“I was here a week or so ago and I had a pint of something dark, like Smithwicks, but I think it was local.”
“10W30?”
“Could have been. I didn’t catch a name. I’ll try that anyway.”
The spigots were close by and as the bartender pulled the pint, Cyril said: “Last time I was here I left a note for a guy named Ari.”
“Ah, yes,” the waiter said. “I gave it to him.”
“So he’s here?”
“That’s him outside.” He placed the beer on a coaster in front of Cyril who stepped back, looking through the door toward the patio.
“The big guy,” the bartender said. “Smoking. I’ll send him your way when he comes in.”
Cyril sat at a small wobbly table a few feet from the bar and from there he could clearly see the profile of the man called Ari, someone who had known his father. He was halfway through his beer before Ari came inside, filling the door frame with his bulk. He nodded at Cyril as he passed his table, then proceeded to the end of the bar where he engaged the bartender. Cyril kept his eyes down, knowing that he would be inspected. But when he stole a glance in their direction the big man had disappeared.
A small nudge of resentment. He fished his BlackBerry from a pocket, scrolled through messages. One from Leo: How goes it where ever U R? Gonna make it to poker tonite? He’d forgotten poker night. He was about to respond when a presence loomed.
“Cyril?”
“Yes.” He put the phone back in his pocket and looked up.
Ari sat and sighed heavily, or perhaps was simply exhaling. He studied Cyril briefly. “So what can I do for you?”
The music volume suddenly cranked up. Herbie Hancock. “Watermelon Man.” Ari looked annoyed, seemed about to shout a rebuke toward the bar, but then stood. “Let’s go outside.”
They sat where Ari had been sitting when Cyril arrived. Ari lit a cigarette, blew the flame from the match, exhaling smoke. “I suppose you’re here about Pierre. Actually I had to do a bit of thinking before I remembered. It’s been what? Years?”
“He disappeared just about five years ago.”
“Yes. That sounds about right. And I think I read something lately.”
“Confirmation that he was deceased.”
“I’m sorry,” Ari said, extending a thick hand. Cyril clasped it briefly. “How?”
“Nobody knows for sure. A boating accident. There was an explosion.”
“Hmm. Yes. Boats can be dangerous. You must have been relieved, at least, to be able to start putting things behind you.”
Cyril nodded. “Yes. But he left another mystery, a document in a file his lawyer had. You were mentioned in it.”
“What kind of document?” Ari frowned.
“It suggested that you were important to him.”
Ari raised his eyebrows, looked away. Shrugged.
“So can I ask? How did you come to know my father?”
“I noticed him when he came in here once. I’m basically nosy. He wasn’t a regular and he wasn’t typical of the clientele. He was a Bay Street lawyer, right?”
Cyril nodded.
“Yes. And now I remember. He was from Lebanon. We talked about the old country. I grew up in Israel and I’ve been to Lebanon. Many times.”
“So you’re not Lebanese.”
“No. I’m more Canadian than anything else. Born in Montreal. My parents decided to do the kibbutz thing in the sixties. So I came of age in Israel, you could say. But I’ve been back here for quite a while now. Your dad was somebody intelligent to talk to. So tell me, if you don’t mind, why do you say he disappeared when you knew there was a boating accident?”
“We know the boat blew up. But they never found his body. Until recently, when they found a fragment. It was how they confirmed that he was dead. There was speculation for a while that he just made himself disappear, or that he killed himself.”
“So they’ve ruled out suicide?”
“Yes.”
“But you still have doubts about how he died?”
“I wouldn’t call them doubts. Just a feeling that makes me want to find out more about him and what was going on back in ’07.”
“He had a lot on his plate when I last spoke to him.”
“The controversy over what happened at the mine in Indonesia?”
“Yes,” he said. “That bothered him a lot. And then of course the cancer diagnosis.”
“Cancer?”
Ari studied him carefully, a slow flush rising in his face. It was a kind face, Cyril thought—especially the eyes, dark and deep and warm.
“You didn’t know about that?”
“There were hints. What kind of cancer?”
“I shouldn’t. But I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. It was prostate.”
“Prostate.”
“I remember people talking about him here, when he disappeared, that maybe he just flew the coop. You hear about it all the time.”
“You think…”
“I think nothing. I knew about the cancer. I knew what he was going through. Pressures of work, pressures of home. Something snaps.”
“You think that’s what happened?”
“Like I said, I think nothing. What’s to think? Nothing changes, no matter what we think.” Ari peered off into the distance. Then made eye contact again and held it, unblinking for what felt like minutes. Then he rubbed his hands over his face and massaged his eyeballs with clenched fists. “Okay.” Paused again. “I’m going to have a drink. Your dad enjoyed his Scotch. How about you?”
“Yes.”
“I will tell you what I know, which isn’t much. But we can enjoy the drink. In his memory.”
Later, when Cyril stood to leave, Ari remained seated. “One question, if I may.”
Cyril sat.
“You referred to a document, that mentioned me?” He smiled, his expression cool.
