The Garneau Block

by Todd Babiak

  “But it’s mostly just art and whatnot.”

  “I also have a screening room and exercise facilities on the opposite side. There are several studios, for my artists-in-residence. I am currently supporting a painter, an interpretive dancer, and a novelist.”

  “What do you do, Rajinder?”

  “Well, I guess you could say I am a patron of the arts.”

  “Yes, but what do you do?”

  Rajinder turned and looked at Madison. He smiled and Madison smiled, and her face went hot. “Dad, he just told you what he does.”

  “This makes no sense,” said David. “I need another drink.”

  Rajinder stood up.

  “No, sit. I’ll get it myself.” David started to the bar. “All I meant is I don’t understand how you can make money being a patron of the arts. Maybe Abby and I are doing it all wrong, but being patrons of the arts causes no end of credit card debt.”

  “Worth every penny,” said Abby. “Isn’t it, Rajinder?”

  Madison saw that Rajinder wanted to be careful not to isolate or insult her father. Instead of saying, “Amen!” or “Yes, indeed!” Rajinder simply nodded at Abby. In the chairs nearest Rajinder, Shirley and Raymond sat close. Madison had never seen them like this. First, Raymond crying, and now Shirley squeezing his hand and rubbing the back of his neck and saying, “Shhhh,” as though he were an infant.

  “Is this about death?” said Raymond, with a drunken tilt on death.

  Rajinder paused and then nodded. “It is partly about death, I would say. But you should not be asking me. This is a joint project. I hoped we could meet to discuss ways to rejuvenate and strengthen our block. The Perlitz tragedy has interrupted my life in ways I could not have foreseen. Psychologically, I mean. Perhaps you understand.”

  Everyone nodded.

  “The university annexation proposal, I have known about it since July. Since then, with the help of a lawyer friend, I have researched ways to fight it, apart from the usual petitions and hearings. But I am getting in front of myself.”

  “Ahead of myself. That’s the phrase.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Pond.”

  “Jonas.”

  “Thank you, Jonas.”

  “Are there any other questions about me, before we begin?” Rajinder took another sip of wine. “I know a little bit about all of you, I suppose, through observation and some Internet research. You all know each other quite well.”

  David put his hand up again. “Okay, so maybe I’m thick. But you still haven’t really answered my question. Your office is the penthouse of Manulife Place?”

  “A long-term lease. It was a bizarre opportunity, a trough in the real estate market.”

  “And you’re a patron of the arts. Great news. You’re a hero and a saint. But I’m wondering what you do for money.”

  Madison shook her head. “Dad, you can’t ask that.”

  “I can’t?”

  “No.” She turned to Rajinder. “Don’t answer. It’s none of his business.”

  Rajinder tilted his head. “I am willing to answer. Would you like to hear the story, Ms. Weiss?”

  “It’s poor manners, on my dad’s part. Call me Madison.”

  “If it were not poor manners, would you like to hear my story?”

  She turned and squinted at her father, who shrugged. Then she looked back at Rajinder. Madison enjoyed looking at Rajinder. “Yes.”

  “Then I will tell it.”

  37

  the story of rajinder chana, part one

  Before he began the story of how he came to be a rich man, Rajinder Chana implored his neighbours to fill their plates with brie and asparagus crêpes, duck confit, fresh melon wrapped in prosciutto, miniature beef Wellingtons, and crab cakes. He took large spoonfuls of hummus and baba ghanouj, and complimented Abby Weiss and Shirley Wong.

  “Garlic is godly,” he said.

  Then Rajinder topped up everyone’s glass but for Madison and Jonas. Madison took a can of club soda and Jonas insisted on making his own old-fashioned. As Rajinder hurried through the boardroom, serving his neighbours, Madison tried not to stare at him. Even when Rajinder smiled, his big eyes appeared sad to her. Though she knew it would always keep her from complete happiness, Madison preferred sad men.

  “Where should I begin?” said Rajinder. “I should not like to bore you.”

  “I couldn’t imagine being bored here,” said Abby.

