Rumours & Lies
Page 4
the phone and dialed information. “The Opera Society please.” The phone was ringing within a few seconds.
“Opera So . . .” a middle aged woman started to say.
“Yes, listen, in a couple of weeks there is a performer coming to . . . I assume the convention centre . . . yes it must be the convention centre . . . the Rolonson Convention centre, that’s the only viable place for opera in the city.”
“Sir?”
“Does the name Velanni mean anything to you?”
“Not particularly sir.”
“How about a name that rhymes with Velanni?”
“Sir?”
“Or a name that sounds like Velanni.”
“Sir, I . . .”
“Listen, who is performing at the Rolonson Convention Centre in a couple of weeks?”
Ronan heard the tapping of a keyboard and waited. Then his door flung open. “Ronan,” Ivan said loudly. Ronan’s body convulsed in spastic fright. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you Ronan, but listen. I spoke with my better half and she has heard of Velanni and is quite looking forward to the whole thing.”
“Super Ivan, that’s tremendous,” Ronan managed, his heart beating wildly. “I’m just trying to confirm the dates.”
“Listen, Franklin and I are about done for today. I’ll be back tomorrow. It’d be nice if we had all the Velanni details sorted out,” he said and winked. Ronan tried unsuccessfully to wink back, inadvertently closing both of his eyes.
The big man left and then the woman from the opera society came back on the line. “Sir, nobody is playing at the convention centre in two weeks. They’re closing it for renovation tomorrow. It’ll be closed for a month.”
“Is that right,” Ronan said. He hung up the phone without saying another word.
Ronan rested his chin on his knuckles and contemplated his dilemma. His small minded competitiveness and ego had prevented him from uttering five words that surely would have steered him clear of this mess; “I’ve never heard of Velanni.” Why had he found it so difficult to say that? He had probably still been pissed off at being shown up by Franklin on the Bartoli thing. God, what a mess. And he hated opera to boot. That’s right, there was no sense denying himself the truth; he truly hated listening to opera. Hated dressing up and hated going and sitting there listening to that awful bellowing. None of it made any sense and the goddamn costumes were ridiculous. The only aspect of the whole thing that appealed to Ronan was telling other people that he had gone, and enjoying for a brief moment a feeling of cultural exclusivity. And now he had promised a man, who could crush him professionally in a moment, the opportunity to see an opera singer who apparently didn’t even exist.
Ivan burst through the doors of the boardroom, three coffees in Styrofoam cups in a tray in his hand. “Morning gentlemen. I brought coffees.”
“Well, wonderful. You didn’t have to do that Ivan,” Ronan said.
“I know I didn’t have to Ronan; I’m the sole reason that this firm exists. I don’t have to do anything, but I’m excited about this whole opera thing. You know, I’ll be honest, I’m not a huge opera fan. I mean, I know all the performers and all, but my wife really thinks I’ll enjoy seeing Velanni. Apparently one needs to see Velanni to appreciate Velanni.”
“Have you heard any of Velanni’s performances?” Ronan asked, unsure of whether it was a mistake or not to ask.
“Of course I have Ronan,” Ivan said quickly, perhaps a little insulted by the question.
“Oh, of course Ivan, It’s just that it’s very difficult on occasion to find Velanni’s work. I mean, a lot of the mainstream retail stores don’t have a great deal of Velanni in stock,”
“Do I look like a man who can’t get what he wants Ronan?”
“I suppose not Ivan,” Ronan said and turned and looked nervously at Franklin.
They settled in after that and talked about poison pills and hostile bids and all sorts of things that had to do with taking over a cosmetics company. Ronan couldn’t quite commit his brain to the task at hand and was still fretting over Velanni the phantom singer. After a rather unproductive hour, Ivan finally got up and left the boardroom for a washroom break, allowing Ronan to play his last card.
“Franklin, listen, there’s something I need to ask you. Do you remember last year when we went and saw Placido Domingo?”
“Yes Ronan, it was a wonderful night. Gale still talks about what a wonderful time she had that night.”
“It was truly a wonderful night. The restaurant, what was it called, Latour’s I think, was just tremendous. Anyway Franklin, you seem to have a knack for organizing these things in a truly fantastic way. I think I’d feel more comfortable if you organized the whole Velanni night for Ivan and us.”
