The Only Café

by Linden MacIntyre

“Sure hope so. Very few left in this world.”

  He pulled over outside the St. George subway. “I’m going to leave you here. You’ll be okay the rest of the way?”

  “Sure. It’s just a few blocks. But are you sure you’re okay, Nader?”

  He laughed. “You’re starting to sound like Suzanne. This ‘are-you-okay’ business.”

  “I hear you. But what do you really think?”

  “About virgins?”

  “Come on.”

  “Our story? I think we’ve got the goods. If by a bizarre coincidence this guy you met at the café is the security contractor, that’s major. But I also think our story will never see the light of day.”

  “What the fuck, where’s that coming from?”

  “I’m tired, Cyril. Can we talk about this another time?”

  “Yeah, sure. But, Jesus.”

  “Come on. It’s just a story, man. You’ll get used to it. For every one that goes on television there are a dozen weeded out for a hundred reasons.”

  “Not this one, buddy. This one’s going to fly.”

  “I hope you’re right. I really do.”

  He reached across and squeezed Cyril’s hand. “You’re good people.” And then he was gone into the darkness.

  Cyril woke to a memory. He’d met Gloria at one of Leo’s parties. She’d arrived as someone else’s date. It was a noisy party, a volatile mix of students and construction workers. The music was cranked. Retro heavy metal stuff. Leo loved his metal. AC/DC. Iron Maiden. Cyril could barely make out what Gloria was telling him. Something about her dad. He led her away from the crowd and she hesitated when she saw that he was taking her into a bedroom. But he’d grabbed the chair from Leo’s desk, flipped it around and sat, arms folded on the back, which was like a fence between them. She’d been touched by this reassuring gesture and not long afterwards, she emailed. Would love to pick up where we left off. Coffee sometime?

  They’d been talking about fathers and absences and how even amicable absences can become estrangements as people change, and how absences that are initially painful evolve into a certain kind of freedom. Liberation from responsibility, was how she put it.

  Gloria’s dad had been out of her life since she was four or five. He’d been a freelance magazine writer, a name that everybody knew. Which was what kept him alive for her until one day she realized that he was just another presence in a crowd of memories. She was in law school when he died unexpectedly after a game of tennis. At his memorial everyone had remarked about how fit he’d been.

  He noticed his BlackBerry blinking and hoped it might be Gloria. But it was a low battery warning. He attached the charger, then after just a hesitation, he typed: Just in case it matters, my feelings haven’t changed. He paused before sending it, realizing that it was three-twenty-five in the morning. What the hell. Send.

  He felt anxious then, remembering the Bald-Headed Bastard, the intimacy between them as they’d jogged past him in the park.

  For distraction he removed one of his father’s journals from the row of twenty-two he’d neatly shelved. 2001. He turned to September 11. His father had written at the bottom of the page, after obscure jottings about his day of lawyering: WTC, Pentagon…now it is a war.

  He put the journal back in its proper place, turned off his bedroom light. When he turned over to lie on his side, he saw that the BlackBerry was blinking again, a tiny red eye winking at him.

  The message was from Gloria: It matters.

  Hughes stood, hands braced on his desk. He looked weary, as if he’d been there all night. “Got time for a coffee? I’m desperate for one.”

  “Sure,” Cyril said. He noticed the two Arabic diaries in the clutter. “I see you’ve been reading the journals.”

  “Yes. I want to talk about that.”

  Walking to the elevator Hughes asked: “What did you make of the meeting with Savage and the lawyer.”

  “Doc doesn’t seem as interested as he was in what we’re doing.”

  Hughes laughed. “You’ll learn the pattern. Initial enthusiasm becomes ambivalence that has very little to do with the story. It’s just positioning. You shouldn’t let it bother you.”

  “Positioning for what?”

  “For cutting the project loose if things don’t pan out or horning in on the glory if it turns into something big. Leadership 101.”

  They found a table. Hughes was quiet for a moment, then he said, “I gather you didn’t know your father very well.”

