by Edward Riche
“I was booked to go before Victor’s accident. As for Machiavelli? The CBC’s hardly worth the candle.”
Hazel took a studied drag of her cigarette and exhaled the smoke over Elliot’s shoulder, shooting a hot cloud past his ear.
“I also heard you are going to wind up the Newfoundland service,” she said.
“I’m going to consolidate Atlantic Canada in the Halifax office. When they called me about the president’s job, they wanted to know how I could meet some of the ‘Three Priorities.’ I couldn’t think of much so I made shit up. It`s all in the new strategic plan, TVC 2.0: I’m putting advertisements on radio — the mornings are a gold mine; there’ll be more children’s programming for adults; there are some cuts called “consolidation.” It seemed the sort of thing they would want to hear. There’s a vacancy for the regional director position in Newfoundland; it seemed as good a time as any to kill it and Winnipeg.”
“Give me the job.”
“Head of CBC Newfoundland? Are you nuts? Canada is already a backwater, there’s no need to go to its backwater.”
“I’m quitting this place. You owe me.”
“I don’t owe you.”
“No, but something,” Hazel said and Elliot understood.
“Sure, Newfoundland, have it. What do I care? Been there in March? The climate is like geology in a mood.”
“I like the people.”
“What you mistake for friendliness? They’re just nosy.”
“How could you be shutting down the shop in St. John’s and green-lighting a show that’s from there?”
“Jesus, but people are gossips. And they get it wrong. The green-lit show has a Newfoundland theme, that’s all. It’s going to be shot in Halifax — they’ve kissed my ass raw looking for something to keep the plant open. I’ll make them produce it in St. John’s if you want. I’m the president. I’ll shut down the Halifax studio instead — they’ve got the navy, they can’t complain.”
“What’s the show?”
“Tiny Newfies.”
“‘Tiny Newfies’?”
“It’s fun. We tested the pilot. Canadians love tiny Newfies.”
“What about Newfoundlanders?”
“As long as it’s about them, they’re fine with it. You’ll find they’re needy that way. ”
Hazel nodded. Elliot knew she was weighing whether she should object to the show now or wait until she was safely ensconced in St. John’s with the Halifax studio already sold to developers.
“Remember,” Elliot said, “the new governing principle is to make the assets attractive.”
“Attractive? To the audience?”
“To the marketplace. If a part of the service isn’t readily salable, it is going to be wound up. This comes from on high. I got a call from Russ Yelburton at the PMO, three o’clock in the morning. I could hear the Prime Minister swearing in the background. The job offer was conditional on my making the CBC a liquid asset. Don’t repeat that; not even the Minister of Heritage knows.”
“In terms of replacing me . . .” she began to ask.
“Troy’s being groomed,” Elliot said, looking back toward the building. “He loves these management seminars. Thinking of abandoning that ridiculous plan to become a milliner and going for his MBA. Put him in a made suit and he looks like he deserves the executive bonus.”
“You casting or hiring?”
“I’m managing.”
“You’ll have to post the Newfoundland position, I suppose . . .”
“I’ll have Troy do it all. It’ll look legit. No one is going to question your qualifications . . . only your judgement.”
“I appreciate it.” Hazel searched the ground and air for something else to say. “Any luck with the transfer of . . . ?”
“Mark? It’s done. He’s in Beaver Creek, in Gravenhurst. It’s a minimum-security facility, a break from that nightmare at Soledad. He’s settling in nicely . . . if anyone settles in that sort of situation.”
“I’m happy for you. It must be a relief.”
“It is. Maybe I’ll get a place in the Muskokas.”
“It’s a fit with the new job.”
“Mark has started talking to me.”
“That’s wonderful.” Hazel was clearly warmed by the news. “A breakthrough.”
“He’s satisfied that I’m out of showbiz for good.”
Hazel was puzzled. “How’s that, Elliot?”
“I’m in government now, Hazel. I’m a bureaucrat.”
“Goodbye, Elliot,” she said, and turned to walk away. She tried discarding her cigarette butt with a sharp flick of the finger but fumbled it, the stub falling to the ground at her feet amidst a shower of embers and ash. She stopped and came back around. “I forgot. This is why I came out here. The ratings.” She fished through the purse hanging from her shoulder. She handed him a single piece of paper, folded three ways.
Hazel climbed into her car, a smart little Merc, and drove off. Watching her go, Elliot noticed that, across the highway, rows of grapevines were being unearthed. A plough was being pulled behind a powerful tractor. They were driving and dragging deep into the earth, hauling up roots many yards in length, so the plants must be old.
