“I don’t know,” he said. “I’d probably have stayed at the office for a while. Screening stuff.”
“Probably you would,” she said. “I’m going to talk to Savage about that. Aimless screening is a waste of your time.”
“It’s interesting just the same. I’m studying production technique.”
“You should be shooting higher than production technique. Let other people worry about that stuff.”
Then, sliding across the car seat to be closer, she said, “But you didn’t really answer my question. Say you weren’t with me and you weren’t immersed in ‘production technique’?”
“Hard to say.”
“Hard what…deciding which of your many lucky girlfriends would get to spend the evening with you?”
He knew that he was blushing and that she could see it. She laughed and grabbed his hand, snuggled closer.
“Really,” he said, “no girlfriends at the moment.”
“Hah.”
“So what would you be doing?”
“Well, I wouldn’t be at the office. I’d probably meet up with Bruno somewhere, maybe hear some music, take in a movie, a bit of dinner. Nothing major. Or more likely, into my jammies early.”
“Bruno?”
“That’s what I call him. He’s away, though, so you don’t have to worry.”
Worry about what, he wondered. “He travels a lot, does he?”
“Not really. But he gets asked to literary things and sometimes he accepts. This one’s on the West Coast and he’s wild about Vancouver. Keeps talking about us moving there.”
She released his hand. He realized that she presumed he’d know who Bruno was since her life was more or less transparent as it was for most celebrities.
“So, does SHE have a name? Come on, I’m not buying this ‘no girlfriends’ business.”
“Well. We’re on a kind of hiatus,” he said. “But her name is Gloria.”
“Gloria,” she said. “So what’s with the hiatus?”
“I don’t know,” he said, uncomfortable. “She’s trying to start a career in law and I’m here. I guess we’re both trying to figure things out.”
“That’s where people make the big mistake,” she said. “Too much figuring. Life is short.”
“So I hear.”
“So how old would your dad be now?” she asked.
“Fifty-two or fifty-three,” he said.
“What a waste,” she said and grabbed his hand again, squeezed, then held it in both of hers for the rest of the taxi ride. “Dads.” She sighed.
When the taxi finally pulled over she already had her wallet in her hand and was leaning forward.
“Let me get this,” he said, fishing crumpled bills from the pocket of his jeans. “Come on, wait.”
“A receipt, please,” she said to the driver. “Add five bucks.”
As the driver wrote, she patted Cyril’s knee and said: “I’ll expense it. This is work.”
The café was full, all the little tables occupied, people standing all along the bar. Music loud. The Clash, again. They passed through the crowd, people noticing Suzanne, then through the curtain to the other side, where they found a place to sit. Cyril returned to the bar to order drinks, scanning faces to find Ari.
“He stepped out,” the bartender told him. “If I see him I’ll tell him you’re here.”
“Appreciate it.”
“You must get noticed a lot,” Cyril said as he put the drinks down. “How do you feel about that?”
“The secret is to avoid eye contact,” she said. “Eye contact instantly removes a barrier.”
“It must be a nuisance.”
“No,” she said. “It goes with the job. The public is the boss. Really.”
Going to the washroom he took the long way around, passing through the bar. No sign of Ari. When he was paying for the second round, the bartender assured him, “He’ll show up. He always does, sooner or later.”
“So, your dad,” she said, when he sat back down. “What do you know about him and Lebanon?”
“Not much. All his connections were gone by the time my mother met him. I gather a lot of them were killed in the war. I’ve only heard about a sister. Name of Miriam. That’s all.”
“Cormier,” she said. “Not really a—”
“He changed his last name when he got here. Making a break, I guess.”
“The name he was born with, I don’t suppose—”
“Yes,” he said. “Haddad. I remember thinking, ‘My dad Haddad.’ It kind of stuck.”
“Haddad. It’s a common name over there among the Christians. Especially in the south. There was a notorious warlord named Haddad, a Greek Catholic. I wonder if—”
“I don’t know anything about Lebanese politics or religions.”
“The main Christian religious group is Maronite. A branch of Catholics. Very big in Lebanon, pretty well controlled the economy and the politics until the civil war.”
“My dad wasn’t religious. He told me he grew up poor.”
She laughed. “That’s probably a good thing. Religion and money are at the root of everything that’s wrong in the world. In-my-humble, anyway.”
“So what did your dad do?” he asked.
“Ah. My dad.” Her gaze shifted to people at other tables, wearing headsets, studying laptop screens, chattering. “Dad was a career soldier. I’m an army brat. We lived here and there. A stint in Europe. When he moved from Germany to Cyprus in the mid-seventies, Mom and I and Willie—he’s my younger brother—moved back to where Dad came from, in Prince George.”
“And your dad, now? Must be retired.”
“My dad killed himself,” she said.
“Fuck. I mean…sorry.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “It was exactly my reaction at the time. Oh fuck.”
She sipped. Cyril waited.
“It was after Somalia,” she said. “Mercifully it was called an accident. But it was pretty obvious. He must have been going a hundred and forty when he hit the bridge abutment. Not a skid mark on the road. Ah, well. He went through a lot. The strange thing was that he was pretty high up. A lieutenant general.”