  “I didn’t know him at all.”

  “Too bad. He’d have had a fascinating tale to tell if he’d ever decided to write it down.”

  “So you’ve read both journals?”

  “As best I could. I got the gist, which I suspect was all we were supposed to get.”

  “So, there’s nothing in them?”

  “Well, nothing definitive. But there’s enough to place him in or near events and people that we know about and that’s what’s intriguing and frustrating. There’s just enough to make you want a whole lot more. Like the smell of food to a hungry person. Where he begins writing he’s in a little village I’m familiar with. Kfar Matta, the one I mentioned in the Chouf Mountains. He’s a Christian and, from other clues, it’s clear that he was close to senior people in the Phalangist forces.”

  “So?”

  “Kfar Matta is a Druze village. The Druze were at war with the Phalangists in ’83. So what was your dad doing among the Druze? Your old man somehow manages to get a ride out of the Chouf with the Israelis and he eventually ends up at the marine base, south of Beirut. How does all that come together?”

  Cyril shrugged.

  “One possibility is that he had some kind of special connection with the IDF. When we go back to my office I want to show you something interesting I found in the 1983 diary. Your father led a charmed life. He left the Chouf just before a bloodbath. He left the Marine base just days before the terrorist attack that killed hundreds of them.”

  “I guess the charm expired in 2007.”

  “It looks that way.”

  The intriguing item in the 1983 diary was a faded note that had been taped to a page.

  “Do you mind if I take this out?” Hughes asked.

  “Go ahead.”

  Hughes carefully removed the note and passed it to Cyril. “It’s in Hebrew. Did your father know Hebrew?”

  “I have no idea. What is this?”

  “I got a friend to translate for me—it basically authorizes the holder to pass through an Israeli checkpoint on September eighteenth, 1982.”

  “Okay.”

  “That was the day the world found out what had been going on in Sabra and Shatila on the sixteenth and seventeenth. A horrific massacre of civilians. Maybe two thousand. Mostly women, kids, old people. The note is signed ‘Charon.’ That’s all. No indication whether it’s a first name or a last name. No indication of military rank. Just ‘Charon.’ First I thought it was ‘Sharon,’ who was Israeli minister of defense at the time and my heart stopped. Now that would be a story. But, alas.”

  “But who’s Charon?”

  “Right—who indeed, and why was your father going into the camps on that particular day? I doubt if we’ll ever know, unless, of course, we find this Charon. Which is unlikely.”

  “Do you know who he was?”

  “Only what I was able to find out from an old IDF intelligence contact. Apparently it was a code name for somebody in the very dark side of Israeli counter-terrorism operations. It might have been more than one person. He or they specialized in bombings. Car bombs, buildings, booby traps of all kinds. There was a rumour that Charon might have had something to do with murdering Elie Hobeika.”

  “Hobeika.”

  “Yes. By the way, I couldn’t find any direct reference to Hobeika in either of the journals. But my Arabic is pretty rusty. You might want to send them out for a professional translation.” Hughes picked up the two diaries and passed them across the desk. “On the other hand, yo
u might just want to put them back on the shelf and leave them there. Sometimes a secret is an act of kindness.”

  “What about this note?”

  “Keep it some place safe. It might become important to our story.”

  Cyril folded the note and placed it in his wallet.

  32.

  He still had a couple of hours to kill before meeting Nader at the Only Café. He opened his text messages and stared at the two inscrutable words: It matters. How to interpret that. He scrolled back. His message couldn’t have been more clear. Just in case it matters, my feelings haven’t changed.

  He thought of calling her but then decided to let it lie for now. Don’t risk distraction before what could be a crucially important visit. The strategy was Nader’s. He would attend Friday prayers at the Danforth mosque, then drop by the Only Café coffee bar for a social chat with Cyril. If Ari happened to be there, they’d leave it up to him to come to them.

