In the Shadow of Versailles: Max Anderson Mysteries, #1

By Hayden Trenholm

The Great War has ended. From all over the world, politicians and diplomats gather in Paris to negotiate the Great Peace. But Max Anderson, former lieutenant in the Canadian Expeditionary Force, cares for none of that. With no home waiting back in Canada, he is determined to make a new life for himself in the City of Light. But soon he finds himself immersed in intrigue and political turmoil of the treaty negotiations. The war may be over but the city is full of violent men pursuing violent causes, and when no one else seems willing to do the right thing, Max has no choice but to act.

• Language: English
• Publisher: House of Straw Press
• Release date: Apr 27, 2021
• ISBN: 9781927881620

Hayden Trenholm

Hayden Trenholm is an award-winning playwright, novelist and short story writer. His short fiction has appeared in many magazines, including Analog Science Fiction and Fact, and anthologies such as The Sum of Us and Strangers Among Us, and on CBC radio. His first novel, A Circle of Birds, won the 3-Day Novel Writing competition in 1993; it was recently translated and published in French. His trilogy, The Steele Chronicles, were each nominated for an Aurora Award. Stealing Home, the third book, was a finalist for the Sunburst Award. Hayden has won five Aurora Awards – three times for short fiction and twice for editing anthologies. He purchased Bundoran Press in 2012 and was its managing editor until the press closed in 2020. He lives with his wife and fellow writer, Liz Westbrook-Trenholm, in Ottawa, having retired in 2017 after 15 years as a policy adviser to the Senator for the Northwest Territories. 

Book preview

One – Saturday, November 30, 1918

Every evening Max walked from his hotel, past Gare du Nord, toward the Basilica de Sacre Coeur, now in the final stages of construction at the top of Montmartre. When the pain in his leg grew too great, he would stop in the first bar for a croquette and a glass of beer. After his exertion, he was thirsty and would drink half the beer in a single gulp, the liquid cold and crisp in his mouth, and then sip the rest while he slowly ate the fried cake. He had only been in Paris a week but already, his leg felt stronger and, each day, he made it a little farther up the hill. By Christmas, he thought, I’ll be strong enough to go to midnight Mass. He thought of his Uncle George, deacon in the First Baptist Church, turned red with rage at the very thought, perhaps finally succumbing to that long-promised stroke. It was almost worth climbing all those stairs.

Max knew he could not stay at L’Aquilon forever. It was a warm refuge against the night and Jean Marc had proved a generous and trustworthy host. The food in the restaurant was simple but hearty but, soon, he would have to find a flat where he could cook his own food. His income was steady but small and, until his confidence in his French improved, he would have no chance to increase it. When his discharge pay was spent, he would have to move to a cheaper neighbourhood on the far side of the river. Perhaps the railway porter who had been so kind to him on his arrival in Paris would have a suggestion.

He finished his beer and dropped a few sou on the table for the barman. From here he could go right and take Clichy to Rue Fontaine before turning back to the hotel. Those streets were lined with cafés and bars and there might be music. He could flirt with the girls who worked in the dance halls though he was not fit enough to dance and had no interest in the other services they offered. Paris had been asleep since 1914 but now that the war was over, the city was packed with strangers and full of enthusiasms. Its citizens seemed determined to prove that the City of Light was still the brightest beacon in all of Europe. Sometimes, it seemed to be trying too hard.

Instead, Max turned to the left and took a quieter route past shuttered shops and houses, the dark broken only by an occasional street lamp and the thin lines of light that showed beneath the curtained second floor windows. The few people he passed seemed absorbed in their own thoughts, haunted by memories the rest of Paris wanted to forget.

He was passing a stone church opposite Square St. Bernard when he heard the cry. It was faint and echoed against the stone walls of the old buildings so that, at first, he couldn’t tell where it had come from or even if it was a man or a woman.

The cry came again, clearer and more desperate.

Aux secours! On me tue.

They are killing me. The voice was coming from the far side of the church. The streets were now deserted. Max was weaponless save for a small pocketknife and his cane. He thought of the Webley service revolver he had kept for reasons he did not understand, hidden in a box at the bottom of his suitcase. He might as well wish for the moon.