“I’m so sorry,” Cyril said. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. I suspect you know all about it.” She caught his hand, then let it go and sat back, studying her drink.
“Your Gloria,” she said. “How serious is that? Or was that?”
“Difficult to say,” he said. “I thought it was serious. I suppose it always is, when you’re in it. Right?”
“I suppose,” she said. “I didn’t think about relationships when I should have. All I thought about was work. And then it’s too late and you always wonder.”
“So Bruno?”
“Bruno?”
“So what does he do?”
“Right, you wouldn’t know. It’s Frank Anderson. I’m the only one who calls him Bruno.”
“Okay.”
She tilted back and laughed loudly. “You never heard of him? He’d be devastated.”
“So he’s in the media?”
“Well, yes and no. Not our media. He writes books and freelances magazine pieces. He had a piece in the New Yorker a few months back.”
“I’ve been meaning to start reading the New Yorker.”
“You must. The voice of reason in that crazy country. So, where do you live?”
“Annex, just now. With my mom.” He rolled his eyes, sighed.
“She must be pleased to have you back.”
“That’s half the problem.” And then he spotted Ari staring through the open curtain. He waved to get his attention. Ari nodded and disappeared. Moments later he was standing by the table.
“Hello again,” he said.
Cyril stood, they shook hands. “I want you to meet a colleague, Suzanne Reynolds. This is Ari,” Cyril said.
Ari extended his hand and Suzanne grasped it, smiling warily.
“
A colleague,” Ari said. “I’m sorry…I don’t remember where it is you work.”
“I might not have said. Television,” he said. “Suzanne is…”
“I know the name,” said Ari. “But I don’t watch much. I don’t own a television.”
Suzanne continued smiling, appraising, interested, civil. A smile that could have led the moment anywhere she wanted it to go. “I didn’t get a last name,” she said.
“No? I suppose you didn’t.” Ari laughed and turned away. “I’m with a friend just now but I’ll come back. Can I get you anything?”
Cyril looked at Suzanne and she shook her head. “We’re fine,” he said.
Ari nodded and walked away.
“I know him from somewhere,” Suzanne said as he disappeared through the curtain.
“Really?”
“But then again.” She picked up her drink, then put it down and clasped her hands, chewing on the corner of her lower lip. “Just my imagination, I expect. He’s out of central casting.”
“How so?”
“IDF. Israeli military macho. The confidence, the poise. Hard to imagine these were the most vulnerable, paranoid and victimized people in the world until just a few generations back.”
“IDF…”
“Israeli Defense Force.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever met an Israeli before.”
“No? You should see the women. The young ones.” She pretended to leer.
“You’ve been over there a lot.”
“Oh yes. Probably why I can’t shake the feeling that I know him from somewhere. Oops, there he is again—I think he wants you.”
Cyril looked toward the curtain and Ari nodded toward the bar side. Cyril excused himself.
“What do you know about her?” Ari said.
“She’s one of our star correspondents…she’s nice. She’s been to Israel a lot, she says. You two should…”
“I don’t like reporters very much. Especially reporters like her. Vultures. Anti-Semites.”
“Anti—”
“Whose idea was it, coming here? Hers?”
“No. I just thought you two would have a lot to talk about.”
Ari laughed. “Yes, probably. But I have no interest in talking to her. So, convey my apologies.” He turned away, then stopped and faced Cyril once again. “One more thing. You should be very, very careful. If she finds out who your dad was, I can safely say you’re finished as far as she’s concerned. And take it from me, she can do a lot of damage.”
13. June 23, 2007
Pierre was just outside the mouth of the little harbour, approaching the breakwater, when the phone chimed. He recognized Ethan’s number and throttled back, reversed briefly. He answered, letting the boat drift in the stiff offshore breeze while they spoke.
Ethan sounded tense. “How’s the weather out there?”
“Passable.” He let the silence hang.
“Really hot here and humid. I keep wondering how Lois is coping. You’ll let us know if there’s anything…”
“Ethan?”
“What?”
“You didn’t call to talk about the weather or Lois. What’s up?”
“I’m afraid this is turning into a story. Some little rag out east got onto it. I’m surprised you haven’t seen it. Anyway. They’re picking up on it here and it’s been making waves. The timing is bad.”
“What else is new.”
“I shouldn’t tell you this but they’re onto torture now.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Silly bastards. Now they’re saying we’re implicated in a torture scenario.”
“Who is saying that?”
“Communications is getting blitzed now by the media.”
“For Christ’s sake, where’s this coming from?”
“This Ramos guy…the ringleader. He gave them the slip and now he’s in Australia telling anyone who’ll listen that he and several other troublemakers were tortured—get this—on our behalf and under pressure from Toronto.”
“Come on. Who believes him?”
“It gets worse. One of these dirtbags died in custody. Who knows why? But Ramos—I believe they call him Rambo—is saying it was during an enhanced interrogation. His words. Enhanced-fucking-interrogation. That’s what we’re up against now—a whole new vocabulary. And the media just laps it up.”
