CHAPTER 17

Thursday evening at home. Peter had long ago programmed the household computer to scan the TV listings for topics or shows that would interest him. For two years, he’d had a standing order for the VCR to record the film The Night Stalker — a made-for-TV movie he’d first encountered as a teenager — but so far it hadn’t come on. He also asked to be alerted whenever an Orson Welles film was on, whenever Ralph Nader or Stephen Jay Gould was going to be on any talk show, and for any episodes of Night Court in which Brent Spiner guest-starred.

Tonight, DBS Cairo was showing Welles in The Stranger in English with Arabic subtitles. Peter’s VCR had a subtitle eraser — it scanned the parts of the image adjacent to the subtitles, as well as the frames before and after the subtitles appeared, and filled in an extrapolation of the picture that had been obscured by the text. Quite a find: Peter hadn’t seen The Stranger for twenty years. His VCR hummed quietly, recording it.

Maybe he’d watch it tomorrow. Or Saturday.

Maybe.

Cathy, sitting across the room from him, cleared her throat, then said, “My coworkers have been asking about you. About us.”

Peter felt his shoulders tense. “Oh?”

“You know: about why we haven’t been at the Friday-night gatherings.”

“What have you told them?”

“Nothing. I’ve made excuses.”

“Do they — do you think they know about … about what happened?”

She considered. “I don’t know. I’d like to think they don’t, but…”

“But that asshole Hans has a mouth on him.”

She said nothing.

“Have you heard anything? Snide comments? Innuendos? Anything to make you think your coworkers know?”

“No,” said Cathy. “Nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

She sighed. “Believe me, I’ve been particularly sensitive to what they’ve been saying. If they are gossiping behind my back, I haven’t picked up on it. No one has said a word to me. Really, I suspect they don’t know.”

Peter shook his head. “I — I don’t think I could take it if they knew. Facing them, I mean. It’s…” He paused, trying to come up with the appropriate word, “…humiliating.”

She knew better than to reply.

“Damn,” said Peter. “I hate this. I really fucking hate this.”

Cathy nodded.

“Still,” said Peter, “I suppose … I suppose if we’re ever going to have a normal life again, we’ve got to start going out, seeing people.”

“Danita thinks that would be wise, too.”

“Danita?”

“My counselor.”

“Oh.”

She was quiet for a moment, then: “Hans left town today. He’s attending a conference. If we went out after work with my friends tomorrow, he wouldn’t be there.”

Peter took a deep breath, exhaled it noisily. “You’re sure he won’t be there?” he said.

She nodded.

Peter was silent for a time, marshaling his thoughts. “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll give it a try, as long as we don’t stay too long.” He looked her in the eyes. “But you better be right about him not being there.” His voice took on a tone Cathy had never heard before, a stone-cold bitterness. “If I see him again, I’ll kill him.”

Peter arrived at the Bent Bishop early so that he could be sure of the seat directly beside his wife. The crew from Doowap Advertising had found a long table in the middle of the room this time, so they were all in captain’s chairs. Peter did indeed get to sit next to Cathy. Opposite him was the pseudointellectual. His bookreader was loaded with Camus.

“’Evening, Doc,” said Pseudo. “You’re certainly in the news a lot these days.”

Peter nodded. “Hello.”

“Not used to seeing you here so early,” Pseudo said.

Peter immediately realized his mistake. Everything should have been exactly as before. He should be doing nothing that would attract attention to him or Cathy.

“Ducking reporters,” Peter said.

Pseudo nodded, and lifted a glass of dark ale to his lips. “You’ll be glad to know Hans won’t be here.”

Peter felt his cheeks flush, but in the dim lighting of the pub it was probably invisible. “What do you mean?” Peter had intended the question to come out neutrally, but there’d been an undeniable edge to it. Next to him, Cathy patted his knee under the table.

Pseudo lifted his eyebrows. “Nothing, Doc. It’s just that he and you don’t seem to always get along. He was ribbing you a fair bit last time.”

“Oh.” The server had appeared. “Orange juice,” said Peter.

The server turned to Cathy, her face a question. “Mineral water,” Cathy said. “With lime.”

“Nothing to drink today?” said Pseudo, as if the very concept was an affront to all things decent.

“I’ve, ah, got a headache,” said Cathy. “Took some aspirin.”

There was no end to lies, thought Peter. She couldn’t say, I’ve stopped drinking because last time I got drunk I let a coworker fuck me. Peter felt his fists clenching beneath the table.

Two more of Cathy’s friends arrived, a man and a woman, both middle-aged, both slightly heavy. Cathy said hi to them. “Light turnout tonight,” said the man. “Where’s Hans?”

“Hans is in Beantown,” said Pseudo. Peter thought he’d been waiting all day to get to say “Beantown.” “At that interactive-video conference.”

“Gee,” said the woman. “It won’t be the same without Hans.”

Hans, thought Peter. Hans. Hans. Each uttering of his name was like a knife thrust. Haven’t these people ever heard of pronouns?

The server reappeared and put some reconstituted orange juice in front of Cathy, and a small bottle of Perrier and a glass with a bruised lime wedge pushed into its rim in front of Peter. All nonalcoholic drinks were the same to her, he guessed. Peter and Cathy exchanged drinks, and the server took the newcomers’ orders.

“So how are things with the two of you?” asked the newly arrived man, waving a hand generally at Peter and Cathy.

Cathy smiled. “Fine.”

Why is he asking that? Peter thought. What does he know?

“Fine,” echoed Peter. “Just fine.”

“You’ve been all over the TV, Peter,” said Pseudo. “Going anywhere else soon?”

Well, I’m not going to fucking Beantown. “No,” said Peter, then, “Maybe.”

“We haven’t made any plans,” said Cathy smoothly. “But Peter has an understanding boss.” A chuckle or two from those who knew that Peter was the boss at his company. “I’ve got to see how my schedule is shaping up at work. We’ve got that big Tourism Ontario contract coming up.”

The woman nodded sympathetically. Evidently that particular job was the bane of her existence, too.

The server appeared with more drinks. Simultaneously, Toby Bailey, another of Cathy’s coworkers, arrived.

“’Evening, all,” said Toby. He indicated to the server that he’d have the same thing as Pseudo. “Where’s Hans?”

“Boston,” said Peter, preempting another uttering of “Beantown.” Pseudo looked slightly disappointed.

“Did Donna-Lee go with him?”

“Not as far as I know,” said Pseudo.

“Well, some American cutie is going to get porked tonight,” said Toby, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. People chuckled. Hans seemed to have almost as big a presence when he wasn’t there as when he was. Peter excused himself to go to the washroom.

“Well,” observed Pseudo as Peter departed, “I guess even the rich and famous have to take a leak now and then.”

Peter bristled as he made his way to the stairwell and walked down to the little basement that contained the two restrooms and a couple of pay phones. He didn’t really have to go, but he needed a little peace and quiet, a little time to get his bearings. It was like they were all mocking him. It was like they all knew.

Of course they knew. Peter had heard enough of Hans’s bragging in the past. Christ, they all probably knew about every one of Hans’s conquests.