I have a long journey ahead of me with four different stops and an overnight stay in Honolulu. The last leg of my odyssey will take me from Hawaii through to Chicago and then finally, to Ottawa, landing around midnight on Monday. By Tuesday morning, I'll be battling jetlag and painting the underside of Baddeck I with dark blue marine-antifouling paint. I'll have a brush in one hand and a double Lagavulin in the other. I suspect it will take me several days to recover from the trip and not just because of the many time zones I'll have traversed. I'm going to ask two of my graduate students to come with me the next time when we've perfected the scaling of the water-filtration system to support larger populations. I'm also going to give Jim Kisoon at call at CIDA. I think this system may have beneficial applications in other parts of the developing world now that the pilot operation seems to be working so well.

When I awake on Tuesday morning in our bed, which I missed terribly while lying in an Australian Army surplus cot for the last two weeks, I'll have an extra spring to my step. I'll be free of this d.a.m.n election business. From time to time over the last month, I've regretted my rash and impetuous agreement to let my name stand. But then, I think of Professor Addison, standing before a hundred first-year engineers labouring through the dark and nuanced style of Margaret Laurence, and I am at peace once again. I very much believe I got the better of the deal. Come Tuesday, I'll be free of politics and free of English for Engineers. Not so bad for the temporary use of my name. I've also improved my standing in the good books of the university administration. Having one of their own run was a source of pride, however misplaced.

It's been nearly two weeks since I've bathed satisfactorily. I may even dive off the dock before turning in when I get home. I miss our midnight dips. You'll join me, won't you?

AM.

CHAPTER TEN.

E-day, early dawn. I'd been awake for hours, listening to the river and the rain, trying to distinguish between them. As I lay, eyes open, chest tight, what I initially mistook as the soothing sound of the prevailing west wind turned out to be my own hyperventilation. There was barely a breath of breeze. Waking up with someone you love, or even being coaxed out of your nightly coma by a loyal and affectionate schnauzer, are comforting ways to greet a new day, provided the dog exercises restraint. Lurching into consciousness by the blaring alarm of your own anxiety, with dread as your only bedfellow, is somewhat less appealing. Welcome to my world.

It was a week before Thanksgiving, and I was having considerable difficulty counting my blessings. October 14 was to have marked the end of my foray into party politics and the start of my tenure-track tour of academe. Farewell party line and job insecurity, h.e.l.lo academic freedom and indexed sinecure. It was to have been my liberation day, so to speak. Instead, in knee-slapping irony, Eric Cameron's weakness for handcuffs and riding crops threatened to deliver me bound, gagged, and struggling back to Parliament Hill to resume my partisan bondage and servitude. Politics was the cruelest mistress of all.

I'd spent Sunday, the traditional day of rest, rocking and moaning, watching Newsworld, then rocking and moaning some more. I'd unplugged the phone again as its persistent ringing was quite a distraction from my rocking and moaning. The only tolerable part of the day had been the two hours Lindsay had spent holding me as I was rocking and ... well, you get the idea. Still no word from Eric Cameron or Petra Borschart not even a sighting. I pictured them in an RV, her with hair dyed black, him with head shaved, driving maniacally towards the South Dakota Badlands or some other suitably isolated location, trying to outrun their humiliation. I, on the other hand, had considered, but rejected, plastic surgery (I have a low pain threshold) and had decided to face the music with neither blindfold nor cigarette. I'd gone to bed early Sunday night around 6:30 which may have been a factor in my early awakening Monday morning. That and the pulse-pounding, bowel-bending stress that came with knowing I may have ruined the life of a certain cantankerous and potentially violent old Scot.

I had not yet totally exhausted my dwindling stores of hope as I watched the sky lighten. Until the rain stopped and the sun finally a.s.serted itself, I rode the pendulum back and forth, oscillating between "Eric Cameron can still win this thing" and "Angus, please put down the filleting knife." To ensure the former and forestall the latter, I sprang into action at the crack of 10:45 with all the vitality of a pregnant sloth in a heat wave. I phoned in a shower and shave and forced down a bowl of muesli that pushed back the frontiers of tasteless. With nine hours until the polls closed, I still had stones to turn.