  Everyone else shook their heads. No, they couldn’t imagine it either. “Well,” said Rajinder, “I am flattered. But believe me, I am a boring man at heart. Until the night of Benjamin Perlitz’s death, I do not think I would have been capable of this.”

  “Of what?” said David.

  “Of hosting a gathering.”

  Jonas lifted his glass. “Let’s call it a party from now on. A toast to Raj, for throwing us a fish fry.”

  The table was quite wide, so everyone had to stand up and reach in order to touch glasses. “To Rajinder,” they said.

  “No, to you, to you,” said Rajinder.

  “This is a rare thing we got here.” Jonas remained standing while his neighbours settled back into their leather chairs. “This is a real community thing, to get together like this.”

  David pounded the table. “Exactly. And we have to fight to preserve it, or we’ll end up spread all over the city and into Calgary. A diaspora. We’ll be the Garneau Block diaspora.”

  “You’re picking up what I’m laying down, my friend.” Jonas pointed at David and they backed away from their chairs and met for an impromptu hug. “I am laying it down and you are picking it up.”

  “I’m sorry for that time I called you a filthy sodomite, Jonas.”

  Jonas slapped David’s back and squeezed hard for a moment before they separated. “Those were the early nineties. A lot of people were still in the dark about, you know, being civilized human beings.”

  Instantly, like a cloud blocking the sun, the mood in the room changed from one of love and drunken frivolity into confusion and embarrassment. No one looked at Jonas and David as the men returned to their chairs. Yes, they were a community, a winning team. But Jonas Pond and David Weiss hugging? Madison knew both men would regret it in the morning.

  She turned to Rajinder and smiled. Eventually, everyone turned to Rajinder. He nodded, took a deep breath, and removed the handkerchief from his pocket. With it, he dabbed his forehead.

  “I was born and spent my early years in the city of Kapurthala, in the Punjab, close enough to smell the Kanjli wetlands. When I was nine, my parents moved to London, England, where my uncle owned and operated a McDonald’s restaurant. Three years later, my father wanted to seize a business opportunity in Edmonton. So we arrived here in February of 1991 and opened a Subway sandwich shop in the west end.”

  “Can you eat beef?” said David, with a forkful of Wellington.

  Madison shook her head. “Dad, please.”

  “Cows are sacred in India, Maddy. I was just wondering.”

  “I have chosen not to have religion, Mr. Weiss. So I can eat whatever I like.”

  “Good on ya, Raj,” said Jonas, who seemed to have recovered from the aftertaste of the hug.

  Shirley Wong lifted her drink. “Please continue, Rajinder.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Wong. I promise not to tell the long version of this story. My parents, for the first five years of their lives in Edmonton, did not take vacations. My mother worked during the day and my father worked at night, so they rarely saw one another. In 1996, they hired a manager. And for the first time since their arrival here, in the summer after my initial year of university, we took a family vacation into the Rocky Mountains.”

  Rajinder smiled nervously and took a sip of wine. Then he took another sip. Just when it seemed he was about to continue the story, he paused for a third sip. “I am sorry.”

  “You can skip this part if you like, darling,” said Abby.

  “No, thank you. I am just unaccustomed to telling it. On t
he highway between Lake Louise and Jasper, a drunk driver turned into us and hit our Toyota directly. My parents were killed and I was in the hospital for a month with several broken bones and a ruptured spleen.”

  “Your parents were insured?”

  “David!” Abby pointed to her temple. “Sorry, Rajinder.”

  “Heavily insured, yes.”

  “But not this heavily.”

  “Not another word, David. Not. Another. Word.”

  “After my recovery I moved into an apartment in Oliver. I decided not to continue my studies. Instead, I endeavoured to learn about this part of the world. I drove about, and read books, and visited the historic sights and stayed in small-town hotels. I ate a lot of meatloaf and Reuben sandwiches. But this did not make me happy. Nothing made me happy.”

  “Modern life is a conspiracy against happiness,” said Raymond, whose eyes were red and sore from crying. “Death and disappointment and–”

  “Hush.” The gentleness in Shirley’s voice had given way to irritation. “Continue, Rajinder, please.”

