant the pot, and suddenly felt very uncomfortable about asking Michel for that. I took my time walking to the kitchen. When I entered, they were both standing, resting their backsides on the kitchen counter and looking at me. It made me even more uncomfortable. I said:

"No, it's nothing. Forget it. Don't worry about it."

They looked at each other and then at me. Michel said:

"Come on. Ask me whatever you want."

"Well, I'm really intrigued by that job you talked about."

"That's good! That shows enthusiasm. Anything else?"

"No, there isn't anything else," I said. I sounded like a guy planning to hang himself the moment he was left alone. They both snickered, and Michel said:

"Don't you worry, everything will work out fine. Am I right, Roch?"

"Absolutely."

I raised my head and smiled at them.

"I'm glad to hear that," I said.

They looked at each other again and Michel said:

"All right. Let's all sit down. We have some serious talking to do."

We all sat down at the kitchen table and then Michel did something which freaked me out. That day, he was wearing a pair of those military pants with big, buttoned pockets on the sides. He put his hand into one of those bulging pockets and pulled out a gun.

Guns are fairly common in Canada. But they are nearly all long-barreled guns, like hunting rifles and shotguns. Handguns are relatively rare, and are strictly regulated. The gun Michel put down on the table was a handgun, all right. It was a gun of the kind cops wave around in TV movies. I couldn't take my eyes off it, I was staring at it as if it were a poisonous snake preparing to strike. Michel said:

"We're going to rob the Museum of Fine Arts. We know how to get in and out without setting the alarm off. We know what we want to take, where it is, and how to get there. But we need a team of three people. The guy that was supposed to come with us broke his f.u.c.k.i.n.g leg on his stupid motorbike last week. So we have a job opening, and it pays really well."

I was so shocked I couldn't say a word. I just stared at him with my mouth half-open. If it wasn't for the gun, I'd have thought he was pulling my leg. But the gun made it real, all right.

Michel grinned at me and said:

"Would you like to own a Rembrandt? A Rubens? A Breughel? Or maybe all three? And a lot of cash as well? It's difficult, I know. Being a starving artist is such fun. Well, think about it. You can let us know next week. But, you know, keep this to yourself. Don't even think about telling anyone."

He picked up the gun from the table and put it back in his pocket. He said:

"It would be very sad if you did."