stared at him. “But if you found the right person — the right guy — you would know?”
“I hope so.”
Ked speared three pancakes with his fork, hearkening back to the days when they would try to see how many stacked slices they could fit into their mouths at once. He looked up after a moment.
“Dad, what’s it like to be old?”
Dan smiled. “It’s like, one day you look in the mirror and see that you’ve turned into the person you vowed never to become back when you were young.”
He watched his son’s face for signs of amusement. Ked seemed oblivious to irony, particularly when he was in such a serious frame of mind.
“Is that what happened to you?”
“Some days I think so.”
Ked nodded. Silence invaded the kitchen. Ralph rolled over again.
Ked picked up the platter and offered it to his father. “Eat some more pancakes. It might make you feel better.”
“Yes, son.”
They finished breakfast in silence. Later, clearing the table, Dan saw he’d drizzled syrup over the envelope. He wiped his hands and opened it. It contained photocopies of newspaper clippings. Most of them were in Chinese, but one was in English. He didn’t need a translator to know they were about the Tiananmen protests of 1989. Each carried a variation of the same photograph: a long line of tanks being held up by a single individual holding a jacket and travel bag in either hand. Tank Man. That was the name he’d gone by, though his true identity had never been confirmed.
Dan counted: there were five articles in total. He shook the envelope, but nothing further fell out. He was mystified. There was no clue as to why he’d been sent the clippings or who had sent them.
He checked his watch: it was getting late. Stashing the envelope in his laptop case, he headed for the door.
Two
Project Management
Donny sat perched on a high stool, chrome modern, overlooking the panorama from his living room window twenty-two stories up. Far below horns tooted, tail-lights winked, and pedestrians scurried over the pavement as though they were crossing a field covered by sniper fire. It was night-time in the ghetto as the Docent of Jarvis Street silently oversaw his domain, legs crossed, pants creased and crinkled at the knees. His top was light-coloured chiffon, short-sleeved, still early for the season, but massively in fashion with the younger crowd wanting to sport their biceps and tattoos. Ebony skin edged the cream a shade whiter by comparison. He was Vogue Superstar material in black. Tall and thin, a sepulchral shadow wandering the grounds of the necropolis when he moved. Tonight, however, he was busy doing what he usually did — dispensing advice with a cigarette sutured to his lips, while his icy stare evoked a final evening on board the Titanic. All hands on deck, but going down cool, his words calm, not frenzied. This was a serious discussion, after all.
“Your son was right to ask. He worries for you. But he is still a fifteen-year-old boy. He might be bright, but he’s inexperienced. He sees the emptiness in your eyes and wonders. We all wonder, if you want to know. Ever since Trevor left.” A quick glance over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t caused offence. “I don’t know, though. A couple of head-on collisions in the amour department and you’re ready to call it quits for eternity? Well, maybe you’re right. I content myself these days with the boys at Slam.”
“The strip club?”
“One and only. It’s just that much easier. Both parties know what it’s about before we engage in battle. And then it’s over with. Real relationships are fraught with peril. They’re inherently dangerous.”
Assessment made, he took a long drag on his cigarette.
Dan laughed. “Dangerous? How so?” He’d never learned not to ask.
Donny eyed him dead on, fingers splayed and cigarette held at a distance.
“They take you places you don’t always want to go. You can lose yourself there. Sometimes permanently.”
“I think that’s what Ked thinks. That I’m permanently lost.”
Smoke exhaled into the night sky, a red spark set against eternity.
“I met the last one, didn’t I? One night at Woody’s? What was his name again?”
“Kelvin.”
“Kelvin, that’s right. Razor-sharp cheekbones. Nice eyes. Attractive, but a little stiff in the personality department. Somewhat lacking in humour, as I recall.”
“That’s him.”
“Still, not important enough to get depressed over or give up on life for. So tell me about it.”
Dan nodded, staring out across the same horizon as Donny, yet seeing something far different. More than the cityscape reflecting in his eyes.
“It was going really well …”
“They always do at first. Remind me again. This one did what?”
“Project manager at BMO.”
“Sorry, you know me. I’m all about fashion here. What exactly does that mean?”
“Project manager? Kind of like heading up a task force.”
“Like a platoon sergeant?”
“Sure, I guess. He oversaw the bank’s website content. Customer protocols, et cetera. He described it as constantly looking for problems and pointing them out to the people under him.”
“So, basically, Project Manager Kelvin criticizes the people under him, makes them sweat all day, and they no doubt resent him for it.”
Dan smiled.
“That’s pretty much how he described it. He didn’t have much respect for his employees, by the sounds of it. And yes, of course they resented him.”
“But you thought he would respect you, regardless?”
“I worked hard to earn his respect. And I think I deserved it.”
Donny eyed him balefully. “So you wanted respect from a man who points out problems for a living. Did you think he wouldn’t find any when he looked at you?”
Dan held up a hand. “Stop. I’m just giving you the back story.”
Donny sniffed, took another drag. “Continue.”
“You’re not making this easy, you know.”
Exhale. “Not trying to. Continue.”
“Anyway, things went well for the first month. He seemed fun to be with. We had good conversations, enjoyed good food, both of us liked outdoor activities. The sex was great …”
“Great?
