Sundowner Ubuntu

by Anthony Bidulka

  “Can you? Can you really?”

  I heard something new in Anthony’s voice, something I’d never heard from him before in the many years I’d known him: a mocking, acerbic lilt, as if challenging me to take him on in a verbal battle he knew he’d never allow me to win.

  “I don’t mean it that way, Anthony,” I quickly added, flinching at the tight look on his face. “I don’t know what the two of you have gone through, but—”

  “This is all so ridiculous, absolutely ludicrous, I can hardly believe it’s happening,” he shot back. As he loosened control over his usually impeccable diction, his English accent grew thicker. “I am fifty-six years old, Russell. Fifty-six!”

  “Oh, but look at you, you look fant—”

  “Shut up, puppy.”

  I was ever so glad he added the “puppy.”

  “Save me the platitudes. I’m fifty-six years old. Jared is thirty-two. We’ve been together eight years. And for eight years I have wondered almost every day when he would leave me because of the way I looked, because I’d grown too old, because the wrinkles around my eyes and on my forehead were too deep, my chest dropped too low, my belly wasn’t tight enough, my ass too droopy, my hair grown too thin, my mind too slow, my joints too sore. And you know, Russell, I was ready for that. I’ve been preparing for it. I could understand it, accept it; it just makes sense.” He sipped his drink with the finesse of a well-rehearsed martini drinker. “When he’s my age now, I’ll be eighty years old, for goodness’ sake. Yet now…now…can you believe it? He wants to end the relationship because of how he looks! How dare he, the little shit!”

  Anthony once again artfully raised his martini glass so that it sat just above nose level, hesitating before taking a drink, his eyes swimming across the shimmering expanse to meet mine. I knew enough not to say anything.

  A dark-eyed server approached our table and asked if we needed refills. He seemed particularly taken—as many people, men and women both, are—with Anthony’s screen-idol good looks. Anthony did this nod thing that I guess is the international signal for “God, yes, keep them coming,” and the young man strode away to fill our order.

  Placing a hand over mine, a magnificent amethyst ring sparkling from his third finger, Anthony said in a voice that was half-whisper, half-throttled cry, “You’re going to think this despicable—and it is despicable, hideous really—but, God forgive me, Russell, I almost prefer it.”

  My brow lowered as I tried to comprehend what my friend was saying. “You prefer…what?”

  “The way he looks now.”

  I recoiled at the notion. “Anthony….” And that was all I could think of to say.

  “Ghastly, I know,” he said. “Didn’t I warn you? But it’s not as it sounds, really it isn’t. I would never have wished this on Jared; I would give anything, my life, I would give my life, truly, if it meant that this hadn’t had to happen to him. Not only the horror and pain of the actual act—and believe me, I have spent many hours torturing myself, thinking about what he must have gone through in those moments after that…that creature threw acid in his beautiful face.… God, Russell, I can sometimes hardly bear the thought of my sweet, sweet Jared in such agony—and then there’s all the pain he’s had to go through since, learning how to live with his deformity, learning how to live with people’s reaction when they see his scarred face. It’s so torturously difficult for him. So, no, I’m never glad for that.

  “But, but, oh how do I say this? And I’d only say it to you….” And here he stopped and regarded me with the intensity of a million pairs of eyes.

  I nodded my assurance that this conversation would remain between only us, just as so many before it had.

  “If it had to happen—regardless of anything I might do or wish or think—I…I prefer this new Jared to his former magnificence.”

  For a full moment there was silence between us. I looked at him. He looked at me.

  “It’s selfish, I know,” he uttered, “but you see, it is so much easier for me.”

  “Easier?” I could only manage a whisper. “How can this possibly be easier, Anthony?”

