Any Known Blood Read online

  “Well, Winston, you’re a busy man, and I’ve got to be running. Wonderful cup of coffee you serve.”

  Carruthers smiled. “I haven’t touched any funny stuff since you and I had that talk in your kitchen.”

  “You’re a good man, Winston.” They shook hands. Carruthers remained on edge until the old man walked out the door.

  “I don’t want anything from him,” my father later said to my mother. Actually, he did want something. He wanted Carruthers to bend down and kiss his feet.

  I really don’t know what drove my father to try to see Norville Watson. Father was growing tired of his own mythology — the Norville Watson story, after all, was the story from which all other stories of his activism sprang. Over the years, I have heard many versions of the Norville Watson story, Round One. The following version is the one I choose to believe. It’s one of my father’s earliest versions — or, at least, one of the earliest versions that I remember hearing.

  After my parents’ honeymoon in Quebec City, they decided to move out of their rooming house and rent a flat together. Dad was in his last year of medical school, and my mother had finished her studies and taken a job with the Toronto Labor Committee for Human Rights, and it fell upon her to head out on her lunch hour to find a place for them to live. They both wanted to rent part of a house.

  After rejecting a few flats that had cockroaches or that demanded princely rents, Dorothy found the perfect flat on the second floor of a house on Palmerston Boulevard. Langston could walk to the university in twenty minutes. There were shops all along College Street, and Kensington Market was close by. As an added plus for Langston, there was even an Italian coffee bar just a few blocks west on College. The flat itself was perfect. Clean, small, cozy, well lit, and on a quiet street. Trees outside the front and back windows. It was advertised for fifty-five dollars a month, which they could afford on Dorothy’s salary and Langston’s GI money — $75 a month, plus all tuition and book costs, for having served as a private and then as a non-commissioned officer in World War II.

  The landlord was Norville Watson, and he lived on the first floor. He was a tall blond man, only five or so years older than Langston. He had a habit of pulling at his slender fingers and speaking in endless sentences. He informed Dorothy that he was a graduate of the University of Toronto medical school, and that he was on the verge of completing his residency in urology. A tad pompous, Dorothy decided, but who cared? He seemed impressed when she let it slip that her husband was a medical student, also at the University of Toronto. They agreed on the rent. Dorothy offered to pay for the first month then and there, and to take the key and come back the next day with her husband and their possessions.

  “I don’t usually like to rent until I have met both tenants,” Watson said.

  “My husband, as you can appreciate, doesn’t have much time on his hands these days. He’s preparing for —”

  “Yes, of course, of course. I’ll tell you what. I’ll hold the apartment for you. Come back tomorrow, and we’ll sign the contract and exchange the keys for the first month’s rent. You have my word. I’ll hold it for you.”

  “All right, then. Tomorrow at seven in the evening?”

  “Fine.”

  They shook hands.

  The next day, Dorothy parked her 1946 Plymouth on Palmerston Boulevard. As she walked with Langston up the steps to the house, Dorothy noticed the red and white For Rent sign still on the door.

  “How come that’s still there?” she said.

  “Not a good sign,” Langston said. He rang the bell. Watson opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. He had to bend his neck to meet Langston’s eyes. Langston extended his hand and introduced himself.

  “Well, we’re here,” Dorothy said. “We’d like to sign the contract, pay you, and bring our things in from the car.”

  Langston watched the man open his mouth, close it, stop, pause. People had looked at Dorothy and him in the streets — in fact, people looked at them every day — but this was the first time that they had tried to rent a place together. Langston instantly knew that they would not get the flat. The coming refusal was as certain as the sunset — but Langston sensed that it would come in a distinct way. This wasn’t the United States. Nobody would swear at him, or wave a gun. Langston waited for the refusal, Canadian-style.

  “I’m so sorry,” Watson said, looking only at Dorothy, “and I hope you haven’t been overly inconvenienced, but I have made other arrangements. A retired couple came by yesterday, after you left. They needed a quiet place, and they were prepared to take out a two-year lease, and I’m sorry, but I couldn’t refuse them.”

