Free Toby by Todd Babiak Page A

tie, and with this wind came nostalgia for the early 1990s: kisses, European coffee, thunder, marijuana.
    Personal assistants never lasted long with Mr. Demsky, and when he hired someone new he would seek an untried nationality: Chinese, Ukrainian, Thai, Caribbean, Pakistani. Toby couldn’t pick out this latest woman’s accent, at least not on the intercom system. There was a breathlessness about her. “The door is open,” she said. “Just enter.”
    Mr. Demsky kept several residences in North America, France, and Israel, and in the midst of his semi-retirement he moved from house to house to avoid extreme cold, extreme heat, and boredom. According to the October chill Toby felt as he entered the townhouse on Elm Avenue, Mr. Demsky’s time in Montreal would soon come to an end for another year.
    There was a dark wooden arch in the foyer and complex geometric shapes on the tile floor. Over the neoclassical violin music that issued from tiny speakers bracketed to the ceiling, Toby could hear Mr. Demsky and his assistant arguing bitterly. On his way up the stairs, Toby stomped his feet so they might hear him and quiet down. Of course, they knew their visitor was not a former prime minister; Mr. Demsky worked before a bank of LCD screens that displayed shots of the perimeter of his townhouse. The giant master bedroom, transformed into an office, had a bay window overlooking Elm Avenue. There was nothing on the white walls but a single art deco cowboy poster advertising canned tomatoes. Toby knocked on the door jamb; again, they ignored him.
    The woman was stout and wore a dress and stockings inspired by a Bavarian beerhouse. Her hair was red and tightly curled, flecked with grey.
    “I don’t want bulgur wheat salad.”
    “Vegetables, Adam, vegetables.”
    Mr. Demsky shook Toby’s hand, though he hadn’t yet made eye contact. “Go cook me a steak.”
    “You had red meat yesterday.”
    “And while you’re at it, open a bottle of Chablis and order us up some hookers.”
    “You would not know what to do with a hooker.”
    Mr. Demsky looked down and shook his head. “And now you emasculate me in front of my protegé.”
    Protegé. Hearing this word, Toby knew that Dwayne had gone too far. He would be back on the air before the end of the week. Until now, he had been an external presence in the room. With “protegé,” a word of infinite hope, he settled into the triangle. The violin music, Mr. Demsky—his hero, really—the ornate features of the townhouse.
    “I quite enjoy a bulgur wheat salad, with lots of parsley,” Toby said. “It’s cleansing.”
    “You see?” said the Bavarian.
    “Oh, betrayal.” Mr. Demsky squinted at her. “Tobias, wait downstairs for twenty minutes. I’m about to strip this woman to her underclothes and teach her a lesson.”
    “You are too old.”
    “I have drugs.”
    A stalemate ensued, until the assistant walked out. Toby watched her go.
    “She humours me.” Mr. Demsky sat in his leather chair and wheeled back behind his desk.
    “Mr. Demsky, I’m here because—”
    “When my wife died, Tobias, I was miserable. Couldn’t see a way out of it. I gave myself two years, tops. It’s been eleven.” Mr. Demsky pulled a pack of Marlboro Lights fromunderneath a hollow Bible, selected one, and lit it with a match. “She throws a fit when she catches me smoking.”
    “Of course.”
    “In the midst of my misery, eleven years ago, I sat down and made a list of my final goals. How old was I? Not so old. All I really wanted, at that time, to cap off my life, was to fuck a robot. I still do, but technological innovation has been moving slower than I anticipated.” He took a drag on his cigarette and blew it straight up with his eyes closed. “But I refocused. I refocused. I took my hit, and I refocused.”
    “This morning, Dwayne fired me.”
    “He called for permission.”
    “But—”
    “I’ve been working for the past two hours with a couple of my lawyers, threatening to