Sorry, where was I? Oh right, discussing my return to this fair, if somewhat boreal, city, pardon my jetlag.
So it’s good to be back, eh? Sure it’s a bit small here, a bit slow, but by the same token there’s a coziness and intimacy to this place that I really, really missed. There’s so much that’s golden here – great shops, gifted artists, cool neighbourhoods. The breeze coming in off the lake on a cool spring morning, the whiff of champagne and rich dude at the annual Innovators’ Ball.
I know it’s a cliché, damn it, but we have so much to be thankful for here. (Aside from the weather, of course. Stilettos and an Ontario January are not a match made in heaven.) Which is why I came back just in time for patio season – all part of the strategic plan, troops.
I know some of the haters (one local element I did not miss even a teensy bit – although there are plenty across the pond too) are claiming I couldn’t hack it on the big stage. They’re saying that I was too delicate a flower for the cut and thrust of the British tabloids. Bzzzzzt! Wrong! Alex, I’ll take tall poppy syndrome for $100.
Nope, the honest truth is I’m back in residence because I want to be. Sure, I may not stay put forever. (People keep telling me about Argentina. Last I’d heard, it was some kind of dictatorship, but apparently that’s no longer the case – now, word is, it’s basically Paris in the Twenties except with a limitless supply of barbecued meats.) But for the time being I’m content to cool my jets in this fine, fine city by a lake.
When I skipped town a year-and-change back, I was in a little bit of a rut. It was time to shake things up, to go boldly forth, like a hobbit setting out from her beloved Shire. (Do lady hobbits have hairy feet? Gak!)
I went forth, I did not multiply (thank you, Alesse).
I came to know the melancholy of retired Spice Girls, the cold awakening in a friend’s air-conditioned suite on Majorca, the tedium of the Tate Modern, the bitterness of disposable friendships.
I returned home, older and wiser. Well, she said, I’m back.
Of course, time never stands still (not even in the Shire). But somehow, I thought that things would stay the same here while I was gone. Does that make me an egomaniac?
Perhaps.
So, yes, some things have changed. New condos everywhere you look. New luxury outlets (hello, Hermès!) Meanwhile, Queen West has reached its apotheosis as a garish theme park for adults of the hipster persuasion. And of course, there are some absences – old, beloved boits have been shuttered, old, cherished friends have dropped off the face of the planet. It hurts us, it hurts us, hobbitses.
I’ve seen a few of my old peeps already, and I’ll be touching in with more of you darlings in the days and weeks ahead. We have so much to talk about, so much to catch up on. I learned a lot in the UK, and can’t wait to apply some of those lessons to my interactions with the local scene.
So, without further ado: giddyup! Let’s ride this pony till the dawn do us part.
Chapter 13
Panting from the unseasonable heat, he dropped her heavy suitcase into the trunk and slammed it shut, then checked his watch again. They were running late, and Natacha was going to miss her flight if they didn’t head out soon. He skipped up the building’s front steps and buzzed their unit.
“Hello?” she answered, all polite.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he said. He resisted the urge to ask sarcastically who she was expecting, Papa Smurf? “I’m ready to go down here. All we need is our precious cargo, which would be you.”
“Sorry, I’m an idiot, Steph – I was just looking for my toothbrush.”
“See you in a minute,” he said. She’d forgotten to pack her toothbrush? They’d been living together over a year now, but her sheer absent-mindedness continued to astound him.
He went back to the car, slid into the driver’s seat and punched the stereo’s on button. The radio was tuned a classical music station, and a Bach violin sonata began wafting elegantly through the speakers, sketching out intricate designs that shimmered in the air as if painted there. In all fairness to Natacha, they still had a little time to spare. And even if she missed her plane, well, worse things had happened. No doubt the airline would simply get her onto a later flight.
She was bound for Chicago, with a team from her office, for a five-day mega-conference, some sort of major confab on the planning circuit. It was the first time she would be away for more than a couple of days since they’d moved in together the previous spring. Maybe that was why he was so jumpy – he was prematurely missing her. He had offered to tag along on the trip (having never been to Chicago), acting as her sidekick and all-purpose gofer. He would have taken a camera, done some shooting around the city, maybe even spun a paying job out of it. The newspapers and airline magazines were always looking for quick pickups. But she’d said it wouldn’t be worth the trouble, since she’d be working the whole time, and anyway her boss was a tyrannical sort who would disapprove.
The car was as stuffy as an attic. It was hot enough out to warrant air conditioning, even though it was barely May. If the recent weather was any indication, 2005 was sure to be a banner year for global warming. He started the engine, hoping to freeze his frustration with a blast of cool air, but at that moment she stepped through the front door of the building in a grey business suit, her carry-on bag over her shoulder. She normally worked in casual attire, as per the municipal way of things, so it was strange to see her all dressed up, armoured for convention-hall combat.
“Right this way, Madam,” he said, holding the door for her like a chauffeur.
“Why thank you, sir,” she replied, in a demure and ladylike voice.
It was slow going on Avenue Rd., on their way over to the Allen Expressway, and he soon began to fret again about the time.
