“Okay. When would be good?”
“Come by this evening. Say after eight.”
“See you then. And, oh. I just want to say it—I’m sorry about the last time. That was…that wasn’t me talking. It was pretty gross…”
“Not a problem,” she said. “Later, okay?”
There was a text message waiting from Nader.
Wot y’up to? We should talk. Face to face.
He replied: when, where
our patio in an hour?
cu there
Nader was slouched at the little patio table on King Street, watching passersby through his shades, plucking at the whiskers underneath his chin. He was the epitome of cool. Even the large beer glass full of Coke was cool. Nader had no qualms about being an observant Muslim, no matter where or what the circumstances. The faith was who he was. There was a second glass.
“I took the liberty. It’s on me.”
Cyril smiled, sat, sipped the beer. “Thanks,” he said. “So?”
Nader took a long drink of the Coke. “Look. This guy you know, the fellow who hangs out in that bar in the east end.”
“Yes.”
“The Israeli.”
“Yes.”
“How much do you know about him?”
“Not much. Why?”
“Suzanne met him, right?”
“Yes.”
“You know she thinks she remembers him from years ago. In Lebanon. We talked about it.”
“Okay.”
“She’s pretty sure it was back in ’82 or ’83. After the massacre in the camps in Beirut. It was her first big story. Made a lasting impression on her. Anyway, she’s been going through her files and she now thinks she saw this guy at a press conference way back when. He was in the background, kind of watching over the Israeli general or whatever who was doing all the talking. But she remembers him because someone told her at the time he was part of a heavy-duty anti-terrorism unit. Sayeret Matkal. Like, what were they doing there?”
“What?”
“Sayeret Matkal. Elite outfit. IDF special forces. Did you ever see the movie Raid on Entebbe? Charles Bronson. Based on a real story. That was Sayeret Matkal.”
“So?”
“So what would he be doing here if he’s the same guy? Some guy connected with that outfit.”
“That was a long time ago, Nader.”
“I’ve heard from other sources, Suzanne might be onto something. So I’d like to meet him.”
“Do you think he has something to do with our story?”
“I’ve been picking up some buzz among my contacts, that our security people have signed up an outside consultant to advise them on counter-terrorism strategy. Imagine how that would go over in the mosques? An Israeli anti-terrorism spook? Whoa. Word is they’ve been bringing him on board their surveillance since ’05 when they were monitoring the so-called Toronto Eighteen.”
“I wasn’t really paying attention…”
“The bunch of guys rounded up in ’06 by this INSET outfit…”
“Inset?”
“Integrated National Security Enforcement Team. They grabbed a bunch of young guys who were fantasizing about blowing up Toronto. Stupid, most of them, but there were a few who could have been dangerous. Anyway, this secret terrorism consultant might have been a part of that, and word is they’re using him again. Imagine what the radicals could do with that. Especially if this consultant has the kind of history Suzanne suspects.”
“Why now?”
“Arab Spring, man. Everybody has been going on about the lovely revolution. Like it was gonna be all over by summer, fall at the latest—peace and democracy across the Arab world. People haven’t got a freakin’ clue. I don’t blame the spooks for being spooked.”
“So what do I do?”
“Let me tag along next time you go to see this Israeli.”
“Sure.”
Cyril decided he would walk. It would take forty minutes to get from the office to where Lois lived but he needed the exercise. It had been weeks since he’d had any cardio and he could feel it in his chest. He could feel it in his head.
What could Lois want? He knew what he wanted: he wanted information. “A little bit of business to tidy up,” she’d said. Her tone had been almost parental, which reassured him somewhat.
There was a five-year difference in their ages but they shared perspective on most things, taste in books and music, consciousness of trends. But Lois was from a family that was Jewish and conservative. Her social life had been strictly supervised by parents who had plans and expectations of what they wanted her to be—basically a projection of their ideal selves. They had more or less disowned her when she announced that she was going to live with an older man, a man who wasn’t Jewish. An Arab, yet.
His mother had seemed almost relieved when she discovered that Pierre’s new girlfriend was working in a restaurant. “A waitress, if you can imagine.” She in fact had been a hostess in a high-end establishment frequented by the rich and influential, one of those places that never has to advertise, a place you never went just to eat but, instead, to meet and dine. It was on the forty-seventh floor of a downtown office building and had a dramatic panoramic view of the city and the lake. Pierre had entertained important clients and company directors there and that’s where they had met. At the time she was also attending university, learning the business side of hospitality.
His mother’s contempt for the waitress who was also just a student, “a child,” only made Lois seem more human to Cyril. And so it would transpire that Cyril became a frequent visitor. He was always conscious of her prettiness—that was normal. They were relaxed together and it seemed to make her careless in his presence—the way she dressed and moved around the house.
He kept reminding himself: She’s Dad’s wife, she’s my friend. She’s like my sister.