A third cry, a harsh inchoate groan of pain. A familiar tremor ran along his legs and he had to force himself to turn toward the sound. After the first step it was easier and Max hurried along the wrought iron fence that surrounded the church, each painful stride threatening to tumble him to the ground. His only asset was surprise. He stepped through a narrow gate, bellowing with his best parade ground voice. Three men, their faces covered in scarves, were punching and kicking a fourth, who was slumped in an archway against a blue door trying to shield his face with his upraised arms. At Max’s shout the gang froze in a violent tableau, lit by a single dim streetlight opposite the church’s rear entrance.

Before they could react, Max took two quick steps and struck the closest gangster, a short thick-set man in a striped shirt, across the neck with the head of his cane. The man staggered and almost fell. The second, taller but as heavily built, leapt toward Max, hands outstretched. He recoiled in pain as Max’s small blade cut a gash across the back of his hand and up his arm.

The victim was not helpless, either. He took quick advantage of Max’s interruption, stepped close to his third assailant and shot a hard right into the man’s broad belly. He followed with a short chopping left to the man’s ear. The gangster turned and fled, the other two fast behind.

They had barely disappeared in the darkness before a policeman came flying around the corner, his white stick raised and his cape billowing behind him.

Almost when we needed one, muttered the short dark man Max had rescued, picking up his hat.

The gendarme, puffing and red faced, looked from Max to the other man, who was now dabbing at the blood on his face with a white silk handkerchief. He said something fast that Max didn’t catch. He shook his head. Pardon, ne comprend pas.

Is this wog bothering you, monsieur? he repeated in barely comprehensible English.

Max shook his head more emphatically and switched back to French. No, he was being attacked by three men. They went that way. Max gestured with his cane along the street. The officer, a sergeant by the markings on his sleeve, nodded but gave no indication that he intended a pursuit. He took out a notebook and took their names, addresses and the few bits of description they could provide.

Monsieur Barzani, he said at last, Do you know why you were attacked?

Perhaps they wanted to rob me of my wallet, Barzani shrugged, speaking such precise French that Max felt envious. Or perhaps it is because I’m a wog.

The gendarme glared and snapped his notebook shut. With a promise to find them should he require anything further, he turned on his heel and strode into the gathering gloom.

We have heard each other’s names but we have not formally met, said Barzani, in English as flawless as his French. He extended his hand. Hevel Mohammed Barzani, late of Tehran, freelance diplomat and currently a man about town.

Max took the hand and shook it warmly, slightly embarrassed by the policeman’s words and behaviour. He tried to match the precision of Barzani’s French. Maxwell Michael Anderson, late of Truro and the Nova Scotia Highlanders. Currently between drinks.

Then we must remedy that. Drinks and a cigar, too. I have some imported directly from Cuba that you simply must try.

I wasn’t trying to cadge...

Of course not, my friend said Barzani, taking Max by the arm. I owe you a great debt. I think those men intended more than a simple beating. I would be a poor son of Allah if I did not offer some token of my gratitude. Now come. I know a charming little bistro a few blocks from here where we can be refreshed and build upon what I am sure will become a great friendship.

§

Le Coq Bleu redefined the meaning of charming in Max’s reckoning. On the corner of Rue Gabrielle and Drevet, half way up Montmartre, the bar was small and, except for the garish neon rooster in blue and red that hung in the window, dimly lit. There were a dozen square tables covered in faded checkerboard cloths in the L-shaped room and a zinc covered bar along one wall. There were stubby candles stuck on small blue plates on every table but only a few were lit.

Max recognized the old porter, Henri, perched on a stool at one end of the bar. He nodded and Max thought he should speak to him, thank him for saving him from robbery, or worse, at the Gare du Nord. But Barzani was crossing the room so Max merely tipped his cap before following his new friend to a table by the window.

Barzani shrugged apologetically at the flickering sign. Quite the remarkable piece, is it not? They say the owner won it in dice game with the designer, George Claude. Despite the glare, I prefer this table to the rest.

He must be very particular, thought Max, as he looked around the bar. Fewer than half the tables were in use. Most of the customers were men, sitting in groups of three or four, muttering in low voices and hunching over their glasses of beer or thin red wine. They had the look of workmen from the factories that filled the area on the far side of Montmartre. At one table, two women, their faces flushed and voices loud from drink laughed shrilly at some remark one of their companions had made. Their dresses draped loosely over their shoulders but were cut low in the back. One wore a flamboyant hat of lace and feathers, the other had her hair cut short in the new style. Both their lips were smeared with bright red lipstick.

