Free Famous Last Meals by Richard Cumyn Page A

came a cacophony of laughter.
    â€œWhen was the last time you were ever on time for anything, Bliss?”
    â€œHe was three weeks late for his own birth!”
    â€œBirth? What about his wedding?”
    â€œWhich one?”
    â€œWedding! He’ll be twice that late times three for his own funeral!”
    Adam roused, stood, brushed grass clippings off the seat of his pants. Where was the restaurant, did anybody know? How should he go to get to Agricola Street?
    â€œNo, not that way! Go this. So much faster.”
    â€œYou’re out of your mind. If he goes that way, who can say what end of trouble he’ll get his same self into?”
    Using a stick to draw lines in the dusty bowler’s track, one of the players sketched the Commons, its boundary roads and interior paths. Everyone contributed to the editorial process, lines erased and redrawn like those of a gerrymandered electoral map, and soon a walking route was established. Adam thought about pulling out the city map he had in his pocket, but decided that taking it out now would only
complicate matters.
    â€œAren’t you coming, too?” he asked LB. For the first time Adam thought about him as an ally rather than an opponent.
    â€œMe? No, no. This is one meeting you must take yourself, Mister Adam. As you can see, LB is swimming against the swift current of political commitment.” More ironic laughter.
    â€œAs you can see, he is giving a press conference as
we speak!”
    â€œMrs. Fallingbrooke won’t be there?”
    â€œIn spirit. Now off you go. We’re both late. The fate of the free world lies in our hands, my virtuoso fingers and your lily-white lunch hooks.”
    Adam set off along a paved path that roughly bisected the Commons on the diagonal. He headed northeast toward a large brown stone building that looked like an armoury. A man and his German shepherd crossed the path ahead of him. The dog had a piece of wood the size of a small fireplace log jammed sideways in its mouth. The man’s jeans hung so low that it looked as if they would fall at any second. A kid on a bike with a loose chain guard clattered toward him and Adam had to step off the path to let him pass. The boy had such thick glasses that Adam wondered how he could see anything.
    He reached the far corner of the Commons, found the street he wanted and headed for the intersection where the restaurant stood.
    The only other customer was sitting with her back to the door, and so when Adam walked in he went past her, sat at a table in the middle of the room, and didn’t look over at her until she said his name. He got up sheepishly and went over to her table.
    â€œAlmost didn’t recognize you without your trench coat on,” she said, extending her hand but not rising. They shook hands and he sat.
    The interview seemed so long ago now. He had given up hoping to hear from her. She had cut her hair short and replaced the dark jacket and skirt with jeans and a light blue blouse under which he could see the scoop neck and one shoulder strap of a yellow athletic bra. An amber necklace and matching pendant earrings matched the room’s décor, which was bright, monochromatic, the colourful equivalent of a page full of exclamation marks. A carnival array, with joyful rhythmic music in the air and singing in a language that lifted his heart even as he tried to connect Hannah Pachter of BSC with the woman he was looking at now.
    â€œHello,” he said. “It’s good to see you again.”
    A man in a soiled apron appeared from behind the cash register counter and came out to take their order. Hannah asked him what he recommended and he suggested a dish of grilled chicken, mango and yams with a side of salad greens and the restaurant’s special dressing. She said it sounded yummy and ordered two plates of it.
    â€œYou’ll love it,” she said after the waiter, who looked also to be cook, dishwasher and proprietor,