Pierre’s mind was racing: What could possibly have been construed by anyone in Puncak as “pressure” to extract the truth at any cost? He could think of nothing, spoken or written. Then he thought of MacIsaac. Some little rag out east got onto it.
Sandy MacIsaac. There’s a rumour here that the order for the military crackdown came from Canada. From the company.
He could see a figure standing on the end of the wharf, hand shading eyes, watching him. The figure waved, turned and walked out of sight.
“As far as I’m concerned,” Pierre said, “there’s absolutely no factual basis to support anything he’s saying. I think we should prepare to sue the sons-of-bitches who report this. I can tell you, absolutely, that I said nothing and wrote nothing that could possibly be construed as anything more than legitimate inquiry. For Christ’s sake, I was determined to make sure that everything was above board. And what’s this about a fucking story out here? I’ve heard nothing.”
“Well, that’s been part of the fallout from the Ramos shit.”
The story was a heavy-handed feature in a local weekly about a Nova Scotia miner and his brush with violence in a distant land, his personal response to what he’d considered an atrocity.
Before he’d left Toronto Pierre had confidently assured Public Affairs that the story would remain dormant, buried in the larger context of circumstances particular to Indonesia, a place where institutions were evolving, to say the least.
Now, however—thanks to Sandy MacIsaac—the Puncak story had a credible Draycor hook. A former Draycor miner—never mind that he had been working on a subcontract—was a witness and he was talking. A Toronto journalist who kept in touch with home through a subscription to the little weekly paper in some place called Inverness had spotted the breathless tale: unreported massacre; local miner witness. Exclusive.
“Do you know this Inverness?” Ethan asked.
“Yes, it’s just a few miles from here.”
“And this guy MacIsaac, is he the guy you mentioned?”
“Yes. I talked to him when I was there, at the mine.”
“Right. And have you ever talked to the reporter? Margaret Rankin?”
“No. I’ve seen her byline, though.”
“Well, check your emails. She found this MacIsaac dude in the fucking phone book. He mentioned you. It seems he has your business card. I wouldn’t be surprised if Rankin’s been trying to get through to you. Of course, you know the drill.”
“Why don’t you remind me?”
“Come on, Pierre.”
“I’m starting to smell brimstone here.”
“Look, Pierre. Listen to me. Nobody here is in any doubt about your work on this. And we can handle this Rankin bitch and MacIsaac. But this Ramos? This is just me being me, and speaking as your friend—it looks bad and it sounds bad. So I’m just suggesting you stay put a little longer. It can’t exactly be hardship, right? I see by the weather channel that it’s almost summer out there.”
“Okay, okay,” Pierre said. “Screw it. But I’m counting on you to keep me posted about every little detail. We both know how these things blow out of proportion. Got it?”
“Got it. What time is it?”
“One hour difference. Getting onto seven o’clock.”
“I know it’s one hour difference, asshole. I just don’t have my watch on.”
After Pierre ended the call he noted that he was now about half a mile away from the entrance to the harbour, drifting to the north. The wind was picking up. He turned on his VHF and dialled the marine weather channel. Strong wind warning in effect. Twenty-five knots out of the southeast, gusts to
forty. Diminishing late tomorrow. Rain, at times heavy.
He actually enjoyed rough weather when the boat was safe. He’d spent many days on the water with his father. There were harsh days then, of course, especially late in the fall with the beginning of the cold winter rains. But he remembers only sunshine, warm breezes, the gentle swell of the Mediterranean. His ancient city, older than Moses, a city Jesus walked in, sparkling in the distance against the Hills of Sidon. The crumbling Crusader castle on the seafront a reminder of endurance. His father squinting landward, munching his manakish zaatar, gulping water, lost in private thoughts. Even now, with all he knows, with all that he remembers, life before January 1976 is wreathed in sunshine.
Boat rocking insistently now, rising wind abeam. He turned and drove toward the harbour mouth.
He dropped fenders, tied up, then went below. He poured a drink and settled back, reviewing what he had written. The words had come with surprising difficulty. I have no idea when or if you’ll read this. Or how circumstances will have changed the meaning of what I want to tell you now. So let me begin with everything I know about this man, Ari, and all he represents. There is so much and I want to get it all down in the space and time available. I have a pessimistic view of time. The only time we can be sure of is the present moment.
He was startled by a loud thump, someone jumping from the washboard to the deck. He stopped reading and peered out. Angus Beaton. He’d been wondering if he’d show up since he’d seen Beaton standing at the end of the wharf. He shouted, “Come in.”
Beaton slid the glass door open and stepped inside. “It’s beginning to blow,” he said.
“Some weather tonight and tomorrow, according to the forecast.”
“I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Pierre laughed. “What do you think you’re interrupting?”
“A fella never knows.” Angus Beaton sat, studying the floor. “You were gone all day.”
“It was lovely on the water. Spent hours watching a big pod of blackfish.”
“I’d heard they’re out there. Early this year.”
“I just poured myself a drink of Scotch. Will you have something? There’s beer in the cooler.”
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