The Only Café

by Linden MacIntyre

  “He had what?”

  “I remember once we walked into a subway station and you could hear loud voices as we were coming down the stairs. At the bottom there was this guy ranting at a black kid. The kid couldn’t have been more than seventeen and he was terrified, pale, if you can imagine. Anyway, this shabby white guy was going at him, threatening, and Pierre just lost it.”

  “Lost it and did what?”

  “Actually, not much at first. He stopped and just stared until the white guy noticed. I had his arm and tried to move him but he was like a rock. The guy started into Pierre but only got about three words out when Pierre had him pinned by the throat against the wall. I thought your dad was going to kill him. The guy’s eyes were popping out. Then Pierre let him go and the guy just took off.”

  “And Dad said nothing?”

  “Not a word. Yet he’d nearly faint at a sudden loud noise. Or he’d get anxious at a helicopter sound. Once we went into the fancy cheese place on the Danforth and he got weak…I thought he was going to be sick…he said he’d wait outside. I never did figure that one out. Loud noises I could understand. But there was something about the smell of strong cheese.”

  “And so…”

  “Like I said, he survived a catastrophe somehow. That’s all that matters to me. He survived long enough to…”

  And then she crumpled, put her face against his shoulder.

  He rubbed her back but he did not hold her. They were so beyond that.

  At last she stepped back. “Do you have a Kleenex?”

  He dug in his pocket. “A piece of paper towel?”

  She laughed. “Give it to me.” She blew her nose. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought I was stronger.”

  Then it was his turn. Almost. He struggled. He held his breath.

  “The car was a sign of hope,” she said. “With everything else going on, he had hope, no, he was sure that he could handle everything. The car was faith in the future. So that when they were saying that maybe he…”

  “Maybe he what?”

  She blew her nose again, tossed her head dismissively and looked away from him. “Oh, don’t act like you didn’t hear it too. That he just…gave up on everything. Ran away or killed himself. He had no intention…”

  “Who was saying that he…killed himself.”

  “I. Don’t. Know.” She sounded wobbly again. “Just people who didn’t have a clue.”

  “But you saw nothing…”

  “Of course not. What did I just tell you?”

  “There was nothing unusual. No signs…”

  “Nothing. I spoke to him about the drinking but…”

  “Drinking?”

  “He wasn’t supposed to be drinking at all, because of that diet he was on. But he’d come home late and he’d obviously have been drinking somewhere. I actually thought for a moment that he was having an affair.” She laughed. “I suppose, in retrospect…”

  “And what did he say, when you mentioned it?”

  “I never mentioned an affair…he was impotent, for Christ’s sake.”

  “But the drinking…”

  “He said there was somebody he knew, from the old days, some guy…I thought some Lebanese guy. In a bar. So it all made sense and I didn’t push it, especially when he said he was going to go on the wagon.”

  “And he never mentioned the guy’s name. Or where they met.”

  “No. But it all kind of added up when that business about the roast came up. That place on the Danforth. Now about this vehicle…”

  “I’ll work on getting it out of here.”

  “No rush. And Cyril?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t become a stranger, okay?”

  “I promise.”

  “I don’t want this frigging car to become the end of something. Again. You understand?”

  “Yes.” And then he put his arms around her and she put hers around him and buried her face in his neck. And they stood like that, swaying slightly.

  23.

  He had promised Nader that he’d take him to meet Ari but this was personal. And, in any event, it was impossible to know for sure when Ari might be at the bar. In fact he’d gone twice that week in hopes of finding him and failed. On the second visit he’d left a note with his phone number. “Call me. I’d like to talk.” The call came Thursday evening.

  “Yes? There is something you want to talk about?”

  “It’s about my dad, again.”

  There was a long pause before the response. “Ah, yes. When?”

  “When’s convenient?”

  “Come tomorrow at two. The usual place.”

  Ari was out front waiting. The street was busy. “What’s going on?” Cyril asked.

  “Friday prayers,” Ari replied. “Can I get you a coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  There was a bench and he sat, fascinated by the scene in front of him, tingling with the realization that he was in his father’s world. The bar, the mosque a block away, the Israeli, the contradictions and the tensions that had defined his father’s character, determined how his life played out.

  Ari sat beside him, handed him a mug. “I didn’t put anything in it. I take mine black.”

  “Me too. It’s like this every Friday?”

  “Oh yes. And every day, on a smaller scale. The really observant ones show up to pray five times a day. Can you believe it?”

  “What do you do for a living, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “I’m in business. I work for myself. What I like about this scene is that it takes me back to a time when the whole world was kind of like they are. Synagogue on Saturday. Church on Sunday. I remember, as a kid in Montreal, people streaming out of the churches on a Sunday, heading for the cafés and the bistros. You don’t see that anymore. Now it’s all materialism.” He sighed, sipped.

  “You were born in Montreal.”

  He nodded, placed the coffee mug on the bench between them, fished out a package of cigarettes. “I don’t suppose…” he said, holding the pack toward Cyril.

  “No, thanks.”