“I’d be grateful if you’d check on Lois now and then,” Pierre had told him. “She gets a bit stressed when I’m gone. Her family situation isn’t the greatest. She likes you. You’re good for her.”
And then, the incident.
It happened while Pierre was on a business trip to Indonesia. It was springtime. He’d gone to his father’s place with his books because Aggie had people in for bridge or for a book club. They were studying.
Cyril was at the kitchen table. Lois was working in a cranny that she used for office space. It was late. And then, unexpectedly, she was behind him, a hand resting lightly on his shoulder. It was a small hand, a hand he had frequently admired for its delicacy. It reminded him of little bird bones. Impulsively he laid his cheek against it. The hand lingered, then withdrew.
“I’m going to put some coffee on,” she said.
“Good idea.”
Standing at the open fridge, she changed her mind. “There’s a nice bottle of Pinot Grigio here. Maybe…”
“Better still.” He stood. “I’ll open it.” When he leaned into the fridge to fetch the bottle he brushed against her.
In his memory it was a kind of blur, even immediately afterwards when they were breathless, awkward and embarrassed.
Who started it? He didn’t really know. It was frantic, perhaps because of some deep impulse to get it over with before their brains kicked in. They were standing, struggling for balance, knocked the bottle over but he retrieved it just before it toppled off the table and the distraction helped sustain his ardour for perhaps half a minute longer than it would otherwise have lasted. And then it was over. Remorse would follow close behind.
For all of them, it was a turning point when Pierre returned from Indonesia. Cyril couldn’t help attributing the change to what had happened between him and Lois. Pierre seemed more distracted, more distant than he’d ever been before. Was it possible she’d confessed to him? Was it possible he knew, and that he was waiting for a proper opportunity to drop the bomb?
Then three months later, in June 2007, Pierre was gone. Cyril grieved, but he finally relaxed. Until the day
she announced to him and Aggie that she was pregnant.
She presented a cheek and he lightly brushed it with his own. He noted she was wearing makeup.
“You look good,” he said. “You look very good.” They both blushed and she caught his hand lightly.
“Come in,” she said. “Let me have a look at you. I’ve just put on a pot of herbal tea if you’re interested. I could find something stronger.”
“No. Tea will be great.”
After the tea was poured they sat at the kitchen table. “So,” she said brightly. “You must tell me all about the job.”
“It’s more of a project than a job, though they’re telling me that it could lead to other things.”
“A project,” she said. Her tone was mildly teasing. “I don’t suppose it’s anything that you can talk about.”
“Actually it’s interesting. All the stuff that’s going on in the Middle East. Syria, the Arab Spring stuff. How it’s stirring up young Muslims. Even here.”
“That’s a story that isn’t going to go away for a while. It sounds like you’re onto something that could last. Good for you.”
“Maybe.”
“Everything else good in your life?”
“Well. That’s another story.”
“Ah.” Then a silence. Finally: “Well, I’m always here. To talk.”
“And you,” he said. “You’re happy?”
“Yes,” she said tentatively. Paused, sipped her tea. “I think I mentioned, I’m seeing someone.”
“You mentioned.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“Why would it bother me?”
“Well. Your dad…”
He waved a hand. “It’s been five years. I’m surprised you haven’t…you know. Long before this.”
“Nobody could ever replace your dad.”
He nodded. Then he said, “You probably knew him better than I did.”
She smiled, caught his hand and squeezed it. “We only know what people show. Don’t you think?”
“And he was pretty good at hiding things. Not much for showing.”
“I suppose it comes down to what we need from someone.”
“Yes. Well. But something about this project I’m working on has me wondering who he really was. About his life before he got here. What he left behind. Mom says he never talked about it to her.”
She refilled the cups. “Well. Your mom and me—we have that much in common, I guess.”
“He never talked to you either?”
She shrugged. “I really wasn’t interested. I suppose I should have been.”
Cyril said, “It’s only lately I got interested. I guess as we get older.”
“I remember when he brought up the possibility of a trip back, I asked about relatives. He said that there were none that mattered. I gather they were all gone.”
“Gone.”
“Yes. In the civil war.”
“But did he ever mention anything about how he managed to survive?”
“No.”
“I find that odd.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. There’s usually a reason people avoid talking about whole chapters of their lives.”
“Isn’t that a bit judgmental?”
“Maybe. But I think I have a right to know who he really was.”
“Can I say something?”
“Sure.”
“People sometimes have to do desperate things to survive. I know that from my own family. I’m here because of people who survived. You’re here because your dad survived. We’re here because people were able to survive catastrophes. We should be glad. No?”
“But knowing how…”
“That was his call to make. And it was okay with me. I loved everything I knew. I couldn’t have loved him more, no matter what he told me. And I couldn’t have loved him less, either.” She looked away. “Now,” she said. “Some business.”
“Before the business,” he said. And he caught her hand. “I have to ask this. Did he know what happened when he was away?”
“Why is that relevant?”
“Because I couldn’t help wondering when he just disappeared like that.”
