Doing Dangerously Well (19 page)

The next day, they arrived at a piece of land that divided two discordant nations of almost identical history, language, religion, culture and heritage.

A Canadian Immigration and Customs agent greeted them. “Hey. How are you? Great to meet you. Where are you going?”

“Ottawa.”

“Great! Beautiful city.”

Barbara and Astro looked at each other. This guy must be on drugs. Privilege of working in Customs.

“Anything to declare?”

“No.” Barbara kept her answers short. She feared the unlimited, unchecked power of the world’s most unfettered authorities.

“Awesome. Okay. You’re through!” He waved at them as they left his post.

“There was something weird about that guy,” Astro said. “Are all Canadians like that? That’s just scary. Are we officially in Canada?” Yellow eyes searched the landscape.

“Yep.” An utterance pregnant with meaning. “Wonder where our dogsleds are.”

“This is it?” Astro looked disappointed. “It’s just like the States!”

“I don’t have a map to the igloo. Perhaps the dogs can sniff it out.”

“How come they’re a separate country? This looks just like the States, man!”

“Hope they have some whale blubber sandwiches. Don’t want to go hungry …”

“They speak like Americans. They act American. They look American,” Astro’s bobble was jiggling again as he looked out of the window, “but they’re a separate country? How stupid is that?”

If everything in Bethesda was green, then Ottawa could only be considered blue. Here was a jewel perched over blue, flowing with blue, shielded under blue, melting into blue. Azure dawn, aquamarine day, cyan evening, sapphire night. Its buildings bordered three merry rivers, bubbling and chattering, tumbling and rolling marine, cobalt, indigo. The Gothic towers of Parliament stood like a bastion protecting the riverbanks on a promontory. Its copper roofs had turned turquoise from the effects of moisture.

They drove past Ottawa’s Christmas card scenery, admiring the beauty of a city cloaked in water’s chameleon white, muffled in winter’s hush. The strict lines and severe angles of human habitation were radically altered by gentle undulations of snow, the piercing noises and shrill ubiquity of industry tamped down into a soothing quiescence. Barbara liked winter’s quiet despotism.

It was a city that worshipped beauty, where form, space and contour, art and nature, were as important as food and water. The crystal spires of the National Gallery winked at the water’s transparency, while across the river the sinuous curves of the Museum of Civilization paid homage to its flow. Yet no building had been allowed to obstruct the view of water. It could be seen from most parts of the city.

People strolled silently and peacefully in their liquid paradise, unaware that any other relationship with water could exist except that of abundance.

“This is the capital city?” Astro asked, yellow eyes wide with wonder.

“I guess so.”

“Looks like a town, man. It’s a village. Look at this place! It’s beautiful. Does anything ever go wrong here?”

“I doubt it. They’re all liberals.”

“Like democrats?”

“Oh, no, no,” Barbara said with some authority. “Quite simplistically, that would be their right wing.”

They stopped to eat at a mill on the water’s edge, their eyes bulging with alarm as they watched a waiter run the tap, waiting for cooler water without a care in the world.

“No wonder the US is forcing Canada to sell its water,” Barbara whispered. “I mean, this kind of waste is criminal!”

Astro checked around the room. “Not a municipal officer in sight.”

H
aving taken a few days to settle into a Victorian apartment featuring ornamental flourishes and cracked paintwork, Barbara crunched her way over the snow and salted pavements to the Drop of Life headquarters. Her teeth chattered, as she had refused to concede that Astro had been better informed about the city’s weather conditions. She skidded past a man on the street, who was begging for money.

“Spare a dollar?” he asked.

“No,” she replied gruffly.

“Okay, have a nice day.”

Barbara stared back at this man, the prototype of the Canadian beggar, sitting on a street corner, and almost tripped over an uneven flagstone.

At last she paused before a turreted house with no identifying signs. Surveying the building, she wondered if she had the right address and then made the decision to enter. As she
crept through its corridors, she passed a design made of broken glass, ceramic and lead grout. She inspected it closely and saw that each piece of glass was layered with colour, so that an entire world was captured in the smallest fragment. Just like life. She had expected harsh slogans to confront her but quickly understood that an organization involved in clandestine activities could only hint at its purpose. Instead, she found the curative embrace of art.

Barbara approached a woman whose smile extended to her gums.

“Hi. You must be Barbie! It’s great to meet you. How are you?” This woman did not look like she would know how to light a stick of dynamite, let alone organize a revolution.

“Um, fine, thanks,” Barbara replied, baffled.

“Awesome! What a great day, eh?” She gummed another smile.

Barbara was getting worried about these Canadians. They had a pathological cheeriness that certainly had no place in the world of international intrigue.

“You must find it very congested here,” the gums said.

Barbara considered. This woman must be very sheltered.

“Just kidding,” the gums quickly added. “I hope you’ll feel comfortable in Ottawa. Some people find it a bit small.”

“Actually, I drove right through it straight to Montreal. I had to turn back.” Barbara guffawed.

