“Bite me,” bleated the man, attracting scowls from the departing music-lovers.
He looked ready to push Ted down, but Ted slid out of the way and back to Bill, Dan and Karin. When he showed them the photo, Karin laughingly said, “That deserves some recompense.”
She sat and drew her honey-coloured instrument between the the folds of her full, black skirt. Then she tossed off a few bars of “Chiquitita”.
Ted felt he’d been blown a kiss.
When Karin told her violist friend Nancy that she had met a guy, they were strolling to The Coffee Mill after a lecture at the Conservatory. Nancy Malik née Gallo—a clear-skinned Rubenesque goddess, peerless authority on men, and recent bride—naturally wanted to know what he was like.
“Kind of short,” Karin answered. “Well, my height, actually. Short for a man.”
“Cute?”
“Yeah.” Karin dragged the word out and gave Nancy a “well, duh” look. Would she be telling her about Ted if he weren’t cute?
“So? What’s he like?”
“Okay.” Karin’s hands started moving, as if she were conducting a group of Ted’s features, bringing each one in when required. “Nice hair—wavy, brown. Slightly cleft chin, not too much. Great smile—reserved, but warm. I mean, his eyes are this mysterious taupe colour, but they really look at you. Rides a motorcycle, without all the leather. Quiet dresser, well-pressed. Nice flat gut.”
“Musical?”
Karin touched the tips of her middle finger and thumb to make a zero. “A potential listener.”
“I can’t be hearing this.” Nancy raised her arms and eyes to the heavens. “Funny?” she ventured.
“He has a mischievous side.”
“Dare I ask his age?”
“Unimportant.”
“Uh-oh. Older or younger?”
“Nance! Would I waste my time with teenagers? He’s a prof or assistant prof of criminology, so I figure with that and the way he looks, he has to be around thirty. That’s only six years’ difference. Hey, you know that book I was reading on Chinese astrology for westerners? I’d say he fits the Tiger profile much better than I do, even if the calendar says he’s a mild-mannered Sheep.”
“A quiet dresser in orange and black? That would be a stretch, even over a flat gut.” Nancy’s hoots of laughter turned heads on both sides of Bloor Street. She enjoyed razzing Karin, but was happy for her as well. Her new husband was an academic also, so she couldn’t take too hard a line in that area. “Criminologist, eh? What’s his specialty?”
“He tells me he has a number of irons in the fire.”
“Huh, man of mystery. As you say.”
Chapter 1
Ted looked at the chalkboard a little longer than usual on his way to the table the hostess had picked out for him. Most weeks he just had to confirm that the Friday night special of barbecued Atlantic salmon with snow peas had not changed, but today was Thursday, and an unfamiliar dish was posted. Toulouse bean casserole.
He had the server explain that to him—navy beans, pork rinds, leg of goose, a few carrots, garlic sausage—before Karin arrived. The printed menu was the same as always, but there seemed to be a new wine list, with even fewer whites by the glass. And most of those Chardonnays. Quirk wouldn’t be pleased about that.
The first time he’d heard it, at the Beethoven recital, he had thought her name was K-a-r-e-n, but when he’d written down her phone number, she’d taken the pen from his hand, darkened in the loop of the e, and added a dot over top to make it an i. “It’s a quirky spelling,” she said with a grimace of embarrassment he hadn’t seen on her face in the eight years since. She later told him she had been irrationally afraid he wouldn’t like her.
The server asked Ted if he’d like a drink. He thanked her, no. He always said no, because one glass was all he ever managed in an evening, and he preferred to wait for Karin before starting in on it.
While waiting, he enjoyed the familiar surroundings. Aside from the fact that there were fewer diners at seven on a weekday, the view from the usual table was as usual. The bistro had a steeply pitched cathedral ceiling, from which bright floral-patterned banners hung. Posters of lavender fields in Provence punctuated the yellowy, rough-plastered walls, and each table sported a vase containing a fresh white carnation. The scene was set, Ted reflected; bring on the star!
Then he saw her. Karin was standing at the lectern where they kept the reservation book, talking to the hostess. His sense of anticipation quickened. He watched the woman he loved toss her head of red-gold hair, saw her smile blossom into a laugh, watched her long, lean body sway a little as she shared the joke with the hostess. Ted liked her friendliness, believed—with arrogance he readily forgave himself—that happy people like Karin and him ought to spread their joy. He waved at her, but she didn’t see. She had turned to speak to one of the servers. Fine, fine. Now she could come laugh with him. He didn’t want to lose another moment. While she was turned, Ted admired her from a distance. Quirk, he thought, not for the first time, has a sweet butt.
He realized his lips had been moving. Lately he had caught himself saying this mantra aloud, and he looked around to see if anyone was within earshot. No, his reputation for sanity was intact.
Here she came, in a yellow sundress showing a lot of cleavage and shiny red sandals. Ted sprang to his feet to kiss her. Her lips were warm, the skin around them moist with perspiration. He was glad they had nothing planned for after dinner—except that he’d have to spend a half hour reviewing his notes for tomorrow’s panel discussion.
“Did you hear?” said Karin. “Giovanna’s come top of her year in Commerce.”
“Was that the girl you were just talking to?”
“No, Ted, that was Fairuza. Giovanna’s the one that serves this table.”
He wondered how she kept them straight. The servers didn’t even wear name tags. They were identified on the checks, of course, in print and sometimes in a signed handwritten thank-you accompanied by a smiley face. Perhaps Quirk went through his wallet when he was asleep.
He passed her the diminished wine list without comment and braced for a change in her mood. About some things—housework, for instance—she could be bohemian enough, letting matters slide then pouring effort into a mammoth, occasional cleanup. She was invariably flexible and downright classy about sudden developments in Ted’s life. His volunteering to fill in for a colleague at the conference over the long weekend, for instance, and the consequent change in their weekly dinner at the Bouquet Bistro. But there were spheres to which her tolerance did not extend. She had a passion for precision in string playing, for punctuality at lessons and rehearsals. And, a recipe for frustration this, for consistency and continuity in her urban environment. There would be no point in Ted’s saying the proprietors might have found that most Bistro patrons liked oaky Chardonnay. Public taste shouldn’t be pandered to, she had shot back at him in similar circumstances; it should be educated. Didn’t Ted believe the same thing, after all, in the matter of capital punishment? At this point, Ted would likely say something conciliatory. He wasn’t the champion of market forces so much as of economy of emotional effort. The writing, teaching, and administration work of an academic career kept him as occupied as he wanted to be with external issues. A compact circle of family and friends soaked up another block of his energy. The bulk of his passion, all that remained, was reserved for Quirk.
“We could order a whole bottle tonight,” he offered. “There’s a Chablis they don’t do by the glass.”
“Only