I started by calling Pete1 and Pete2. I told them to phone all known Liberals in c.u.mberland-Prescott and direct them to fict.i.tious polling stations, a list of which I'd provided. The two Petes were a tad confused by my request, particularly when I suggested they not use their own names. But to preserve their sanity, they'd stopped questioning campaign decisions weeks earlier. They were nothing if not obedient, though their blind acquiescence stood in stark contrast to their anarchic appearance. Cradling Molotov c.o.c.ktails in their hands rather than telephones would have looked more natural. But beneath it all, they were solid, dependable, and dedicated volunteers. Eventually, they'd outgrow the Mohawks and piercings on their own terms.

About 23 minutes later, I received a call from Pete1 to clarify my directive further, I a.s.sumed. Nope. They were seeking their next a.s.signment. They'd already finished calling all known Liberals in the riding and had time left over to frost their split ends electric neon blue. I then instructed them to use their voter lists to call all of the NDP supporters they'd identified when canva.s.sing and to ensure that they voted. That would keep them busy for at least another 17 minutes. I then gave them the rest of the day off. Of course, I invoked our friendship when prevailing upon them to cast their own votes for the NDP candidate, Jane Nankovich. She was a little-known union activist from the beverage-bottling operation but would serve C-P admirably.

Lindsay had responsibilities on campus, so I was on my own for the day. Given my state of mind at the time, I would not have been scintillating company, anyway. In a moment when hope was briefly shocked back into normal sinus rhythm, I pulled a ball cap low and drove over to the NDP campaign headquarters. I walked with purpose into the election-day chaos. In C-P, chaos for the NDP was benchmarked at four volunteers, an overweight stray tabby, and Cat Stevens playing on a 20-year-old Radio Shack stereo. I'd have thought the Cameron crash-and-burn would have turned out more people. No reporters in sight. By scanning the Bristol board charts and lists on the walls, I quickly found the corner of the room I was looking for and approached the clipboard-clasping, heavy-set woman who looked in charge.

"I'm here to drive, and my car is just outside the door," I opened, keeping the bill of my cap lowered.

With precious few volunteers, she took what she could get before it was gone; no questions asked. She handed me a list of voters along with their addresses and pick-up times and shooed me out the door. As I slipped out, I noticed an untouched plate of homemade granola bran bars, a clear contravention of the fatty-campaign-snacks code. No wonder they had trouble attracting canva.s.sers. On the bright side, I suspect they'd lost no volunteers to constipation.

I spent the next three hours driving NDP shut-ins to their polling stations. For many of them, voting was a highlight of their year.

"Vote early and vote often!" cackled one withered old man as he settled in the front seat of the Liberal campaign headquarters, his caregiver behind us in the back seat. After voting, he asked if I would drive them home along the water. Despite being somewhat behind schedule, we drove the length of the river that pa.s.sed through c.u.mberland and parked for 10 minutes at the scenic look-off just beyond the town line. You could tell by his expression he didn't get out much.

I ended up chauffeuring 15 different NDP voters to seven different polling stations. To say that Jane Nankovich was a long shot to win was the understatement of the millennium. But driving aging lefties to the polls was better than sitting at home, catatonic and drooling. It was midafternoon by the time I'd done my driving for the socialist cause just another bizarre episode in a constellation of surreal experiences. This campaign had completely extinguished my capacity for surprise.

She was in her usual spot, facing the river. I had expected to find her wallowing in melancholy. I couldn't imagine how it must have felt to have run in five futile elections only to sit on the sidelines in the sixth when the Tory juggernaut ran aground. Yet, there she was, wearing a look of triumph as she pored over the Globe and Mail opened on her lap.

"h.e.l.lo, Muriel."

She hadn't seen me, and she jerked around. "Well, if it isn't college boy! You're just in time. I'm about to break into a rousing chorus of 'Oh Happy Day' and could use another tenor," she exclaimed, looking ten years younger. Depressed, she was not.

My eyes narrowed as I stared her down, trying to see beneath the surface. "So you're all right with all of this?" I asked as I dropped beside her.

"All right? If it weren't for the fresh gum on my shoe, I'd be flying around the room I'm so tickled," she bubbled. "Do you know how long we've waited for this moment? Do you know how good it feels to be sitting here on election day with a better-than-even chance of victory? I truly never thought I'd live to see this."

"Well, Cameron hasn't lost, yet," I reminded her. "I've been clinging for dear life to the far-fetched notion that he can still pull this one out of the fire. I can't imagine the people of this riding willfully electing a Liberal, notwithstanding the leather-and-leash business the other night."

