“pardon Emma, I didn’t hear you.”
She looked up and noticed his hand shaking. For his daughter, Harry’s frailness was proven right there on the table; and he hadn’t heard her to boot. In her mind, the ranting had been justified; she had been right. She seized the moment to drive home her point and repeated the sentence loudly with more than a hint of annoyance. “Sounds like a good deal!” she screamed. Rubin caught the sentence out of the atmosphere and smiled. The Liberals were willing to make a deal.
Harry’s was willing to admit that this whole ploy was a bit of a flyer. There was no guarantee that his daughter would utter the right phrase; no guarantee that the half-wit Rubin would interpret it as he had; no guarantee any of it would happen as he saw it in his head, but there was no harm—it didn’t present a risk. In Harry’s view, this was a big part of what he did; putting himself in risk free situations that might work to his advantage. If you give yourself enough chances to succeed, he always thought, the science of rumour starting or information flowing as he preferred to call it, could be quite useful.
“Dad!” Emma yelled, as if he were standing outside in the parking lot.
“Why are you yelling?”
“Never mind,” she said softly.
A couple of young Conservative MPs, both of whom were sitting relatively close to Harry, got up simultaneously, probably heading to the bar. Seeing an opportunity, Harry got up out of his chair and began to tremble as if he was going to fall over. His daughter was by his side in a moment, as were his two colleagues.
“Dad, for the love of God,” his daughter spat out.
“Sorry everyone. Really nothing exciting happening here; I just took a bad step,” Harry said.
Emma looked on skeptically as the MPs helped Harry get his balance.
“Can you two guys just help me to the washroom? Sorry, this is very embarrassing,” he said, looking around and trying to act as if he was indeed embarrassed.
“Of course we can sir,” said one of the young MPs dutifully. The three of them walked in lock step towards the men’s room. About halfway there, the shorter of the two MPs must have concluded he wasn’t needed and began to peel off towards the bar. Harry needed him to come with them so he had to begin falling again which immediately got him back at Harry’s side and drew a scornful look from the other one.
In the washroom, Harry disembarked from his two new friends, and watched as they started a conversation with Rubin, who was washing his hands at the sink. Seeing Rubin get up to go to the washroom had started this whole episode in Harry’s mind five minutes earlier. Harry stood at a urinal and pretended to go, waiting for the inevitable conversation to begin.
“You gentlemen heard the latest?” Rubin asked, as if following a script.
“Tell us Rubin,” the taller of the two MPs said.
“Liberals want a deal on emissions.”
“Senate reform I bet,” the shorter one said, surprising Harry with his knowledge.
“Yeah,” Rubin replied, pride plastered all over his face.
“Where did you get it from?”
“I just hear things guys.”
This was an interesting dynamic; one Harry saw quite frequently. Rubin wasn’t quite reputable enough on his own, especially with the two young MPs who he didn’t know well, so the rumour would need to be confirmed by someone else—Harry called this a “reputable confirmation”. If Rubin had mentioned that he got the information from Sam, they’d be ok, but more times than not, pride and ego prevented the acknowledgement of the original source. Ironically, if Sam had approached the members, and even just asked them if they had heard anything, this would often provide enough confirmation. In the absence of a single reputable confirmer, two less reputable sources were fine as long as they were perceived to be independent of one another. When Harry was younger, he would have worked the Rubin thing a bit more, just for the sport of it, but he was eighty-four and more inclined to just get the job done, so he’d just have Essa confirm it with his young friends while she was taking their orders. Harry returned to the table and his German cake.
“Cake looks good,” he said, easing back into his chair.
“It is good. Maybe I should have your piece, what with your sugar issues and all,” Emma said, her cake half gone.
“Actually, if I’m going to go, going with this chocolate cake smeared all over my lips wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”
“Dad, that’s morbid.”
“No, that was funny. You should learn the difference.”
“Humour’s in the mind of the beholder I suppose,” his daughter shot back.
