Toby (5 page)

A woman on an old bicycle, with one speed and a basket, waited to cross Drolet. She ventured too far into the street and tried to steer back onto the sidewalk, but she caught her skirt in the gears. The bicycle wouldn’t move. Gingerly, she tried to tug the fabric out. He shouted for the woman to get off her bicycle and carry it to the sidewalk, to safety, and she turned to him. “
Quoi?
” she said.

“
Allez à la
…” Toby was too far away from her, in the wind, to be heard.

A taxi with its light off sped southward on Drolet. The woman looked at Toby instead of the traffic and did not see it. “
Quoi?
” she said again.

Toby gestured madly toward the bank of cars, led by the green taxi. As the woman shifted her attention back to the traffic, her heavy bicycle rolled forward slightly and the taxi clipped the front wheel. She cried out and at once flew
sideways off the bicycle and into the pile of dust and decomposed leaves that had gathered at the mouth of the storm drain. The contents of the basket, her handbag and its secrets, lay strewn about. Cars behind the taxi had stopped, though it had continued along. Toby ran to the woman and helped her up onto the sidewalk. Then he pulled her bicycle to safety and gathered up pens, tissues, an address book, a tiny photo album, three blank postcards, her bulky wallet, one condom, and a set of keys.

Back on the sidewalk, he asked the woman, in French, if she was injured. She listened, with large green eyes and thick lips slathered with gloss, but did not respond. Toby wiped the dust from her arms and shoulders. She was pale and thin and agitated, the uncharismatic daughter of Mick Jagger and Carly Simon. On her feet, she turned around as if before a mirror and felt her body quadrant by quadrant until she reached her right leg. She lifted her torn red skirt to reveal a pair of black nylons. They had ripped in three vertical strips above the knee, and tiny bits of gravel and sand were embedded in the wound. She wept briefly, with one hiccupping sob.

A gentleman is obliged to carry a dress handkerchief, along with a square of white linen, for emergencies. Brooks Brothers manufactured lovely linens for this purpose, with just-detectable fleur-de-lis embroidery. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose, then stuffed his linen into her bag without taking even a moment to consider its astonishing beauty. From time to time, in moments of crisis, moments like these, Toby questioned the rewards of his behaviour. He understood why so many of his peers cussed in public, why they spent more time in restaurants and cafés looking at their iPhones than into their lovers’ eyes.

The woman removed her helmet. “He was a murderer.”

“No, Madame.” The taxi had long gone. “He was just an idiot.”

She rubbed her shoulder. The sturdy bicycle had survived the impact, but the chain had fallen off. Toby took her bag and walked her bicycle one block east to the gas station on Saint-Denis.

“It’s another awful day. Another ridiculous, monstrous day.” She sobbed again. Toby pulled the linen out of her bag and gave it to her demonstrably, so she might notice the fleurs-de-lis. Traffic was light suddenly. The sun was warm on his face and the wind had calmed. No one was honking.

“The day will surely improve for you, Madame. I have a feeling.”

She pointed to her ripped nylons. “I’m already late.”

“You were hit by a car.”

“There is a recession, you know.”

“My name is Toby Ménard. I’m enchanted to meet you.”

“Catherine Brassens. I’ve seen you on television.” She attempted a phrase in English: “I practise sometime to hear correct.”

“
Parfait
.”

“It’s normal, I suppose, that you’d stop for a woman in distress.”

“I suppose it is.”

In English again, she ventured, “A gentle man.”

“A gentleman and a gentlewoman.”

Catherine went into the washroom, and Toby waited for one of the gas station attendants to make eye contact with him so he might ask for some assistance. Eventually, he gave
up and replaced the chain himself. Now there was grease on his hands, plenty of it. He hopped on the bicycle and pedalled in a small circle in the gas station parking lot.

“Like it never happened,” he said, when Catherine returned.

She had three wet paper towels. “The mirror in the washroom’s too small and too high. Will you?”

Toby crouched and inspected the wound on her upper thigh. She had done a thorough job, but islands of dirt and debris had been hidden by her nylons. “May I?”

“Of course.” Catherine lifted her skirt a few inches higher.

He pulled the fabric away from her skin and reached in through a hole, gently dabbing the dirt and bits of gravel away. The skin of her leg was not as pale as her face and neck, and she was muscular: the advantage of bicycle commuting. He looked up, for an instant, when he was finished. She watched him. The colour had returned to her cheeks. Neither of them spoke until a dump truck passed, rattling him to his feet.