“No way!” the gums gasped.

“Uh, just kidding,” Barbara added. With these two magic words, the gums burst into a tinkle of pleasant laughter.

“Oh, awesome! You Americans have such a great sense of humour.”

Barbara considered her parents, but she was not about to correct her new colleague on her first day of work.

“So, Barbie—”

“Barbara,” Barbara corrected.

“Oh, gosh—I’m so sorry. Barbara. Great to have you here! My name’s Krystal.” She stretched into another smile. “I’m computers. I’ll introduce you to the others on your team.”

Barbara breathed a sigh of relief. The woman worked in support services, not activism.

Along the corridor, Gums peeked around a door. Framed beyond its entrance sat a woman with brittle, over-bleached hair, wearing a shirt cut into a low V that displayed over-tanned, dry cleavage. Barbara stood in shock. No matter how hard she tried, she could not picture this entity smearing black goop over her tangerine tan.

“Mimi. This is Barbara Glass. Barbie, Mimi will be working with you on the Niger River project.”

Barbara gasped. “Working with me?”

“Hey, hon!” Mimi smiled tightly and patted a chair. “Park your little bum-bum over here, dear.” Her nails had been artificially extended so that their whites looked like boiled egg shavings.

Barbara sat down and folded her arms across a belligerent bosom. She could not understand how the life of a fireball insurgent and that of an over-fried tanning extremist could cross in any meaningful way.

“I work in corporate liaison,” Scorched Earth offered, as Barbara fiddled with the tassels on her Peruvian skirt. “If you have any problems at all,” her bleached teeth flashed, “you just come and see me. Okay, sweetie?”

“Yep.” Barbara scowled as she stood, annoyed at being patronized by an organism at least ten years her junior. As she left, Mimi flicked back the hair on her shoulder, centred a paper on her desk and waved at her with her fingernails.

Gums took Barbara’s arm and accompanied her through
the corridors and up the stairs leading to the executive director’s office. In mid-stride, Gums suddenly stopped.

“Oh, by the way, this is Brad,” she said.

Barbara looked around in confusion. Then she spotted a man slouching against the corridor wall, blinking at her in apology. This item gave the impression of bland non-existence. She surveyed him up and down with disapproval. He wore a grey suit, white shirt and some unmemorable tie, his face a blank canvas waiting for its artist, his movements and expressions anticipating their stage direction. It was as if he had been condensed to mankind’s most inoffensive essence—like meat that has been boiled for hours, losing its flavour, texture and structural integrity.

“Good morning,” a voice tinged from the minor chamber of his mouth. “Nice to meet you.” The voice had almost no bass: the entire range was carried only in the trebles. “Great to have you here.” Barbara’s pulse rate slowed down as if readying her body for sleep. “My name is Brad.” Redundant information. “I’m the accountant.” Ditto.

Barbara bowed a Namaste, her necklaces clattering with authority.

Having suffered three setbacks, Barbara prepared to meet the ringleader. She hitched up her bra to cover any fleshy overflow.

The door to the executive director’s office opened.

Barbara gasped and clutched Gums. Far from the handsome young man of South American origin wearing a lopsided beret she had expected, the spearhead of this extremist organization was none other than a retiree hardly able to stand unaided.

Behind the desk, a primeval woman sat like an ancient tree, her imposing features made noble through age. She wore a sari in emerald green and mustard yellow, as though she were the
empress of a forest kingdom. On her forehead, a crimson dot like a succulent berry hinting of further fruit. She sat perfectly still, but the craggy face moved into a mischievous smile, deep furrows carving into the muscles. Wrinkles entirely encased her eyes.

“Wonderful to meet you.” She grabbed a cane of, Barbara guessed, hardwood (endangered) and ivory (banned) and stood up. “Name’s Jane Singh.” She sounded like a British colonial during the dying days of the Raj. Yet she was of Indian descent. “Such a privilege to have you here.” She smiled a whorl of wrinkles. “We’ve been hoping to work with Femi Jegede for some time.”

Barbara’s heart sank. This artefact must date back eighty years, if not more. Although Barbara had supported the theory of later retirement, she had never imagined she would have to work for such a relic.

“We’ll meet at the end of this week. That’ll give you time to settle in. Friday, 3 p.m. If you could suggest a strategy for Nigeria, we’ll see how we can help the activist groups. How’s Dahlia, by the way?”

“She’s just been promoted to Director of Rare Heritage Stock.”

“Wonderful! About time!”

The office set aside for Barbara occupied a turret on the third floor. Whichever way she turned, she could see the sky and powder-puff clouds. She twirled around a few times in her mesh chair, thinking through the dilemma she now faced. As the sun flashed past her in circles, she became a child once more, delighting in a sense of freedom, growing dizzy and giggling. She realized that her new colleagues’ ineptitude offered her a bonus that a more effective organization never could. Here at Drop of Life, she did not have to be shackled by the foibles of a consensus-based system.