  38

  the story of rajinder chana, part two

  The thirty-eighth floor’s sound system went quiet. The residents of the Garneau Block, who had grown accustomed to the haunted Edith Piaf, looked up at the tiny speakers embedded in the hardwood ceiling. Rajinder Chana looked up with them, and waited. Spare piano music and the static of a spinning LP introduced the confident and shaky voice of Charles Aznavour singing “Sa jeunesse.”

  “Why do you like French music so much, Rajinder?” said Abby Weiss. “Do you have a French girlfriend?”

  “I do not have a girlfriend at present. And I cannot explain why I like French music so much. Or French movies or French novels or French food.”

  David pointed at Rajinder. “French culture is phoney, my Indian compadre. The government pays for it all and censors foreign music, books, and movies. It’s practically Soviet.”

  No one responded to David. Instead, they listened to Charles Aznavour. Madison didn’t care how the majesty of Charles Aznavour and “Sa jeunesse” came about. The important thing was it existed. “Perhaps I’m talking too much?” said Rajinder.

  No, no no. They all said no.

  “Where was I?”

  Raymond raised his hand. With a note of fellow-feeling in his voice, he said, “You were orphaned and very unhappy.”

  “One afternoon in January of 1997, driving south on Highway 2, I stopped in at a restaurant with a teapot on top. What is this place called, the strip of unimaginative restaurants and service stations in Red Deer?”

  “Gasoline Alley,” said Madison.

  “Yes. In this teapot restaurant on Gasoline Alley a man and a woman sat in the booth next to me. The gentleman was having a cellular phone conversation, and since I was bored I listened. He had a mass of papers in front of him. I felt badly for the woman, because her companion seemed to be rather discourteously ignoring her. They were both agitated. As I began eating my soup, the gentleman ended his call. He said, ‘We did not get it.’”

  “They didn’t get what?” said Jonas.

  “Funding. Investment. I continued to eavesdrop and learned the man and woman–they were not married–were attempting to expand their oil and gas exploration company. They needed close to a million dollars and they had been soliciting funds from a potential partner, a venture capitalist in Calgary. I listened to them as I ate my soup, and when I finished my soup I asked if I could join them at their table.”

  Now completely plastered, Jonas flattened his arm on the table and laid his ear on it. “You had a million bucks?”

  “Now you are ahead of me.”

  Jonas winked at Madison. “You hear what he said? Rajinder said the words I taught him.”

  “I will make it a short story. I invested 80 per cent of my money in their oil and gas exploration company, so they could expand into promising new territory.”

  “Weren’t you afraid it was a scam?” said David.

  “I was young and naïve. I did not understand a thing about the oil business. It just sounded right.”

  Abby shook her head and addressed her neighbours in a general way. “It’s always about oil.”

  “So what happened?” said David.

  “I bought thirty-three per cent of the company for one million dollars. The expansion proved more promising than they could have imagined. As we have seen, oil prices have risen considerably. And in February of this year, a large corporation from Texas battled with the Chinese government for the right price and bought us out.”

  Jonas laughed. “For how much, Raj?”

  “Enough so that I will be a full-time patron of the arts for the rest of my life. Now, shall we move on to more important concerns?”

  “Let’s Fix It,” said Madison.

  “Yes.”

  “So how are we going to Fix It?”

  “Exactly,” said Rajinder.

  Madison was confused. She turned to her parents and Jonas, and back to Rajinder. “Didn’t you ask us here so you could reveal your plan?”

  “I have no plan, Madison. I invited you here so we could divine and discuss a plan.”

  This last phrase from Rajinder was like the first kernel of popped corn in an empty pot. It reminded Madison of the effect in grade seven when a substitute teacher announced the class would be watching a movie. David accused everyone of dragging him out for no reason. Jonas cackled sarcastically. Shirley asked Jonas for a piece of gum and Raymond stumbled to the bar, where he proceeded to drink Crown Royal rye whisky straight from the bottle.

