A Truth Made of Lies

A Truth Made of Lies: Part Five

I had learned my lesson with Maria. It was lunch this time. My outfit was more casual, my pose more relaxed. The meal was cheaper, the establishment more cosy. It was, in fact, a restaurant that a relative of mine owned as close to the Rideau Canal as civil engineering would allow although the proprietor was distant enough to forget the family discount when I took the cheque. I was starting to feel a peculiar empathy with my mother who would beat her head against the liver paste section of the grocery store and shout, “food is too damn expensive” until I calmed her down. Of course my wallet wasn’t the subject of the meal, Claudine was, and a more interesting subject has yet to be found.

            She had returned my call more promptly than I had imagined, almost as if she had been waiting by the phone. There was of course the possibility that the number simply corresponded to a cellular device she carried on her person, but I preferred the romantic lie to the modern truth. She met me at the entrance at the precise moment the clock struck two with her heeled boots tapping against the pavement of the sidewalk in a rhythmic dance that put the ballet to shame. She fearlessly wore a red and black knitted scarf that had gone out of style years ago along with a coat that clearly was more invested in warmth than fashion. Claudine embodied practicality with just a slight hint of flair that was enough to keep me guessing. I don’t suppose I could have asked for much more.

            We took our seats near the window, watching the trepidatious skaters take their first steps on the newly formed ice not entirely certain if the frigid weather had managed to freeze the canal to the core or if it gave only the illusion of a solid surface. I felt Claudine and I were performing much the same act. A woman of her age must have gone on enough dates to have tasted the chef’s specialty in every restaurant from Victoria to St. John’s, but I had not and although I felt I was acting deftly enough to convince her of my experienced confidence, it was not translating into actual hubris. The late night has a loosening effect on tongues and works like alcohol on the brain. Action was easy; words weren’t a rare commodity. Now the jokes that had rolled from my lips and the quips and witty remarks that had come to my brain like a twin linked pipeline were running dry.

I settled into my chair and decided after only a slight glance of the menu that I was going to be having the chef’s salad as Claudine mulled over the steak sandwich or lobster special. My tongue was tied in knots a skilled sailor couldn’t untangle and my stomach was wrapping itself like a thick croissant pastry. I started worrying I was going to say the wrong thing. I was going to embarrass myself and make some stupid remark and then I’d be discovered. I’d be rushed out the restaurant crying and my date would be left on the sidewalk confused and alone, wondering why the world wasn’t right for her. My mind started wandering again and I wondered how Claudine would feel if she found out about me. Would she wonder if everything I had told her was a lie? Would she start questioning other aspects of her life? Would she live her life with her gaze over her shoulder, perpetually distrusting everyone who was lucky enough to drop into it?  I couldn’t do that to her; the secret had to be kept. I had to look natural. I released the tension in my shoulders and got into character.

“So,” I said, hoping that the awkward pause that followed it would fill with my words. It didn’t. Claudine looked expectantly; I flopped like a whale washed on the shore. “So, do you always introduce yourself to everyone by asking about the ‘Vinyl Cafe’?”

Claudine was surprised by the question, but she pushed her back and answered nonchalantly regardless. “Of course not. Sometimes I ask if they think Stephen Harper is having a gay love affair with George Bush.”

I nearly spit out my water. “How do you possibly attract clients?”

Claudine smiled, the edges of her face coming into a sinister grin. “There is the serious Claudine and there is the person Claudine, just like there is for everyone really. For most people, however, especially those of your profession, the two become almost inseparable until one day they realize the only books they’ve ever read are law books, they know more about common law than their own light fixtures and every friend they have in the world gets paid to speak to them. I’m not like that. I read for pleasure. I know how to screw in a light bulb. I know how to speak to people without legal problems. At least, I try to tell myself that. In reality, we’re all one crisis away from slipping into the mindless trap that is career, not a hope in hell of escape.”