  “Yes, you could have,” Dorothy shot back. “And you still can. You can simply tell them that you had given me your word — your word, I remind you, Dr. Watson — that the flat was mine. Ours.”

  “And you had given me your word, madam, that your husband was a medical student at the University of Toronto.”

  Dorothy raised her voice. “I’ll have you know, Dr. Watson —”

  Langston put his palm on Dorothy’s forearm. “If I understand correctly, Dr. Watson, you would prefer not to rent to us.”

  “Preference has nothing to do with it. I have entered into an agreement with another couple.”

  Dorothy could not restrain herself. “Then why haven’t you taken the sign off the door, you asshole?”

  “Oh, nice,” Watson said. “Very nice. Quite elegant. A medical term acquired, no doubt, from your husband. At any rate, forgive me for leaving the sign up. It escaped my thoughts.” Watson removed the tack from the door, took down the sign, and stepped back inside.

  “Good luck with your apartment search,” he told Dorothy. “And,” he said, meeting Langston’s unmoving eyes, “with your studies.”

  Dr. Norville Watson closed the door.

  “I can’t believe you stood there and said nothing,” Dorothy screamed at her husband. “I can’t believe you just —” “Shh,” he said. “Come on, let’s go.”

  “No! I’m not moving off this goddamn step. That sonofabitch is a blatant —”

  He squeezed her arm and whispered, “I have an idea. Come on.”

  They drove south on Palmerston, turned left on College, parked at Bathurst, and walked to the Mars Café. Stella and her husband, who were tenants in the Pembroke Street rooming house, worked in the café. It was the best greasy spoon in the area. Langston liked it because they knew him well in there. During his first year in Toronto, he had made it his breakfast haunt. From Monday to Friday, between six and eight a.m., they had an all-you-can-eat scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee special for seventy-five cents. Plus, they had unbeatable bran muffins. Stella had served him there a hundred times — and undercharged him whenever the owner wasn’t looking over her shoulder.

  Stella came up to their table. “You two look good together. Real good. So what’ll it be for the newlyweds?”

  “I’m too pissed off at him to eat right now,” Dorothy said.

  “First fight?”

  “You’ve got to hear this,” Dorothy said. And she told Stella about it. Stella’s husband came over to listen.

  “We can help you find a place,” Stella said. “Harry and I know some landlords who don’t discriminate.”

  “I don’t want to find another place quite yet,” Langston said. “I want to make this guy uncomfortable. I want to make him regret what he did for a long, long time.”

  “You know, Doc, they’ll lift your license if you start busting kneecaps.”

  “That’s not quite what I had in mind.”

  An hour later, Dorothy and Langston drove by the house. The sign was still off the door.

  “Maybe he really did rent it out,” she said.

  “I doubt it.”

  They drove by another hour later. The sign was back up.

  An hour after that, Stella and Harry Williams skipped their usual dinner break. “Shouldn’t we go home and get some nice clothes on?” Stella asked.


  “No, it’ll be better this way,” Langston said. “More convincing.” Langston and Dorothy drove them to the corner of Palmerston and College and had them walk to the house from there.

  Stella rang the bell. Watson answered it. That man’s so tall it’s unnatural, she said later. He must have to request a special bed every time he sleeps in a hotel.

  “Excuse us for troubling you, mister, but my husband and I noticed your sign. We’re just on our break. We work over at the Mars Café, you know, Bathurst and College.”

  “You’re interested in renting the flat?”

  “Yes. Could we see it?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  They viewed the living room, which looked out onto Palmerston, and the kitchen, which gave out onto Ulster Street. They checked the bedroom. Stella even flushed the toilet. “Hope you don’t mind. I like to make sure a place is in good working order.”

  “My wife,” Harry said. “She’s picky. But she’s neat. She’s a real neat freak.”