  “Jared and I were first attracted to one another because of how we looked. It’s the truth. There’s no denying that. But when you are in love with a beautiful man, although everyone around you continues to see that same intensity of beauty every time they see him, you begin to see only what is inside. The shell, that lovely wrapping paper, becomes less and less important until finally you no longer notice it. You see, Russell, I don’t need Jared’s lion-cat eyes, his perfect olive skin, his golden locks, his impeccably designed body in order to love him, not anymore. I know it must sound inexcusably corny,” he said with a hard smile, “and I can’t believe it is coming from these lips, but all I need is what is inside.

  “Over these past months, as we’ve been dealing with all of this, the physical and mental repercussions of the attack, the doctors, even though there has been much distress and anger and sadness, I’ve been having this…this feeling, a sensation I could not for the life of me identify. Until recently. Do you know what it is, Russell?”

  I shook my head.

  “Relief, Russell, blessed relief. Like that of a one-thousand-pound weight being lifted from my back. I feel at ease with myself and my age and what my body is becoming. I have stopped wondering about when Jared might leave me because of how I look. And by learning this about myself, about how little exterior appearances really matter to me now, including my own, I see it in him too. The state of his current exterior means nothing to me. Does any of this make sense?”

  “Anthony, can I ask you a question?”

  “What is it?”

  “Did you ever—knowing Jared as well as you do, loving each other as you have—really expect that he would wake up one day, take one look at you, and say, ‘I’m sorry, but it’s over now’?”

  He held my gaze for nearly thirty seconds—a long time if you count it out—before finally speaking. “No. To be truthful, I always believed we’d find a way to work it out. That we’d realize what everyone the world over hopes is true but never knows for sure until something happens to test it, that we’d find out that indeed—oh gracious, save me, Russell, but I’m about to spout even more cliché—we’d find out that love truly does conquer all.”

  Something, somewhere, roughly in the heart region of my innards, went “boing!” It may have been indigestion. I nodded with a smile. “I think that can be very true, Anthony. You know it now. Jared just needs a reminder.”

  It was rather late when I snuck into my house through the back door. Barbra and Brutus greeted me with a little more reserve than usual. I think they were concerned that we might wake Alex, who’d fallen asleep on a couch in the living room, waiting for me. Following in Anthony’s cliché-a-minute footsteps, I dutifully kissed the big lug lightly on the cheek and covered him with an afghan. I tiptoed back into the kitchen, where I found a handwritten note: “Russell—roast and potatoes in the fridge if you’re hungry—dogs and I spent the day watching the Airplane movies—listen to your phone messages, may be important—wake me when you get in—Alex.”

  Part of me felt sad I’d missed the day with Alex—we get so few together—and another part of me felt guilty for the same reason. I decided against the food and waking him up, instead choosing a glass of water to dilute my belly full of martini, and led the dogs down the dim hallway into my den at the back of the house. As I passed the desk, I activated my voice mail to recite my messages and joined Barbra and Brutus on the soft leather couch to massage spots behind furry ears.

  The first message was a quick “how ya doing?” from Ric and Ian in Victoria; the second was a chatty one from my buddy Steve O’Neill, who lives in Falls Church, Virginia; the third was a succinct “Ya, hello, dis is Mom. Goodbye, den”; and finally, the last on the playback list, was just what I was waiting to hear: “Mr. Quant, it’s Clara Ridge. I got your message. I understand you’ve returned to Canada with my son? As you can
imagine, I’m rather surprised at that news. I don’t know if I’m ready to see him in person…just yet. But I would like to know how and where you found him and what you know about him. Can we meet tomorrow morning, Sunday, at your office? Please come alone, Mr. Quant; don’t bring Matthew…not now, not yet…. I hope you can understand…. I need to see you, talk to you first. I hope you get this message…. I…well…I’ll be at your office at nine a.m. I hope to see you then.”

  You bet you will.

  It was a crisp, cool Sunday morning when I arrived at PWC, but there was something in the air, perhaps the subtle, new-growth scent of trees and foliage coming to life after a long winter hibernation that hinted, ever so alluringly, at spring and summer not far off. Even so, the ground was covered in a shellac-like coating of snow, created by the recent succession of sun-warmed, melting days followed by Jack Frost freezing nights—winter’s last hoorah. I parked in back but entered through the front of the building, leaving the door unlocked in preparation for my guest.