It is charming, said Max.

Barzani laughed. It has its charms, he said, gesturing with his head to the far end of the bar, opposite from where Henri sat. A girl sat alone, sipping from a glass of white wine. Her face was pale, an oval beacon shining out of the shadows, framed by straight black hair. Max didn’t realize he was staring until she caught his eyes with her own wide grey ones. She smiled softly and Max felt the heat rise in his face. An answering hint of colour flushed her cheeks but she didn’t break her gaze, searching for something Max was sure his face didn’t hold.

Max dropped his eyes to the table. The girl laughed, not unkindly, and said something to the bartender. He rushed to refill her glass.

Don’t worry, Max, she is his spoiled niece not his girlfriend, said Barzani. Minette is available although unattainable.

The bartender sauntered to their table.

You’ll want your usual, he said.

What else, Yesim, what else? But for my friend a glass of your finest cognac. Yesim nodded. The finest, mind you, and in a clean glass. And some ice if you have any in that chest of yours.

Barzani smiled broadly, his teeth slightly crooked and yellow from tobacco. One must be precise, don’t you think? He winced and put his fingers to the left side of his mouth. The bleeding had stopped but it was beginning to swell. His left eye, too, had begun to discolour and puff closed.

Maybe you should see a doctor, said Max.

Nonsense. Nothing a little ice and a night’s sleep won’t cure.

It looks bad.

I’ve collected worse bruises on my college’s rugby fields – not to mention the back alleys of Jerusalem.

Max nodded. There was no doubt that Barzani could take a punch and throw one, too. Who were those men? What did they want from you?

Nothing more than my wallet, I’m sure. It will teach me to take poorly-lit shortcuts.

Good advice. Still, there was something odd about the assault. Robbers get what they want and go; these men seemed intent on inflicting a beating. Not my business, it’s enough they didn’t succeed.

Yesim returned with their drinks and a plate of olives. He handed Barzani the ice wrapped in a bar cloth. Max tasted his cognac. The musk aroma filled his nose and mouth but the liquor burned his throat and filled his belly with warmth. Barzani watched him drink, then took a small sip of steaming darkness.

Not as good as the coffee shops of Tehran but the best you will find in Paris. Yesim, as his name implies, was not born here. Now about those cigars.

He reached inside his jacket and withdrew a silver case like five tubes welded together. He extracted two cigars.

These are called Panatelas – average in length but a little thinner than most. Good for a casual smoke in a place like this. Not something you would smoke in the finer men’s clubs.

He passed one of the cigars to Max, who took it gingerly. He had never been a real smoker; an occasional shared cigarette in the trenches between attacks, when boredom fought with tension and any relief, a joke, a drink or a cheap smoke, was welcome.

Barzani clipped the end of the cigar with a pair of small rounded scissors then handed the instrument to Max who tried to copy him.

Careful not to cut too much, said Barzani, gesturing for Max to move the scissors closer to the end. That’s better. Now the taste.

He slid the cigar under his nose and smelled along its length. Then he put the cut end in his mouth and drew on it in short sharp puffs. Taking out a pair of long matches, he passed one to Max and lit the other, waiting until the sulphur burned off before applying it to the end of the cigar. He took several slow pulls, half rotating the tube as he did so, until the entire end glowed red. He held the smoke in his mouth for a moment before exhaling it through his nose. The smoke was pungent but not entirely unpleasant, almost like the smell of burning cedar.

Max watched him carefully, for some reason not wanting to embarrass himself in front of Barzani. He was not a large man, four or five inches shorter than Max, himself not quite six feet tall, and quite slim. Yet he had already proven himself agile and quick in a fight and, even now, the left side of his face bruised and swollen, he had an air of calm elegance. Dapper, this is what they mean by dapper.

His face was swarthy, almost dark brown, but he was clearly not a Negro. Max had grown up with Negroes and there had been some in the trenches, especially after the Americans arrived. His middle name was Mohammed so he must be a Moor or an Arab of some kind. His beard and moustache were black and had recently been barbered. His eyes were lively and so dark they seemed like reflecting pools, glinting with light from the candle and the neon rooster. His age was indeterminate, though Max supposed he was at least thirty though not more than thirty-five. He was well dressed in a white shirt with a high detachable collar, now flecked with drops of red, and a dark wool jacket with thin lapels over a patterned waistcoat. The silk handkerchief was back in his breast pocket, carefully folded to hide the bloodstains. He wore a broad tie, printed in a geometric pattern that hurt to look at too long in the flickering light.