“You’re going to be all right, Madame Brassens.”

“Thanks again, Doctor Toby.”

“I shouldn’t have shouted.”

“The murderer shouldn’t have hit me with his taxi.”

They shook hands. His grease transferred to her, and he apologized. She pulled a small package of damp wipes from her pocket and offered one to Toby. Together, they wiped the grease from her hands, and Toby wondered about the damp wipes: Who carries such things?

“Can I do something for you in return?” Already she referred to him as
toi.

“Madame Brassens, it was my pleasure to help.”

“I’ll make you dinner.”

“It’s not necessary.”

“What’s necessary? I just want to make you dinner.” A strong gust came up Saint-Denis, without any bakery in it. She shifted the bangs of her blond hair from her eyes. “You’re a gentleman. You can’t refuse. I have you.”

Toby pulled a calling card from his stainless steel Frank Lloyd Wright holder, a gift from Alicia. “My number is here, and my e-mail.”

“Friday night. Six thirty.”

Catherine wrote her address on the back of a crumpled receipt. He watched her go, on her ugly bicycle. The receipt was for a thirty-six pack of Huggies.

Now, on top of everything else, he was late. The phone buzzed in his satchel, his parents, no doubt. First he would deal with Dwayne, then he would call his parents with more late-night infomercial philosophy.
We are indeed the architects of our own lives.

There was enough traffic on René Lévesque to allow him to work his strategy into a baroque chamber composition, with dramatic pauses and hand gestures. He rehearsed, imagining his meeting in the office of the station manager, his friend, the president of his society. Humility, first, and an acknowledgment of one’s failings. Then a stunning declaration of grievances, leading to eloquence and great wit, historical allusions, mastery of the room. All of it set to the fifth Brandenburg. Toby was not the first man in history to be cuckolded by a member of a visual minority, and father-burnings must be quite common, statistically. If anyone had actually heard the interview, other than his father and Bruce, he had a footnoted speech prepared about the public’s short attention span.

He used his electronic card to enter the parking garage, and remembered to be comforted and delighted by the sound of the driver’s-side window snapping shut. In challenging times, times like these, it was essential to return to a place of sumptuousness and strength, a small victory, rather than succumb to self-doubt.

In the elevator, Toby pulled his shoulders back and raised his chest; he thought of Jacques Chirac’s moving retirement speech in front of
le drapeau tricolor
: “
Mes chers compatriotes de métropole, d’outre-mer, de l’étranger
…”

The elevator opened onto the dark studio, and Toby stepped out as though passing through saloon doors. The writers, producers, on-air talent, and interns stopped speaking for a moment, in what Toby first took to be stunned reverie. Most of them had been to his parties at the converted candy warehouse. He had taken baguette lunches with them on the port, as the long-legged rollerbladers zoomed past. He had briefly dated one of them, before Alicia, but she had smoked the same brand of cigarillo as Karen—they were surely the only two women on the island with a cigarillo addiction—and the sex had made him thoughtful. Toby greeted those with whom he shared friendly relations, with whom he had made sarcastic remarks about Ed Hardy T-shirts. “What’s up?” His friends and acquaintances and Sandra from Poland, the former girlfriend, responded with barely perceptible nods. In his office, he dropped his satchel. The orange light on his telephone flashed.

There were six voice messages from Dwayne, four e-mails from Dwayne’s secretary, and a yellow sticky note affixed to his keyboard:
Come see me NOW
.

He took the circuitous route to Dwayne’s office, bypassing the studio, blowing on his hands to keep them warm. On
the way, he ducked into a washroom, made certain it was empty, and practised his speech in front of the mirror. He had faith in the universality of human compassion. Dwayne, for example, had always wanted to be in front of the camera. Acne scars had made a lesser man of him. It had been entirely beyond his control. Poor Dwayne. Toby meditated on this to gain an understanding of his boss: poor Dwayne, and his cowboy boots.

There was another voice in Dwayne’s office, laughter. From time to time, when she allowed herself to relax, Alicia’s laugh degraded into a snort. He had grown to love this rare flaw in her, as it was inspired by joy. Joy. Compassion. Cowboy boots. Good-healthy-right-strong. It was marvellous that Alicia and Dwayne were in the office together—destiny.