  The place had a back entrance, through a laneway patio. The day was overcast and cool and the patio was deserted. Inside was quiet, two regulars sipping an early beer; young coffee drinkers peering at their laptops. Cyril ordered an Americano and found a seat near the front windows. Soon he saw a trickle of men in shalwar kameez hurrying back to their shops and offices and homes. By leaning close to the glass he could see Ari in his usual place, on a bench, ankle over knee, puffing on a cigarette, a coffee mug beside him on a window ledge. A large, sleepy middle-aged man with nothing on his mind but his retirement savings.

  The sidewalk became busier, a throng on both sides of the street, individuals and small groups, talking, listening, hands clasped behind them or hidden in the folds of clothing. A thin, swarthy young man in a track suit, wearing a boxy ball cap, paused near where Ari sat, lit a cigarette. Was that a nod, an acknowledgement from Ari? A secret sign? Would Cyril even have noticed if he hadn’t harboured so many troubling suspicions? A reminder: control the imagination; hold all speculation up to honest scrutiny. He produced his notebook, started writing down the thought.

  “Making notes for the novel?” It was Nader, smiling. “How’s your coffee. Want a refill?”

  He put the little notebook in his backpack. “Just had a thought about jumping to conclusions,” he said.

  “Excellent thought. I’m getting a coffee. Why don’t we sit outside, at that little table? I’ll find you there.”

  He picked up a Metro tabloid, walked out scanning the front page, was startled to see a byline: Megan Spencer. A story about urban transit problems with a nice tight lead. He sat, then remembered Ari. Stole a glance in his direction but he wasn’t there.

  “Your man is inside now,” Nader said, setting down two mugs. “He’s standing at the bar talking to some young guy. Do you think he saw you?”

  “I don’t know,” Cyril said. “I was reading this.” He held up the paper. “Is this the same Megan?”

  “Ah. The very one. She mentioned she was doing a transit piece.”

  “Have you seen her since?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aha.”

  “Aha yourself.”

  “She writes well.”

  “She’s very bright for nineteen.”

  Cyril set the paper aside. “Nineteen is the new twenty-nine.”

  Then he realized that Ari was on the sidewalk and that he’d noticed them. He waved and smiled. Ari approached.

  “We meet again.”

  “Yes. I forgot you’re usually here on Friday afternoons. This is my friend Nader Hashem.”

  Nader stood, extended a hand. Ari grasped it. “Hashem?”

  “Yes, and you’re?”

  “Just call me Ari. So Hashem…”

  “Sometimes when the spirit moves me I go to Friday prayers. The spirit spoke today so Cyril and I decided to hook up here afterwards. Funky little place, isn’t it?”

  “Can I get you a coffee?” Cyril asked. Ari looked doubtful, checked his watch.

  “I think not,” he said. “I just had one.” But he sat down.

  “So Nader. Iran, I’m guessing,” Ari said.

  “Good guess.”

  “And you were born in…”

  “Toronto. A fairly common story. Family found itself on the wrong side of the revolution in ’79. Bailed. Got here somehow. And you?”

  “Born in Montreal. Family got fired up by the ’67 war. Moved to a kibbutz in what I quickly learned to call Judea. I’m sure you learned your politics the way I did.”

  “No better cure for politics than to hear your parents arguing.”

  “For sure.”

  “I keep reminding myself of that when I hear people getting worried about radicalization.”

  “Of course radicalization doesn’t originate in the home, does it? Mostly the media, the Internet, other influences.”

  “Totally.”

  “And what do you work at, Nader?”

  “I work with this guy. Television.”

  “Interesting. I apologize but I rarely watch.”

  “No apology necessary. And you?”

  “A gentleman of leisure. A bit of import-export. Mostly living off my savings and a pension from the Zionist entity.” He smiled.

  “Import-export?”

  He lit a cigarette, blew the smoke toward the passing traffic. “Olive oil. Footwear.”

  Nader nodded, sipped his coffee.

  “Boring stuff. I could probably make a lot of money on more interesting things if I cared about money. But I lead a simple life. Plus I’ve had all the excitement I can handle, as Cyril will explain. Won’t you, Cyril.”

