Sunday, November 01, 2009

Divel...oooohhh I get it.

Checking your watch during dinner will create suspicion. So, Euston was smart to check his watch while he had a private moment with the maitre d’. He left the conveniently located closet and caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. The view was impeccable. He adjusted the cuffs to his three piece suit, reassembled his blonde hair and proceeded to dust some invisible particles from his shoulder. Of course he didn’t forget to give himself a furtive grin and nod before returning to the table.

“Euston, where have you been Thompson was just telling us a fascinating story about the museum.” Bellowed, a now tipsy, Divel.

“I was on my way back from the washroom when I saw the Maitre d’. She was having some trouble with a man who felt he lost his reservation for unduly reasons.”

“Well I hope you didn’t tangle yourself in her mess?”

“Divel, as a gentleman I had to make sure there wasn’t a scene. I was only involved with her for 10 minutes.”

“That was quick.”

“That’s what she said.”

Euston, of course, was lying but not entirely. For all his own purposes he was a gentleman, and sometimes a doctor, and on Wednesday a realtor of high regard. Today he was sharing dinner with two important men.

Divel was a large man and the president of a very profitable cracker company. He spent sometime in politics gaining success as a councillor for Old York. If asked about his time in politics Divel would often complain about the food. Old York was one of the older neighbourhoods in Toronto and as such parties there presented a menu of epicurean interest. Euston was surprised Divel showed up to dinner. There were murmurs in the streets that he stayed up for three days preparing a shipment of Royal Select saltines for the prince of Kiribati. Gossip suggests the prince, who was going on an expedition into the mountains of Tibet, said if they must bring rations let there at least be Royal Selects. Divel ordered another whiskey cleared his throat of phlegm and searched his pockets for his lighter. He looked tired, his eyes were baggy, and the few strands of grey hair that remained on the sides of his head were unkempt.

“Here Divel, use mine”

Thompson handed Divel a lighter out of his breast pocket. The lighter was a glimmering silver with an inscription of his family’s crest. While Euston was preoccupied Thompson had been telling Divel about the dispute he was having with the Egyptian government. It seemed Thompson’s Curators Inc. were in the middle of a custody battle for the remains of an ancient tomb.

“The museum won’t support us. Even after all the Thompson family has done for them.” Thompson said.

“Fuck the museum.” Divel barked. “Are you gonna let a couple of sandbags weigh you down?” Divel’s last comment shocked Euston it was more poetic than usual. Before building the cracker industry with his bare hands, Divel, was a veteran of the British naval brigade. There he learned a lexicon that was short and surprisingly flexible. “Fuck the museum and fuck the Egyptian government.” Divel wasn’t overly abrasive but he did not have the patience for those who became submissive while facing a clusterfuck. In the navy he was taught anything could be fixed with spit and grease and he prescribed the same solution to his problems outside the regiment.

There was a lull in the conversation as both Euston and Thompson thought of ways to trump fuck the Egyptian government.

The three men sat at the round table under the dim light of a chandelier. Divel started to slouch down in his seat so he didn’t have to support his massive stomach with his back. He looked around lazily, possibly, for a more entertaining group. Then stared out the window inquisitively. Euston and Thompson could not resist and stared with him. A person was flying horizontally towards the window. And then smashed through the glass and onto the trio’s table. The poor man had broke all of the white china and cleared off a fresh bottle of wine with the glasses. Thompson was startled and jumped out of his seat, Euston and Divel didn’t flinch, and the Maitre d came rushing out of the closet to see what happened. Rain started blowing through the hole in the window putting out Divel’s cigar. He grunted and lit up another one. Divel panned the restaurant seeing more than one shocked face, “Terrible weather these days.” He said.