Muriel just shook her head with purpose, not Parkinson's her grin still intact. "Ring the bell and slather on the barbecue sauce; the Minister is well and truly done. Yes, if Angus wins, he'll be slipping into the Commons through the milk box. But this town takes its morals very seriously. A Finance Minister can't parade his block and tackle around for all to see and expect to win votes in this town, Tory or not," Muriel declared with authority. "Cameron is cooked."

"But there's no way they're going to vote Liberal or NDP. They'll hold their nose and mark the X for Cameron. The Tories can still win by default," I insisted.

"Well, you wait and see what happens. I think a lot of folks will be putting a giant X across the entire ballot. Spoiling your ballot is also a legitimate and time-honoured expression of democratic will. Mark my words, Dr. Addison, bad-boy Eric is going down tonight. Someone else will win but only as the less interesting flip side of Cameron's defeat," she stated for the record. "For your sake, I'm rooting for the NDP, but my heart is with Angus. Poor old soul won't know what hit him when gets back. By tomorrow night, he may well be the highest-profile backbencher in the House." She dissolved again in laughter.

That was not what I wanted to hear. I revered her political instincts, but I was just unhinged enough to hold out some sliver of hope for the most popular Finance Minister in Canadian history. But she certainly was in a feisty mood.

"Now do you wish you'd run this time around?" I inquired as I rested my hand on the top of her wrist, feeling the metronome of her illness.

"Hindsight is for geezers with nothing left to live for," she spat. "I've completely lost interest in being elected and dealing with the piddling concerns and personal trifles of this sorry lot of voters. Let someone else expedite their pa.s.sport applications and gun licences. I'm just as happy to sit here and read by this river for as long as I've got. What's more important is that right now, a 150-year-old dynasty is teetering on its pedestal. In less than five hours, we'll watch it crash to pieces at our feet. Who cares who wins? This time around, what really matters is who loses."

I was tapped out, grasping at anything, thinking about myself. "Angus is going to hurt me very badly if he winds up as the MP for c.u.mberland-Prescott," I whined.

"I think you've underestimated Professor McLintock. I've had a number of pleasant chats with him in the last few weeks, and I like him. You chose well, Daniel."

"Muriel, he only agreed to run on the condition of his guaranteed defeat," I moaned. "I'm no longer sure I can deliver my side of the bargain. He'll refuse to serve, and it'll be a monstrous embarra.s.sment for the Leader and the party, to say nothing of me. I'll be run out of the party on a rail and will be a 'don't do this' case study in Liberal Campaign Colleges for years to come."

"Snap out of it!" she interrupted. "Have you spent any time with Angus? Have you talked to him about his views? Do you know anything about him? For mercy's sake, you've been living in his house for the last two months. Have you learned nothing about him?"

I held my tongue. Not that it was a struggle. I had no idea what to say.

"Daniel, based on my conversations with Angus, I think you may have read him wrong. I know he had no interest in running. Who would in this riding? But there's a man of principle lurking beneath that Scottish brogue and bravado. Marin Lee saw something there, and I think I may have caught a glimpse of it, too," she remarked. "He may well do you harm, but I would not a.s.sume he'll refuse to serve."

My puny and overtaxed brain simply could not a.s.similate this fantasy. I admit it. I'd spent plenty of time with Angus hours and hours. h.e.l.l, I'd seen him naked. I still thought a.s.sault and battery would be his likely reaction to winning the election.

I left Muriel to her river and her private thoughts of what might have been. Lindsay was going to spend the evening with her, watching the returns. I needed some time to plan my strategy although I still prayed I wouldn't need one. In any event, at midnight, I was heading to the airport to meet Angus and after that, perhaps my maker.

I had a very nutritious dinner of stale tortilla chips and mild salsa, and I had to force even that on my reluctant appet.i.te. I'm not sure how old the chips were, but I don't think you should be able to fold them. After dropping several limp-chip loads of salsa on my pants, the floor, and my shoe, I resorted to a bowl and fork. Afterwards, a la Angus, I stripped off my clothes, checked to see that the coast was clear, and ran off the end of the dock in the gathering darkness. I hadn't been in the river for a few weeks, and in the interim, autumn had certainly taken a firm grip on the water temperature. In fact, it seemed to me that autumn's faltering grasp had already surrendered to winter's chokehold. Thankfully, sound doesn't travel well underwater, or I might well have violated several munic.i.p.al ordinances. I shot back out of the water onto the dock, barely touching the ladder. Shriveled and shivering, but in a whole new zone of consciousness, I toweled off and dressed in election-night attire sweat pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. It would be a long night, so comfort was key.