Max ran the cigar under his nose. The smell of tobacco was strong but there was an underlying sweetness that surprised him. He lit the cigar the way he had seen Barzani do it and took a cautious puff. It was different, not as harsh as the cigarettes he had tried before.

Before he could draw deeper, Barzani said, Don’t inhale. Hold it in your mouth and nose. That’s where all the pleasure is.

It was alright though Max didn’t think he would make a habit of it – if for no other reason than it looked expensive.

What brought a Canadian soldier to the back streets of Paris on a cold December evening? Surely you were not looking for a foreigner who needed rescuing? Not that I’m complaining.

Ex-soldier, said Max. I’ve had my fill of fighting. Paris seems like a good place to be.

There is no better place than Paris. If you have money.

It’s not bad even if you don’t, said Max.

But surely, after four years in Europe, you must long to see your home and family again.

Max took another draft on the cigar but didn’t reply.

Ah, said Barzani, my father has passed, too. Last year. But your mother?

This man is a stranger, someone I will never see again. Maybe if I tell him, he will take away the bitterness when he goes.

My mother died when I was twelve – she had been ill for years. My father, two years later, in an accident in his factory. So they say.

You disagreed?

Max shrugged. The opinions of boys don’t count for a lot. My uncle George said it was an accident and the coroner agreed. I have no proof to the contrary. Doesn’t matter now. I got my inheritance – what was left of it – when I was twenty-one. My Uncle could no longer forbid it so I quit university and signed up. No one seemed unhappy to see me go. Now, I’m happy to stay away. Even his brother, Ben, too young to really remember their parents, hadn’t come to see him off.

Barzani took several puffs on his cigar while he gazed at Max thoughtfully. Max felt his face flush under that steady appraisal. The past doesn’t exist, my friend, he said at last. The last four years put an end to it. People think they can put it all back together but they can’t. The future is waiting and it will be men like you and I who will build it.

That’s quite a speech from a man who doesn’t drink.

Barzani laughed. You are quick. Nonetheless, what I say is true. Next month, the leaders of the world will arrive in Paris. All our troubles will be discussed and analyzed and every past wrong will be set right. We are all here for our own reasons – even if some of us don’t know what they are yet. There was a purpose to our meeting tonight – of that I am sure.

Max smiled. He doubted that anything had a reason anymore. But he had tasted good cognac and smoked his first cigar so he supposed that was purpose enough.

Barzani took an expensive-looking watch from his vest pocket. I have a late engagement that I really can’t miss. I am staying at the Grand, near the Opera House. If you would like to share another smoke, drop by and ask for me there. He handed Max a small gilt embossed card. In the meantime, I have an account here. Feel free to have another drink and try your luck with Minette.

With that, he picked up his slightly battered fedora and strode out of the bar. Max watched him march purposefully down the street. What a strange man. I don’t suppose I’ll ever see him again. He felt an odd pang of regret as he slipped the card into his pocket and ordered another cognac.

Two – Sunday, December 1 to Thursday December 12, 1918

The next morning, Max walked along the Quai on the right bank of the Seine. He was moving slowly after the exertions of the night before, stopping every few dozen steps to look at the river or the grand buildings that lined it.

He heard his name called and when he looked up, Barzani was dashing across the street, dodging through the welter of horses, cars and bicycles. The only sign of the previous night’s encounter was a slight discoloration around his left eye.

You’re a fast healer, said Max, wishing he could say the same for himself.

I try to wear my bruises on the inside, said Barzani, smiling. Soaking up some history?

Mostly soaking up this rain, said Max, looking up at lowering skies.

This isn’t rain, said Barzani. You haven’t seen a Parisian rain. But if a little mist bothers you, we can find a coffee house.

No, said Max. I need to walk off some of this soreness.

Why not? Barzani moderated his usual brisk pace to match Max’s slower gait. He paused frequently to describe some point of interest.

