“It’s on my list.” She didn’t seem to know Cyril’s middle name—it was interesting that Nader hadn’t brought it up, or thought better of it.
“Amazing movie,” she said. “The point of view of some Israeli soldiers about the invasion of Lebanon in 1982. You’ve heard about that, I imagine.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been reading up on it. A lot. The destruction. The PLO, etcetera. The massacres. You say your dad was Lebanese?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then you’d know.”
“There’s a lot to know.”
“You can say that again. But that movie, it really puts you into it. It’s all kind of animation. Really interesting technique. And it leads up to this huge massacre of refugees where it suddenly goes actuality. Frigging blew me away.”
“How did Nader react?”
“He didn’t say much. His people are Iranians, right?”
“Yes. His father, anyway.” He was about to say but his mom was Palestinian, from Gaza, but he caught himself. If Nader hadn’t mentioned it, he wouldn’t.
“We had a drink after that one. I really needed one. He kind of filled in the background, the Lebanese politics and stuff. There was a lot to take in. I was just reeling from the film. But I could tell that it bothered him, too, but he doesn’t talk much about himself, does he? Do you find that?”
“That’s fair. Nader is very serious about things. But what I like about him is that he doesn’t take himself too seriously. Rare in our line of work.”
“That’s for sure.” She sipped, looked away, then smiled. “Is he involved with anyone by any chance?”
“No.” Cyril was now laughing. “Not Nader.”
“You make it sound like he’s gay or something.”
“No. Not as far as I know. You can relax.”
“But there’s something about him. Right? What do you think?”
“I think you take him as he is. What you see is real. Like you said. Smart and funny. I don’t know about the ‘sweet.’ But I know he’s deep. And he’s true blue.”
“Yes,” she said. And he could hear the wistfulness. “So I can safely assume he’s single? No significant other?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Family?”
“Yes. Close, I gather. But he doesn’t talk about personal stuff much to me either. He’s all business.”
“I just have this feeling. And I don’t know why I’m telling you. But you’re a good listener.” She reached across and squeezed his hand. “I have this feeling that I could get awfully fond of him. You know what I mean?”
“I know what you mean.”
“And I keep thinking about something my dad told me once. Dad is a clergyman, by the way. Anglican priest, if you can imagine. Anyway—he says it’s important that the guy you fall for should be single. But what you should really watch for is something that’s harder to detect. Some guys aren’t just single. They’re singular. Maybe Nader’s that way. What do you think?”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Okay. A single guy is unattached by choice and, more often than not, temporarily. A singular guy is unattached in spite of himself. How Dad explains it is that they’re usually idealists. It never really made sense until I started thinking about Nader. And where we might be going, or not going. Idealists tend to be going somewhere by themselves.”
“How old did you say you were?”
“I never said.” She blushed deeply.
Cyril was suddenly aware of the surroundings, the aromas, the banging, hissing, scouring sounds of coffee preparation, sirens blaring, honking outside on the street, human movement, human sound. Voices, words that were meaningless outside the context of emotional engagement. And suddenly he felt the presence of his father.
“I’ve probably kept you too long,” she said.
“No,” he said. “What you’re saying is important. It’s just a lot to take on board.”
“I know,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.” She grasped his hand again.
He looked away. And that was when he saw Gloria standing by the cash.
He stared, hoping for some extrasensory connection that would cause her to look his way. He detached his hand from Megan’s.
“Someone you know?” she asked, following his gaze.
“Yes,” he said. “Sorry. It’s someone I haven’t seen in a while.”
And he realized by Gloria’s intense focus on her wallet, the furrows on her brow and how she deliberately deposited her change, bills in one compartment, coins in the little pocket that had a corner of its flap permanently creased so that it would never lie flat when she snapped it shut and tried to fold the always-bulging wallet, and how she brushed the hair back from her face as she turned abruptly toward the exit without looking, that she’d seen him. And she was gone, smiling thinly at some stranger who squeezed past her, looking for a place to sit.