I checked my voice mail before getting settled in front of the tele vision and listened to 14 messages from various media outlets, begging me to tell them the location of our Liberal campaign party so they could set up their remotes and provide on-the-spot reports as the count came in. I fired up my laptop and crafted an e-mail media statement, announcing that out of respect for Eric Cameron and the unique events of the past weekend, Angus would be watching the returns at an undisclosed location and would reserve comment until the morning. I hit Send and shut down (the computer, I mean; I'd shut down personally two days earlier).

I eschewed the election pregame shows and didn't turn on the TV until the polls closed at eight o'clock. CBC, Global, and CTV all led with Leathergate excellent way to start. To my dismay, CTV actually devoted the bottom right-hand corner of the screen to what they called CTV Cameron Watch where viewers could monitor the changing c.u.mberland-Prescott vote standings as each poll reported. It was sort of like tracking my own vital signs as a life-threatening infection swept through my body.

CTV CAMERON WATCH (8:05 PM EST).

(0% of polls reporting)

Eric Cameron (PC) 0 Angus McLintock (Lib) 0 Jane Nankovich (NDP) 0 The other networks had screen crawlers along the bottom, updating c.u.mberland-Prescott every ten minutes or so.

When the coverage started in the Eastern Time zone, the Liberals had opened an early seat lead in the Atlantic provinces where we were traditionally quite strong. This surprised no one, least of all the political-pundit panels on each network, which was a staple of modern election-night reporting. As always, the political junkie's great antic.i.p.ation of election-night coverage soon gave way to tedium as commentators tried to forecast trends based on a handful of polls reporting from a handful of ridings. "Well, in Athabasca-Ferguson, the NDP candidate has taken a commanding 12-vote lead over the Conservative inc.u.mbent with one poll reporting out of 45." Very enlightening.

I flipped through the channels and saw videotaped coverage of the Liberal Leader, voting in his own riding. It was the same contrived spectacle played out in const.i.tuencies across the country the wave to the supporters, the presentation of the marked ballot to the proud poll clerk, the positioning of the initialed ballot halfway in the slot of the ballot box as the candidate smiles for the cameras, and the final, friendly tap on the top of the box to punctuate the ballot's induction into our democratic process. Absolutely riveting.

CTV CAMERON WATCH (8:30 PM EST).

(8% of polls reporting)

Eric Cameron (PC) 239 Angus McLintock (Lib) 176 Jane Nankovich (NDP) 203 So far, so good. I silently prayed and pledged to go to church every Sunday, but I confess I left my worship options open in case the other religious and pagan G.o.ds offered any eleventh-hour deals.

Lindsay called from Muriel's to compare notes. Nationally, it was shaping up to be a very close race, as we had all expected. Lindsay voiced concern over the results in Quebec that were now streaming in. We were doing reasonably well, but if we hoped to stop a Tory majority, let alone win a Liberal minority, we couldn't afford to lose many seats in la belle province. The Tories had already stolen two and were ahead in two others that we'd traditionally claimed for our side.

Interestingly, despite coast-to-coast coverage, the Cameron affair seemed to have little impact on the national standings perhaps because the Prime Minister moved so quickly to cut his Finance Minister loose before the Government was dragged down, too. Lindsay reported that Muriel was in fine fettle, working both hands in the popcorn bowl, her eyes never leaving the TV screen. I mentioned that I was going out to the airport to pick up Angus. Depending on the changing numbers in the CTV Cameron Watch, I wanted someone to know where I was. I described what I would be wearing as well as the location of the minuscule Canadian-flag tattoo I'd had inked onto my left scapula after a night of revelry at the last Liberal Leadership convention. If Angus won, I thought she might need this information when filing my missing-persons report. Lindsay chuckled, but then asked for clarification on my shirt colour.

Before hanging up, she pa.s.sed along a message from Muriel. I was not, under any circ.u.mstances, to jump to conclusions on any matter unfolding that evening.

Suddenly, CTV Cameron Watch made a change in their reporting format that left me less than calm although I resisted the temptation to jump to any conclusions.

CTV CAMERON WATCH (9:00 PM EST).

