The Homeless Millionaire

It was raining cats and dogs when I woke up the next day. Roch and Michel were already up and about: I heard them quarrelling over who was going to use the bathroom first. I decided to lie in bed until they'd finished their morning ablutions. I didn't feel like talking to them. I didn't feel like doing anything at all.

I wanted to go back to sleep, it was the perfect morning for doing just that: grey and rainy. But I couldn't. I was gripped by one of those trains of thought that wouldn’t let go.

It started when the image of Landscape with Cottages floated into my mind. I remembered what it looked like very well: it had made a great impression on me. This was because Landscape with Cottages wasn't about the landscape and the cottages shown. It was about life.

Sure, it did feature a landscape and two crumbling cottages. They were huddled on a soft, short slope that ended at the shore of a shallow, winding creek with a rickety wooden bridge. A young woman was standing on the path between the bridge and the cottages.

She was waiting for an older couple, a man and a woman approaching the bridge from the other side of the creek. It was obvious they were returning home and really fucking tired. But there was something joyful about them too: they’d just caught sight of their home and of the girl— their daughter?— who was waiting for them, and it made them walk faster. They really were looking forward to getting home.

That was the magic performed by great artists. A picture told a story that began in the invisible past, and reached far into the future. It was up to the viewer to decide how that story ended.

But the story told by the Landscape with Cottages didn’t end with the old couple returning home. The young woman wasn't looking at them. She was looking directly at the viewer. She seemed to be asking if that was what her own life was going to look like when she’d lived to be her parents’ age.

She had been looking at Rembrandt when he was painting that picture. And she probably saw he wasn’t smiling. The strange gentleman who had come from the city to paint her and her parents and their home on verge of ruin—that gentleman had no answer to her question. That was up the person viewing Landscape with Cottages. And each of these viewers could have a different answer. The same viewer could have different answers, depending on mood.

That was Rembrandt’s genius, and that was why I wanted to own that picture very, very badly. One small picture containing hundreds of possible stories. It made Landscape with Cottages worth a million dollars.

I wanted that picture so badly I was prepared to steal it. But I wasn’t prepared to go to jail. Getting visited by cops just when I’d decided I’d take part in the robbery seemed like an omen.

Still lying in bed, I began to recalculate the chance the cops knew something was up. I was sure that neither Michel nor Roch had let anything slip. They'd spent a good part of the previous evening interrogating each other about that. But there was the original third guy, the motorcycling daredevil that had fucked up his leg, the guy that I was supposed to replace.

His name was Denis. He had been Michel's friend since early childhood, and Michel swore by him. Roch wasn't fully convinced, and neither was I. Denis had been pumped full of morphine: having an ankle crushed necessitated lots of morphine, fast. He would’ve been totally out of it. He could’ve been babbling in delirium.

My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a car approaching. I was instantly sure it was the cops, paying the promised return visit. I turned over onto my side, and pulled the blanket over my head. I wanted Michel and Roch to deal with the cops on their own. I wanted them to discover what it had been like for me. They were bound to have an easier time anyway, because they were French Quebeckers.

I heard the car stop and the car door slam. Someone began knocking on the door.

It was very determined knocking, and I pulled the bed covers off my head and started listening hard. I heard the door open, and Roch's voice. He sounded surprised. I didn’t blame him; I had been surprised as hell myself the previous day. Then it was my turn to be surprised once again: the voice that answered Roch was female.

I was out of the bed like a shot, and started dressing. Roch knocked on my bedroom door even before I'd finished pulling on my boots. He called out:

"Hey! Mike? You awake? Get up, you have a visitor. Mike?"

"I'm coming!" I shouted. Roch giggled stupidly before walking away.

I put on my black jumper to hide my skinny frame, dropped into the bathroom for a quick face wash and gargle, and went to the door combing my hair with my fingers. I was sure it would be her.

It was. She was wearing the red raincoat again and standing to the side of the door, smoking a cigarette. Her hood was up and I couldn't see her face. I said:

"Hi. What's up?"

She turned round to face me and said:

"How about you tell me what's up. What the hell did you say to my uncle, yesterday?"

"Your uncle?"

"Yes, my goddamn uncle. You talked to him at the house yesterday."

