“Could I leave this for Connie Chow?”
The man considered the folded napkin. He appeared amused and disdainful and considerate all at the same time. In a tone both reassuring and condescending he said, “I’ll see that she gets it.”
Back in his seat he reminded himself that she was probably busy, that there were only two performances and then they were off to Winnipeg. He wondered about her leading man. How could they go through this night after night, travelling together, staying in the same hotels, with nothing developing between them? He regretted leaving a lousy napkin, it should have been a card, something better, something sophisticated. Connie looked good; she looked great, and no longer needed oranges in her brassiere.
After the final curtain the actors came out for an ovation, Connie and her leading man taking centre stage, holding hands and bowing deeply. She smiled and blew kisses and the applause swelled and there were whistles, Cyril standing along with everyone else and clapping. Finally the celebration ebbed and people began moving to the aisles. Should he wait in the lobby? Wait until she called? And if she didn’t call? The tidal current of the audience carried him outside leaving him beached on a sidewalk by a maple in a concrete tub. He looked back to where a few people lingered; he looked ahead to where taxis were pulling away. Had she groaned when she saw the note? Did the other actors roll their eyes in commiseration? He shoved his hands in his pockets and started across the street.
“What, you’re just gonna leave?”
He turned and saw her walking toward him as if emerging from some tunnel utterly different and utterly the same as the last time he’d seen her. “I thought you’d be signing autographs,” he said.
“I was. How the hell are you, man? Come on, get in here.” She opened her arms and they hugged. She was wearing a black leather jacket with studs and chains, a black toque, and Daytons. The leather was fragrant. Or was that her? They stood apart, holding hands, appraising each other. She looked solid and confident and had silver rings on all her fingers including her thumbs.
“You ride?”
“Five hundred Kawi,” she said.
“Got time for a drink?”
“Well, duh.”
They walked to the Alcazar and found a table near the fountain. Her hair was tied in a thick braid and her black T-shirt said Fart, parodying the Ford logo.
“I don’t see a ring,” she said, indicating his bare finger.
“What about you?” he asked.
She splayed her fingers, admiring all the silver, then told him about Guillermo, a metals speculator from Bolivia who liked to play around and did most of his apologizing to her in silver jewelry. “When I finally ran out of fingers I figured it was time to leave him.”
He asked her about children and she said she didn’t think she was the mothering type.
“You’re doing what you always wanted,” he said.
She looked at her beer and shrugged, all bravado momentarily lapsing. Then she brightened. “Met Nancy Kwan. She came to the premiere. Did a few Hawaii Five-Os. The Mod Squad. Green Hornet. Had a part this big in The Happening with Faye Dunaway and Anthony Quinn.” She held her thumb and forefinger a quarter an inch apart. “Lots of small bits. Crumbs.”
“And I Spy,” he said.
“Yeah, that was cool.”
“So you’re surviving.”
“Just.”
He was impressed and he was envious and he was resentful and he could, with only the slightest encouragement, fall right back in love with her.
“You drawing?”
“Sure. Some. Never enough.” He mentioned Sandor Novak and the drawing classes though omitted the disastrous art show.
“Sandor, now that’s a great name,” she said. “If I had a cat I’d name it Sandor.”
He felt compelled in the interest of honesty to mention the framing crew.
“That’s cool. It’s solid. Real. I like that.” Her excess enthusiasm was awkwardly obvious to them both. “Hey, anything I ever said before, you know, about what you are or will be, I mean what the fuck do I know, I can barely make my rent. You hungry?”
For a moment he thought she was referring to his level of ambition.
They headed to Pender Street for wonton, passing the Marco Polo where a man out front was doing tricks with a yo-yo for a small but appreciative crowd, and entered a restaurant featuring shiny red ducks dangling from hooks. They found a booth and took in the genial chaos of clattering bowls and chopsticks while fluorescent tubes crackled on the ceiling and dragons glared from the walls. For almost a full minute they said nothing and Cyril endured a stab of panic thinking that if he didn’t come up with something good she’d get bored and find an excuse to escape, reducing him to just some guy she used to know who didn’t have the talent or drive to escape the drizzly backwater of Vancouver. He plucked a menu from the metal rack and took refuge in the choices: Crispy Skin Duck, Five Spiced Duck, Fried Smoked Duck.
“How about Pork Stomach and Pork Blood with Chives?” Connie suggested.
“Great.”
“Cyril.” She stuck her finger down her throat.
“You’re cruel and unusual.”
She batted her eyelashes. “So sweet of you to say.”
A waitress scuffed over and flipped open her order pad like an angry cop ready to write a ticket. Her custard-coloured uniform was grease stained and her name tag said Grace. “Ready order?”
“How’s about we go for the plain old Szechuan Duck, some rice, a plate of bok choy, and a couple of deep-fried bad-for-your-cholesterol egg rolls. You got beer?”
“Tsing tao.”
Connie glanced at Cyril. “Two?”
He was desperately thirsty and not above taking refuge in booze. “Make it four.”
“Right on,” growled Connie. “Give us four.” The waitress scuffed off toward the kitchen. Connie slotted the menu into the rack and then groaned and leaned her head in her hands. “I am so beat. But hey—” Her head popped up. “It’s so good to see you, man. I tried giving you a call. Or maybe I didn’t. I meant to. Honest. I think about you a lot. You were the only friend I had.”
He was flattered and hopeful and embarrassed. “You vanished,” he said.
She became apologetic. “I do that. It’s shitty. I do a lot of shitty things. I don’t know. I couldn’t handle it.”
This came as a shock. Connie Chow unable to cope?
“Hot in here.” She plucked the toque from her head and fanned herself.
The waitress passed with something orange and gelatinous quivering atop something grey and gelatinous.
“Hey, you still chew Black Cat?” he asked.
“Black Cat. God. I could use some Black Cat gum. That’s what my life’s been missing. I’m gonna buy like fifty packs.”
When their food arrived they dug in and soon their lips were shiny. At one point she broke into a drum solo on the tabletop with her chopsticks and said she’d been in a band but was the shits so quit.
Afterwards, they walked up the street to an old hotel, three storeys, narrow and deep and weathered. “Trying to keep the Hong Kong mood going,” she explained. “Wanna come up?” They climbed two flights of spongy grey linoleum steps into the smell of decades-old dirt and stale air. An old man sat in a booth labouring over a crossword. “How’s it going, Milt?”
“Four-letter-word for woman. Last three letters u-n-t.”
Connie looked at Cyril who politely cleared his throat and declined to offer a suggestion. “How about aunt,” said Connie.