The Only Café

by Linden MacIntyre

  “He never talked about Lebanon.”

  “And if I recall, he told me something about some bar here in Toronto, called the Only Café—a name you’d remember, eh—and a guy who hangs out there who might have had something to do with a hit on this Hobeika guy. Does this make any sense to you?”

  “I was twelve when Dad moved out of our home. I didn’t have much contact with him after that. So this is all news to me. Interesting, though.”

  “So he never talked about any of this? Guy murdered in Lebanon? Some mystery man in a Toronto bar?”

  “He never mentioned a thing.”

  “Anyway. It’s all ancient history now, isn’t it.”

  “Yes. I guess.” In this line of work there is no distinction between what’s historical and what’s contemporary.

  “So I guess it was an accident that took your father. A boating accident?”

  “That’s what it looked like. Though they only recently confirmed that he was dead. There was no body.”

  Silence.

  “So he never mentioned some guy in a bar in Toronto?”

  “Not to me.”

  Sami was back again with his coffee pot. Nicholson waved him off but Cyril let him top up his mug. Took a deep breath. “So, Ron. Can I call you Ron?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you. Just for obvious personal reasons, I’d be curious to know anything you can tell me about my father. Anything he told you about Lebanon. How he died. It was an explosion. I don’t know much more than that.”

  “I can check about his death. There would be a file.”

  “And this guy in a bar. You just reminded me of something. My dad left a list of people he wanted at a memorial, if anything should happen to him. Now that I think of it, your name was on the list. And a guy named Ari.”

  “Harry, hmm.”

  “No, Ari. Do you know anybody named Ari?”

  Nicholson was silent. He took another sip of coffee.

  “There’s a rumour that our security people have spies in the mosques,” Cyril said.

  “Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that, but it would make sense.”

  “And that this Ari…”

  Nicholson leaned back and laughed. “Cyril, I’m going to stop you right there.”

  “Are you telling me you never heard of Ari? Dad didn’t tell you anything about Ari?”

  “I didn’t say that, Cyril. And it doesn’t fuckin’ matter, does it? Your dad is dead.”

  “I’m only trying to understand what happened to him.”

  “And you think this Ari might have been involved?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Look, Cyril. There probably isn’t a whole lot more to know. I remember once years ago, in Moncton, New Brunswick. Some restaurant guy blew up. Right away, all kinds of speculation. A mob hit. The guy was in the restaurant business. Owed money. Going bankrupt. Etcetera. But the poor guy had a propane cylinder in the trunk of his car. Sat there all through a hot day in July. Him looking forward to a weekend at the cottage, probably. On the drive home. Boom. Simple as that.”

  “I often wonder whether there were witnesses.”

  “Witnesses.”

  Silence.

  Nicholson said, “That would be a stretch. It was early in the morning, if I remember rightly. In the middle of nowhere.”

  He stretched in the chair. Clasped his hands behind his head, eyes on the ceiling, rocking slightly. “I think one guy was mentioned. A kind of down-and-out chap. Lived in a little trailer near the wharf. He might have been a messed-up war vet, scrambled by booze and dope. Nothing comprehensible to contribute, as I recall. Funny how things come back.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “I do, actually. The name stuck. Beaton. Yes. That’s what it was. Beaton. As in defeated. That’s how I remember it. You run into people like that. Beaten down by life. No fault of their own.”

  “Beaton.”

  “Beaton. I’m pretty sure I heard he’d passed. But you want my advice, Cyril? Let it go. You’re a young guy with a bright future. Let it go.”

  He went to the office. He was at his desk, staring into space when Hughes found him. “Take a few days, Cyril. Step back. This is never easy, walking away from a story you believe in. But trust me. We’re not giving up on it. It’s just that we’re going to have to set it aside for a bit and address a couple of other things that are more achievable in the short term. It’s how it works nowadays.”

  “Okay. I’m thinking about going to the East Coast. Maybe check out where my father spent his last few days.”

