The girl working at the food counter in the basement of La Masion Ogilvy looked a little bit like Hillary Swank, which is to say that she had not yet realized she might be beautiful. The place was as quiet, still and soundless as a retirement home and a sense of sadness in the present presided. Everybody there was just passing through, pausing for a moment on a journey to some other, more desirable destination.
The girl, probably about 20, had a fragile smile that seemed brittle and uncertain when it manifested in the presence of others, but in the peace of solitude her face relaxed. As she rearranged bowls of pasta salad beneath the glass counter she smiled softly to herself, now content, as some memory or possibility brought a warmth to her face that was absent around people. Shortly, her ne’er-do-well boyfriend with the daring piercings and aggressive eyes came by. Wordless, like it had been agreed he wasn’t supposed to come by work, they communicated through gestures and darting eyes. They were tense, like each one was plotting something secret and wrong, something that would take a lifetime to unfold.
Later, sitting next to me at the pub was a thin and serious looking young man. He reminded me of Raskolnikov from Crime and Punishment. He was clearly so preoccupied by the weighty matters of the world that he could barely remember how to dress himself. He sat reading quietly, but it was clear he was out to be amongst people, following all the conversational threads that were drifting through the bar. Every once in awhile he would very politely interrupt a conversation and speaking in the overly articulate and concentrated manner of a first-year pedant, he would attempt to reframe the discussion with his fresh and informed perspective.
Something about Norway.
Something about the President.
Something about globalization.
And then with an apology for his intrusion, he would retreat back to his carefully maintained pint of Guinness and the volume of Hegel he wore like a designer watch.
Leaving the bar I got into a cab that was blaring opera. It was absolutely beautiful. Soaring arias through the humid, summer night, the lights of the city sparkling beneath us. Oh, I did not want to get out of that car—the two of us, we could have driven until dawn as far as I was concerned. Keep the meter running, cabbie, let’s take this music through all the streets, let’s unroll the windows and let the fuzzy moon blow in! Let’s roll over bridges and through quiet neighbourhoods, drive past the couple holding hands, past the glowing eyes of the raccoon, let’s even take this music to the ghosts and mists of the cemetery. It’s too quiet and lonely in there, let’s bring them some light!