The Fool

Chapter 2: Advice of Friends-1

Chapter 2: Advice of Friends

Thinking on all of this, I wandered more or less aimlessly along the city streets. One thing I wondered about was who had paid for that session. Glendon or George—though neither seemed very likely. It occurred to me that I might visit George and ask him. He might be home, Wednesday being his day off. I redirected my walking towards Yonge Street.

The sky, I noticed, was clouding over with very dark clouds. It had been my plan to walk up Yonge Street to George’s, but just as I reached Yonge, the darkening sky emitted a low rumble. I paused, and headed south to the Bloor-Yonge subway station. I had just taken a couple of steps, when I felt the first drops of rain. Simultaneously, there was a louder rumble of thunder. This time I was struck with a distinct sense of the uncanny.

I shivered and, on impulse stopped and leaned back, looking up with my arms out on either side. “Number nine!” I cried to the sky. “What do you have to say to me?”

Then, as if in answer to my question, I heard a voice call.

“Keith!”

For a moment I felt like I had had an electric shock. Then I realized that the voice had come, not from above, but from behind me. Moreover, I thought I recognized it. When I turned around, I saw that I had been right. A man was walking towards me, wearing a grin and holding his arms wide in evident imitation of my own gesture. It was Zvika, George’s rather too ebullient friend. I groaned.

He lowered his arms as he came up to me. “What was that, darling? You were talking to God?”

My face burned slightly, but I smiled and nodded. “Yeah,” I said. “Trying to, anyway.”

He laughed and said something in what sounded like Hebrew. Given that he was Israeli, this seemed most likely. Zvika always made me uncomfortable; he seemed vaguely unruly, capable of almost anything. And while that wasn’t very disturbing when we met at George’s, out on the street it was.

I felt that I had to escape right now. I wanted to think. Besides, it was really starting to spit. I stepped to the curb and raised an arm. As an approaching cab slowed, I turned to Zvika.

“Sorry,” I said, “I was just—”

“Going to George’s,” he interjected. I was startled by this observation. But I nodded.

“Good!” he said brusquely. “I’ll come with you.”

Great! I thought. But he opened the door and held it open for me, and I got in. I did not slide over to the other side; there was some rebellious part of me that was not going to make it that easy for my unwelcome fellow traveler. He didn’t say anything, closing the door.

Momentarily I felt I had been saved, but I felt a little uncomfortable that I might have offended him. A moment later the door on the left opened and Zvika got in. He closed the door and settled back into the seat. Then he shook his head, sending drops of water everywhere, and getting a gasp of annoyance from me. Then he gave George’s address and the cab pulled away from the curb.

“What luck!” Zvika said, grinning at me.

“Indeed!” I said. I generally found myself going along with Zvika’s conversation, much as a mouse goes along with a hurricane.

Zvika turned to me, looked me over, and said, “Darling! What are you doing in this neighborhood?”

Damn! I took hold of myself and just shrugged. Then I asked, “How did you know I was going to George’s?”

He laughed that larger-than-life laugh he had, and slapped my thigh with his hand, so that I started.

“Darling!” he said. “You don’t take cabs.” He shrugged. “So, where else could you be going?”

I didn’t quite understand this as an explanation, but I was distracted by the residual stinging on my leg from that slap. It was the sort of casual, harsh, physical contact that I don’t relish, but even more disturbing than the stinging was the fact that this was extending up the leg and settling in between my legs as a different sort of stimulation.

I tended to avoid physical contact with others—George being an exception, since he was generally an exception in every category—and I especially avoided it with intense, outgoing individuals like Zvika. Frankly, he intimidated as well as irritated me. But now, this sensation—this was something new. And disturbing, and therefore not very welcome.

As the cab headed along the street to the sound of the hissing of the tires through the rain-filled pavement, I chanced a look at my companion. Zvika had settled into a passive mode for the moment. He was sitting back in the seat, looking out the window, serene as a cat.