“Well thank you Ronan, but I’ll have to say no,” Franklin said and returned his gaze to the papers in front of him.
“Oh really, for any particular reason Franklin?”
“I’m actually quite busy Ronan.”
“Oh, I see,” Ronan said, much more disappointed than his disappointed look could possibly portray. “Well I’ll have to do it myself then.”
“Yes, afraid so,” Franklin added.
“You know Franklin, I was wondering. What is it specifically that you like about Velanni?”
Franklin paused for a moment. “There is a certain Velanni style,” he said finally, not committing to a gender.
“Yes, the old Velanni style,” Ronan countered.
They both sat silent, staring hard at one another. Finally after a dozen seconds, Ronan cleared his throat just to break the awkward tension.
Franklin accepted this concession and jumped in. “Oh, for the love of God Ronan, this is ridiculous,” he said, still staring at Ronan. “The Velanni style . . . really? There is no Velanni. Have we gone insane?” Franklin threw his arms in the air.
Ronan shook his head, a weak smile all he could muster. “What the hell came over us Franklin? God, Ivan thinks Velanni exists. What the hell are we going to do?”
Franklin ran his hand through his hair, Ronan sat at the boardroom table, head in hands. Finally Franklin spoke, “I might have an idea,” he came and sat beside Ronan and spoke softly.
Ivan burst through the doors again like a locomotive. “I’m back. You haven’t bankrupted me while I was in the washroom have you?”
“Not hardly,” Ronan answered, a serious look on his face.
“What the hell is wrong with you two; you look like somebody ate your lunch,” Ivan said and pulled up a chair across the table from them.
“You’re not going to believe this; we can hardly believe it ourselves,” Ronan said.
“What?”
“It came across the newswire a moment ago.”
“What, for the love of God?”
Ronan and Franklin said nothing, intentionally pausing for a good three or four seconds. Finally Ronan spoke. “Velanni is dead.”
“What?”
“Heart attack,” Franklin added.
Nobody said anything. The silent interlude hit its eighth second when suddenly, head in hands, Ivan began to make a contorted noise, almost a hiccupping sound. Ronan and Franklin sensed that he was crying. They stared at him for a full ten seconds before they realized he was laughing—so hard he was having trouble breathing.
“Ivan?” Ronan said.
Finally catching his breath Ivan managed to speak, “You two are beautiful.” He rubbed tears from his eyes. “The great Velanni is dead . . . boo hoo hoo,” he said, breaking into wild laughter again. He caught his breath once more. “Well, we’ll have to go to the funeral,” again wild laughter poured out of the big man. Ronan and Franklin sat silent, unsure of what was happening but sensing they were being laughed at.
Moments later, having calmed down and poured himself a glass of water, Ivan spoke. “Alright, fun’s over gentleman, now let’s buy this cosmetics company.”
Thirty feet away, Jane Cooper, receptionist, added Ivan Rollyglen, tycoon, to the list of friends
in her address book—right under her best friend Gabrielle Velanni.
A Mother and Son’s Prerogative
After an arduous spring, Jules Lamoure was more than happy to enjoy a peaceful June evening with her husband. She and Alan had been married for a little more than two decades, but the last few months had easily been their worst. Their daughter Charlotte had gotten married and moved out of the house the previous fall, and their son Gerald had just finished high school and was spending less and less time at home. This was supposed to be the start of their golden years, a period when, alone at last, they could rediscover their love and wallow in the glow of their accomplishments.
It hadn’t quite gone as planned. Instead, Alan’s small cleaning business had lost a couple of key clients, and their financial future seemed less certain than it had just a year ago. The added stress was manifesting itself into an assortment of new physical aches and pains which they both fought through every day, and they seemed to be constantly carping at each other, often for silly, trivial things. It had been a tough couple of months.
But on this day all was good. An amber sun was only minutes past the horizon, the peaceful warm June air teased of long August evenings to come, and two wonderfully plump salmon steaks lay defenseless on their small globe barbeque. They had gotten the salmon at a bargain price thanks to Jules’ acumen with coupons, and so had splurged on wine and were now leisurely nursing a crisp Chardonnay in the sun’s final half hour. They sat silent, content in each other’s presence, but seasoned enough to jointly shirk the painful task