“Excuse me a sec,” he said. And he headed for the street.
But she was nowhere to be found.
It was difficult to focus after that. He wandered aimlessly along the harbourfront. Stopped in a pub he’d never heard of, ordered a pint. Drank half of it. Left. Tried calling Nader. No response.
He bought a newspaper, checked the movie listings. Nothing worth seeing.
He sat in the little park where he’d seen her running with That Other Fellow. Tried to read an editorial about Syria but nothing that he saw or thought had any context. Tried to read a novel but kept having to go back to find the storyline.
He thought: maybe if I just called. Or if she answered, what then? Explain? Explain what? Or better still, send a text. Better? Why better? Less exposure. Chickenshit, in Suzanne’s words.
Fuck it.
He went home. Mercifully Aggie was out. He poured a drink. What would the singular idealistic Nader do? Pour a Coke? Maybe he’d smoke pot. Or would crawl onto a prayer mat, top of his head toward Mecca, arse to the rest of the world. Lose himself that way.
It was a stiff drink on an empty stomach.
He felt improved enough to go to bed.
Removing his clothes he put a handful of change on the dresser. It always drove him crazy when the goddamned coins would tumble out of his pockets, scattering everywhere as if alive and fleeing. Checked his inside jacket pocket and found a folded sheet of paper.
The fax. Photocopied business card, front and back, from Kennedy. Ronald J. Nicholson. INSET. A handwritten phone number. Placed it face up beside the coins on the dresser, not to be forgotten. In the morning.
Awaiting sleep he reviewed the Megan theory of singularity and it made too much sense to be ignored. It explained so much about his friend. Of course. Nader wasn’t able to commit to anything but ideas. Theories, Savage pointed out.
Is singularity a deficit? Or a gift.
Just before sleep claimed him he thought of Gloria again. She was his proof: Cyril’s emotional paralysis didn’t come from singularity. It was the opposite. I’m not like Nader. I’m not like my father. And now, as clarity dissolved, he was insisting: I’m not like them at all. I’m a different species altogether.
34.
The sidewalk on University Avenue was thronged with lunch hour people hurrying. Cyril stood waiting close to the curbside, next to a lamppost, eye on the doorway to the nondescript sandwich place that Inspector Nicholson had recommended. He was still doubtful that the cop would actually show up, but he kept watching anyway for a big man in a suit.
“You’ll know me when you see me…I’ve got ‘cop’ written all over me,” Nicholson had told him on the phone.
How matters would proceed if Nicholson showed up, he didn’t have a clue. But he felt he also didn’t have a thing to lose, so what the heck. Meet the guy. Bring the conversation round to where he wanted it. He’d called Nader to let him know and maybe get advice. But Nader wasn’t answering and hadn’t called him back.
On the phone Nicholson had been courteous but c
ool. “You work where?”
“Television news. But I’ll be honest, I’m pretty new at it which is why they have me gathering mostly background stuff. Like how INSET works, structurally…”
“That’s all online…”
“Yes, I’ve been to the website. But also, the practical aspect. Historically, of course.”
“Historically.”
“Well, I was hoping that somebody could walk me through a particular historical scenario, like the Toronto Eighteen from back in ’06. Canada’s nine-eleven that never happened.” He managed what sounded like a chuckle.
Silence.
“Tell me your name again. I’m sorry. The memory.”
“Cyril Cormier.”
“Cormier.”
“Yes. Actually, I think you met my father once.”
“And your father was?”
“Pierre. Pierre Cormier.”
Silence.
Cyril thought that Nicholson was gone but then he heard a sigh. “Cyril. Let me tell you something. And before I do, every fuckin’ word that comes out of me. Every syllable. Off the record. Okay? You got that?”
“Absolutely.”
“And you aren’t recording this, right?”
“No way.”