“Good morning to you both,” he said, at the doorway.

Alicia was enthroned in one of the fake antique chairs that faced Dwayne’s desk, in a dark blue dress that tied around the waist and a pair of long black boots. She looked at Toby as though he had traded faces.

“Before you say anything, allow me to—”

“Alicia.” Dwayne stood up. The tone in his voice was entirely new. “Please excuse us.”

“What happened yesterday?” she asked.

Toby had not imagined Alicia would be here. He had over-rehearsed his address, and now his starting place was hidden from him. Like finding the right key, he could not choose the right tone of voice without plinking a few notes. “I…”

“Alicia, please,” said Dwayne.

She moved in to kiss Toby on her way out, and he backed up to block the doorway.

“Actually, Alicia, would you mind staying?”

“Well…” She looked at Dwayne.

“I have a couple things I need to discuss with you, Toby.” The morning sun shone down through Dwayne’s tilted blinds and highlighted his scars.

“Please sit, both of you,” Toby said. “Just give me a moment.”

They sat.

“Exceptional.” Toby rubbed his hands. He had rehearsed hand-rubbing. “Exceptional.”

Dwayne looked at his watch. “There’s a conference call in half an hour.”

“This won’t take long.” Toby sat in the matching chair, next to Alicia. He crossed his hands in front of his chest. “I know about your affair.”

A glance between them. “There’s no affair,” said Dwayne.

“Toby, that’s insane.”

“I’m not here to condemn you or break into tears in public. What can I do? I’ve been through it in my mind, a thousand times. You obviously love one another. Why else would you forsake an epic romance, a powerful friendship?”

Alicia stood up and sucked in her cheeks. “‘An epic romance, a powerful friendship.’ With your Lord Rector voice on. We both know where you grew up.” Then she walked out.

“Wait. You had better…”

She did not wait.

“Come back here, Alicia, or it’s over between us. It’s over between us forever. You can’t…Guess what, I mean it!”

She did not come back. Toby and Dwayne looked out the door as the sound of her heels on the thin carpet faded
below the low hum of the computer. One of Dwayne’s eyes appeared swollen. His children brought legions of viruses into his house.

Toby pulled out a sheet of paper, upon which he had made notes earlier that morning. All of his rehearsals in front of the bathroom mirror and in the car were now entirely wasted. His soundtrack had gone silent. “Well, that was unnecessarily awkward.”

Dwayne closed his blinds.

“I apologize for that,” Toby continued. “And for yesterday. I’m prepared to take blame where blame is due. However—”

Dwayne turned his monitor around. There was Toby in front of Roslyn School. He had not noticed yesterday how handsome a building it was—multicoloured brick, turn-of-the-century design. His suit, a brown Canali, had been a perfect choice, given the architecture, the late-morning sunlight, the autumn leaves. The image was frozen until Dwayne sniffed, hit a key, and leaned back in his leather chair.

Dwayne played it once, and again, and once more. Then he slid a sealed envelope over his desk. Toby opened it and skimmed the letter from the human resources director, outlining his severance package.

“You can gather your stuff like a grown-up and leave. Or I can have Security escort you out.”

“You know the situation I was in yesterday. My father—”

“I have one letter from Mr. Isidore and another from the president of the national council of the Conservative Party of Canada. I have one from the Council of Canadians of African and Caribbean Heritage, and one very long letter from the executive director of the African Canadian Heritage Association.”

“I’m not a racist.”

“Of course not.”

“We’re friends, you and I.”

“Friends.”

“The Benjamin Disraeli Society.”

Dwayne massaged his jacket pocket to emphasize the absence of any dress handkerchief.

“I hadn’t slept. I hadn’t eaten. I was on a lot of NyQuil. I’d just learned that my trusted friend, my terrific pal, was sleeping with my—”

“There’s nothing we can do.”

“I’ll go to Mr. Demsky.”

“It was his decision.”

“Liar.”

Dwayne shrugged. Before the first segment of
Toby a Gentleman
launched, he had customarily worn jeans and wrinkle-free khakis with a series of checkered, unironed shirts. He had cussed and slouched. Now he had six Chester Barrie bespoke suits and flew to Jermyn Street once every two years to have new shirts custom-made with hand-sewn button holes, removable collarbones, mother-of-pearl buttons. But no handkerchief! And why he had held on to the cowboy boots was mysterious and regrettable.