(29% of polls reporting)

Eric Cameron (PC) 1,072 Angus McLintock (Lib) 984 Jane Nankovich (NDP) 961 Spoiled Ballots 4,337 I registered new respect for Michael Zaleski as his spoiled-ballots theory blossomed before my eyes. Muriel's reference from that very afternoon also echoed in my mind then settled in the pit of my stomach. I'd never considered spoiled ballots to be a factor of any significance, but I obviously should have. The CBC political panel was debating the significance of the rising spoiled-ballot count in C-P. With so much time to kill, no topic was too small. The CBC research team had been burning up the Internet and reported that as a share of votes already counted, the spoiled ballots were higher in C-P than they'd ever been in any riding in Canadian history. At this pace, they could approach 15,000. As a student of democracy, it troubled me that the winner of this race might be elected on the strength of 3,000 votes out of some 24,000 ballots cast or spoiled not exactly a strong local mandate, but such is our imperfect electoral system. First-past-the-post strikes again. I wondered how Angus might feel about winning a seat in the House of Commons, knowing that less than 10 percent of his const.i.tuents had voted for him. Then again, I doubt his vote count would top his list of concerns. I somehow think he'd be stuck for quite some time on the part about his winning a seat in the House of Commons.

By this time, Ontario results were rolling in. In the national seat count, determining which party would form the Government, the Tories and Liberals were very close. With western Canada historically arid territory for Liberals, we had to make our numbers count in Ontario. In the first couple of hours after the polls closed, we were where we were supposed to be. My fellow eastern-Ontario campaign managers had all pulled out Liberal victories, adding two unexpected seats courtesy of Cameron's s.e.x-slave sideshow.

CTV CAMERON WATCH (9:45 PM EST).

(88% of polls reporting)

Eric Cameron (PC) 2,691 Angus McLintock (Lib) 3,168 Jane Nankovich (NDP) 3,2.09 Spoiled Ballots 12,993 s.h.i.t. I started chanting "Jane, Jane, Jane" at the top of my lungs. Well, it might have worked. I lost my rhythm when the TV issued that annoying chime, signaling that some producer with a calculator, nerves of steel, and t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es to match, had decided to declare a winner even though thousands of ballots had yet to be counted. It was a point of pride among the networks to be the first to project winners and losers. Such a mentality also ensured it was a point of ignominy among networks when premature projections had to be withdrawn or corrected. I turned up the volume: The CTV Decision Desk is declaring Eric Cameron defeated. His successor as MP for c.u.mberland-Prescott remains a mystery as a neck-and-neck battle plays out that may come down to the very last poll.

I switched channels. Within ten minutes, all three Canadian networks had buried Cameron, eulogized him, and then, for good measure, conducted gruesome autopsies to a.n.a.lyze and animate his political demise. As the pundits picked through Eric Cameron's steamy entrails, it was brought home to me once again just how cruel, ruthless, and brutal we are in the treatment of our politicians. Decades of tireless service, always putting the public interest first without even the whiff of impropriety, is just so much dust in the wind if you happen to be caught just once with your hand in the cookie jar or in handcuffs, as in the case here. Don't misunderstand me. I'm not talking about Eric Cameron and am certainly not defending him. I always suspected he was not what he seemed. But our history is littered with other outstanding public servants whose human frailty in a single moment of weakness erased entire careers of dogged devotion and selfless service to Canada and its citizens. For Cameron, the trip from revered to reviled was painfully short.

We wonder why we're unable to attract to public life the calibre of people we'd like to see. Well, we pry into their private lives, put their every move under a microscope, and subject them and their loved ones to the most invasive and penetrating scrutiny imaginable. Then, when we find the slightest little thing that even remotely resembles an infraction no more serious than leaving the toilet seat up, we eat them. We get the government we deserve. Yes, we want honesty, transparency, and decency in our politicians. To attract such qualities, we need understanding, sensitivity, and sometimes forgiveness in our voters.

I'm not sure how I got onto that. It was likely a self-defensive instinct to distract me from what was unfolding in the election. The west was now reporting, and the Tories were cleaning up. The margins were so high that winners were declared early. The polls in British Columbia had not closed, but CTV and Global had already declared a minority government for the Progressive Conservatives. Based on our slate of B.C. candidates, I was surprised CBC was holding off making it unanimous. c.u.mberland-Prescott was one of the few seats outside of B.C. still undeclared. It was almost over but oh, so close.

CTV CAMERON WATCH (10:40 PM EST).

