I remember spying, on her desk among my letters last autumn at the Fisher Library, Mrs. Waugh’s own letter asking this man to analyze the handwriting of “someone who is no longer alive.” Her note goes on:

“…whose life’s work is the psychological assessment of a person through analysis of his or her handwriting and—forgive me if this sounds in any way disrespectful to your own story, which I believe, I do—I believe you have, in some way I might not yet fully understand, brought General Wolfe, who died on Abraham’s plains in 1759, here, to Montreal today. I have shown Monsieur Choinière some of Wolfe’s older letters, and I wondered if I might also show him the letter you have sent me. Don’t worry, Monsieur Choinière is quite sensitive—he says handwriting is a picture of a certain moment in time: people change, they evolve, they go through crises…and he looks for the larger picture. You know, yourself—you told me that day on the steps—history books have hardly told your whole story. Military histories, especially…with their concentration on strategy, on the geometry of battle…whereas Monsieur Choinière’s approach is more a sounding out of the inner man…but I would never show him your private letter to me without your permission.

Would it be possible, I wonder, for us to meet tomorrow at noon at the Green Spot on Rue Notre Dame? We could discuss matters further, and I would be honoured to treat you to a smoked-meat sandwich with one of their legendary sour pickles.

Tomorrow? That’s today! I glance at Sophie, now stirring as I quickly examine the card Mrs. Waugh has wrapped inside her note. I see that it’s not a playing card at all, but has some sort of pictorial significance: it depicts a man of my age, about to become not-so-young, standing in a cloak at a river, his head bent in sorrow. Across the river stands a ruined fortress, beyond a bridge that appears inaccessible. The man has spilt three goblets on the ground—has he spilt blood? Two goblets remain upright behind him. The man does not appear to know where to go or how to move beyond loss.

Yes, I should go for that sandwich. The melancholy card, my sudden hunger at the thought of delicious smoked meat—how is it that Genevieve Waugh knows, so exactly, how I feel in both body and spirit?

Sophie twitches, commences grumbling; “You’re not planning on hanging around here all day, I hope? It’s already Wednesday.”

“I’m aware of that,” I say as I conceal the letter and card.

“Better get your act together is all I’m saying. You have a few more nights here with me then I’ve got my next combat-shattered marauder to deal with.”

“Do I know who he is?”