“I’m sorry Steph,” Natacha said, having noted his frustration. “Look at the traffic out here today. I should have called a cab and spared you the hassle. I could’ve charged it to the office.”
“No, no, I don’t mind,” he cried. “I wanted to see you off properly.”
“That’s so sweet!” She reached over to tousle his hair. It felt good, the affectionate hair tousle. Such gestures were not to be underrated on the pleasure scale.
The Allen was smooth sailing that morning, but up on Highway 401 traffic was stop and go. A beat-up Honda sailed past them into the collector lanes, cutting them off. He tapped the brakes and tooted the horn.
“Asshole,” he breathed.
“Easy there, boy. You know I’m going to make my flight, don’t you?”
She was right. It didn’t feel like it, but they were covering a lot of distance between the backups.
“So, Chicago,” he said, to change the subject. “You’ve been there before, right?”
“Once a few years ago, for another conference.”
“How was it?”
“I liked it. It’s a lot like this city in some ways, a bit bigger, although the downtown core is more compact. The waterfront is gorgeous, a planner’s dream. That’s what you get when you have a dictator for a mayor, instead of the tangled bureaucracy of overlapping jurisdictions we have up here. But I was mostly at the conference centre, so I didn’t get to see as much as I would’ve liked.”
“Would you ever live down there?”
“The US? Oh, I doubt it. It’s too crazy and big. Maybe if the right opportunity came along, but I’m too much of a homebody at heart.”
“Right.”
A few minutes later, he’d navigated the off-ramp from the highway and was pulling up to the kiss-and-fly parking area at Terminal One. Sure enough, they’d made it – with forty minutes to spare before her departure time. Barring a major holdup at customs, she’d make her flight, no problem.
“See? I told you we’d be fine,” she said.
“Touché, m’dear.” He popped the trunk and hauled out her bag. “Well, enjoy your free moments, and watch out for those debonair city planners. I happen to know they can be quite fresh.”
&n
bsp; “Stephan, please – don’t be disgusting.”
“Kidding!”
“Hey, I meant to ask you earlier... I was going to bring you back a souvenir. Any requests?”
“How about something old school? Like a White Sox pennant, or one of those miniature silver buildings, a little silver Sears Tower.”
“It’s called something else now, that building.”
“You mean, the Sears Tower isn’t the Sears Tower anymore?” He found this news strangely disconcerting.
“And of course it’s not the world’s tallest building any more, either, not by a long shot. But I’ll find you something special, don’t worry. In the meantime, have a great week, okay?”
He helped her get her bag out of the trunk, and they hugged and kissed goodbye. Then the glass doors at the front of the terminal slid silently open and she stepped inside. He watched as her figure receded into the gloom of the terminal. She paused to check the information on her ticket, then looked up and around, searching for her gate. He gave a last little wave, trying to catch her eye, but she was focused on finding her way and didn’t see him.
On his way back into the city, he took the 427 south to the Gardiner Expressway, exchanging the horrors of the 401 for a slightly longer trip. The traffic was less maddening, as he’d hoped, but the view was much the same: warehouses, chain motels, bleak apartment towers, ailing restaurants. He saw what appeared to be a McDonald’s-like fast-food place called Kabul Farms, and wondered how the food was. A steady procession of jets thundered past overhead, flimsy silver tubes bearing south towards the lake. Soon, the one carrying Natacha would waft through. He tried not to picture her up there, a tiny speck in the sky, drinking an even tinier plastic cup of diet Sprite. He really should have insisted on going with her.
His life with Natacha was quiet, pleasurable, laid-back, prosperous, comfortable and really almost relentlessly happy. Yes, he sometimes missed the busyness and excitement of his previous existence, but that was a natural part of moving on, he supposed – putting childish things aside in favour of something secure, something real.
Work, meanwhile, was going well enough, although he sometimes chafed at the kinds of jobs he was getting these days. The market for his services was changing yet again, becoming tighter and more brutal. He’d even started shooting the occasional wedding to top up his income, something he’d once vowed, snobbishly, never to do.
As for Jenny Wynne, he still received updates on her activities now and again, whether solicited or unsolicited. A mutual friend had recently informed him of another trip to Europe, this time for a travel story on marmot spotting in the Pyrenees. Before that she’d been in Los Angeles, workshopping her new screenplay at the American Film Institute. Somewhere along the way she had also gotten engaged, they said, to a portfolio manager at one of the big public pension funds, who’d enticed her with a white-gold Cartier ring. It turned out to be a false alarm. Either she’d broken it off, or the story had been mere gossip.
Despite everything, he was happy to hear that she was making her way in the world. She was determined to live a life less ordinary, and was succeeding at it with flying colours. Sometimes the purity of her ambition had led to collateral damage for those around her, as he himself had learned many times over, but the essential gorgeousness of her performance was never in question.
He merged from the 427 onto the Gardiner Expressway. As he followed the on-ramp’s curving path, the downtown skyline slid into view before him, shimmering in the middle distance. Downtown had always looked great from out here on the periphery, its glittering surfaces gemlike in their intricacy. In closeup, too, it had an undeniable panache. You’d go to press the walk button at an intersection and realize that some strange, talented individual with significant metalworking chops had attached strings and tuners to the traffic post, converting it into a makeshift upright bass. It kept you guessing.
