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in a uniform dripping with medals and braid.
    “Oh, say can you see, we stand on guard for north strong and free,” the culture minister intoned from his trove of memorized anthems. “Is still part of British Empire, no?”
    “Is no longer called Empire, is Commonwealth,” said the education minister. “But is still great contry.”
    Standing corrected, the culture minister carried on: “Is good news that Canada break free from British rule — like Bhashyistan, free of Kremlin. We are brothers, together we sharing national dream. To freedom!”
    He slugged back his vodka and gave the prime minister a hearty bear hug — there’d been an incalculable number of these. Lafayette had got his share over the last two days, and was staying on the move so as not to get trapped. Finnerty, though, was keeping up with the Bhashies, drink for drink. The old Fundy fisher was showing them what Canucks are made of — he’d still be standing when they were all on the floor.
    Next up, the Bhashyistan defence minister. “But Canada still honours English queen. Is figurehead, nice lady, like grandmother. To royal queen, God willing forever may she reign.”
    Lafayette had begun to wilt under the pressure of their interminable toasts, presumably a national art form. To glorious new friends and brothers of great democratic republic of Canada. To all people of Canada, including French and Indians. To national tree with red leaf.
    They’d been bundled off to see the sights of Montreal that day, so were spared the sight of the demonstrators outside Parliament with their placards. “What’s Alta Paying You?” “Send the Bhums Bhack to Bhashyistan.” “No Deal with Fascistan.” Every tree-hugger and anarchist in the Capital Region had turned out.
    Here was Clara Gracey, the minority of one, conscripted into service. Elegant in a long dress of low cut, more than a hint of bodice, denying her years with foundation and blush. One would think, given her aspirations, she would show more solidarity with this Bhashyistan initiative, get on board, try to place herself for the next race, after the stopgap P.M. founders.
    The Bhashie minister of penal corrections did the closing piece, a recitation of a few stanzas of “The Cremation of Sam McGee,” first in English — the queerest thing Lafayette ever did see — then in the consonant-laden Turkic tongue of the republic, a variantofficially known as Igor. Lafayette took Finnerty’s cold glare as a signal: you, Lafayette, you have brought this on, you will reply.
    He vaulted up to a small stage, comfortably above everyone, then reached down and, with modest panache, cleanly plucked a Chablis from a passing tray.
    He thanked the visiting dignitaries — he dared call them that — for their offer of an exchange visit, and claimed to be champing at the bit to sample the renowned hospitality of their country. Otherwise, he kept to generalizations: good health, prosperous future relations, may we absorb each other’s culture and gain from that. When it seemed he had little else to say, some Bhashies looked distressed, so he threw in something vaguely laudatory about the Ultimate Leader.
    General Buhkyov was approaching the stage, voracious grin, arms splayed. He’d been lobbying to place his sons in college here; Lafayette was expected to put in the fix. Dismounting from the platform, he slipped behind an alcove, pretending he had an important phone call. Buhkyov veered away toward the bar. Others of his troupe had headed off to the billiards room.
    At the door, flashing her invitation, an unexpected presence — the media sweetheart, Margaret Blake. All the socialists in the House, among whom Lafayette counted half the Liberals, had boycotted this event, so it was doubly surprising to see her here. Especially given that her office had been the operations centre for a ten-city multiplex of demonstrations.
    Just a touch of makeup for this handsome woman, a natural tan, piercing grey eyes,