VALENTINE'S MORNING
I watch him eating the chocolate cake on the plate in front of him. He's eating incredibly fast. That's not to say that he's stuffing his face. Quite the opposite. His manners are impeccable; his movements graceful. I have barely started on my coffee and he has almost finished his cake. It's not a small portion either, the chocolate is oozing on to the plate from between two layers of sponge and it's all covered in chocolate frosting and chocolate curls. To look at it, even, this moribund excess of chocolate and cream, makes me feel rather queasy. And he's eating it without pause, whilst he elegantly chews one mouthful, he's scooping up the next with his fork. I'm staring. He's staring, too. At the desert trolley. I'm staring. He finally notices and pauses for a millisecond,
"High calorie requirements. The burden of being different."
I think, am I missing something, he can't mean different in that way can he? It can't be that people like him and Leon physically need to eat more, can it? Not unless they're doing something spectacularly energetic most of the day. Did I just think that? I feel sick again and it's not the chocolate this time. I look at him anxiously, scan every inch of his form, to find some other difference. And I find none, none except those pointed ears. Perhaps he's some kind of athlete, that would explain how he could run down the hill like that, with me in his arms, without any apparent strain. But that's wrong too, no athlete would even consider eating one slice of chocolate cake, let alone be eyeing up a second. I did this, came here, to find answers, yet all I'm finding are more and more questions.
He's answering nothing. Short of saying that I can order whatever I like, it's his treat, the least he can do; he's done nothing except eat that cake. He's been here before and recently, the way he ordered that cake without a moment's hesitation shows that. But besides that, I've learnt nothing. The trail is going cold just like his neglected black coffee. Black, no sugar, as if he's diet conscious, but then, why the cake?
This doesn't make sense, what have I missed? I have missed some fundamental truth, trapped within my anger in that apartment on the Rue Soleil, that passed between them, between their eyes. Something so obvious that it need not be said. Or some final absolute secret not to be tarnished, ruined by my ears. That's it. Some complicit secret. Or perhaps, many. How can I tell? Secret one: why my brother died. Secret two: what is this difference? Secret three: how are they connected? Is there no limit to my answerless questions, the innumerable offspring of my brother's death and life. Why that order? What is more important to me? How much do I care about what he did before he died, found weeks later in his flat, the forensic evidence inconclusive, every sign that the boy died with him, thrown from the window; the intrusions of police eyes and ears into the carcass of his life and with every word of the official report pulled apart on the altar of truth and justice; and it declared factional infighting within the nest of vipers in which he had secreted himself.
No answers here. I need to take the initiative, what was Leon's phrase, carpe the diem, whatever that means. I open my mouth to ask a question, to turn the tables on my not yet sated suspect…
There's a crash. A tinkle of shattered glass as if someone's broken a mirror, not just broken but dashed into a thousand pieces, obliterated it totally as if something's so displeased that he never wants to see it again. There are men in the café. They do not look friendly, balaclavas over their heads and guns in their hands. They look like shadows, dressed all in black, their features unknowable, the only light being the dull gleam of metal. My escort stands up. That doesn't portray the abruptness of the action. One moment he's sitting, the next he's standing. His posture is perfect, he's holding himself tall. And his face. Everything about him speaks of icy anger. Anger? We're stuck in a café full of gun wielding thugs and he's merely angry and in complete control of himself. Everything, the café, the world, revolves around him.
They're in trouble now. How do I know that, and where does this confidence come from? It's like when we ran down the hill again, I feel totally safe and elated, he's my protector, the safest hands in all Canada and he will not drop me.
The goons, the clowns arrayed all in black, the white skin around their eyes like greasepaint, see this. They are nervous, they know power and they fear it. It reveals them for what they are. The look from his eyes speaks without words, what are you doing here, how dare you disrupt my meal, why did you think you could do this. But it's not just that, they recognise him, the person he is; to me he is just a boy, a concubine, a lover; but to them he is… what is he? What is he, that scares them so?
One of them, the leader, he is not afraid, no, he is afraid, just in control enough, smart enough, not to show it. He waves his gun towards us, with practised grace. God, he wants us, he can't can he, can he?
"You and 'er, come with us or we'll waste this place."
My heart thuds within my heart. It thuds again as I feel muscled arms grasp me.
"Excusez moi, but why should I do what you want? The only way you could get me to do anything you want would be for you to come to me naked with a rose between your teeth, and then I still have my doubts, even."
He's so blasé, so confident. In the face of a man with a gun. What does he have? What does he know?
"You can't be everywhere at once. You're fast, but you can't be everywhere, you can't save everyone, and you can't take that kind of risk."
God! They've got short stubby guns, like those on that Bruce Willis movie on the télé last night, the ones that never run out of bullets and never stop.
"What do you want? Why are you doing this exactly? Alpha Flight will be here soon and they won't be happy"
Alpha Flight? He knows Alpha Flight! Or is he just gambling, gambling with our lives?
"Our boss just wants a word with you. Come along quietly and no one will get 'urt."
I try not to giggle at the cliché, familiar from all too many movies. My companion may have no qualms about annoying them, but I'm all too human. Human? Is that it? It makes a sense of sort. Explains the connection with Alpha Flight, if there is one. He's a hero. He's going to save us from this…or not. He raises his hands and my heart sinks,
"Very well, but that word better be 'goodbye'"
How could he? That's not what he's meant to do. The bully boys follow their leader's instructions and force his hands back into some handcuffs. Rather high tech handcuffs, definitely not police issue, or furry, very solid looking with little lights flickering. My hero (ha!) winces in pain,
"Are these strictly necessary?"
I don't think that they're hurting, it's more a wound to his pride, or is it some bad memory?
"We don't want you getting flighty, now, do we? And we'll take the biddy along for insurance."
He looks smug, laughing at some joke. Flighty? How could I be so slow? Of course, he can fly, that's why I never heard him come. He's some flying superhero. But which one? I wish I paid attention to my grandson when he showed me his superhero trading cards. I remember when it was all baseball players. He must have some superhero name. But what? They all sound the same. Biddy, huh, I'll give him biddy, I'm as sharp as any of them!
They push us into the back of a van, and sit beside us on the hard benches insides. He tries to smile at me, to show it's all fine and we're just playing along to buy Alpha Flight some time, but I know he's wrong, that it's a false smile and he knows no more than I do, he has no idea what's happening or why.
We're harried along a multitude of dark corridors until we come out into the light. We are standing in a room in front of a man with dark eyes seated at a large expansive desk. I don't need to look at the young man's face to see that he knows him, I can tell from his gasp,
"Emile…"