You used the best information you could get to put in vines suited to the location. That, and wishful thinking, governed what you planted where. The vines could be fifteen years of age before they produced grapes that could make a decent wine, and that wine might take another ten in the bottle before you knew what you had. It took a generation to realize you’d made a mistake and planted the wrong variety, even the wrong clone. It took many generations to get it right. You couldn’t fight that. It was completely at odds with modernity’s impatience. Was there a banker to whom you could pitch the century-long amortization of a field of berries? The world changed. You got to watch, which wasn’t so bad.
What were they ripping out? Elliot wondered. Gamay? Pinot? This place felt to him like one to try growing Pineau d’Aunis, even Oberlin. Those grapes made interesting wines, but not of the sort that many people liked. He supposed, for a second, it could be Matou de Gethsemane; hadn’t Patrick Cahill said the Clementines had grown grapes down this way? He could walk over and check — but then, why? It was too late, he’d sold his acreage to Haldeman Estates. The General was probably down in Enredo now doing the same thing, uprooting Elliot’s burnt-over Grenache and Mourvèdre and Counoise to make room for more Zinfandel. Even if Elliot could finally hold a tangled root of Matou in his hands, he no longer owned earth in which to plant it.
He opened the paper that Hazel had given him and looked at the numbers for the first week of the new schedule. They were a hit.
Acknowledgements
Jim Diorio related having seen a Los Angeleno in bread shoes. Too many CBC employees to enumerate sang. The criminal case involving the Anthony Pellicano wiretaps was an inspiration, but I did not pay enough attention to the facts for it to be anything more. My research regarding the mysterious advocates for the Sixth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States was similarly fuzzy. Ken Harvey introduced me to Mr. Pat Hobby in 1979. Indosamnesia was a port of call for The Great Eastern.
The Newfoundland patriot Bob Gardner flew me over San Simeon and its zebras. Rob Mills was wheelman for part of that trip up Highway 1. Dr. Craig Ferguson did the job on the run between Uzès and Courthézon. Dr. Donnelly had the security detail in California. Steve Palmer, out of Enredo, was my hombre español. Gerald Lunz victualled a forward operating base.
Suzanne DePoe was an early champion.
I wish to thank Fabrice Langlois, then of Château Beaucastel, Amy Lillard and Matt Kling of La Gramière, and Robert Haas of Tablas Creek for inviting me in and sharing their great knowledge and best bottles. Randall Grahm was patient with my questions, witty and wise with his answers. The many simplifications and fudging of things viticultural were for the purposes of storytelling. The mistakes are mine alone.
The Canada Council is elsewhere acknowled
ged but I must reiterate that without their support this book could not have been completed. The Newfoundland and Labrador Arts Council has been a help over the years.
At House of Anansi Sarah MacLachlan was right on time and smart to put Melanie Little on my hard case.
About the Author
EDWARD RICHE, an award-winning writer for page, stage, and screen, was born in Botwood, on the Bay of Exploits, on the northeast coast of Newfoundland. His first novel, Rare Birds, was adapted into a major motion picture starring William Hurt and Molly Parker. The Nine Planets, his second novel, was a Globe and Mail Best Book of 2004 and won the Thomas Head Raddall Best Novel Award. Edward Riche lives in St. John’s.
About The Publisher
HOUSE OF ANANSI PRESS was founded in 1967 with a mandate to publish Canadian-authored books, a mandate that continues to this day even as the list has branched out to include internationally acclaimed thinkers and writers. The press immediately gained attention for significant titles by notable writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, George Grant, and Northrop Frye. Since then, Anansi’s commitment to finding, publishing and promoting challenging, excellent writing has won it tremendous acclaim and solid staying power. Today Anansi is Canada’s pre-eminent independent press, and home to nationally and internationally bestselling and acclaimed authors such as Gil Adamson, Margaret Atwood, Ken Babstock, Peter Behrens, Rawi Hage, Misha Glenny, Jim Harrison, A. L. Kennedy, Pasha Malla, Lisa Moore, A. F. Moritz, Eric Siblin, Karen Solie, and Ronald Wright. Anansi is also proud to publish the award-winning nonfiction series The CBC Massey Lectures. In 2007, 2009, 2010, and 2011 Anansi was honoured by the Canadian Booksellers Association as “Publisher of the Year.”
Table of Contents
Cover
Openers
Part One
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Part Two
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Part Three
One
Two
Three
Four
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About The Publisher