"I told him cops came round here asking about you guys," I said. "Same as I told you."

"No, you told him much more than that. You said something that made him really angry. I want to know what it was."

"I have no idea," I said. "Really. But listen, won't you step in and out of the rain?"

"No, I'm not going to step in. I'm in the rain, all right. You know what you did? He's throwing me out. He told me I can't stay there any more. What did you say to him?"

I was pretty horrified to I hear that. I said:

"I told him about the cops, and that was it. Listen, I'll go get myself a cigarette, okay? Then we'll straighten this out."

"You can have one of mine," she said. She pulled a pack out and held it out to me. She was smoking Black Cat Number Seven, which likely was the world's most stupid brand name for cigarettes. She passed me a booklet of matches as well and I saw they advertised a bar in Montreal. I said:

"You live in Montreal?"

"Right now I'm not living anywhere." She took the matches back from me. She said:

"Are you going to tell me what you said to him? It wasn't just about the cops. There was something else."

"There was nothing. I didn't even tell him my name. It's Michael, by the way. What's yours?"

She hesitated for a short while, as if telling me her name was a reward I hadn't earned. Eventually, she said:

"Tracy. Who is the other guy? The guy that answered the door?"

"His family owns this place. I'm a friend of his."

"I see," she said, in a voice that suggested being friends with Roch wasn’t something to be proud of.

"You said you don't have a place to stay?"

"I did not. I said I'm not living anywhere."

I was still trying to work that one out when she added:

"I'm between apartments. I'm moving into my new place middle of next month. I've already paid the deposit and a month's rent and I can't afford to stay for three weeks in a hotel. I'm between jobs, too. My uncle let me stay at his summer house, but now he's throwing me out. And it's thanks to you. Everything was fine until you came to see him yesterday."

"Tracy," I said, "I swear I didn't say anything apart from telling him about the cops. That they asked me about your uncle’s house, and the people there. Why is he throwing you out? Did he give you a reason?"

"Yeah, he gave me a reason. He said I was going to put him in trouble."

I wanted to ask what kind of trouble was that, but I was afraid of sounding nosy. She took a hit from her cigarette and flicked it down the driveway and said:

"Well, I've got to be going."

"Wait," I said. "Going where? You just told me you have no place to stay."

"I'll work out something."

"Tracy, hold on a moment. I'll go and talk to Roch and maybe you'll be able to stay here."

She laughed.

"What, stay with two strange guys?" she said.

"Actually, three. There's also Michel, a friend of Roch's. But him and Roch are here just for the weekend. I'm sure you can stay here."

"With you?"

There was a new, teasing tone in her voice. It made me hopeful. I said:

"You'd have your own room. Can you wait a little while I fix this up? And why don't you come inside?"

She shook her head.

"No," she said. "I really have to be going. I'll work something out, don't worry. Thanks for the offer." She turned away from me and walked down the front steps. She was wearing flared jeans with flat heels, and the jean bottoms were completely wet.

She walked to her red Mustang, got in, and drove away while I finished smoking the cigarette she gave me. Then I went back into the house, determined to work on Roch until he agreed to having another guest at the cottage.

It didn't work out that way. Roch and Michel were in the kitchen, conferring with each other in low voices. When I entered, they immediately started teasing me about my visitor. I told them they just were jealous, pulling on their dicks while I went on scoring beautiful blondes even when marooned in the middle of nowhere.

It wasn’t the smart thing to say because it incited them to make a ton of stupid jokes about Tracy, me, and my sexual life. Happily, their knowledge of that was limited. It wasn't the right moment to ask Roch if Tracy could stay for a few days.

Then they started talking about the museum heist again. The cops' visit didn't seem to bother them at all any more. They were sure Denis hadn't talked, too. Denis was a guy who preferred doing things to talking, they told me. He was the original action guy. He was renowned for not opening his mouth for hours at a time, even while attending a party. Trappist monks were said to look at Denis with both admiration and envy.

No, Denis would never blab anything about the planned robbery, not even when flying high on morphine. When Denis did drugs, he practically turned into a mute. Conclusion: the cops' visit was purely coincidental.

"Or maybe those guys across the lake are up to something dirty," Roch said, leering at me. Michel frowned and pouted and said:

"I agree. It's a distinct possibility. We already have the proverbial woman in red. Now we just need a black character to complete the picture."

