“My God, for a job that doesn’t pay you anything they like to keep you hopping. Isn’t there anybody else working down there?”
“Bye, Mom.” He kissed her swiftly on the cheek, and fled.
When he arrived at work he was pleasantly surprised to see Suzanne Reynolds standing in the middle of the newsroom. She smiled and waved at him.
He noticed there was a DVD in his mailbox. Seeing his name above the little slot never failed to lift his spirits even though his name was hand-lettered on a scrap of paper that was Scotch-taped on. There was a yellow sticky-memo on the DVD: “East Timor. You should bone up on this. Doc.” Another uplifting story, he told himself as he sat down. He set the disk aside and picked up the transcript of the Norwegian documentary but couldn’t suppress the urge to look around the room for another sighting of Suzanne.
She was standing with the anchor, Manville, who to Cyril seemed much taller and more bald than he’d imagined from watching him on television—not that watching newscasts had been a large part of his life before Gloria had suggested that he might have a latent flair for it. Suzanne and Manville were behaving like old friends and she gently pushed him at one point, laughing at something he had said to her.
In his heart a little tremor—envy, or a sudden recognition of the yawning space between where he was in the journalistic cellar and the Olympian plateau on which Reynolds and Manville were established.
He returned to the English transcript of the Norwegian documentary for the distraction of confronting human circumstances a whole lot worse than his. And if Lebanon failed to do the trick, he had East Timor to look forward to.
He felt light fingers on his shoulder. “What’ya got there?” Suzanne was staring down at his transcript.
“Lebanon,” he said. “Translation of a Norwegian documentary I watched.”
“Ah,” she said. “Any good?”
“Interesting,” he said. “A bit one-sided.”
“That’s Lebanon,” she said. “Impossible to find the middle ground.”
“When did you get back?”
“Last night,” she said. “They got nervous about the cost.” She grimaced. “The way it is today—frigging accountants calling the shots for everything. Can I buy you a coffee?”
“Actually, that would be nice,” he said, remembering the corrupted mug he’d left cooling on his mother’s table.
In the elevator he was aware of being noticed and knew it was because he was in the company of Suzanne. But that was okay. Hardly anybody spoke to her but there were nods. Her glow seemed to warm the crowded space.
Lined up at the coffee shop he said, “I’ve never seen Lloyd in this early.” He wanted to add lightly: Must be because of you. Thought better of it.
“Have you met him yet?” she asked.
“Um…no.”
“We’ll remedy that,” she said. “Great guy. A real trooper. What’ll you have?”
When they sat close together at a very small table in a corner, she returned to the subject of the anchor. “There’s nobody quite like him, not even in the States, when it comes to live coverage…conventions and elections and the like.”
“How often does he have to do that?” Cyril asked, and was instantly afraid he shouldn’t have.
But Suzanne smiled. “You’re naughty.”
Emboldened by the smile, he said, “What does he do in between elections, besides read the news?”
“It’s a whole lot more than reciting what he sees on a teleprompter. You’ll soon find that out.”
“I doubt it,” he said. “I’m just an intern, a ship…more like a canoe…passing in the night.”
She laughed. “Yeah, right!”
“Seriously,” he said.
She placed a hand on his briefly. “Don’t be negative,” she said. “I hear you’ve made a strong impression.”
“Okay.”
“That’s what counts around here. Impressions.” She stood. “Bring the coffee with you. We can talk more later. Maybe after work. A drink?”
“Sure.”
Mercifully nobody seemed to notice that he was at the story meeting, not even Hughes. He loved the intensity of these sessions but dreaded being asked for input that would reveal his utter ignorance of most of what they were going on about. Long conversation with the chief political reporter in Ottawa—maybe a reality check regarding new federal regulations for coal-fired energy but please, pretty please, don’t make it sound like another slap at the Tory government; Washington guy somewhere in Ohio arguing for a story about Obama leading pre-election polls in that important state; a follow-up to the murder of the American ambassador to Libya in a shootout in Benghazi.
Suzanne chimed in at this point, challenging Hughes who had attributed the Benghazi incident to an outrageous new film by right-wing Americans attacking Islam. “That is such bullshit,” she announced. Hughes looked startled.
“Are we really going to waste airtime on that propaganda? Keep your eye on the big picture, guys. You want to talk about insulting Islam? Try trivializing their outrage by attributing it to some fifth-rate piece of American bigotry…”
And she went on. Cyril was mesmerized. Hughes was studying a file, plucking at the end of his nose.
“You aren’t even fucking listening, Ian,” Suzanne accused.
“I am,” Hughes replied. “Really. I’m really listening for something new in what you’re going on about. Something that might offer us a peg for putting something on the air. Today. Okay?” He slapped the folder down. “You haven’t been away so long, Suzy.”
“Don’t fucking call me Suzy.”
“Excuse me, Suzanne. But you haven’t been away so long that you’ve forgotten we are a daily show and that it’s an old, old convention in our business to let people know right off the top why we’re asking them to pay attention to a particular story…”
“Don’t lecture me.”