“Okay. In this line of work there is no distinction between what’s historical and what’s contemporary. We aren’t talkin’ about ordinary crime, like homicide or some holdup. Criminal conspiracy is a different kettle of fish. Terrorism? We’re talkin’ about a criminal phenomenon, a culture. And what makes it hard is that nobody in that mindset thinks of himself as a criminal, or what he does as crime. Hell. Most of them think they’re saints. Martyrs.”
“Completely agree with everything you say…”
“So what I’m sayin’, Cyril, is that there’s no way we can talk about the Toronto Eighteen, or Eight, or Eight-Fuckin’-Hundred, without talkin’ about what’s going on right now. Not because I’m worried about my job or all the rules and regulations. It’s because I’m worried about the country. Simple as that. We just don’t need that shit and no way I’m gonna say anything to jeopardize what folks are doing to prevent it happening.”
“Totally agree. And by the way I’ve had this conversation, more or less, already…”
“With who, if I can ask?”
“Well.”
Silence.
“You’ll understand if I’m not comfortable saying who.”
Nicholson laughed. “Good for you.”
Silence.
“Okay,” Nicholson continued. “Let me say this. Because it is a culture, deep and wide, we have our feelers out far and wide and deep. We first picked up on the Toronto thing on a website out of Edmonton, if you can believe it. Following some nutcase out there, we noticed a lot of what seemed like young people buying into this guy’s line and looking at the videos this guy was putting up. Eventually we had the eighteen on our radar. What bothered me was that most of these were ordinary kids from normal families. A bunch of guys making misery for themselves and their parents.”
“A BOG,” Cyril said.
“A BOG. Yes. By the way, where did you hear that expression?”
Silence.
Nicholson chuckled. “My oh my. You don’t have to answer. I can pretty well guess.”
Cyril spotted him a block away. Nicholson was tall and had the appearance of an athlete who had long since given up the physical activity but not the calories. He had close-cropped silver hair that was thinning at the front, slightly fleshy lips, frameless glasses. He had style, dressed in a well-cut grey suit, pale yellow shirt, charcoal tie with a subtle pattern of tiny yellow crowns. Lawyer shoes with tassels, feet that were surprisingly compact. Cyril suddenly felt awkward in his cargo pants and black T-shirt, denim jacket and Blundstones.
Nicholson paused in front of him, checked his wristwatch, studied the passing crowd. Produced an iPhone, scrolled briefly with a thumb then walked to the door of the sandwich shop and peered in. Cyril waited until the door closed behind him, watched through a window until he saw him take a seat in a far corner of the shop. Took a deep breath, pushed through the door.
They made eye contact and nodded at each other. Cyril noted that Nicholson wasn’t smiling. But he stood and they shook hands.
“We go over there and order and they’ll bring it to us,” he said. On the way to the counter Cyril said: “I really appreciate you taking the time to meet…”
Nicholson said: “We’ll talk about that. What do you like? Everything here is good. We get drinks over there.” He pointed to a cooler.
They were seated, waiting for their orders. Nicholson was doodling on the tabletop with an index finger, then he raised a hand, looked hard at Cyril. He had deep hazel-green eyes that never seemed to blink.
“I’m afraid this isn’t going to take long, Cyril. It was probably a mistake, me agreeing to meet you here. But anyway. Here comes the food.”
Nicholson picked up his wrap, gnawed the end of it, sat back, studied Cyril, smiled for the first time. “Shit. If anybody knew that I was here, my ass would be in a sling, man.”
“I really appreciate—”
“Never mind the appreciating. Just understand where I’m coming from. This government we’ve got in Ottawa these days. From the cop perspective? Fabulous. But they go too far in some ways. Police work is a two-way street. I don’t much believe in letting public affairs do the talking for us working guys. We work for the people so we talk to the people. You guys in the media—talkin’ to you is talkin’ to a whole whack of people in one go. It’s part of the job. With ground rules, of course.”