  “I seem to recall your dad didn’t smoke either. I think he did once upon a time, but not when I knew him.”

  “How did you and my dad meet?”

  “Here. I see a guy looking kind of out of place. I’m nosy. Turned out we share some history.”

  “History.”

  “Like old war vets, I guess. We were in different wars but I guess the farther away you get from it the less important the specifics. It was just an experience we had in common. I guess it would be the same for any war.”

  “I suppose.”

  “For him it was something more personal. For me? Duty. Politics. It makes a difference in how you see things. We didn’t talk about it much.”

  “You didn’t talk about the war.”

  “Not much.”

  “So if you didn’t talk about the war…?”

  Ari smiled. “How old are you?” He removed a cigarette from the pack, then turned away and put it in his mouth. Flicked a lighter and inhaled.

  “I’m twenty-four.”

  Exhaled long and slow. “Give yourself another twenty years.”

  From inside the bar came a Tom Waits ballad, hoarse and mumbled. Ari listened, puffing on the cigarette.

  “They say that guy is a great poet but I can never make out a word he’s saying.”

  Cyril laughed. “You could look up the words online.”

  “Yes. I suppose I could.”

  Cyril could feel a rising pressure. Frustration. Disappointment. Memories of a dozen aimless, pointless conversations with his father. The sense of being stranded, missing what’s important.

  “All this online business. We talked about that, your dad and I. Changing times. Technology. Nothing nearly as exciting as you’d imagine.”

  “So you didn’t know each other in the old country?”

  “Not at all. But we were in the same general area, same general time. Same ge
neral mission.”

  “Mission?”

  “Staying alive, mostly. At least for me.”

  “And for him?”

  “Like I said, it was personal for him.”

  “How do you mean, personal?”

  “He lost family, but you’d know that.”

  “Not really?”

  “Parents, sister, extended family. They were in Damour.”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  Ari studied him with sympathy. “I guess you didn’t communicate much.”

  “Not much.”

  “A shame. No continuity between the generations these days.” Then he laughed, inhaled. “Listen to me.”

  “So you were in Lebanon.”

  “Yes.”

  “What was that like?”

  Ari seemed to take the question seriously, as if he’d never had to think of it before. At last he said, “It was an education.” He dropped his cigarette, ground out the remnant with his heel, both hands planted on the bench, leaning forward. “You know what, Cyril? About this roast nonsense? I think it was a way for your dad to make sure that we met up. Maybe pick up where he and I left off. I admire your interest and I’m happy to be getting to know you.”

  He reached out a hand and Cyril clasped it.

  “So let’s stay in touch, okay? But we can forget about this…roast. Agreed?” He stood.

  Some impulse instructed Cyril to refuse to be dismissed. He remained seated. “Basically, I guess I want to know what happened to my father.”

  Ari sat again. “Of course. But I can’t help you there.”

  “But you were close to him at the end. Maybe he said something.”

  “He said plenty. But I really don’t want to go there. Okay?”

  “Why not? What’s at stake?”

  “Occam’s razor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A problem-solving principle—sometimes things are just what they are. Lawyers have a line, res ipsa loquitur. Things speak for themselves.”

  “But I don’t understand what ‘things’ are saying.”

  Ari squinted at the passing cars. Then he lit another cigarette. “Cyril,” he said. “Let me talk straight. Your dad is dead. We know that now. Fact. There was an explosion on his boat. Fact. He was on the boat…”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “Don’t know what?”

  “That he was on the boat.”

  “Come on. Where the fuck do you think he was. It was what, about seven in the morning?” He studied the ground for a moment. “At least that’s the time that sticks in my mind.”

  “Nobody knows why the boat blew up.”

  “I read somewhere it was a propane tank. He was living on the boat, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes he was.”

  “You see. There’s another fact. A bunch of facts, in fact. You know why he was living on the boat?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “Well, look into it. Figure it out from there. That’s one area we talked about. Man to man. The fucking war? That was history. Just a place to start a more important conversation. About life.” For a moment Ari seemed to choke up. “And okay. Here’s what still bothers me. I thought it was going to be a long conversation. Two guys with a lot in common. We were interested in the future, not the past. Which is one reason why I never bought into…”

  He stopped and looked away.

  “Bought into what?”

  “That he killed himself. I never saw him as the type to bail out on the people who cared about him. You hear what I’m saying?”

  Cyril nodded. “I guess I don’t know as much as I should about his problems.”

  “No?” He stood. “I’m going to get a drink. You?”

  Cyril shook his head. “A Coke maybe.”

  Suddenly Cyril wanted to be somewhere else. Ari was at the bar. Just stand up and walk away. There was no purpose to be served by being here.

  Then Ari was back, talking as he sat down, continuing a conversation that started in his head while he was away. Or maybe long before. “People never really get over wars when they’ve been in them. And when it’s personal…” He grimaced, sipped his drink. “And he was going through some stuff. Flashbacks and the like.”

  “Like what.”