  “That’s a good plan. Get a bit of closure, maybe. Get some distance from the rest of us for a bit. But don’t be gone too long, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Have you been in touch with Nader?”

  “Not since the meeting with Savage.”

  “Well, if you’re talking to him, tell him I need to see him.”

  “I’m sure he’ll surface. Look. I should tell you I talked to a cop. Off the record. I wasn’t—”

  “What cop?”

  “I found out about him from a friend of Dad’s. I wasn’t trying to go over anybody’s head.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Who was the cop?”

  “A Mountie with INSET named Nicholson.”

  “How did he know your father?”

  “The funny thing is, they all did, it seems. INSET, CSIS. I think it’s because of Ari, at the Only Café. And Hobeika. I have this funny feeling about what happened to Hobeika and what happened to my dad. So, anyway, I’m going to go east. If nothing else just see where it happened.”

  Cyril was at the door when Hughes stopped him: “Cyril…”

  “Yes?”

  “Watch your step. Okay?”

  “I hear you.”

  35.

  Route 19 runs along the west coast of Cape Breton Island. If you imagine a seated crop-tail dog, Route 19 follows the curved back from just above the stub of the tail to the nape of the neck, roughly south to north. That was Aggie’s description, anyway. They call it the Ceilidh Trail, “ceilidh” being a Gaelic word for “social gathering.” He remembered Pierre teasing Aggie, “It’s the Gaelic word for ‘drunk.’ ” That was when they still seemed fond of one another.

  “So New Waterford would be down around the dog’s asshole,” Pierre had said once, in front of Pius Lynch.

  “More like his balls,” the old man said. “And they’re big ones, and you’d better not forget it, boy.”

  Cyril was studying a tourist map at an information centre, where the causeway from the mainland connected with what was once an island in the real sense of isolation and remoteness. He followed the road with his finger, through places with names like Troy, Creignish, Judique, and Port Hood, until he found Mabou. How odd, he thought, that he had no memory of the place, though he knew he’d visited there when he was small.

  From Mabou he traced a small secondary road along the edge of what looked like a long inlet from the sea. Mabou Harbour. Mabou Coal Mines.

  “It’s gorgeous there,” the woman at the information desk exclaimed. “But I’m biased. I grew up near there.”

  “Would you know somebody named Beaton down there?” Cyril asked.

  She laughed. “Beaton. Half the place is Beatons.”

  It was Thanksgiving weekend. The hillsides were flushed with deciduous yellows, reds and apricots flaring wildly against the grim brooding of the evergreens. St. Georges Bay flashed and foamed for as far as he could see. He stopped twice to take pictures on his cellphone and considered mailing them to Gloria. Reconsidered.

  Aggie had been harsh when he told her he was going. “For me he died three times. The last time really didn’t register.”

  “For fuck sake, Ma.”

  “Don’t you dare use that word in front of me.”

  But she told him how to find the harbour, and the old homestead she and Pierre had rescued and restored back in the early days, and whe
re to find the hidden key.

  “You should stay in a motel. Or one of the nice bed and breakfasts. There’ll be nothing in the house but bats and bocans.”

  “Bockans?”

  “Ghosts.”

  On the road approaching Mabou he finally recognized the soaring hills from a spontaneous Thanksgiving weekend years before. Saturating warmth of summer lingering beyond its shelf life; the shock of the chilly, musty farmhouse, the grudging doors and windows. Summer quickly disappearing with the falling sun. A grumbling search for sheets and blankets. Pillows. A crackling fire. Mummy and Daddy curled around their toddies on the chesterfield, soft music from a violin. The little boy between them, soaking up their body warmth and the tantalizing smell of woodsmoke, spice and alcohol. Sleep deliciously descending.

  It was the red shoe that caught his eye, a painting of an old-fashioned shoe on a hanging oval sign out front, and the name: The Red Shoe. It was a pub and it was busy, judging from the cars along the road that ran through the little village. He parked.

  A pamphlet on the table told him there was an autumn Celtic music festival in progress across the island. It would explain the chattering clientele, mostly made up of people passing through or visiting for the entertainment. Sad music filtered softly from an unseen system.