“Of course,” said Cyril. “Sorry. I almost forgot. He didn’t want a funeral or a conventional memorial of any kind. But he wanted something here, at this bar.”
Ari frowned. “Here?”
“Yes. He said he wanted a little gathering for people who were close to him. He said it should be like a…roast.”
“A what?”
“A roast. Like when—”
“I know what a roast is.”
“He left a list of people. I really didn’t know anybody in his circle, but you were on the list. And he said you’d know what he meant and that you’d help arrange the roast.”
Ari sat back with his hands across his stomach and studied his fingers. When he looked up he stared at Cyril as if seeing him for the first time.
“Let me think about it,” he said.
Cyril sighed. “Do you think he was serious?”
Ari laughed. “I think he was serious. But I’m not sure what he had in mind. All due respect, you can never tell with an Arab. It’s how they manage to survive.”
10.
He was at the subway stop where he’d normally transfer to a southbound bus that would take him into Leo’s neighbourhood when he admitted that he really couldn’t face his poker buddies. Not after what he’d heard from this odd stranger, Ari no-last-name.
He left the station, briefly considered heading home, but walked up to the street and just stood there staring at the traffic, the strangers passing, oblivious. Everyone oblivious. In his mind an image: his father standing on a street like this on one forgotten evening long ago, marooned somewhere within himself, and for lack of any immediate purpose or destination wandering into an establishment he’d never heard of, a place with an intriguing name. A café that was really just a bar with coffee on the side.
Standing there on the corner at—he looked upwards toward the street signs—Bloor and Ossington, Cyril knew that from the moment when Ari had disclosed the most shocking details of his father’s cancer treatment, there was someone in particular he had to talk to and he had no idea how or where he could begin.
He had the cellphone in his hand, scrolled through contacts. Found a number but knew that it was at least five years old. He poked it anyway.
She answered merrily but went silent when she heard his voice.
“Lois?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Look. About the other day, when you were at Mom’s. I was thinking afterwards. I’m sorry I bailed out for a while. It must have seemed rude.”
“I didn’t make anything of it. Where are you?”
“Just out and about.”
“Okay.”
He knew what he needed but had no idea how to approach the subject tactfully. So he blurted, “Look, I know it’s late but…”
She laughed. “You call this late? You must lead a quiet life.”
“Well, since you brought it up…” He tried to laugh too.
“Cyril, what do you want?”
“I want to talk. Sometime. It doesn’t have to be right now.”
“Talk about what.”
“About Dad.”
“What about Dad.”
“I met Ari, the guy who was mentioned in Dad’s note about the roast. We talked about stuff.” There was a long silence until finally he asked, “Are you still there?”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Well, about that roast idea. And about his health. You know he had cancer.”
“I lived with him. What do you think?”
“I didn’t know. I’d like to talk about it.”
“What’s to talk about? It’s hardly relevant anymore. Is it?”
“It could be. I just want to talk.”
She sighed. “Where did you say you were?”
“Bloor and Ossington.”
“You remember where I live.”
“Of course. You’re sure it’s okay?”
“No.”
She opened the door and stepped back, then walked down the hallway toward the kitchen. She was wearing baggy sweatpants, woollen socks, a light blue cotton turtleneck. He passed the dining room, which had been transformed into a playroom. There were miniature vehicles and bits of Lego scattered on the floor, a stack of kids’ books on the table.
There was a bottle of wine on the kitchen counter, Chardonnay, just out of the refrigerator. “I was about to have a glass.”
He looked around. “You haven’t changed much here, though I think the paint is new?”
She stood, arms folded, saying nothing.
“It’s kind of strange, being here,” he said. “It’s been a while.”
“It has.” She turned to the counter, picked up a pill vial and removed the top. “Excuse me a sec.” She popped something into her mouth.
“You okay?” he asked.
She waved a dismissive hand. “Never better. Just need something to help me sleep. If I don’t take something I’m half-awake all night listening for Pete. Of course he sleeps through the night now, but I haven’t got used to it yet. You look tired.”
“Work is kind of stressful,” he said. “I’ve been digging into Lebanon.”
“Lebanon.”
“Yes. The civil war stuff. I had no idea.”
She nodded, then picked up the bottle, unscrewed the cap and poured slowly into a glass. “Would you care for some?”
He shook his head.
“He never talked about it, you know.” She turned, leaned back against the counter.
“I know.”
“Just that he figured that the place had settled down and he wanted to go back, to touch base, I guess. Then the Israelis invaded in 2006. He said he wasn’t concerned for himself. It was mostly about me being Jewish, etcetera.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
She laughed. “You really haven’t done much research, have you?”
He felt the blush. “Well, I know about Israel…”
“That’s a start.” She sipped. “Anyway, after the Israeli bombing campaign…well, that was the end of that.”
“Maybe I will have a glass,” he said.
She turned, reached up toward a cupboard door.
He watched her as she stretched on tiptoes, withdrew the glass, then set it down slowly, unscrewed the top again, tipped the bottle, poured carefully. When she turned he blushed because her glance convinced him she could read his mind. She sat, crossed her legs, leaned forward, elbows on the table. Swirled the contents of her glass.