Do you see this bridge? said Barzani, It was built with stones taken from the Bastille. And that statue, it’s a copy; the original was melted down by the revolutionaries. And, look up, see that window – it is said that Madame Duplessis, the famous courtesan, would lower a rope to allow her lovers to climb up to her, while she was under house arrest.

They walked for an hour as Barzani recounted in lurid detail what bloody crime or juicy scandal lurked behind each shuttered window or down every narrow street. Max learned more of the secret history of Paris in that hour than from all the books he had read in England.

When they approached La Louvre, Barzani rested his hand on the low parapet wall. The rain was heavier now and Max was reconsidering Barzani’s offer of a coffee shop.

In 1910, said Barzani, the whole city flooded in the winter rains. It was a miracle that the museum wasn’t destroyed – a miracle made from the sweat of men. They piled sandbags here, even tore up the cobble stones to build a wall, higher than a man could reach. It is an inspiration to me. That men will risk everything to preserve what is best. It is a lesson we should never stop learning.

Max ran his hand across the smooth cement on the top of the wall. After all he had seen in the war, it was hard to believe that the sacrifice of men could actually count for something.

When they had passed the Louvre, Barzani glanced at his watch.

I’ll have to leave you now, Max, he said. I have business nearby. I enjoyed our walk.

Me, too, said Max. I... hope to see you again.

Look for me at Le Coq Bleu. I often stop there when I’m in Montmartre. For Yesim’s coffee, of course. Barzani smiled and winked.

And a glimpse of the fair Minette. He watched the little man walk briskly away from the river, past the Louvre, until he lost sight of him in a small park that separated the museum from a large church.

The Seine was swollen with winter rains and water foamed white against the footings of the Pont Neuf, though it was in no danger of overflowing its banks. Max’s emotions matched the turbulence of the river below. Did he feel betrayed because of Barzani’s interest in a girl to whom he had never even spoken? No, not that but still something felt oddly treasonous. But who was betraying whom?

They had spoken again for a few minutes on the street two days later and then on Thursday, Max had found Barzani at his favorite table in Le Coq Bleu and they had talked away the afternoon over brioche and soup. For the first time, since he had left the hospital, Max found himself talking about the war, about the things he had seen and the friends he had lost. It had ended with an invitation to the opera. Hevel, Max decided that day, was the older brother he had never had.

§

The Grand Hotel was well named, occupying half a city block across the street from the ornate stone and gilt Opera de Paris. The entrance was on a quiet side street and two liveried doormen vied for the honour of pulling open the heavy metal and glass doors. Max dropped a few sou in the hand of the successful bidder and stepped into the foyer. The concierge stared at him disdainfully. Max knew his demob suit, though the best he had, was none too good for all that.

Barzani, on the other hand, was impeccable in a black wool suit highlighted by even darker silk trim. His shirt, in the new style with collar attached, was crisp and white, set off by a tie of red silk and matching pocket square. Max raised his hand in greeting. Barzani smiled in response and waved Max across the lobby to the entrance of the gentleman’s club.

The foyer was dominated by a chandelier that hung from the ceiling like a cluster of crystal grapes and Max paused beneath it and gazed upward. The intricate pattern of glass formed a maze of light and shadow and, for a moment, it reminded Max of the tumbling chaos of the trenches of northern France. His stomach lurched and he had to lean on his cane to keep from falling.

Barzani was at his side, his hand on Max’s elbow. The warm smell of tobacco and musk enveloped him and Max was back in Paris again.

Are you all right, my friend? asked Barzani. You look pale. That flu that’s going around—

No. It’s... It’s all a bit overwhelming.

When Paris stops surprising you, you should check your pulse. You might be dead.

Should we go across the street? asked Max.

The Opera is more than an hour away, said Barzani. I thought a drink and an h’ors d’ouerve before would be in order.

I don’t know if I’d fit in.

If I worried about such things, I wouldn’t go anywhere. Act like you belong.

It’s just... Max dropped his voice to a whisper. I don’t think I can afford it.

Barzani smiled and put his hand on Max’s shoulder. My idea, my treat. Besides, I’m still in your debt. You bought lunch the last time.

At Le Coq Bleu.

Lunch is lunch. They have a very nice cellar here. And an excellent selection of beers. Or so I’m told.

What should I have? asked Max, as he gazed at the extensive list of drinks the waiter had presented them.