“You think he would have just skulked away if he’d known? You’re right, Cyril. You didn’t know your father. Neither of us would be sitting here now if he knew. That much I’m sure of. So what’s your point?”
“I don’t know what my point is. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. When he disappeared, he was worried about his job, for one thing. About becoming the scapegoat for people who were killed at one of their mining projects in Indonesia. Everybody was looking for someone to blame and he would have been convenient.”
“Mom says it was all crap.”
“It was. Typical corporate ass-covering. But it bothered him. A lot. And then, of course, the diagnosis…”
“What was the diagnosis?”
“You know. That guy Ari told you.”
“I just know that it was cancer, and about that medication he was taking.”
“Well, there isn’t a whole lot more than that. He was diagnosed early that year. I knew it was serious even though he kept minimizing it. They wanted to operate right away. But there was this mess in Indonesia and he wouldn’t take the time off to deal with his health. The fucking company was more important. Do you really need to know this?”
“I really do.”
“He decided he could hold everything off by following an extreme diet and taking this ridiculous medication…”
“And what did that do?”
She studied his face, his eyes. Her expression was a mix of sympathy and disbelief.
“So I have to spell it out? It flattened his libido. Okay? Satisfied?”
Cyril just stared at her.
“It made him impotent, okay? Imagine how that went over with his Mediterranean temperament. In any case, we’ll never know if it had any effect on the cancer.”
“But if he was impotent, how could you get…?”
“Get what?”
“Pete…”
She laughed. “Oh for Christ’s sake. You aren’t thinking…?” She laughed again. “I’ll spare you the details. Just thank modern science, obstetrics and gynaecology. Our Pete is a science project. Conceived in a lab. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“So you can relax. You. Are. Not. Pete’s. Dad. Have you got that?”
“Yes. Lois?”
“Yes?”
“You know, when I first heard that he was gone…I was relieved, in a way. Pretty sick, eh.”
She was puzzled. “Relieved?”
“Relieved that we were safe, from him finding out the truth. About us.”
She smiled. “What was the truth about us? That we behaved like stupid children?”
“Something like that.”
“Smart children learn from their stupidity, Cyril. I did. Didn’t you?”
“Okay. Yes. I suppose.”
“Now get up. I want to show you something.”
He followed her down a short flight of stairs. He thought she was leading him into the basement but there was a doorway at a landing and he remembered the garage. She flicked a light switch and opened the door. The space was bright. There had once been a ping-pong table here—one of Pierre’s ideas for entertaining Cyril. They’d played once, maybe twice, neither any good at it. Cyril remembered the silly little balls ponking on the concrete floor and vanishing. His dad, impatient, crawling underneath the table. Pierre was never good at not being very good at everything he tried, and never very good at concealing his impatience.
Now most of the garage was occupied by a car concealed under a fitted protective tarp.
“Help me take this off,” she said, grabbing a corner.
Cyril squeezed around the front, grabbed a piece of the covering and together they rolled it back to reveal a vehicle that Cyril, up close, couldn’t immediately recognize. He’d learned to drive but he didn’t hav
e a car and never felt he needed one.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“Wow,” he said. “It’s elegant for sure.” And it was. Sleek and sexy, obviously powerful.
He walked around it, stepped back for perspective. It was a Mustang. It was black with a wide white streak along each side, near the bottom of the doors. COBRA 2. “What year?” he asked.
“It’s a 1975,” she said. “Someone at the office put it up for sale. Pierre wasn’t much for toys but he said maybe it was meant to be—that 1975 had been a special year.”
“Did he say why it was special?”
“He said it was the last year of his childhood.”
“Ah.”
“Does that mean something to you?”
“Well. Yes. The civil war started in 1975.”
She nodded.
“Did he ever talk about the civil war?”
“No.”
“Do you think he was in it?”
She walked along the car slowly, rubbed a finger along a fender, examined the finger, rubbed her thumb against the fingertip. “Why would it matter?”
“It’s just something I’d like to know.”
“I suspect he was.”
“Why do you suspect?”
“You just got the vibe.”
He noticed that the car was up on blocks, but before he could ask about that, she said, “The wheels are in storage. I’d have someone put them on for you. Make sure everything is working properly.”
“What are you talking about?”
“This is yours,” she said.
“What?”
“He’d want you to have the car. I’ve had this on my mind for quite a while.”
“But I don’t…”
“Like I said, it’s yours. And I’d really like to get it out of here. I hope you don’t…”
“No. I understand. But what would I do with it?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something. Sell it, even. It’s probably worth something. I think he drove it once. Maybe twice.”
“Okay. If you’re sure. But one thing.”
“Yes.”
“What did you mean about his ‘vibe’?”
She shrugged. “How he’d react, how intensely he’d focus on news from there and how he’d leave the room, or change the channel as if I wasn’t there, like he was all by himself. He couldn’t stand violence on TV or anywhere and yet he had…”
The Only Café Page 18