(All but one poll reporting)

Eric Cameron (PC) 2,988 Angus McLintock (Lib) 3,614 Jane Nankovich (NDP) 3,627 Spoiled Ballots 14,661 The race for the Government is all but over with the Tories returned to power with minority standing in the House of Commons. But CBC Election Central has yet to declare the winner in the battle for c.u.mberland-Prescott. Simply put, the race is still too close to call. It all comes down to the ballots cast in the very last poll to be counted. We'll know shortly when the numbers arrive from poll 22 in the heart of c.u.mberland.

I knew without looking but checked anyway. Yep, it was just a formality now. I shut off the television, stripped down again, and slipped off the end of the dock. I didn't even register the cold this time. I had no shock left in me. I stroked strongly out into the river about 80 metres or so from sh.o.r.e. I bobbed in the water there for about 20 minutes. The lights in the boathouse looked so warm and welcoming. On the return trip, I swam for as long as I could underwater, reveling in that foreign world. I felt strangely at peace when submerged. But then, I'd surface again, and my nightmare would take over.

I stood naked on the dock, letting the cool night wind dry me. I was trembling with cold but stood there, anyway. In time, I pulled on my clothes, grabbed my car keys, and locked the door behind me. In the moon's dim wash of light, I could just make out the silhouette of Angus's beloved Baddeck I through the window as I pa.s.sed by on the stairs. The Taurus started, eventually, and I pointed its front end towards Ottawa.

I met with the head of airport security, explained my situation with unvarnished honesty, and implored him on humanitarian grounds to grant my request. After two phone calls to his superiors and a mercifully cursory search (really, just a quick pat down), I was given a dummy boarding card. I pa.s.sed through the metal detectors and climbed the stairs to the arrivals level. The flight from Chicago, bearing Angus, landed safely and on time, ripping away my last shred of hope. I felt oddly detached from the evening's events as if I were merely an observer rather than a very real partic.i.p.ant with much at stake.

As I waited in the small arrivals lounge just a few metres from the door through which Angus would soon appear, I watched as a small army of reporters and cameras ama.s.sed on the far side of the security station. They saw me. I knew immediately that the mechanical-engineering department's naive and ever-helpful administrative a.s.sistant had been naive and ever helpful in providing flight information to the dozens of reporters who'd obviously called that day for the whereabouts of a certain Professor Duncan Angus McLintock. I chastised myself for not heading that issue off at the pa.s.s. I changed seats, putting my back towards the gestating scrum.

Angus emerged from the jetway in the middle of the pack of pa.s.sengers. Not expecting me in the arrivals area, he didn't see me at first. Despite his long and arduous journey, he never looked so light on his feet, so animated, so congenial. The word that sprung to mind was jaunty. For the first time, I glimpsed the Angus free of English for Engineers and as far as he was concerned, now free of any political entanglements.

We made eye contact when he was about 20 metres away. I could tell that after taking one look at my weak, insipid, pathetic smile, he knew something was amiss. He dropped his carry-on bag and stood there with his hands in gunfighter, quick-draw position. The other pa.s.sengers, eager for bed, streamed around him, sending him the odd glare, to which he was utterly oblivious. I watched as his facial colouring morphed from "Panic Pink" to "Raging Red" and then finally, to "Ballistic Blue." Perhaps Crayola had an opening for someone like me. He knew in an instant. He knew.

"No no no no, you cannae be serious! Yer havin' me on, aye you are. Yer havin' a yank on my leg, aye you are. s.h.i.t, you cannae keep standin' there with that look on yer mug."

We moved to a deserted departure lounge farther down the terminal, although we'd still have to run the reporters' gauntlet sooner or later, or take our chances on the runway.

I explained exactly what had happened as calmly and clearly as I could while working around a lump in my throat the size of a small grapefruit. I'd brought the weekend editions of the Globe and Mail, National Post, and Ottawa Citizen with their graphic images to bring the fiasco to life. It wasn't a complicated story, and Angus was a quick study. I relayed the final vote count I'd recorded from the car radio and noted the likely futility of a judicial recount. I also pointed out the eight video cameras and about twenty-five reporters waiting at the other end.

Angus remained calm while he read the entire Globe and Mail coverage. He asked me a few questions and then seemed to drift into a Zen-like state. He went into the men's room for what seemed like an hour but was actually only about 25 minutes. When he emerged, he looked composed. He'd wet his hair and, using his fingers, had fashioned at least the beginnings of a part. He'd also meticulously removed all food fragments from his beard.