Harry ignored her comment and sat back in his chair. There were at minimum four people inside the restaurant who had the rumour, and had had it confirmed one way or the other. The challenge now was to bridge the rumour back to the capital buildings, and have it seep through the offices of those who would vote. Timing was critical; having too much time was usually a bigger problem than having too little and this case was no exception. The most destructive force in the world of rumours was fact, and the more time that existed between the spreading of the rumour and the vote, the higher the probability that the facts would spoil their work, and the Liberals would refute the deal which Essa and Harry had manufactured out of thin air. The four who had the rumour were diverse in their geographic and social universes so Harry felt the rumour had a decent chance of being bridged back to the capital buildings, but he also had an ace up his sleeve.
His name was Bobby Skootic, or Scooter to everyone in Ottawa, and to Harry, he was a treasure. In his study of the science of information flows, or rumour mongering, Harry felt there were different personality types that lent themselves to different roles. Some people, by their nature, were good planters, others were good confirmers, and others made decent bridges. Scooter was the whole package rolled into one. Harry had never come across a person who indulged in other people’s business as much as Scooter. He was a journalist, but aside from his work related gossip, he loved to know others people’s business, and loved talking about it. Oh, and he had a crush on Harry’s daughter.
“Emma, there’s Scooter.”
“Oh no, you’re joking.”
“Nope.” Harry said and waved for Scooter to join them.
“What are you doing?”
“Be polite Emma.”
Harry had asked Scooter to join them for coffee because he knew they could use his particular skill set. Did he perhaps insinuate that his daughter wanted Scooter there? Maybe. Did his daughter think Scooter was a vile man? Pretty much. Was this going to cause him guilt? Perhaps a small amount.
“Mr. Pearl! Emma!” Scooter said nodding.
“Scooter, how are things?” Harry asked heartily.
“Scooter,” Emma said through pursed lips.
“What’s the good word sir?”
‘Well scooter, I think something’s up; everyone seems to be engaging in furious conversation. Have you heard anything?”
This got his attention. He was oblivious to Emma now. “What do you mean something’s up?”
“It’s just that everyone seems to be having secret little conversations. Perhaps I’m just paranoid that they’re talking about me.”
Emma looked at Scooter and gave a dismissive glance Harry’s way. “I’d bet on the paranoid thing Scooter. I haven’t noticed anything.”
Scooter got up, and he was gone; it was that easy. Conversations on the phantom deal would now kick into high gear. At a certain point, Harry knew, the whole thing would become almost self-fulfilling. If there were enough people and a certain ease of communication, the whole thing would just build momentum; it would almost confirm itself and perpetuate itself, and all the while, nobody would have the foresight to try and find the root source, which of course was Essa and Harry.
Another half hour passed and Harry had every confidence that Scooter had filled in all the gaps. The rumour would make its way to the appropriate folks before the vote; which would undoubted
ly turn out as Essa and he had wished. There’d be some arguing after the vote once it became obvious that many had voted under the false pretense of a deal, but they’d never figure out who to blame, so no harm would come from it. Emma and Harry got up to leave and Harry gave Essa a little “thank you” wink.
Huddled at the coat check, Scooter found them. “Mr. Pearl, the Liberals will give up senate reform for the emissions thing.”
“Really. Scooter, that’s fabulous.”
Behind them, one of the young MPs from the washroom leaned over to his friend. “Poor old guy is out of touch,” he uttered.
Emma heard the remark. “Did you hear that,” she asked her father softly. “They’re not wrong Dad. They’re not wrong.”
Harry draped his coat over his old weary body and prayed that he hadn’t misplaced his car keys.
Eight Children on a Checkered Floor
Admittedly, this isn’t going to be a normal wedding; a forty-two year old American movie actress, my four teenage children standing by my side, hitching up with a young foreign intellectual, his four young children holding hands with mine. But standing at the back of St. Paul’s Church, all of our friends and family waiting for me to take my big walk, I know I’m in love.
I met Anatoly through a friend only five weeks ago; I was immediately smitten with him, and our brief coffees together quickly turned into dinners, and then finally we met each other’s families. By then I was in love, and desperately wanted our kids to
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