  I dashed up to my office but only spent a minute there, checking on this and that, before returning to the main floor. I tried a few different places and finally settled on the area behind Lilly’s desk as the best spot from which I could easily keep watch on both the front and rear doors without immediately being seen myself.

  I didn’t have long to wait. I watched as the front doorknob began to turn. Slowly. Deliberately. Whoever it was didn’t want to advertise their presence just yet. I crouched low behind the desk and waited.

  The door swung open, inch by careful inch, letting in a growing sliver of sunlight, then finally a figure.

  As expected, my visitor was not the woman I’d met as Clara Ridge, the imposter mother of Matthew, the woman who’d left me the stilted message on my voice mail, sounding as if she were reading from a script. The phony Clara Ridge was quite likely nothing but a stooge, someone playing a role, someone being used. Just as I was being used.

  Until now.

  You have to get up awfully early to fool Russell Quant, PI (a second time).

  I watched as the man silently closed the door behind him, then turned and faced the staircase. He’d obviously done his homework, because his eyes travelled up the steps right to the door of my office. He glanced at his watch. He was early for the appointment, on purpose, obviously intending to catch me by surprise.

  I pulled back as his eyes roamed the room. I hoped he wouldn’t choose the same hiding spot as I had. After a second, I risked another peek. I was in luck. He was heading up the stairs. He’d obviously decided to ambush me right in my own office. Little bugger.

  “Hold it right there,” I said, straightening to my full height and stepping from behind the PWC reception desk.

  The man stopped, frozen between two steps.

  There’s no better feeling than surprising someone who was going to surprise you.

  “Just so you know,” I added pleasantly, “I have a gun aimed at your back. Turn around slowly and come down the stairs.” I rarely use a firearm in my work—just personal style, I guess—but given the history of this case, it seemed the smart thing to do.

  The figure did as he was told, revealing a tall, powerfully built man with a ruddy tan and blond hair shorn close to his scalp. His eyes were bleary and circled with dark creases, and it looked as if he hadn’t shaved for several days—all in all not a bad look.

  And then he asked an unexpected question. “Why are you doing this?”

  I smirked the smirk of the righteous. “Why are you sneaking into my place of business on a Sunday morning? Why are you having someone pretend to be Clara Ridge? Why are you looking for Matthew Ridge under false pretenses? Huh? Tell me that.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I shook my head. “I’m the one with the gun. I think that gives my questions priority, wouldn’t you say? But before you answer, there’s one important thing I’d like you to tell me first.” I hesitated for drama. “Who are you?”

  The smirk fell off my face, and the colour drained from my cheeks into my shoes when I heard his reply: “I’m Matthew Ridge.”

  Chapter 17

  “Prove it!” I demanded of the big man. I’d had him come down the stairs and face me with hands up at shoulder height. My gun was pointed at his gut.

  “My wallet,” he said. “It’s in my pocket.”

  I approached him warily, careful to keep my pistol at the ready should he make any sudden moves. I reached into his jacket breast pocket and pulled out a waterproof wallet with a Roots insignia on it. I stepped away and opened it to reveal credit cards, an insurance card, a bank card, and a driver’s licence, each with one thing in common: the name Matthew Moxley inscribed on it. And indeed, the man before me bore a striking resemblance to the picture I had of a much younger Matthew Ridge. Could this actually be him? The man whose life I’d recreated out of a few scraps of information and interviews with people who knew him a lifetime ago? The man I’d travelled fifteen thousand kilometres to find? The man who someone, pretending to be his mother, was desperate to find? The man who was supposed to be dead!

  “I suppose you can put your hands down, but keep ’em where I can see ’em,” I ordered. “No sudden moves.” Like that would stop him. “I’ve got some questions for you.”

