by Thomas King
“No,” said Dorian, “I’m not.”
“Then why don’t you try the Raw Buckwheat Breakfast Porridge.”
THE Raw Buckwheat Breakfast Porridge was not what came to mind when Dorian thought about breakfast. It had walnuts on it and tasted like something he might have stumbled across in a field. Who would think of putting walnuts on porridge? Evidently vegans.
The coffee was excellent.
“Could I get a side of toast with butter.”
“We don’t serve butter.”
“Honey?”
“We have apple butter.”
Dorian was almost afraid to ask. “Muffins?”
“Blueberry,” said the man, “and oatmeal raisin.”
“Blueberry,” said Dorian. “I’ll take a blueberry.”
THE café had filled up since Dorian had sat down. He was surprised that so many men found the food appealing. He could understand the attraction for women. Olivia was always looking for something new and healthy to try.
“How was the porridge?”
“Just fine.”
“I’ll get you more coffee, Mr. Coburn.”
The television on the back wall was showing a soccer game, and Dorian wondered if the overpaid kid in the sports magazine was playing. He watched the players as they loped up and down the field, but he didn’t see the point. Try as he might, he found soccer slow and boring.
Unlike hockey, which he found fast and boring.
He was relaxing over coffee and the muffin, when he noticed that the café had gotten remarkably quiet.
“The fuckers!”
Dorian looked up. The soccer game was gone, replaced by a news broadcast. The sound was off, but the picture showed a woman in a yellow trench coat standing by the bank of a river. The screen was too far away, but there was something familiar about the reporter.
“Turn the sound on!”
One of the servers aimed the remote at the screen and the woman’s voice sprang to life.
“… reporting from the Domidion tar-sands facility on the banks of the Athabasca,” said the woman. “I’m Manisha Khan for En Garde.”
A heavy-set man was out of his seat. “Fucking Domidion!”
Dorian turned, so he could see what the man had ordered. If that was the Red Tofu special, it didn’t look bad at all.
“The bastards!” the man shouted. “The fucking bastards have destroyed the Athabasca.”
The action on the television had switched back to CBC’s main broadcast studio, where Peter Mansbridge was going over the particulars of the story.
“Early this morning,” Mansbridge began, “an earthen dam at Domidion’s oil-sands facility gave way and dumped thousands of gallons of toxic sludge into the Athabasca River. A spokesperson for the corporation has told CBC that a cleanup crew is on site and that the spill does not constitute an immediate hazard to local communities or to the environment.”
Dorian put the coffee down and quickly checked his phone.
Shit.
He had turned it off the night before and had forgotten to turn it back on.
The protest group that had met him in the parking lot of the university had had an almost festive air to it. The gathering in the café felt more murderous. Dorian looked around. There was no easy exit. Many of the men were on their feet, and some of them had even started chanting “Domidion” in four distinct syllables.
“Do-mi-di-on! Do-mi-di-on!”
Now the image on the television was of Tecumseh Plaza and Domidion corporate headquarters. Superimposed in one corner of the screen was a picture of … him.
“CBC has tried to speak with Dorian Asher, the CEO of Domidion International,” Mansbridge was saying in a calm monotone, “but a spokesperson tells us that Mr. Asher is currently unavailable for comment.”
It wasn’t an up-to-date photograph. He had had longer hair then, and he had been a fraction slimmer. But it was Dorian Asher, and if anyone in the Bluebird looked hard at the image on the screen and at the man in the booth, things could get out of hand.
Dorian ran a hand through his hair to muss it up. The sleeve of his jacket slid up and there was the Rolex, a lightning rod in a room of storm clouds. He dropped his hand into his lap and worked at the clasp. It wouldn’t open.
Great.
He kept the Rolex arm below the table and raised the other one.
“Do-mi-di-on,” he chanted, his voice blending in with the other men. “Do-mi-di-on.”
And then it was over. The chanting stopped. Everyone took his seat, and the business of breakfast resumed. The server brought the coffee by, but Dorian waved him off.
“I have to get to work,” he told the man.
“Man, is that stock going to take a hit,” said the server.
Domidion headquarters and Dorian’s picture were still on the screen. Why the hell couldn’t they go back to images of the river?
“Fuckers,” said Dorian.
“Damn straight,” said the server. “This will rip the lid off the garbage can.”
Dorian had no idea what that was supposed to mean, and he didn’t ask. He paid the bill, left a reasonable tip, and was at the door when the server stopped him.
“You know,” the man said, gesturing towards the back wall, “he looks like him, too.”
Dorian quickly glanced at the television. He was still an insert on the screen.
“James Coburn,” said the man. “Both of you look a lot like James Coburn.”
49
WHEN THEY GOT TO THE OLD BUS, THEY STOPPED AND LEANED the paintings against the front fender.
“Is it always foggy like this?”
“It’s the coast,” said Mara. “If you want sunshine, move to Florida.”
Breakfast had been marvellous. This Gabriel had surprised her with his culinary skills. The eggs had been soft and buttery, the bacon crisp, the toast hot. And everything had arrived on a warm plate at the same time.
