Famous Last Meals

by Famous Last Meals (Candidates; Famouse Last Meals; The Woman in the Vineyard) (v5. 0) (epub)

  Oliver was talking to Emma in front of the place where he and Adam had agreed to meet, the sort of diner he had envisioned earlier at breakfast. He wondered why they were standing outside. She tucked some hair behind her ear and adjusted her purse strap on her shoulder. She looked like a sales rep in her skirted business suit, sienna orange with matching heels and lips, pale face, dark eyes.

  What was she doing there? He had been rehearsing what he was going to say to Oliver. If Emma had been alone Adam might have drawn her into the restaurant and demanded that she treat him better. He would probably tell her about Mrs. Fallingbrooke’s note. Why he couldn’t make his excuses to Oliver while Emma was standing there made no sense, except that now she was part of this. What was this need to make her his confidante? Would she even want to be included? She had probably been going somewhere else when she saw Oliver. A quick hello-goodbye, see you back at the ranch, was all that need happen. Then Adam could give his regrets regarding lunch to Oliver, the old sad-sack, stuffed-shirt-in-training. With heart tripping and lungs in his throat, Adam would set off to find the address written on the old woman’s stationery, which had in its letterhead a nude bathing under

  a waterfall.

  Close enough now to see their expressions, he understood that this was no chance meeting. Oliver probably always looked this serious, but Emma, glancing at her watch and shifting her shoulder strap again, was grim and fidgety. Her hands were working at the clasp of her purse when she saw him. Relief and impatience combined in her face. The hands kept making furtive movements with the purse as she spoke.

  She told him what she had told Oliver, which was that they had to cut their fieldwork short and return to the hotel. Something urgent had come up. There was going to be a press conference.

  “Did you have a good time last night?”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

  “I asked an innocent question.”

  “We should be heading back,” said Oliver.

  “I’ll meet you both there. I have something to do first. It won’t take me—”

  “Yes, I had a great time, as a matter of fact. Stewart is so talented. Do you want to know what we did? Oliver, hold up a sec.”

  “No, I really do not.”

  “Adam,” she said, “you have to come back to the hotel now.”

  “I can get the details from you later.”

  “No, you can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “You’ll see when you get there.”

  “Now who’s being cryptic?”

  “If I tell you, will you come back with me? Now? No detours?”

  “He’s too old for you.”

  “Stop changing the subject!”

  “Well, he is.”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “Excuse me for caring.”

  “Listen. Just shut it and listen for two seconds, please. One of the other candidates is making incriminating charges against Don.”

  “Who? What are they saying?”

  “Bliss. He won’t say what he’s got on Don. All he’ll say is that he’s infiltrated the Feeney campaign, and that one of us is feeding him information. He has a name.”

  “One of us?”

  From the way they looked down and away, Adam knew that he was that name.

  Opening the old woman’s note, reading the address to which he was supposed to report and the name, unfamiliar at first then shockingly remembered, of the person he was charged to meet, Adam recalled what the old woman had said before closing the car window and preventing inquiry. How had she known? He wondered how much of his private life was known only to him.

  LB had released a name to the ravenous press. Adam could guess what level of anxiety now filled the room occupied by the Don Feeney election team. The PM was supposed to touch down in Halifax to lend support to the campaign before continuing to a meeting in Brussels. The timing could not have been worse. Of all of them, Adam was the one who would be hustled onto another plane and flown back to the capital city. Knowing this, he did something that would very much have pleased his nine-year-old, James Bond besotted self. When Oliver, Emma and he got back to the hotel, Adam slipped out of the elevator just as the doors were closing and ran outside.

  He had a route in mind, a circuitous one that would, he hoped, throw anybody following him off the scent. He giggled at the thought. Whatever had formerly kept him in traces, harnessed to obligation and duty, was gone. He was staying ahead of out-and-out panic by half a step. Like a surfer with a monstrous roller crashing its curl behind him, he felt fuelled by the energy of the gathering mass at his back. That he had been identified as a spy before he could become one seemed oddly right. He could deny it publicly while hiding a twinge of regret. He could sneak back into his room, pack, take a taxi to the airport, and fly home before anyone would notice. Except that yes they would notice, because he was the name. The press would want a face to go with the name and they would find him back in Ottawa. Better, he reasoned, knowing nothing about what might be reasonable in this situation, to let the wave break on him here. He was, after all, a member of a team. He had allies.

  His route took him across the street and through the Public Gardens, where he sat on a bench under a drooping elm for a few minutes to see if anyone had come after him. He exited at the far corner, crossed Summer Street, entered the Camp Hill Cemetery, walked through to Robie Street and into the neighbourhood where he and Oliver had gone door to door that morning, came east along Quinpool and crossed Robie again, this time at the Commons, an open grassy expanse.

  Men in white shirts and trousers were playing cricket, a game Adam enjoyed thinking about despite not knowing the rules. He sat with his back to a large tree near the sidewalk on Robie and watched. If anyone were following, they would have caught him by now. He looked at his watch. He still had a few minutes before the time indicated on Mrs. Fallingbrooke’s invitation: “Proceed to the Breadfruit Bistro on Agricola. Arrive at two o’clock sharp.”