  “To be truthful, I don’t really know much I could tell.”

  “I keep confusing you with your dad. A terrible loss.”

  Nader said, “You knew Cyril’s dad?”

  “Briefly, yes. We were only getting to know each other when he went out east. But given our age and where we came from, there was a lot we could assume without much explanation. This isn’t uncommon among people like me and Pierre.”

  Nader said, “Maybe that was why I tuned out so much at home—nobody bothered filling in the background.”

  “But you’re obviously observant? In general, but also religious. Right? But I’m surprised, for a Shia to be going over there? I’d have thought the Imam Ali mosque…”

  Nader chuckled. “Impressive. Dad was secular. My mom’s people followed the Sunni tradition.”

  “Religion fascinates me, all of them. Obviously you too.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. Maybe religion is just my way of firming up an identity that I rejected before I understood it.”

  “So true. So many of the problems in your community today, with the young people, started exactly there. Rejecting values, identity, then trying to reclaim something more meaningful than the bullshit that passes for youth culture nowadays. If you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “Partly true,” Nader said. “Actually I don’t have a problem with secular culture. I hope I didn’t give that impression.”

  “No. I was just rambling. I spend too much time by myself, thinking and worrying. I should spend more time among young people and less time reading about the misfits. Maybe it’s why I’m sitting here.”

  “Well, I’m glad you are,” said Nader. “So you used to have a government job in Israel?”

  “Everybody in Israel works for the government, one way or another. But yes, I was a career soldier.”

  “Interesting time to be a soldier.”

  “Yes. My first excitement was in Lebanon in ’78. You wouldn’t have heard of it. Operation Litani. That was the thing about your dad, Cyril—so long after the fact, we could talk about things we remembered, sometimes controversial things, but with the perspective that comes with growing older. Hardly a day goes by when I don’t think about how I’d love to talk to Pierre about what we’re seeing now. Syria. Iraq.”

  “So what’s your take?”

  “I only know what you guys know, maybe less. I’m just following the news
from a great distance. And not even much of that because, all due respect, I don’t really trust the news. I guess all old soldiers feel that way, more or less.”

  “So you’re a soldier for decades. You must have got pretty high up.”

  “Unfortunately not. I was on the intelligence side of things where promotions don’t happen very often. Not so intelligent on my part? But you know the old cliché about military intelligence.”

  “Intelligence…”

  “Don’t go jumping to conclusions. Do I look like James Bond?” He laughed, produced the pack of cigarettes again. Shook one out, studied it.

  “No. My work was pretty much like yours as journalists. Trying to find things out. Writing reports. Analyzing what other people find out. The big difference, you guys figure out what happened after the fact. My job was finding out what might happen so other people could prevent things or manage consequences. I wish it had been half as exciting as the movies make it seem. I’d be rich now. Or dead.”

  “But don’t you miss the involvement?” Nader said.

  “Honestly? Some days absolutely. The common cause. The game aspect. But it’s thankless work. Nobody knows about what doesn’t happen so nobody gets credit. That’s the way it was in my time, anyway. No glamour, no rewards.”

  “I never thought of it that way,” Nader said.

  “These days,” Ari said, “politicians and television experts make hay from terrorism and security. A fucking joke, excuse my French. All that politicking and publicity is theatre at best. At worst, counter-productive. Like Crocodile Dundee and his big knife. I always laugh at that scene. You don’t ever want the other guy to know about your knife until he feels it. How I figure it, anyway. Maybe I’m wrong. But it’s a fact—security consists of negative outcomes. Fuck-all happening, or as an old mate of mine used to say, ‘fuck-nothing’ happening.”

  He butted his cigarette in an ashtray. “I’m talking way too much. The peril of spending too much time alone. I must go now.”

  He stood, shook hands with each in turn. “Thanks for indulging an old soldier.” He seemed to shuffle as he walked away.

  Nader was smiling. “Look at his back and shoulders. The hips. He’s built like a weightlifter. And what he said about the knife. Who knew?”