“So it’s unfair.”
“It does sort of feel that way, yes.”
“A misunderstanding, then?” Borgland had a pen ready to record Cyril’s response.
“Sure,” he said, smile rigid, “let’s call it a misunderstanding.”
Borgland nodded and then sat back in his swivel chair. “Well, we’ll get to those things. But first I want some background, some context.”
Cyril wondered how one trained for the job of probing another man’s personality, weighing their experiences and actions, their opinions and dreams. It all seemed pretty ethereal. But Cyril went along with it, telling Mr. Bernard Borgland what he wanted to know about his childhood, his schooling, his work history, his interest in art. An hour later they parted amiably, with another handshake.
“I’d like to see some of your drawings,” said Borgland.
“Sure,” said Cyril.
On the drive home Cyril resolved not to go back. The worst that could happen was Borgland and Steve conferred, papers were filed, blah was blah’d, and Steve sold the house and cut Cyril a cheque. Bing, bang, boom. Whatever. He felt relieved.
At an intersection, he waited for an old couple to cross. They leaned forward as though hiking into a gale. Arm-in-arm they battled this wind, scarcely able to lift their feet. They may as well have been wearing lead boots their progress was so slow and torturous. The little green man turned into a red hand and yet they weren’t even halfway across. They wore raincoats in spite of the heat, the old man wore a fedora, and his wife a checked scarf tied under her chin. Cyril’s window was down, the heat hovering over the cars and the fumes parching his throat. Now they were in front of Cyril. The old man turned his head and managed a trembling gesture of apology for how far he had fallen from the grace of youth. Cyril raised his hand meaning it was fine, it was okay, there was no rush. The old man faced forward again and continued supporting his mate, the woman he’d known fifty, maybe sixty years, to the far side of this fierce river of hot, angry iron. The traffic light had gone from red to green to red again. Cyril watched the couple mount the kerb and then enjoy a moment—but only a moment—of relief before repositioning themselves for the next crosswalk. He thought of offering them a ride, but engines revved and the driver behind him honked and the light was green, so Cyril pressed the accelerator, certain that there was some meaning in this incident, yet unsure what it could be and how to find out except by drawing it. How did he draw the afternoon of the world, the waning day, the transient light as furtive as a deer in a parking lot puddled by rain? With his back to his mind and his face to the paper? Was that what Novak wanted?
Over the following week he devoted his energy to drawing. He felt good, he felt strong, and he felt right, he would participate in the show at The Arena. As for the psychiatric sessions, forget it, he was done. Yet on the morning that his second session with Borgland was scheduled Cyril found himself wide awake at five AM staring at the ceiling. He showered long, he shaved carefully, he paid particular attention to breakfast—16-grain toast with buckwheat honey, black coffee, and full-pulp orange juice—and then watched himself evaluate each drawing he was considering for the art show. When the time came for his appointment with Borgland—the appointment he was blowing off—he watched himself go to his closet and pick out his best shirt, brick coloured linen with slate buttons, a shirt he rarely got the opportunity to wear, then get in his van and follow the route out Kingsway toward Borgland’s office. Halfway there he wrenched the wheel left and cut across the oncoming traffic—car horns warping past—down a side street and five minutes later was parking in front of Gilbert’s apartment.
El Condor was scrolled across the glass door of the building in chipped bronze letters. A philodendron of prehistoric dimensions groped the windows as though frantic to escape. Cyril punched Gilbert’s number, said, “Hey,” the door buzzed and he swung it open. The carpeted corridor smelled of insecticide and attar of rose. He found Gilbert seated in front of the computer in a gold robe with indigo trim.
“My man, you’re supposed to be on the couch.”
Cyril stood on the Kashmiri carpet with peacocks and vines swirling about his feet. A puppy tumbled toward him and began wetly snuffling his shoes. Cyril backed up and the dog followed. It was small and blonde, with long ears and weepy eyes, and was apparently besotted by the smell of his feet.
“What do you think? Will Savannah like it?”
Cyril had no option but to succumb to the puppy’s slobbery charm. He picked it up. Warm and soft and squirmy, it licked his face and he leaned away though couldn’t keep from smiling.
“A lab?”
“A pure-bred lab, my friend.”
Cyril held it to his chest. Pot-bellied and eager, with fur like cashmere. Gilbert had always had dogs as a kid, mutts that he tried training to attack but which could rarely overcome their amiable nature in spite of all his efforts to warp them into killers. Again the dog licked Cyril’s throat with its slimy-soft tongue. Cyril poured the dog onto the floor where it stepped on its own ear and fell over. Thanks to the dog the mood had turned sweet, which screwed up everything, but he would not be diverted; he was here on a mission. “I saw you and Steve,” he said louder than intended.
Gilbert did not interrupt his study of the stock market. “Saw me and Steve what?”
“Laughing.”
“Laughing?” He shook his head as if at the absurdity of the very notion. “Where?”
“In front of his office. I was going by. You were laughing.”
“And laughing is a problem?”
“Depends what you were laughing about.”
Gilbert didn’t hesitate, nor did he turn from the screen. “You.”
Cyril watched Gilbert work the mouse. The screen was dense with tight columns of bold figures. Gilbert had always loved numbers, for in his mind they were the essence of money and measurement, and nothing was more important to measure than money. He should have gone into accounting like Paul. “This guy, Borgland, he’s a real psychiatrist?”
“No.”
Cyril waited for the punchline. Then he couldn’t wait. “What do you mean?”
“I mean I never said he was a psychiatrist. I said he’s a psychologist. The difference being, my friend, that the former is a medical doctor, and the latter, ain’t. Capiche? But for your purposes, my suspicious comrade, it’s all the same. He can sign the paper and send you whistling on your merry way.”
The dog curled up and with a great sigh went to sleep on the rug.
“So what’s so funny about me?”
“You want a list? You spying for one thing.” Gilbert spun his chair to face him. His eyes lacked their usual lustre, though they brightened noticing his shirt. “Nice.” Gilbert’s red robe was handmade by a tailor from Palermo on Commercial Drive. The couch was zebra, the coffee table smoked glass, the wall hung with framed prints of birds painted by Audubon. On another wall hung a row of framed photos of his daughters and granddaughters. Every one had inherited Gilbert’s dense dark hair. The apartment’s finery was all that remained from his various and uniformly disastrous marriages.
“I wasn’t spying,” said Cyril.
“Just getting a little paranoid maybe? I mean, I don’t blame you, those two nephews of yours.”
“I thought you hated Steve.”