“So,” she said.
“You never met this Ari?”
“I think Pierre mentioned him once or twice but I’d forgotten all about it before that piece of paper turned up. Who is he?”
“I don’t know much. He still hangs around that little bar in the east end. He says he was born in Montreal but grew up on a kibbutz in Israel. Seems to know a lot about politics, says he worked in Lebanon and knows the place.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Oh?”
“It’d be the one thing they’d have in common. The war.”
“How do you know that?”
“Everybody knows that, love. In my humble opinion, Lebanon is potentially the ruination of Israel. Never mind the West Bank. When we think of Lebanon, we have to think Iran.”
“Iran? I thought Syria.”
“Oh yes, that too. And Saudi Arabia and Egypt and Gaza and you name it. Don’t expect to ever understand it. I don’t, and I’ve been hearing about it all my life. Mom and Dad are classic salon Zionists.”
He wobbled his head. “Okay. But there was something else.”
“Oh?”
“This Ari guy. Dad told him about his prostate cancer.”
“And so?”
He emptied his glass, then held it up. “Do you mind?”
“Help yourself,” she said, and got up, brought the bottle to the table. “Pierre didn’t want to worry you or your mother about the cancer. He thought he was on top of it.”
“I’m going to look through his diaries to see if he mentioned anything there, but I doubt if I’ll find anything. The weird thing is, the one diary where you’d expect to find stuff like that, the work problems and the cancer—I can’t find it. 2007 is missing.”
“Hmm.”
“You didn’t happen to…”
“Nope. I was pretty thorough when I packed his things.”
He reached for the bottle of Chardonnay again. “You don’t mind?”
“Be my guest. So what did Ari have to say about the cancer?”
“He told me how he wanted to treat it, and the side effects.”
“Okay.”
“Testosterone blocking, he said. Shutting down the prostate. Right?”
She stood. “Boy. You and this Ari sure bonded in a hurry.”
“I have to ask…did he?”
“Did he what?”
“Did he take medication to…?”
“Why would that be any of your business? Even if your father was still alive, I suspect he’d have the same response if you asked him.”
“Well…”
“It really isn’t any of your concern. Look. I’m suddenly feeling kind of tired. I have an early start.” She turned away from him, turned on a tap and rinsed her wineglass.
“I think it is my fucking business, what happened with you and me…”
“I think you’d better leave,” she said.
“If Dad was impotent…”
“I don’t think I like where this is going.”
He felt a pounding inside his skull, the same sensation that he’d felt just before he’d walked away from Gloria.
“Just go,” she said.
He put his glass down carefully and stood, struggling for control, and failing. “Okay, I’m going,” he said. “And you can go fuck yourself with your attitude.”
She stared at him coldly.
Once outside he’d realized that it was only a fifteen-minute walk from where Lois lived to Aggie’s—just about the time he needed for a total reassessment of his life and the
role of women in it. The clarity was as if someone had lit a floodlight in his brain. Women: crucibles of misery. Without exception. He remembered reading about an insect that fucks her mate then eats him. Excellent. At least the insect victim didn’t have to stomach the humiliation, the self-reproach. The emasculation. As Cyril strode up Banting Avenue a raccoon waddled out of the bushes in a neighbour’s yard and stopped, oozing insolence. He ran at it, tried to kick it. The raccoon reared up, hissing, forcing Cyril to retreat. “Fuck you too,” he said.
He sat on his mother’s doorstep. How tragic if his father had been emasculated physically by some oncologist and then emotionally by that witch and—this is where Cyril’s outrage wobbled, started slipping down the anger scale toward guilt—if Pierre had known about the treacherous involvement of his son. He bent forward over his knees and rocked, hands covering his face until the red wine and beer and Scotch and white wine roiled and shot up into his burning throat. He dashed around the corner of the house and heaved.
Breakfast was the other thing that pissed him off about living with his mother. Aggie was an early riser, made a point of telling him ad nauseam how wonderful the world was just before the sun came up. How fresh the city smelled, how serene she found the expectant silence just before the rosy blush of dawn illuminated the eastern horizon, an image that she’d probably read somewhere. He descended from his room into the snap of bacon in the frying pan, the cloying smell of it. Breakfast was the only thing that Cyril found more repellent than getting out of bed. And never more than on the morning after his lamentable encounter with the woman who was, legally, his stepmother.
“Good morning,” Aggie said cheerfully, pouring orange juice.
He nodded. He liked his coffee black but Aggie insisted that the flavour would be significantly improved by some oil-based coffee mix. He sat. The mug of ruined coffee was awaiting him.
She put the plate down. “You’ll have toast.” She rubbed a hand across his back, squeezed his shoulder. He winced.
“Eat up,” she said. “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. What did you have to eat last night, by the way?”
“I grabbed a sandwich,” he replied, poking at the egg yolk. Halfway through the effort to force the food down he stood suddenly. “I just remembered. I have an early meeting. Shit. I’m sorry.”
The Only Café Page 9