  He studied the menu. He wasn’t hungry, but the beer was tempting and he realized that he’d be hungry later. He told the waiter he’d need a minute or two. “By the way, I’m looking for a guy named Beaton.”

  The waiter smiled. He was close to Cyril’s age. “I’m a Beaton,” he said. “There’s no shortage of us around here. What Beaton in particular?”

  “I don’t have a first name.”

  “Ah.”

  “He knew my dad a few years back.”

  “And your dad?”

  “He wasn’t from here. But he was, um. He was killed in an accident near here about five years ago.”

  “Oh jeez, that’s…we have a lot of that here. The roads, people who don’t know them very well.”

  “It was an explosion. He was on a boat.”

  “Okay. Yes. I remember hearing something about it. I was away at university. It was on the news, I think. Let me ask.”

  He walked away. Cyril was suddenly exhausted, maybe from the early start, the flight, the long drive from Halifax.

  The waiter returned, nodded back toward where he’d just been: “That guy might help. His name is Willie. They call him the Bulletin. He knows everything that goes on around here.”

  “Is he a Beaton?”

  “He’s a Campbell.”

  “Not from here?”

  “No. From Mabou Ridge. But he knows everybody.”

  He could see a red-faced middle-aged man wearing a flat tweed cap rising from a table on the other side of the room.

  “Thanks. I’ll have a club sandwich and a pint of that…Keith’s. And whatever Willie drinks.”

  “Willie doesn’t drink.”

  “Ah. Okay. I just assumed.”

  “He used to, but he doesn’t anymore. He hangs around here for the gossip.”

  Willie came toward him slowly, pausing to exchange greetings and smiles with other customers. Cyril stood. They shook hands solemnly. They sat. Willie leaned back, hands folded on his lap, and studied Cyril carefully.

  “I didn’t catch the name.”

  “Cyril. Cyril Cormier.”

  “Aha. Cormier.”

  “I live in Toronto. But I probably have relatives around here on my mother’s side. Her mother’s people were MacDonalds, from a place called Mabou Coal Mines.”

  “Right, right, right.” He was nodding. “Martin mentioned something about your father.”

  “Yes. About five years ago. An accident. He died at Mabou Coal Mines. He was on a boat in the harbour.”

  “I remember. They were saying it was strange. Early morning and if I recall correctly, no remains. So he was your father? Some people were doubting that he was even on the boat.”

  “Yes. But it was confirmed recently. They found a body part.”

  “Right. In a lobster trap. Leonard Rankin found it. Bizarre.”

  “Yes.”

  “So what can I tell you?”

  “Well, actually, I don’t know. I basically just wanted to see where it happened. Maybe put some things to rest.”

  “Of course. I can see that. Well, you just follow that road down by the church and keep going about three miles. And then there’ll be a dirt road on the right. Another three miles and it’ll take you to the coal mines.”

  “Why do they call it the coal mines?”

  “Well. Because they used to mine coal there.”

  “Okay.” Cyril laughed. “So it won’t be hard to find the harbour.”

  “That’ll depend.”

  “Aha.”

  “So your mother’s people. Do you happen to know what MacDonalds?”

  “No. I’m afraid not. She left here young, lived in New Waterford. Got married. Eventually moved to Toronto.”

  “And her name was what?”

  “Lynch. Agnes Lynch.”

  “Jesus. Not Aggie Lynch. We went to school together. She was ahead of me. But I remember her. She was kind of a dish. You don’t look a bit like her. I’d say you more resemble the French side. So what, Cormier?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know much about them.”

  “Isn’t that the way now. Your mother’s people were from the coal mines, but before you get to the little harbour there.”

  “Where exactly?”

  “You can’t miss it, on the lower side of the road. Pretty rundown now. I could take you.”

  “Thanks, but I think I can find it. There was a guy down there, though, at the coal mines, who was talking to my father just before the accident. His name was Beaton.”