  “I am not a neat freak,” Stella shot back. “I just don’t like dirt. I don’t like filth, I don’t like dust, I don’t like dirty floors or anything like that. If he didn’t have me,” she said to Watson, “he’d live like an ape.”

  “The apartment is fifty dollars a month. I also require a twenty-five-dollar damage deposit, which will be returned to you when you leave if nothing is broken or damaged.”

  “Damage deposit,” Stella said. “I’ve been renting for eight years and I’ve never had to pay a damage deposit before.”

  “Well, I require it.”

  “Stella, he said he’d give it back when we left.” “All right. Who lives downstairs?” Stella asked.

  “I do.”

  “You don’t have children, do you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good. They make a lot of noise. How about pets? Do you have a dog?”

  “I find it odd that you are inquiring of me what I have in my apartment. I should be asking these things of you.”

  “I don’t like dogs, or cats, you don’t have to worry about that. It’s just that I have allergies. Lots. So if you had a dog or a cat, I’d like to know.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Good. Can I ask you what kind of people live in this neighborhood? Sometimes I have to walk home from work at night, and I need to feel safe.”

  “This is a very safe neighborhood. My family has owned this home for the better part of thirty years, and I don’t recall ever hearing of anybody being troubled or harassed on the street.”

  “What about immigrants?” Stella asked.

  “Some Italians and Portuguese live around here. But they’re the best neighbors you could ask for. I will say that they tend to shout and to hold all sorts of family functions. But they’re the first ones to call the police if they see someone trying to break in your house. They give you wine at Christmas and Easter. They treat you like one of the family. You won’t have any trouble with Italians or Portuguese. And I can reassure you that I know of no neighbors who are Negroes. I would draw the line there. As a matter of fact, a Negro posing as a medical student tried to rent this apartment today, and I would have nothing to do with it.”

  “Good,” Stella said. “That’s what I wanted to hear. Is that what you wanted to hear, Harry?”

  “Yeah. Great.”

  “I don’t have my cheque book with me, or a lot of cash. Can I just give you twenty dollars to hold the apartment, and you give me a receipt? We’ll come back tomorrow to take care of everything.”

  “Fine. That will be fine.”

  Back at the Mars Café, Langston told Stella to write it all down. To put every detail on paper. But she was too excited, so Dorothy, who knew shorthand, took down Stella’s statement.

  The two couples returned to Watson’s house an hour later. Langston rang the bell.

  Watson opened the door. He stared at the four of them for a minute.

  “Howdy,” Stella said with a grin. “What is going on here?” Watson said.

  “Dr. Watson,” Langston said, “you refused to rent us that flat on the basis of my race. You told our friends as much. If you give them back their twenty dollars, and you give my wife and me that apartment, I’ll consider the matter settled. But if you don’t — “

  “You’ll what — call the police? This is my house. I can rent to anybody I want. Take your money, you clowns.” Watson threw a twenty onto the porch. “Now get out of here before I call the police.”

  “Good-bye, Dr. Watson. You can expect to hear from me again. The name is Cane. Langston Cane the Fourth.” Norville Watson slammed the door.

  Dorothy slipped her arm around her husband’s waist. “That’s the man I married,” she said. “Now what?” “I don’t know, exactly. Let’s sleep on it.”

  Stella giggled. “Langston Cane the Fourth. That’s quite the name.”

  Chapter 4

  I TOOK TEN EMPTY BOXES from a food store, piled them into a taxi, and directed the driver to my flat on Dovercourt Road. I asked the driver to tune in to a radio news station. The top local story was that Ontario wellness minister Anthony Weston had revealed that the government might scrap human rights legislation. The report said Weston had opposed the proposal in a speech, but had refused further comment when approached by the media. It ended with a quote from the communications aide to the minister, who said in a voice that shook with anxiety, “There’s been a mix-up. The minister didn’t plan to say those things. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  The taxi driver chuckled. “Looks as if somebody will be pounding the pavement.” I caught his eyes in the rearview mirror, smiled, and tipped him when he let me out.

