Free Famous Last Meals by Richard Cumyn

circuitous one that would, he hoped, throw anybody following him off the scent. He giggled at the thought. Whatever had formerly kept him in traces, harnessed to obligation and duty, was gone. He was staying ahead of out-and-out panic by half a step. Like a surfer with a monstrous roller crashing its curl behind him, he felt fuelled by the energy of the gathering mass at his back. That he had been identified as a spy before he could become one seemed oddly right. He could deny it publicly while hiding a twinge of regret. He could sneak back into his room, pack, take a taxi to the airport, and fly home before anyone would notice. Except that yes they would notice, because he was the name. The press would want a face to go with the name and they would find him back in Ottawa. Better, he reasoned, knowing nothing about what might be reasonable in this situation, to let the wave break on him here. He was, after all, a member of a team. He had allies.
    His route took him across the street and through the Public Gardens, where he sat on a bench under a drooping elm for a few minutes to see if anyone had come after him. He exited at the far corner, crossed Summer Street, entered the Camp Hill Cemetery, walked through to Robie Street and into the neighbourhood where he and Oliver had gone door to door that morning, came east along Quinpool and crossed Robie again, this time at the Commons, an open grassy expanse.
    Men in white shirts and trousers were playing cricket, a game Adam enjoyed thinking about despite not knowing the rules. He sat with his back to a large tree near the sidewalk on Robie and watched. If anyone were following, they would have caught him by now. He looked at his watch. He still had a few minutes before the time indicated on Mrs. Fallingbrooke’s invitation: “Proceed to the Breadfruit Bistro on Agricola. Arrive at two o’clock sharp.”
    He didn’t want to know the rules. He wanted only to sit there with the new-mown-grass smell in his nostrils, close his eyes and listen to the sounds of men from distant lands: Pakistan, Barbados, South Africa, Nigeria. Their chatter, less jittery and tense than might be heard at a baseball game, was singsong, punctuated by laughter and mock argument.
    â€œI am cognizant of that!”
    â€œYou are bending your elbow far too much.”
    â€œI am always, always, always, always cold.”
    â€œConsider the alternative, brother!”
    â€œToo hot, you mean?”
    â€œNo, feeling nothing at all.”
    â€œYour feeble mind is always six feet under. Rise up, rise up and be thankful.”
    The bowler approached at a run, the ball struck dirt, and the bat displaced air (did Adam hear it or was it only a passing car?) before making cracking contact. Still he resisted opening his eyes. More voices rose. Footfall neared, receded. Which of the loners in the field was chasing down the ball? Which stood daydreaming of tea and shortbread?
    He did not care to learn the rules and he was not yet curious enough to demand to learn how the old woman knew about the exhaust-filled car in the parking lot of the Bureau of Secure Communication. How LB knew Adam before Adam knew him, why Monica had handed him Mrs. Fallingbrooke’s name in the first place—he let the unknowns pop and fizz in their own ineluctable medium, and listened to the game being played on this other Commons, this parliament of recent immigrants on the grass.
    Before he opened his eyes, Adam felt the shadow on his face.
    â€œWake up, young fool, wake up while you still can!”
    He looked up, past the white shins, the crotch, up the broad sandwich board of LB’s chest, his neck, chin, grillwork smile and mirthful eyes. Behind him were others similarly dressed. The over was over. Why, he wondered, had he not noticed the candidate earlier? He must have been standing far out in the field.
    â€œHave you not a rendezvous? Are you not past the appointed time?”
    From behind LB