On that, I can be of little help, Barzani shrugged. "Ask Henri the next time you’re at Le Coq Bleu. He’ll talk your ear off about terroir and vintage. But I highly recommend the foie gras and the snails." Barzani himself didn’t drink on religious grounds but took pleasure in watching others enjoy themselves.

Max settled for a Belgian beer – the only thing he recognized – and tried the escargots. The chewy texture was a surprise but the salty butter and garlic they were soaked in was a perfect match for the crispness of the lager.

After, Barzani led him across to the main entrance to the opera, pointing out the busts of composers interspersed among the angelic muses that ringed the front of the building. In the foyer, he bought Max a glass of sparkling wine, then took him by the arm.

Follow my lead, said Barzani, as he took him across the hall to a cluster of men, attentive to the pronouncements of an elderly gentleman with an impressive white mustache. Barzani waited until the man paused and nodded in his direction.

Max, may I present the Count Auguste de la Boix? Count, Lieutenant Max Anderson, late of the Canadian Expeditionary Force. A decorated hero of the battle of Amiens.

The Count peered at Max, his dark eyes sharp despite his advanced years, and then nodded. Do you speak French? he asked.

I try, said Max. I don’t always succeed.

Good response, said the Count. I like my heroes with a dash of humility. Leave him with me Barzani. I have interests in Amiens. I’d like to see how well he looked after them.

Barzani nodded and drifted away and was soon in intense conversation with one of the Count’s former audience.

I’m afraid the Germans left much of it in a sad state. Max had seen little of the countryside, other than the inside of a trench, but nothing much could have survived the weeks and months of constant shelling.

I suppose I’ll have to go and see for myself. Perhaps, you’d care to come along, revisit the site of your former glory.

Max’s voice froze in his throat. He wasn’t sure he would ever be ready to return to northern France. All his memories were of horror, not glory. The Count leaned in, as if he couldn’t wait for Max’s response. He was saved from making one when Barzani reappeared at his side.

There are so many important people that Max should meet if you will excuse us, Count.

Of course, I’m sure we’ll have a chance to discuss this further, Max. Not if I have anything to say about it, thought Max.

Barzani steered him away from a large man standing to one side who seemed to be intensely studying the faces of everyone who passed.

Who’s that? Max asked.

Captain Alphonse Gereau of the Prefecture, said Barzani, taking Max’s elbow. Not someone you want to take too great an interest in you. These gentlemen, on the other hand...

This time it was a general – not a senior one – but Max had to resist the urge to salute. Again, Barzani spoke to one of the entourage. And so it continued until the chime sounded to call them into the theatre for the opening curtain. Each time, it seemed to Max that Barzani spoke to the most dangerous-looking person in the group.

The opera itself was everything Barzani had promised and more. The richness of the costumes and the elaborate sets that drifted on and off stage like fragments of a dream enchanted Max. But the music of Saint-Saens, and especially the voices, carried him away. He understood not a word but he understood everything. As the climax approached, Max felt overwhelmed. Tears stood on his cheeks and he tried to wipe them away without being noticed, until he saw other men openly weeping. Paris truly is a different country.

In the next seat, Barzani slept, his faint snoring a gentle counterpoint to the singers on stage.

§

The following Thursday, they met again at Le Coq Bleu. Barzani was in the midst of a discourse on the benefits of a scientific education to hone one’s logical instincts, when they were interrupted by a messenger from the Grand. Barzani tipped the boy and sent him on his way before opening the envelope and briefly scanning the enclosed note.

I’m afraid I’ve been called away. It’s rather important.

Is there anything I can do to help? asked Max. Barzani had spoken little of his work but what little he had said intrigued Max. Freelance diplomat sounded exciting and it certainly paid well if Barzani’s generosity was any indication.

I appreciate the offer, said Barzani. He peered thoughtfully at Max. The people I’m dealing with are averse to surprises. I couldn’t bring someone unannounced. But... there may be something you can do for me. We’ll discuss it next time we meet.

I can at least walk with you, said Max, reluctant to cut their argument short, especially now he had thought of several telling points to make in defense of the law, which he had spent two years studying before the war.

I’m only going as far as the first cab stand, said Barzani. Stay, finish lunch. He raised his voice slightly. I am sure Monsieur Henri Compte will be glad to keep you company and teach you about wine.

Henri looked up from his usual place at the end of the bar. "Nothing could give me greater