  I packed up my dishes, my books, my stereo, threw out seven garbage bags of junk, came to a quick arrangement with the landlord, and called Move and Store. I was lucky — the company was hungry for business. For five hundred dollars, it agreed to move my stuff out within two hours and store it for a year.

  I was on a roll. I wanted to be finished in time to leave the next day. All I needed were traveler’s cheques, health insurance, and a car. The first two didn’t take long, so I quickly moved on to find a car. The Langston Canes who preceded me were genetically incapable of car repairs, and I had acquired the defective gene. My father always said we were mechanical idiots because our slave ancestors had passed along an aversion to manual labor. It made sense to me. Checking windshield fluid was as mechanical as I could get, so I needed a reliable car.

  I took a cab to the nearest Volkswagen dealer. A salesman came up and said his name was Barry. I told him I wanted a good used car.

  He asked what I wanted to drive.

  I said: “Let’s do this in an unorthodox way, because I’m an unorthodox guy. I’m thirty-eight, divorced, no kids, just fired for sabotaging a speech for a government minister. I have lots of savings, am able to buy today with cash, and have to travel tomorrow. I need something very reliable. I want to look at it, test-drive it, settle on a decent price, and be out of here in an hour with the keys in my hand.”

  Barry grinned. “In a hurry, are you? That’s cool.” He led me out to the car lot. I saw something that was light green and had all four wheels attached. It was clean. Looked nice. Four doors, but small.

  “What’s that?”

  “A Volkswagen Jetta.”

  “Cost?”

  “Ten thousand dollars.” “Reliable?”

  “It’s the best. It’s a diesel.” “What does that mean?” “Diesel. It’s a kind of motor. It takes diesel fluid, not gas. Burns fuel very economically. Has the longest life of any car motor.” “How old is this car?” “Two years.”

  “How many kilometers?”

  “Fifty thousand. You can get another two hundred thousand kilometers from this engine, if you treat it nicely.”

  I gave it a test drive. It was a manual. I hadn’t driven a manual since I was a teenager, but I got the hang of it quickly enough. It drove fine. Seemed to work. Didn’t make funny no
ises. There were no ice-cream bars or candy wrappers on the floor. It had a radio — the radio worked. When I pressed the accelerator, the car went faster. When I used the brakes, it slowed down. We returned to the dealership.

  “I’ll give you seven thousand for it,” I said.

  “Sorry. I’m can’t take an offer that low to my manager.”

  “This feels like shopping. I don’t like that feeling.”

  He grinned. “I can’t make a deal that low.”

  “What did you say this model was?”

  “A 1993 Volkswagen Jetta. Turbo diesel. It’s a turbo. That means the engine has extra kick.”

  I noted the details down on a piece of paper. “Okay, thanks for trying. That’s the car I want. I guess I’ll have to buy one elsewhere.”

  “If you find one at the price you want, don’t buy it. There’s bound to be something seriously wrong with it.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I walked to the door. I hit the pavement and wondered what I would do now. I wandered out to the sidewalk, hailed a taxi, and was about to climb in when Barry tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Let’s talk some more.”

  “Seven thousand, three hundred,” I said.

  “That’s too low. It really is. I’ll give it to you for nine thousand.” “I’ll take it for eight.”

  The taxi driver turned around to look at me. I still had one leg inside his back door. “Would you get the hell out of my taxi if you’re buying a car?”

  “Eight thousand, Barry?”

  “Yeah, yeah, eight thousand.”

  I stepped out of the taxi. “You’re a good guy, Barry. You’re the first good thing that’s happened to me today.”

  “Did you really get fired for screwing up a speech for the minister? I heard about that on the news.”

  “Honest to God.” Why I said that, I don’t know. I’m an atheist.

  “Well, good on you. I don’t think I’ve ever sold a car to a speech writer before. Matter of fact, I haven’t even met one before. But anyway, now that you’re actually gonna buy this car, why don’t we have a coffee and talk about what it is you’re actually buying?”