  Rajinder cleared his throat and turned to Madison again. “Perhaps I should have hired a public relations professional, to help manage expectations.”

  “No, you did a great job,” said Madison. She spoke softly, under the noise. “It’s obvious you put a lot of effort into this. I think we were all hoping for an easy answer, someone to save us.”

  “I do have some ideas, a general framework. Should I shout?”

  “No, they’ll calm down eventually. You know what liquor can do to people.”

  As Madison predicted, the residents of the Garneau Block did calm down. It happened suddenly, when Raymond threw the now-empty whisky bottle against the wooden wall. The bottle didn’t break but the red wood chipped and the noise was sharp enough to silence the room.

  “I got fired today,” said Raymond, struggling not to slur. “You want to know why? Because I took my Death in Philosophy class on a field trip to the Waterpark and slapped Dannika on the ass.”

  “Who’s Dannika?” said Shirley.

  “Let me finish, sweetheart. I should also tell you that I sort of asked my massage therapist for sexual favours the other night, to no avail. Oh, and I should also tell you that I’ve driven past the prostitutes on 95th Street not once or twice but thrice in the past few weeks. And since I’m up here, doing this, let me add that I’ve had lurid fantasies about you and about you, too.” Raymond winked at Abby and Madison. “There, now I’ve said it. Let’s fix that.”

  For some time, Raymond swayed at the bar. Through the ceiling speakers, Charles Aznavour sang “Il faut savoir.” Instead of considering what her neighbour had just said, Madison attempted to translate the song with her high-school French. The lyrics seemed sad even though the music had an appealing bossa nova quality.

  Discomfort filled the conference room like the scent of burned garbage. To ease it, Madison wanted to scream, laugh, or sing along with Charles Aznavour. Raymond bumped into the table, bent down and kissed Shirley Wong’s hair. He said, “I’m sorry, I love you,” and started out of the room. Rajinder’s assistant, the tall blonde woman, met him just outside the door.

  “Right this way, Dr. Terletsky.”

  When the assistant returned, one song later, Abby escorted her dazed best friend out of the conference room. On his way after them, David grabbed the hummus and baba ghanouj bowls, and thanked Rajinder for a pleasant evening. Madison wondered what would happen next.
<
br />   A tornado seemed about right.

  39

  several instances of arrogance

  At the Chateau Lacombe, two blocks south of Manulife Place, David called a cab while Abby and Shirley sat on the piano bench outside the lounge. He didn’t want to talk about Raymond any longer so he extended his conversation with the dispatcher.

  “Can you make sure it’s a non-smoking car?”

  “All our cars are non-smoking.”

  “Offcially, maybe. But in reality, no. The drivers smoke all the time, and the cars make me feel woozy. I’m an ex-smoker myself.”

  “Well, if you see a driver smoking in his cab, call him in.”

  “I’m supposed to rat on the guy?” David turned and watched his wife and her best friend, and felt warm with marital satisfaction. For the rest of his life, whenever he felt tempted by wicked desires, he would remember this night. It had already been decided, on the short walk to the Chateau Lacombe, that Raymond would have to find somewhere else to sleep.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes.”

  The dispatcher had been speaking to David about the science of ratting on cab drivers. He had been ignoring her. “Contravening the bylaw carries a significant fine, and punitive action.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “The fine and punitive action?”

  “The cab. Our cab.”

  “Five to fifteen.”

  “Thanks.”

  David hung up the phone and approached a pot of Alberta wildflowers in the lobby. Not far away, he could hear both Shirley and Abby gently crying on the piano bench. It was clear he would be paying for the cab. A greasy cab, when they might have been in the private comfort of the Yukon. He sniffed the wildflowers, and without thinking too much about it, said, “Mmm.”

  The doorman, standing nearby in a suit, nodded and smiled. “They’re fake.”

  “Oh, I know. I was just pretending they were real.”

  “Of course you were, sir.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing at all. I simply agreed with you.”

  David had heard enough from this generation of self-assured, entitled, artificially polite young men tonight. “You enjoy mocking your customers?”