Of course, he might have gotten lucky, and Mara decided that she would have to see him cook a couple more times before she was convinced.
MARA had set wide strips of cardboard along the edge of each painting and wrapped everything in butcher paper to protect the canvases from accidental bumps and the antics of the coastal winds. The brown packages looked like pizza boxes about to be mailed. All that was missing were the stamps.
She had considered waiting until she had completed all the portraits, but having finished the first four, Mara found herself anxious to take them to the reserve.
“Did you remember the hammer?”
“I remembered the hammer.” Gabriel patted his pocket. “And the nails.”
Mara looked through the fence. She had hoped the sky would be clear today so she could see the reserve all at once, the houses, the trailers, the community building, the water tower. The land stretching up to the mountains.
“So, why did you come?”
“You asked me if I would help.”
“You could have said no.”
Gabriel shrugged. “I thought you might like the company.”
“It took them two days to put the fence up.” Mara kicked at the wire. “No one came to help when people were dying. But they came to string the wire.”
Gabriel pushed on a post. “They did a good job.”
“Seven hundred and twenty steps,” said Mara. “From here it’s 720 steps to my grandmother’s house.”
“You’ve counted the steps?”
“We’ll start there,” said Mara.
MARA was right. More or less.
“Seven hundred and nine,” Gabriel said, as they walked onto the porch.
“You take longer steps.” Mara pushed the front door open. “I grew up here. Two bedrooms, one bath. There used to be a chair right about here. One of those recliners with a footrest. My grandmother slept in it.”
“In a chair?”
“Said it was easier to get out of than a bed. All she had to do was lean forward, and she was on her feet.”
> Gabriel tried to imagine what the house had looked like when it was filled with furniture and people.
“There used to be a wood stove over there, but someone took it.”
“Took it?”
“Stole. Everything they could carry,” said Mara. “A family drove in with a trailer. B.C. plates. Mother, father, two teenage sons and a ten-year-old daughter. I caught them looting the community centre. Chairs, dishes, flatware, napkin holders, a coffee urn.”
“Napkin holders?”
“The father was indignant when I told him to put everything back and get off the reserve. He said there were laws that covered abandoned buildings and goods, and that he had as much right to what was here as the next man. One of the boys had a camera. He took photographs of each item his parents carried out of the building.”
“Photographs?”
“Provenance.”
Mara could feel the anger creep in at the corners. “Genuine Aboriginal ghost-town souvenirs. Own a piece of creepy misfortune. Hear the cries of the dying in every teacup. Feel the cold hand of death on every place setting.”
Gabriel took a step backwards.
“An eBay special. Bid early, bid often. Use the security of PayPal.” Mara went to the window. “The father had a knife that he waved at me. I think his son photographed that, too. When they drove off, I took down the licence plate and called the police.”
“So they got caught.”
Mara pulled her lips back, thin as razors. “Oh, sure,” she said. “Quick, quick, there’s a dreadful family, with a trailer, stealing priceless cafeteria trays from a condemned Native reserve.”
She unwrapped one of the paintings. “Bet that went right to the top of the crime docket.”
Gabriel tried to imagine the kind of person who would steal from the dead. Ordinary. They were probably perfectly ordinary.
“It’s cold.” Mara rubbed her arms. “And damp.”
“WHERE do you want to hang it?”
“Not here,” she said. “It feels dead in here.”
Gabriel followed Mara to the porch.
“I’ll take the hammer and nails,” she said. “Hold it up next to the door, so I can see how it looks.”
Gabriel held the canvas by the wire. Mara was right. The painting had more life out here in the open.
“Okay,” she said. “Put it down and get out of my way.”
Gabriel retreated to the railing and waited. The fog was thick and still. Mara drove the nail into the wood with two strong strokes, as though she had done this all her life.
“Martin Luther,” said Gabriel.
“The sixteenth-century monk?”
“He nailed stuff to doors, too.”
Mara slipped the portrait over the nail. “As I recall, he was a pain in the ass.”
“He was,” said Gabriel.
“So am I.” Mara stepped off the porch and walked into the fog. “Grab the other paintings, and try to keep up.”
50
DORIAN STOOD ON THE SIDEWALK OUTSIDE THE BLUEBIRD and tried to relax the muscles in his neck. Winter would have called him as soon as the dam had collapsed. What had Mansbridge said? Early in the morning? Was that Alberta morning or Ontario morning? He checked his watch.
Eight-twenty.
Dorian took a deep breath. Stupid. Turning off the phone. How the hell was he going to explain that? A dead battery?
No. The damn thing was fully charged.
The spill would have sent shock waves through the corporation. What he needed to do was get to the office.
Right now.
Stock prices would be in free fall, and there was always the chance that one of the vigilantes in the café had recognized him from the news broadcast and was organizing a breakfast mob to chase him down. He had heard of such a thing happening in Texas.
Thank God this was Canada. At least they wouldn’t be armed with anything more lethal than forks.
He was debating how long it would take to arrange for a car, when a cab pulled up alongside him and the driver touched his horn. Dorian didn’t hesitate. He pulled the door open and slid in, glancing back at the Bluebird only to make sure that no one was gaining on him.
