Agency

In Which Even a Russian Fatalist Requires 50% Up Front

the following Tuesday

Berenice's desk fit neatly into the corner of her small office. In the other corners, several bookcases, the shelves of which bowed under the weight of academic texts, manila file folders and an overpopulation of owl statuettes, owls being a personal favourite of hers and, despite the limits of her space, she was forever bringing new ones back in here to join the others.

There was also a chair, of course. But just one. Her cramped quarters afforded space for exactly one human being comfortably. Two, only if one were presumptuous enough to perch on the corner of the desk. Otherwise, looming in the open doorway was a visitor's only polite option. Fortunately, there weren't many of those as her little room was far down a quiet corridor of a lesser travelled floor, which was itself lost inside the giant building that housed the University's sociology department. Only the most determined of visitors found their way, and when they did, they were encouraged to keep their visit short and to the point by the lack of a second chair.

This was how Berenice liked it. When cocooned in her little space, nested in with her owls, student papers and an invisible circus of dust mites, Berenice was completely at ease. This little cubby had been hers since her years as a student-teacher. A decade later and despite opportunities to move to (slightly) larger quarters, Berenice had steadfastly retained her little office, claiming humble origins and a preference for being able to touch all four walls from the comfort of her chair. Outside of her teaching schedule, she was generally left alone to read, work and synthesize her thoughts uninterrupted.

This synthesis of thought was precisely the activity Berenice was engaged in when Simon, another professor in the sociology department, popped his head in.

Simon was gorgeous and playful, silvering at the temples and more handsome now than when she'd met him met 15 years ago. A fellow sociology prof, she knew that his professionalism was slightly tarnished by a string of rumoured affairs, but more so by his chosen field of study: a subversive micro-specialization in sexual deviance. It was whispered that Simon himself was a martyr to one or more of the fetishes he covered with such loving detail in his courses. Still, Berenice knew him to be a perfectly 'normal' human being with entirely 'average' interests, which included flirting with wait staff (male and female alike) and nothing more 'serial' than serial monogamy with a rotating band of similarly stylish, slightly younger men.

"Hello, my love," intoned Simon, perching himself on her desk so that his crisp white shirt sleeve and the dark, smooth arm it was rolled up to reveal, were directly in her line of sight. "I have come to test your interest in running away with me. At least for the duration of lunch. As you know, it is Taco Tuesday in the staff room, so I suggest we do the only sane thing and sneak out to Spadina Garden for some Szechuan. Or Rafael's if you're feeling frisky?"

Rafael's was an elegant tapas bar tucked away on a side street near the university campus. As much as she could easily be swayed to spend an hour (which might bleed into three) drinking wine with Simon during the school day, she had to leave early today. She was meeting the contractors at home to sign the papers that would kick their renovation off. Vlad had already confirmed that he would be there for a final walk of the property with her and to review the designs he had drawn up.

"Can't today, Simon. I'll be leaving early as it is," she smiled with open pleasure at the thought of her new project getting underway.

He sighed dramatically and removed himself from her desk. "Another time then," he paused, assessing her from a new angle. "You're looking bright-cheeked and excitable today, Bee. A new project at home?"

She laughed heartily. He knew her so well.

"The biggest one yet," she replied with delight. "A transformation. An outdoor oasis."

"Sounds expensive. Berry must be fuming."

"Not so terrible," she waved the idea of cost away. "Twenty thousand or so. Berry's bonus next year will cover it. And it'll be so worth it when it's done. He'll see."

***

Later that afternoon, Berenice had picked the girls up from school and negotiated an hour of weekday tv-time (something they were never allowed) in order to keep them out of her way while Vlad walked her through the final drafts.

He stood with her now in the light of her kitchen. He was wearing blue paper booties over top of his splattered work boots, comical looking, but standard issue to all contractors and meant to keep them from tracking mud through the house. His physical bulk was made bigger by layers of plaid work shirts and a company windbreaker, which he had declined to remove when they came inside.

"So, here," he said in his plain-spoken Russian accent as he pointed his sausage-sized index finger at the design documents he had laid out on the table, "is where covered seating area will be. Here," moving his finger and stabbing at something oval-shaped, "is where you will have water feature. Here," moving his finger closer to the house, "we will take off deck and bring bobcats in to dig down and level the ground here. Very bad job, last time. Ground is slanting toward house. Some idiot did not grade properly when existing deck was built."

"Oh, that would have been before our time," she was eager to justify herself in front of this serious man, who clearly knew what he was talking about. "We only bought the house ten years ago. The home inspector said we could waterproof from the inside to avoid problems, which we've done," she added to make the point that she wasn't some idiot herself.

"Then you received very bad advice. Should have been fixed from outside. Disaster waiting to happen. Will cost extra if we dig down and find out foundation is jeopardized. This is what it is." He added that last part with a shrug of Russian fatalism that even Nietzsche would have admired.

"I understand," Berenice responded, cowed by his straightforward proclamation. "When can we begin? I'd really like to have this all finished up by summer. Can it be done in a couple of months?"

Vlad eyed her critically. "Of course, will be done. If money is in order, my crew starts work Monday. Unless is raining, then we can't work. This is also what it is."

She nodded and slid a substantial cheque across the table: 50 % upfront, 50% at the end of the job. "Everything is in order," she said. "Let's get started."