  “Right. You’d have to be more precise. The place is crawling with Beatons.”

  “All I know is that he was living near the wharf. In what was described as a trailer. He might have been a war vet.”

  “Oh. Him!”

  “You know him?”

  “Angus? Of course. Everybody knows Angus.”

  “I’d heard he might have passed away.”

  “Oh merciful God no. Far from it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Very much alive, is Angus.”

  “And could you tell me where he lives.”

  “I could. In West Mabou.”

  Cyril laughed. “How many Mabous are there?”

  “That depends.”

  “And can you tell me how long it takes to get there?”

  “That would depend.”

  “On what?”

  “On if you were on foot or in a car. Or if you got lost. Anyway, just drive back out the way you came. You can’t miss it.”

  And Willie walked away laughing to himself, already structuring the latest bulletin.

  The boy who answered the door seemed to be about seventeen. “I’m looking for Angus Beaton,” Cyril said.

  “Yes,” the boy replied. He had one hand on the doorknob, the other on the door frame, a barrier.

  “Is this where he lives?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wonder if I could speak to him.”

  “He isn’t here.”

  “When do you expect him?”

  “It’s hard to say.”

  “Okay. I can come back. Could you give me a phone number so I can check first? Save a wasted trip.”

  “Maaaaawm!”

  The boy turned and disappeared into the house, which seemed new, a bungalow perched at the end of a long hillside lane. A woman appeared, maybe in her forties. Saw him and stopped. She folded her arms. She bore an uncanny resemblance to Suzanne. The appraising look, the thick, dishevelled auburn hair, bunched carelessly, reading glasses perched like a tiara. She was standing in an archway leading into what was probably a dining room.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “I was hoping to speak to Angus Beaton,” Cyril said.r />
  She leaned a shoulder against the archway, shoved both hands into large pockets on a smock she was wearing.

  “You’re young,” she said.

  Without thinking he replied, “Well, I guess that’s relative.”

  She laughed, straightened up. “I guess I asked for that. I meant you’re young for military.”

  “I’m not military,” Cyril said.

  “Ah,” she said. “So you are…?”

  “My name is Cyril Cormier,” he said. “My dad and Angus Beaton were friends.”

  “So your dad was in the army with Angus.”

  “No.”

  “Well, Angus isn’t here anyway and I’m not sure when he’ll be back.”

  “Okay. Could you give me a phone number so I can check with him before I try another time?”

  “He doesn’t carry a cellphone. But I’ll give you the number here.” She recited it, then said, “Wait. I’ll write it down for you.”

  He parked on the road. The hill below, descending to the seashore, was steep. He could see the back of the roof and second storey of his mother’s house. The gate fell over when he unlatched it. It obviously had not been opened in the six years since his mother’s last visit. She’d planned to sell the place, but changed her mind. Or just didn’t get around to it. Or tried to forget about it altogether after his father died.

  He found the key where she’d told him to look for it, under a brick on the front door step. He had to force the key into the lock but it wouldn’t turn, probably rusted and corroded from the relentless caustic winds of winter. Afraid it would break off in the lock, he surrendered. He walked around the place. It was in desperate need of repairs and paint. He peered through windows, trying to remember warmth and light and life.

  He turned his back to it, breathing deeply the aromatic air. Late wild flowers somewhere, decaying apples in the flattened grass, the scent of spruce, a freshness that had its own sweet presence. The sun was melting on the edge of the sea, pooling and running in a silver path toward the shore.

  His father spent his final days out there. It had been June. There might have been lilacs and the scent of roses when he’d return to land, if in fact he did. His father loved the water. It reminded him, he said, of boyhood. What boyhood? The wild rose bushes Cyril now saw everywhere would have been in bud. Ash and birch and maples on the hillside in fresh leaf. Once upon a time Pierre had loved this place, loved Aggie, loved Cyril. He had a sudden memory of his father standing exactly where he was standing now, arm draped over Aggie’s shoulders, silent, both of them, just watching the sun melt down.