“Tecumseh Plaza,” he told the driver.
“Tecumseh Plaza,” the driver repeated.
“Yes.”
“You businessman?”
“I’m in a hurry.”
“Sure,” said the driver, “all business is rush-rush.”
Dorian tapped the phone on his knee. Olivia had a friend who was famous for destroying cellphones. Every time a new model came out, her old phone would have an accident. Dorian hadn’t thought cellphones were that delicate.
“What’s that?” said the driver.
“I dropped my phone.”
“My wife drops her phone,” said the man, “and boom, it’s gone.”
Dorian checked for a dial tone.
“You drop your phone again?”
The phone bounced off the door and onto the seat. “Yes,” said Dorian. “I dropped it again.”
Dial tone.
The third time he dropped the phone, he dropped it with authority. It ricocheted off the ceiling of the taxi and banged off the headrest.
“You okay?”
No dial tone.
“Yes,” said Dorian, settling back into the seat and closing his eyes. “I’m fine.”
THE cab dropped Dorian off at the front entrance to Domidion. As he paid the driver and started across the plaza, he realized that he had never used this entrance before.
Unsettling.
The public lobby was slick and austere. Stone-coloured walls. Stone-coloured floors. Stone-coloured guards controlling access to the elevators. The only colour in the foyer was the blue-green water in the empty aquarium.
“I’m Dorian Asher.”
The young woman behind the counter tapped at the computer. “Could you spell that?”
Dorian smiled. “I’m not here for an appointment.”
“You need an appointment.”
Dorian smiled harder. “No, I don’t. I’m the CEO.”
The woman smiled back. “Of …?”
“Domidion!”
THE waiting room was a stone-coloured box, a continuation of the lobby. Spartan, but not especially depressing.
Austere. That’s what it was. Austere.
The delay was annoying. Dorian had shown the guards his credentials, and that should have done the trick, but, having started off on the wrong foot, he had been forced to wait until his identity could be verified.
Dorian spent the time enjoying the second hand on his new Rolex as it swept effortlessly around the dial. It took Winter six minutes and thirteen seconds to reach him.
The taller of the two guards remained somewhat skeptical.
“You’re sure this is the CEO?”
“Yes,” Winter told the guard, “I’m sure.”
“Executives don’t use the front door.”
“It’s all right,” said Dorian. “You did what you were supposed to do.”
“They use the executive tunnel.”
NEITHER Winter nor Dorian spoke until they were on the elevator. Dorian fished the phone out of his pocket and handed it to Winter.
“It’s broken,” he said. “I dropped it.”
“Public Relations is waiting,” said Winter. “They’ll brief you in the conference room.”
“And last night someone cancelled my car.” Dorian slipped the tie out of his pocket and knotted it around his neck. “I had to take a cab home. Find out what the hell happened.”
THE conference room was arranged around an oval table that took up most of the space. The table was designed to seat twenty-four comfortably, but today there were only three other people in the room.
“You remember Victoria Lustig from Public Relations,” said Winter.
“I do.”
Lustig gestured to the two men who were standing on either side of her. “This is Dr. Jeremy Wang from Engine
ering and Jonathan Weisman from Legal.”
“Tell me.”
There were three flat-screens on the far wall. Weisman picked up the remote and aimed it at the middle screen. “At 3:30, Alberta time, the earthen dam at Holding Pond Number Four gave way, and the contents spilled into the Athabasca River. This is the network footage of the spill, taken from a CBC helicopter.”
“What about the no-fly zone?”
“Quite right,” said Weisman. “The news crew shouldn’t have been there.”
“But?”
“But they were.”
“And we couldn’t stop the broadcast?”
“It was a live feed,” said Weisman. “We were able to clear the airspace shortly after this was shot.” He aimed the remote at the left screen. “And this … this is footage from our containment crew.”
Dorian’s eyes moved back and forth between the two screens. “It’s not the same spill.”
“That’s right,” said Weisman. “We’ve had two dams collapse. Right now, the networks don’t know about the second one. But they will.”
“What the hell happened?”
The second man cleared his throat. He was Asian, slight, in his late fifties or early sixties with black hair and enormous glasses. “I am Dr. Wang from Engineering.”
“All right, Dr. Wang from Engineering,” said Dorian. “What the hell happened?”
“The dams were not meant to hold liquids for an extended period,” said Wang, his voice ringed with anxiety. “They were supposed to be evaporation ponds.”
“Explain.”
“The water used to process tar-sand oil is pumped into the ponds. The idea is that once a pond is full, the liquid is allowed to evaporate and the toxic residue is removed and processed.”
Wang paused for a moment. Then he continued. “But production has kept the ponds at capacity, and there hasn’t been an opportunity for evaporation to run its course.”
“Because we keep pumping new effluent into the ponds.”
“Yes,” said Wang. “As soon as levels in a particular pond drop, we pump in more waste water.”
“And the ponds are not designed for this kind of use.”
“No,” said Wang. “They’re not.”
Dorian watched the toxic waste pour through the dams and into the river.