Hughes sighed heavily. Manville was smiling slightly. Doc was tapping the end of his ballpoint on the table, calculating where creative tension might turn into conflict.
“Sorry,” Hughes said. “Didn’t mean to make it sound like a lecture.”
“Okay,” said Savage. “Lloyd?”
Manville cleared his throat.
They decided that Suzanne would take some time quietly exploring an issue that had slipped right off the radar—the whole phenomenon of homegrown terrorism. It had been a big news story six years earlier when eighteen people were busted over plans to blow up places like a stock exchange, Parliament. The hit list was long and ludicrous. Cyril remembered the hullabaloo but questions lingered about whether there had ever been a real threat and, if so, had it been extinguished. And if not…it was time to pick up the story where it left off after the conviction and imprisonment of the ringleaders in the terror plot. It was doable and cheap and, just before the meeting ended, Doc Savage declared, “For those of you who don’t already know him, I want to introduce a new member of our team, our ace in the hole. Stand up, Nader.”
Nader stood. Cyril hadn’t noticed him. He’d been seated at the table, back turned. He was young and brown with black-framed glasses and a wispy beard along his jawline. Hair unfashionably long. He looked studious. His lips moved slightly in what could have been a smile. He bowed to the room. Cyril tried to stifle a primal stirring in a dark region of his limbic system—his paleo-mammalian survival complex. Irrational resentment. Insecurity.
“Nader’s back with us after a spell away brushing up his Arabic. Morocco, wasn’t it? We’re thrilled to have him back. He’s going to be busy, though we won’t see him around here much. He has a lot of contacts, let’s just say. Mosques and the security establishment. So that’s where he’s going to be spending most of his time, cultivating sources. He’ll report directly to Suzanne. We’ll assign a producer later.”
Cyril was surprised when Nader turned to him directly as everyone was leaving, smiled broadly and held out a collegial hand.
“Nader Hashem.
”
“Cyril Cormier.”
“We should grab a cuppa tea sometime,” Nader said. “You can give me the lay of the land. Like the man said, I’ve been away.”
Cyril laughed nervously. “Well, sure, Nader. You’re an intern too?”
“Nah. Worked here as a temp once before. Got a year-long contract this time. We’ll see at the end of that.”
“Ah,” said Cyril.
“We can talk about the War on Terrible.”
“The what? You mean the…”
Nader winked and walked away.
Suzanne and Hughes were standing in the corridor outside the boardroom. She hailed Cyril. “Come over here. I hear you’ve been talking to this fossil.”
Hughes ignored her. “Did you get up to anything interesting last night after I left?”
“Actually,” said Cyril, “I hit another bar. A place on the Danforth. You got me thinking. I met up with a fellow my father used to know.”
“Ah,” said Hughes. “Somebody from the old country.”
“Actually, no. Some guy from Israel.”
11.
The caller ID provided neither name nor number, so Cyril was surprised to hear Gloria’s voice when he picked up.
“Hi.”
“It’s me,” she said, “in case you don’t remember.”
“Of course I remember,” he said. “It’s just that I wasn’t expecting…where are you calling from?”
“Work.”
“How is work?”
“The usual. Did I get you at a bad time?”
“No.”
“You sound distracted.”
“Well, I’m in the middle of something. But how are you?”
“You know, nothing spectacular,” she said. “I was wondering about later, maybe after…”
“I think I’ve got something on…”
“Oh? Okay then…”
“What about lunch?” he said.
“Let me call you back.”
She called back minutes later. “I’ll have about half an hour at one o’clock.”
They agreed to meet at a small burrito place where service was efficient. He was surprised by a confusing buzz after he hung up that he would later break down to its particulars: anticipation, anxiety, a tingle of uncertainty.
Suzanne had been standing in the doorway to Hughes’s office, arms folded, leaning on the door frame. Now she was chatting at a workstation halfway across the newsroom. She’s like the queen bee in a hive, he thought—always seems to be idle but really the most important worker in the place. He could feel her curiosity about him and wondered what it could possibly be based on. Surely nothing more than generosity. He tried to estimate her age. She’d been around for decades, so maybe fifty. His mother was only a few years older than that, but, Jesus, this Suzanne looked good. It’s all in outlook: Think young, act young, be young. His brain lurched into a forbidden zone: what would that be like. An older woman. A grown-up. Then again he’d once considered Lois to be an older woman when she was only, what…twenty-four. Same as he is now.
“Hi you,” she said when she got over to his cubicle.
One of those open-ended greetings that seemed to be loaded with insinuation. Insinuating what, though?
“Hey.”
“You look busy.”
He laughed. “I’m glad you think so. I don’t know yet the difference between busy and confused.”
“Just to know there’s a difference between confused and busy puts you way ahead of most of us,” she said. “So, you have time to indulge me in that drink a little later, right?”
“Of course,” he said.
“Maybe pop into that place you mentioned, where you met the Israeli guy.”
“You might find it a little funky.”
“Funky is good. I came of age on funk. So what was the connection between your dad and this guy?”