  He didn’t want to know the rules. He wanted only to sit there with the new-mown-grass smell in his nostrils, close his eyes and listen to the sounds of men from distant lands: Pakistan, Barbados, South Africa, Nigeria. Their chatter, less jittery and tense than might be heard at a baseball game, was singsong, punctuated by laughter and mock argument.

  “I am cognizant of that!”

  “You are bending your elbow far too much.”

  “I am always, always, always, always cold.”

  “Consider the alternative, brother!”

  “Too hot, you mean?”

  “No, feeling nothing at all.”

  “Your feeble mind is always six feet under. Rise up, rise up and be thankful.”

  The bowler approached at a run, the ball struck dirt, and the bat displaced air (did Adam hear it or was it only a passing car?) before making cracking contact. Still he resisted opening his eyes. More voices rose. Footfall neared, receded. Which of the loners in the field was chasing down the ball? Which stood daydreaming of tea and shortbread?

  He did not care to learn the rules and he was not yet curious enough to demand to learn how the old woman knew about the exhaust-filled car in the parking lot of the Bureau of Secure Communication. How LB knew Adam before Adam knew him, why Monica had handed him Mrs. Fallingbrooke’s name in the first place—he let the unknowns pop and fizz in their own ineluctable medium, and listened to the game being played on this other Commons, this parliament of recent immigrants on the grass.

  Before he opened his eyes, Adam felt the shadow on his face.

  “Wake up, young fool, wake up while you still can!”

  He looked up, past the white shins, the crotch, up the broad sandwich board of LB’s chest, his neck, chin, grillwork smile and mirthful eyes. Behind him were others similarly dressed. The over was over. Why, he wondered, had he not noticed the candi
date earlier? He must have been standing far out in the field.

  “Have you not a rendezvous? Are you not past the appointed time?”

  From behind LB came a cacophony of laughter.

  “When was the last time you were ever on time for anything, Bliss?”

  “He was three weeks late for his own birth!”

  “Birth? What about his wedding?”

  “Which one?”

  “Wedding! He’ll be twice that late times three for his own funeral!”

  Adam roused, stood, brushed grass clippings off the seat of his pants. Where was the restaurant, did anybody know? How should he go to get to Agricola Street?

  “No, not that way! Go this. So much faster.”

  “You’re out of your mind. If he goes that way, who can say what end of trouble he’ll get his same self into?”

  Using a stick to draw lines in the dusty bowler’s track, one of the players sketched the Commons, its boundary roads and interior paths. Everyone contributed to the editorial process, lines erased and redrawn like those of a gerrymandered electoral map, and soon a walking route was established. Adam thought about pulling out the city map he had in his pocket, but decided that taking it out now would only

  complicate matters.

  “Aren’t you coming, too?” he asked LB. For the first time Adam thought about him as an ally rather than an opponent.

  “Me? No, no. This is one meeting you must take yourself, Mister Adam. As you can see, LB is swimming against the swift current of political commitment.” More ironic laughter.

  “As you can see, he is giving a press conference as

  we speak!”

  “Mrs. Fallingbrooke won’t be there?”

  “In spirit. Now off you go. We’re both late. The fate of the free world lies in our hands, my virtuoso fingers and your lily-white lunch hooks.”

  Adam set off along a paved path that roughly bisected the Commons on the diagonal. He headed northeast toward a large brown stone building that looked like an armoury. A man and his German shepherd crossed the path ahead of him. The dog had a piece of wood the size of a small fireplace log jammed sideways in its mouth. The man’s jeans hung so low that it looked as if they would fall at any second. A kid on a bike with a loose chain guard clattered toward him and Adam had to step off the path to let him pass. The boy had such thick glasses that Adam wondered how he could see anything.

  He reached the far corner of the Commons, found the street he wanted and headed for the intersection where the restaurant stood.

  The only other customer was sitting with her back to the door, and so when Adam walked in he went past her, sat at a table in the middle of the room, and didn’t look over at her until she said his name. He got up sheepishly and went over to her table.

  “Almost didn’t recognize you without your trench coat on,” she said, extending her hand but not rising. They shook hands and he sat.

  The interview seemed so long ago now. He had given up hoping to hear from her. She had cut her hair short and replaced the dark jacket and skirt with jeans and a light blue blouse under which he could see the scoop neck and one shoulder strap of a yellow athletic bra. An amber necklace and matching pendant earrings matched the room’s décor, which was bright, monochromatic, the colourful equivalent of a page full of exclamation marks. A carnival array, with joyful rhythmic music in the air and singing in a language that lifted his heart even as he tried to connect Hannah Pachter of BSC with the woman he was looking at now.

  “Hello,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”

  A man in a soiled apron appeared from behind the cash register counter and came out to take their order. Hannah asked him what he recommended and he suggested a dish of grilled chicken, mango and yams with a side of salad greens and the restaurant’s special dressing. She said it sounded yummy and ordered two plates of it.