But along with all of that, of course, came the noise, the pollution. So many goddamn neighbourhood festivals it made you want to cry out for mercy. When he’d first come here, from the suburbs, he’d had the idea of building a life in the same way he crafted one of his prints. If he tried hard enough, worked through a sufficient number of iterations, eventually he’d arrive at near-perfection. That was what he had believed, or at least hoped. But that wasn’t how life, as opposed to art, actually worked. In life, the game was always changing, and you had constantly to adapt, to cobble something together on the fly.
For months now, he and Natacha had been circling around the question of an engagement. In fact, he was planning to use the occasion of her absence to go ring shopping. He’d heard about some jewelry stores in the east end of the city that carried antique diamond rings. He was even toying with the idea of proposing to her the moment she returned from her trip, going down on one knee in the arrivals lounge.
The downtown skyline loomed up larger now, no longer the miniature that it had been when he first merged onto the Gardiner. It was almost as if he could hear its voice, a low humming murmur. He exited onto Lakeshore at the Humber River and veered up into High Park, where he was at once immersed in a world of quiet side streets and sturdy brick homes. It relaxed him to be heading north again into the outer city’s leafy embrace.
Stephan had briefly worried that without Natacha at his side he’d be at loose ends, but it wasn’t so bad. He hadn’t been on his own in ages, had forgotten how enjoyable it could be. With Natacha away, he fell into once-familiar routines. He took a long walk that first afternoon, one of those perfectly balanced May afternoons on the knife edge between spring and summer weather. He put in some quality time with Gamblor, who had advanced to a stage of lazy, contented seniordom, her days of playful kittenishness now behind her forever. For dinner he had chicken noodle soup from a can, washed down with a cold beer, a surprisingly satisfying repast.
The next afternoon he went out shooting downtown. It had been ages since he had done any photography for his own enjoyment. Amid the recent grind of wedding jobs and last-minute magazine shoots, he’d gotten out of the habit. His expectation was that he would struggle to get his groove back, but that turned out not to be the case at all – on the contrary, he felt fresh and alert behind the lens, as if gazing through the viewfinder for the first time. He shot people shopping at fruit stands laden with bananas, mangoes and pomegranates. He shot a group of kids doing parkour stunts on the front steps of a public library. He shot a street artist rendering a near-perfect Botticelli on the sidewalk with sticks of coloured chalk. It felt good to be doing it again, like reconnecting with an old friend.
He tried calling Natacha on her cell phone, just to say hi. He’d spoken with her a couple of times shortly after her arrival in Chicago, confirming that she’d landed safely and checked into her hotel. But they hadn’t touched base since, and he wanted to hear her voice again. He missed its bright music.
Her phone rang several times, which wasn’t a big surprise – she’d warned him that she’d be working nonstop. He was about to press end, not wanting to bother with voice mail, but at the last moment she picked up. The sound of her voice was a surprising relief, as if on an unconscious level he’d been afraid that she’d come to some harm, been run over by a drunk driver or abducted from a busy street corner. But the line was thick with interference, its tinny connection robbing her voice of its usual warmth.
He asked if she’d been able to do much sightseeing.
“A little here and there, saw the waterfront again,” she replied. “A couple of good restaurants, but mostly we’ve been working… hang on a second, there’s someone at the door…”
He could hear muffled voices, her hand over the receiver. Then she was back on.
“Sorry, Steph,” she said. “My boss is here. We’re just heading out to a dinner meeting.”
“Okay, then, bye – I love you.”
“You too, baby. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He had never really considered becoming an office worker, had never had an u
rge to gird himself in khakis and a light blue button-down. Even so, he was jealous of Natacha and her team, with their RFPs and strategy documents, their action items. His own career had its charms, too, but they did not include leaping into taxis and rushing off to important meetings.
He ate his dinners on the couch while watching television. When he’d moved into his last place, he hadn’t bothered getting cable, partly because he had wanted to save money and partly to avoid the distraction. But Natacha liked to see what was on after work, and had them signed up for a full package.
One day while channel surfing he happened upon Mishal Husein reading the day’s news on the BBC World Service. A new Iraqi government had just been elected, and the newscast that night featured an extended recap of the two-year interregnum between George W. Bush’s declaration of an end to major combat operations and this hopeful milestone. The failure to find weapons of mass destruction, the Battle of Falluja, the Abu Ghraib torture revelations. There were shots of wounded civilians lining up outside a hospital, of GIs firing large machine guns into the seemingly empty desert, and of a press conference a year earlier: “I hope I ... I don’t want to sound like I’ve made no mistakes,” Bush said, looking confused. “I’m confident I have. I just haven’t ... you just put me under the spot here.”
Stephan shut off the television and tossed aside the remote in disgust. Enough wallowing in someone else’s nightmare. He had errands to run, chores to take care of. They were running low on cat food, and there was a growing tower of dirty dishes in the sink.
Then there was the other, more significant, errand.
The jeweler reached under the glass and lifted the ring from the velvet-lined display.
The Silver Age Page 17