  “All right, but I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

  “Let’s start with the fact that I was told you were dead,” I said.

  “By Kevan,” he responded with a knowing nod. “We came up with that story after what happened in Khayelitsha. It became obvious you were hunting me down, willing to do anything to find me, and heading for Botswana. Our friends weren’t able to scare you away, no matter how hard they tried, so the only way we could think of to stop you was to convince you I was dead.” He hesitated there and gave me a look that was hard to read. “I have to tell you, Mr. Quant,” he finally said, “after everything our friends did in an effort to get rid of you, we were rather surprised when our simple falsehood worked so easily.”

  Interesting point. Apparently words have greater power over me than bullets and explosions. I shrugged my shoulders. “I didn’t think Kevan had any reason to lie to me. But obviously he didn’t believe me when I told him I was not responsible for the beatings of the Chikosis.”

  “Actually he did believe you, Mr. Quant,” Matthew said in his deep, placid voice. He sounded like a well-rehearsed teacher; calm, composed. It was a startling contrast to his outward appearance, like an action movie hero who’d met with hard times but would probably clean up real good.

  “And that is why I am here,” he continued. “Kevan maintained the fabrication we’d planned only because he didn’t know what else to do. But he sensed something about you, a sincerity in the telling of your story. After you’d gone, he told me he thought you might be telling the truth.”

  I nodded, silently communicating that I was relieved that he’d believed his boyfriend.

  “When I heard that my mother might be looking for me, I could hardly believe it. I knew that if there was even the slightest chance that what you claimed was true, I had to come back here. Enough time has passed. I’ve run long enough, far enough; it’s time for me to stop and face my past and make peace with it, including with my mother. How can a son deny his mother a chance to see his face one last time, to give her a chance to know me again, to give her…give each of us…a chance to forgive, forget, love each other again?”

  My insides were crumbling. Matthew Moxley had come all this way based on a story I’d told his boyfriend, a story I now knew to be a fabrication. I handed him his wallet back, which he accepted and returned to his pocket.

  “You’re very brave,” I told him.

  He shook his head. “No, Mr. Quant. I’m not brave at all. A lot of me is still that young boy, running scared, afraid of what’s behind him, but I know now that I cannot go forward with my life unless I stop and look back there. See what there is to see. Feel it. Deal with it. Believe me, Mr. Quant,
I didn’t come by this decision easily. I didn’t come by it alone. I’ve had a lot of help and guidance, from the very country I now live in and call home, and the people who live there. They’ve taught me this.”

  “Ubuntu,” I said.

  He looked at me with a kindness that was impossible to fake (unless this man was a consummate actor). “Of course. You have been to my home, to South Africa,” he said in an accent that was no longer Canadian. “Maybe you have learned this too?”

  I could only nod. Although I admired and maybe aspired to it, I was very far from practicing anything close to the South African’s belief in ubuntu, the deep sense that each of us is an integral part of the thread of humanity and that we must all take care of one another to take care of ourselves. Still, I was grateful for having had the opportunity to be exposed to it, even for a short time.

  “I thought I knew what ubuntu was,” Matthew said, almost as if he was feeding off my own doubts. “I thought I was practicing it in my own life, but I was wrong. You showed me that, Mr. Quant.”

  “I did?” I asked, surprised.

  “Through you, my mother reached out her hand to me, from Canada all the way to Africa. You were her hand. My mother was reaching out to me, and all the while all I could think of was how to pull further away. So far away that you were told I was dead, of AIDS. I used the scourge of Africa to protect myself. It’s unforgivable, such selfishness. And worse still, I shunned my mother’s hand. This is not ubuntu.

  “After you and Kevan spoke in Chobe, and he told me your story and how he believed that you were telling the truth, that you were not responsible for what happened to the Chikosis, I decided that if there was even a slight chance that my mother was truly looking for me, reaching our for me, I would look for her too. I would reach out to her. Maybe, somewhere in the middle, we would meet.