“Of course.”
He slowly peeled back the wrapper, chomped off another bite. Chewed thoughtfully.
“But basically, having given it a lot of thought, I can’t talk about the Toronto Eighteen or any aspect of any investigation, past or present. As I might have mentioned, it’s all one big investigation. Everything we do is connected. What’ll you have to drink?”
“I’ll go with you.”
Nicholson picked an orange juice, Cyril a Diet Coke. “Let me get this,” he said.
Nicholson smiled. “Uh-uh. Don’t get me wrong. Thanks. But it’s the rules now.”
The food and drinks were almost gone. They were sitting, conversation stalled. “Did you ever smoke?” Nicholson asked.
“No.”
“You’d be wise not to start. You never get over it. Like right now. What I wouldn’t give for an Export A. What I smoked for years. Actually I might have a coffee. You?”
“Sure. But let me get it.”
“No. You stay where you are. We can talk about something neutral. Like the East Coast, eh. You didn’t know my roots are back there? Like yours.” He stood, walked away to get the coffee.
Cyril watched him go, trying to remember how much he’d told Nicholson about himself. East Coast? Then he was back, carrying two mugs.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You’re thinking: how does this guy know where my roots are?” He laughed, set the coffees down.
He sat, studied Cyril for what felt like a full minute, tapping his forefinger on the tabletop.
“I met your father once, quite a while back. I went back to my notes. He told me he was a refugee from Lebanon who ended up in Cape Breton. It was interesting. My folks came from the East Coast, Cape Breton, I’m pretty sure. I think we could have made a connection, him and me. He struck me as a straight shooter.”
“What was the reason for your meeting?”
“He approached us. He thought he had some information we might be interested in.”
“Can I ask what information?”
“Ask away, but you won’t get an answer. He passed away shortly after I met him.”
“June 2007.”
“I think so.” He looked away. “See that guy over there?” He waved at a man who was busy behind the sandwich bar. “He’s from Lebanon. Great people. Hard workers. So what year did your dad come over?”
“Early eighties.”
“Yes. It’s coming back. They’ve been through a lot, the poor Lebanese. I talk about it sometimes to Sami there. Everybody’s battleground, Lebanon. And now you’ve got your Hezbollah in there.” He was shaking his head, a sad expression on his face.
He put his mug down, laced his fingers together in front of him on the table. “I’m gonna be straight with you, Cyril. I think you and I kind of understand each other. You haven’t been in the media long enough to get sneaky. And I’ve been a cop long enough to know an honest person when I see one. Being two-faced is probably the worst part of both our jobs. Anyway. You’ll find that out for yourself.”
There was a longer silence then. Sami showed up at the table with a coffee pot. “Okay. Just a bit,” said Nicholson. “I’ll be pissin’ like a racehorse all afternoon. But it’s great coffee, Sami. This is my friend Cyril.”
“Nice to meet you,” Cyril said.
“Cyril here has Lebanese connections through his dad. What was the name when he was over there, your dad?”
“Haddad,” Cyril said.
Sami smiled at him. Filled his cup. “I haven’t seen you here for a while, Ronny. Keeping busy?”
“Never stops,” said Nicholson.
Sami walked away. Nicholson watched him go, then turned back to Cyril. “I got the impression that your dad was part of stuff in Lebanon, the war and all. Knew certain people. How up on this are you?”
“Barely.”
“Your dad must have talked, eh?”
“Never about Lebanon. Nothing.”
“Nothing at all?”
Silence.
Nicholson studied the tabletop, frowning. “Because there’s a name ringing a bell in my old forgetful head. I remember because I knew he was kind of a bad guy but he had a girly name. Ellie, I think.”
“There was an Elie Hobeika in the civil war.”
“That was the name. Your dad indicated he was part of this guy’s crew for a while. But there was a falling-out. Does this ring a bell?”
The Only Café Page 29