  “He was always vague. But I could imagine. Look. Things kept shifting. Your friend today could be your bitter enemy tomorrow. Women, children become mortal enemies. You trust nobody. That’s what happens when people are being manipulated from the outside. By Syria. The Americans.” He raised his hand: “And I’ll be the first to admit it. By us.” He shook his head, gulped a mouthful of the drink. “But it would never have been enough to put him over the edge. No.”

  The waiter appeared, spoke briefly in French. Ari replied in English: “Tell him I’ll get back to him.”

  When the waiter left, Ari said, “This is kind of like my office. Some of my clients call me here.”

  “We were talking about flashbacks.”

  “Yes. See, this is where I have a problem with all this talk about war crimes and prosecutions in The Hague and all that stuff. Who decides what’s a crime in a war? Some fucking lawyer? Some judge long after the fact? The whole war scenario is criminal. The destruction, death, uprooting people. The infliction of suffering on other people is criminal. Then you’ve got one side pointing fingers at the other. Usually the winning side pointing at the losers, and talking about justice. Bullshit. How I see it, anyway.”

  Now his face was sorrowful. “You’ve got me thinking back.” He produced the pack of cigarettes.

  “Sorry. Maybe I should just go. Come back another time.”

  “Yes. We can pick this up again. Maybe this is being helpful? I don’t know.”

  “It is.”

  “And of course, there was the stuff at work.” He shook his head. “And the cancer.”

  Cyril nodded.

  “And the marriage.”

  “His marriage? What about his marriage?”

  “I don’t know. Who knows about a marriage? Certainly not a guy like me who’s never had one.”

  “So what about it?”

  “Probably nothing. His wife is Jewish? Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jewish women.” He smiled, shook his head. “They get obsessive about family and I guess she was pretty typical. I forget her name, though he mentioned it a lot.”

  “Lois.”

  “Yes. Lois. Yes.” He seemed to drift off for a moment. Then: “Last time I saw him he was pretty agitated and I guessed it had something to do with trouble at home. She was desperate to have a baby. But with the cancer and the medication, he didn’t think he’d be able to oblige. It was like a deal-breaker in his mind.”

  Cyril felt a sudden chill that originated somewhere in his back, a warning signal: don’t challenge. Acquiesce. Retreat.

  “When was this?”

  “When was what?”

  “That conversation? About Lois? Babies.”

  “I don’t know. A week, maybe two before he went away. She meant everything to him, this…Lois.”

  He almost blurted—she was pregnant when he went away. But he was silenced by the dissonance. And then he was confused. And then he realized that this was exactly how he was supposed to feel.

  “You think he killed himself?”

  “As I said, it would have been contrary to everything I knew about him. But I suppose we have to keep an open mind, even for what is unpalatable.” Ari stood then. “I hope I’ve been a little bit of help.”

  “Yes. Maybe we can talk some more. Another time.”

  “Anytime. You know where to find me.”

  Their hands were now clasped again and Ari was holding on. “The one thing I want you to take away, though. Your dad wouldn’t have done that to us. You understand? He was a survivor. Through and through. He had everything to live for.”

  Cyril suddenly felt the tears pressing behind his eyes. They hugged. And this, too, he realized, is how
he was supposed to feel.

  24. June 25, 2007

  To the east the sky was the colour of cream, clotted in three places by darkening clouds, residue from the storm the day before. He knew that this is how a sunny day begins. It would be hot. He stood peering into the flat black unrevealing surface of the water, the fatigue like a crust around his eyes, the sound of distant rumbling in his brain. He didn’t know if he had slept. He must have slept. Time, according to his wristwatch, had passed.

  He’d got up a dozen times, tried to piss a dozen times to fool his brain, to make it think that that was why he couldn’t sleep. Overactive bladder.

  Overactive memory, his brain replied.

  Anxiety compresses memory, as it compresses challenges, leading to paralysis. This is where the night had gone. Trying to unpack the density of a compressed memory, the cascade of crises tumbling around him, demanding resolution. He tried to focus on the eastern sky, groped for the simple comfort of anticipating sunshine, warmth and solitude. Felt only a nervousness that was depressingly close to fear.

  The gun was on the table where it had rested throughout the long night, a silent partner in his torment. He imagined that he could still taste the muzzle in his mouth, the acrid smell of expended gunpowder in his nostrils. No, he told himself. That would never happen. But what would it be like, to no longer feel this suffocating weight?

  No way. Never. Never. I have not survived so much to end like that.

  But.

  Briefly he allowed himself to remember Bashir, the teacher who became a warrior. Gentle Bashir, for whom he named his only son. Bashir—who died for principle, if remorse and self-destruction can ever truly be considered principled.

  He shivered, hugged himself. Sobbed once. Walked into the cab, sat at the table, picked up the gun again, felt its reassuring weight, thought about their long relationship, the Browning’s unconditional promise—protection from his enemies, even the enemies that lurked within himself. Also on the table, his journal, pen clipped to the page where he stopped writing at five that morning.

  Where did this need for confession come from and why to, of all people, his son? Cyril. A man-boy who will never know the world as he has known it. Who, Pierre had somehow become convinced, should know it. Yes. But only when he would not be around to answer questions. The inevitable questions. How? Why?