  “You’ll love it,” she said after the waiter, who looked also to be cook, dishwasher and proprietor, disappeared.

  “How do you know? Have you been here before?”

  “Do you trust me, Adam?”

  “Why? Shouldn’t I?”

  “You must have questions you want to ask me.”

  “I sure do. Do they skin the chicken breasts, for one thing?”

  “You have every reason to be hostile.”

  “Who’s being hostile?”

  “Okay, defensive, confused, disoriented.”

  “And he’s on the ropes, ladies and gentlemen. Dazed, defenceless, confused. Does he even know what’s happening to him? The referee begins the mandatory eight count as he rubs rosin off the contender’s gloves.”

  “Let me put it simply. At the moment you are a wanted man.”

  Adam laughed and felt his face grow red at the sound. The waiter peeked out of the kitchen door and closed it when he saw that no one was hurt.

  “The press wants to talk to you about the information you’ve been giving Mr. Bliss.”

  “But I haven’t! He knows more about Don Feeney than

  I do.”

  “Doesn’t matter. The story’s out there now.”

  He shrugged, blinked, looked out the window. He just wanted to go home.

  “What do you want from me?”

  “The better question is what do you want from you? Three months ago you came to me looking for a job. Not just a job, a career.”

  “I found something else.”

  “You’re a volunteer working on the election campaign of the PM’s man. You’re a dispensable functionary. Do you really think there’s going to be a job for you there when this is all over?”

  “It’s already all over. They want me gone so they can do damage control. Why exactly—what’s your connection to this? I thought you listened in on phone conversations

  and stuff.”

  Before she could answer, the waiter brought water glasses, finger bowls and a basket of flat bread and a salsa dip. Adam felt as if he had not eaten in days. He took two pita triangles and ate them quickly without adorning them.

  “Here’s what I can tell you: very soon Don Feeney will resign his candidacy. Someone will be found to replace him, someone blessed by both the Government and the Opposition. Are you wondering who that will be?”

  “Not really.”

  “Of course you are. Think. Who could possibly step in to replace Don and please the Party, LB and Mrs. Fallingbrooke at the same time?”

  “Humpty Dumpty.”

  “Your cooperation in this is imperative, Mr. Lerner,” she said, her tone now disciplinary.

  “I don’t know. I don’t care. Conrad Black. Wayne Gretzky. Shania Twain. Me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes what?”

  “Yes you.”

  “You’re out of your flipping gourd, lady.”

  The waiter brought their entrees, giving Hannah an excuse not to respond. She directed her attention to the underside of her chicken, which she lifted with her knife and fork as if she were performing the dissection of a fetal pig in a high-school biology lab. Adam waited, not touching his utensils. If she didn’t look up in three seconds, he told himself, he was going to leave.

  She sniffed and said, “Grape nuts, I think,” and cut a morsel of meat. She looked at it on her fork. “I’m allergic to pine nuts. Not grape nuts, though.”

  The three seconds passed and still she hadn’t looked up. He stood. “I’m out of here,” he said. “How much...?” He took out his wallet, removed a ten-dollar bill and tucked it under the lip of his plate.

  “What if I were to tell you...?” She raised her eyes to his. She seemed almost amused, but also earnest, a new expression for her normally inscrutable face.

  “What?”

  “I’ve got this. Keep your money.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Nothing. Don’t
worry about it. Have a pleasant flight.”

  “I’m not up to this. Really.”

  “Of course you’re not. I understand.”

  “My father got me this job. He said it would be the perfect introduction, a foot in the door.”

  “An honourable route. You’re not the first to have forgone a salary to gain valuable experience.”

  “Tell me what?” Adam picked up the money and sat. She had him and he knew it. Being held by her like this, the way she might a hand of cards, made him feel secure. It wasn’t a difficult thing, this being told. It bypassed so much that was complicated. He might just as well have said, “Yes, I’m yours. Take me. Tell me what to do.”

  “We have intelligence that Mr. Bliss—Kundule, rather—is a member of a terrorist cell planning an attack on public buildings somewhere in the Northeast.”

  “So arrest him.”

  “He’s more valuable to us out of captivity. We need to keep him close.”

  “How close?”

  “Ideally? We’d love to see him installed in an office in the Centre Block. In a substantial way it would give him a false sense of security.”

  “If he gets elected that will happen, won’t it?”

  “True. But as an MP he might go dormant on us, might feel it too dangerous to try anything given the scrutiny he’d be under. We think he realizes this and that’s the reason why he trumped up the story about you leaking Don’s secrets to him. He wants to lose.”

  “Why doesn’t he just step down, not run?”

  “We’re not sure about that. Could be pride. Could be loyalty to the old lady, who has a zealous belief in his ability to win. She doesn’t know anything about his background. For her he’s a cause, the socialist underdog, the new immigrant, the man of colour poised to rise and assume his position in the assembly of the powerful. She’s quite drunk on the idea, in fact. We figure he doesn’t want to let her down.”