“I have no idea. My father mentioned him in a paper about the kind of memorial service he wanted. It was with his will.”
“He must have known this guy pretty well.”
Cyril shrugged.
“You have a name?”
“Ari.”
“Ari what?”
“No last name that I know yet.”
“Your dad didn’t give him a last name?”
“Nope.”
“Ari. Interesting. Later then.”
“Right on,” he said, realizing immediately that it sounded adolescent. Right on. Christ. But she hadn’t noticed, just smiled. He watched her walk away, admired the fluid movement.
Gloria was waiting for him just inside the door of the burrito place. She was pale and looked weary even when she smiled. Hair swept back in a ponytail that didn’t really suit her. High heels and a pantsuit on someone who looked best in jeans and running shoes.
“You’re okay,” she said, eyes searching his.
“All things considered,” he said. He knew better than to tell her she looked tired because he wasn’t sure if she would take it as a compliment. “You’re all dressed up,” he said. She blushed and instantly looked healthier.
They lined up. Trampled on each other’s efforts to begin a conversation. Laughed self-consciously. Went silent, studying the menu that was pasted on the wall.
“You’ll be having the usual,” he said.
“You remember?” She ordered a burrito bowl, vegetarian. “You’ll be having yours with chicken?”
“I guess.”
She had her wallet out. “My treat.”
“No, no.”
“Yes, yes. Unless you can tell me truthfully that they’ve started paying you.”
“Not exactly.”
“Maybe you need a good lawyer. Launch a class-action suit against those companies who exploit the young. Internship, my eye. It used to be called indentured service.”
“Actually, indentured would be a form of job security. We don’t even have that. And they used to feed and house the servants.”
“I’m only half-joking about the lawsuit.”
“Maybe after I get through the door.”
“See. That’s the problem,” she said, turning toward the cashier. “They hold your future hostage.”
When they were seated, she said, “And how is Mom?”
He winced. “Mom is Mom.”
She giggled then. “I can’t imagine it.”
“Can’t imagine what?”
Gloria was studying her bowl, poking at the rice. “You and Aggie, cohabitating again.”
“Under the circumstances I don’t have many options.”
“You want to talk about the circumstances?”
He leaned back, threw an arm over the back of his chair and let her talk.
She missed him. He interrupted once, to tell her that he missed her too. She had surprised herself discovering that what she missed most, and he shouldn’t take this the wrong way, was the companionship. Everything else was great. The fun, the intimacy. But knowing, coming home, that there would be someone there to talk to—just talk. That was what she missed.
She smiled but her eyes were serious and searching. “Just talk about the little things like, oh I don’t know.” She pretended to ponder, then smiled. “Like the rest of your life?”
He laughed, picked up a fork, then put it down, dismissed an impulse to comment on the futility of life in general.
“Am I boring you?” she asked.
“God no. I’m just listening.”
“You know what I’m saying?” Her eyes were briefly pinkish. She looked away, crossed her arms, seemed suddenly interested in the strangers at the tables all around them.
“I suppose we should be getting back,” she said.
He felt terrible. There was such truth in her sentiments, so much more integrity than the facile “I love you” that was rattling around in his conflicted brain.
“What does your weekend look like?” he said.
“My weekend?” She managed to chuckle. “My weeks don’t end. What did
you have in mind?”
“I dunno,” he said. “I want to continue the conversation because…” He stopped, rubbed his face. “Because I do love you.”
“I know you do,” she said gently. “But that isn’t really the point, is it?”
“No,” he said. “It isn’t the point. But I’d like to have a longer conversation about ‘the point.’ ”
“I have to work tomorrow,” she said. “But I should be clear on Sunday. At least Sunday morning. We could go for a run together.”
“I haven’t been doing much running lately.”
“I could make you brunch.”
“Or there’s the old diner on College. I could meet you there.”
She paused. “Okay. Let’s touch base beforehand. That sound good to you?”
“Sounds good.”
They hugged on the sidewalk, then went off in different directions.
12.
It was the rush-hour peak when he and Suzanne left the office so it took a while to catch the attention of a cab driver. Suzanne had warned him, “I’ll probably be fading fast by eight o’clock. I ain’t as young as I used to be.”
“If you want to leave it for another time,” he’d responded, trying not to show the twinge of insecurity at what he felt to be a tiny hint of ambivalence on her part.
“No, no,” she’d insisted. “Let’s do it.”
Her Facebook page, which he’d checked that afternoon, revealed that she was a Gemini, May 19, 1962. He was both amazed and impressed to see her birthdate in such a public place. That would make her fifty years old, which meant that she was twenty-six when he was born. Physically she could have passed for mid-thirties.
In the back seat of the cab Suzanne asked playfully, “So what would you be doing on a Friday evening if you weren’t going on a date with someone old enough to be your mother.”
“Come on,” he said, and laughed. “Who are you kidding?”
She looked out her window for a while as the taxi manoeuvred through the gridlocked city, then said, “No, really—what would you be up to?”
The Only Café Page 10