"She told me the cottage was owned by her uncle," I said.

"That's what she said. It mustn't be true. People lie."

"But not Denis,” I said.

"No, not Denis. We're agreed on that."

"Maybe Michael here is the black character, not that fake uncle."

"No, not black—look, he's turning red."

"They're well matched, him and her."

"Oh no, he's getting angry."

"Don't try to beat us up, Mike. Remember, we have a gun."

"Two guns."

"Three. If you try to beat us up, Mike, you'll be facing serious weaponry. So think about it well."

By then, it was pretty obvious they were both completely stoned. They must have smoked a joint on the deck while I was having my big pow-wow with Tracy.

They’d had breakfast while I was still in bed, but when I started preparing something to eat for myself they both suddenly got very hungry. We ended up doing a big barbecue: they'd brought tons of meat again, along with a five-pound salmon. Michel claimed his old man had caught the salmon just a couple of days earlier. It had been gutted and kept frozen in the meantime.

"He’s completely nuts about fishing," Michel told us while we were eating. "He goes fishing almost every weekend, even in the winter. He takes this small tent along and a Primus stove and drinks all day sitting in the tent over a hole bored in the ice. I think all this fishing business really is about getting drunk all by himself, in silence and peace. He doesn't like to talk. He's like Denis in that respect."

"Denis wouldn't blab anything to anyone."

"No, he wouldn't. Denis is all right."

And so it went, until they finally upped their asses and left in the late afternoon. This surprised me. It was Friday, and I’d assumed they were staying for the weekend.

"No, Mike, we’ve got to get back to the city," Michel told me. He put his hand on my shoulder and said:

"We have a lot to do this weekend. A big dress rehearsal, you might say. Because we're going to rob the museum the weekend after that. Labour Day weekend. You're in, right?"

"I don’t know."

"I thought we've explained there's no possibility of a leak. I know you haven't met Denis. Trust me, he didn't let anything slip."

"It's not that."

"Then what is it?"

"I'm starting classes right after Labour Day," I said. "I don't know if I can handle robbing a museum just a few hours before my first class starts."

Michel gave me a heavy look.

"I'm in my last year at the Ecole," he said. "You're talking to a veteran here, so pay attention. Roch tells me you're paying your own way. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"In that case, as a decorated veteran of the Ecole, I advise you to cut all the September classes. You won't learn anything, anyway. They are all about getting people settled into a new environment and a new routine. And the parties aren't much fun because no one knows each other yet. If you're not on a stipend, no one cares whether you show up or not. In fact it's in their interest if you don't, because then they can fail you on a couple of exams and force you to pay for the same courses again."

"You're kidding."

"I'm not kidding. That's how it works. You make them money. What's so hard to understand?"

"There are a ton of people who weren't admitted and would gladly take my place."

"Yeah, but they are not a worthwhile investment of time and effort. Roch tells me you got real talent. They like that. Years later they can puff themselves up and say, oh yes, that guy, we've actually taught him how to paint."

And so it went. Every argument I came up with was dismantled, shown to be rubbish, and thrown away. At some point in the conversation, I nodded. It was as much a nervous reflex as anything. Michel patted my shoulder.

"Great," he said. He turned to Roch, who had just entered—he had been carrying stuff out to the car.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Yeah," Roch said. "We have to get going right away, it's getting late. Mike?"

I looked at him blankly. I was still coming to terms with that nod of mine.

"I'll be back Thursday morning. Want me to bring you something?"

"But Roch," I said. "Your family is coming down here for the Labour Day weekend. They won't be surprised you want to leave early? When do you want to leave?"

"Saturday or Sunday. I'll have urgent work to do in one of the houses, and I'll need you to help." Roch winked at me, and added:

"Are you okay for now? We've brought plenty of food, and there are a couple of packs of cigarettes in my night table if you run out. Only if you run out."

"Thank you, I'm fine," I said bitterly. "No worries here."

The irony was completely lost on them. They got into the car chattering happily, and drove away. I was left alone and within moments I was thinking about the mess I'd gotten myself into, and regretting everything I'd said and done from the moment I was born.

It went on for the rest of the day, and I had a hard time falling asleep.