Maybe he was growing up.
—
The next evening, he kept his appointment.
This time they were by themselves, as her guru was recovering from a head cold. She chose Denny’s because she said they had the best fried chicken and she loved the Googie architecture. When Devi asked after “the marvelous boy” (who had also been invited), Jeremy said he had tried to reach him. He really had; but Tristen was worrisomely out of touch.
Without much ado she offered a summary of her fateful encounter with the portly sidewalk saint, succinctly recapping the history of all that led up to it — culminating in the long walks taken while her daughter lay in the hospital. When she first discovered the man who was to be her guru and protector, he was at rest upon a swatch of cardboard, hard by the fashionable Gold Coast establishment known as Mandry’s. They spent time together and she told him about her life. Then one day he cryptically announced, “It’s all over, because now they know. The contract is magnificently broken,” and in the next moment the two were at her precious Bella’s bedside, where the poor thing died soon after. She recounted the mysterious ease with which “my Sir” contrived a burial that was both humble and fitting for a princess — its million bells resounding — at costs marked paid and unknown.
“I’ve sat at his feet now, as I’ve said, for seven perfect years. He’s given me life and shown me death and now we are leaving for that third place — I should say he is leaving and I hope to have courage enough, silence enough, to follow. Like myself, Sir is an inveterate rover, yet on a Promethean scale. In his day he thought nothing of swallowing hundred-mile walking tours whole; alighting in whatever far-flung city where his business had taken him, he’d set out on more compact versions, to shake off the crampiness of planes, trains, and automobiles. On one such restorative jaunt in Chicago, destiny brought him to Mandry’s, a hip neighborhood gastropub of the type summarized in local guides by the symbols of crossed knife and fork, martini glass, and triple dollar sign. While my Sir is and always has been a teetotaler, he’s a prodigious observer of people. He was drawn to the place; more about that in a minute. If you’re curious about his ‘background,’ well, so am I, and I’m afraid I can’t help you much. I know little about his life as a ‘householder’—it’s not something he dwells on, so I don’t either. He has told me that he used to reside in Minnesota with his wife and only child. I believe they were married thirty some-odd years. Their son was mentally impaired, though as gentle a soul as one would ever meet. Again, Sir told me this himself.
“On those urban walks that I described, it was my guru’s pleasure to dodge into watering holes of both high and low character. Once inside, he’d lean against a wall and people-watch, smiling at whosoever passed by while formulating some astonishing new idea from which hundreds of jobs and untold millions in revenue would soon be created. On the final night of his trip to the Windy City, it was close to two a.m. He was on the dregs of a ramble that would be his last before returning home; as he turned into Mandry’s, a bouncer barred his entrance. ‘They’ve called it,’ said the man. ‘You can’t go in. Last call.’ Wishing to defuse the surliness and even potential violence he perceived were at hand, my Sir lightheartedly said, ‘Oh, that’s all right, I’m not drinking.’ ‘You better believe you’re not,’ said the thug. ‘Not tonight!’ And with that, he leapt in front of my guru and barred the door, snarling, ‘The last time I let you in, you asked every woman in the bar if they’d fuck you.’
“I won’t dignify such ugliness with a rebuttal or defense of my teacher’s spotless character. I will say that until that evening, he’d never laid eyes on Mandry’s or its tactless guardian. But what is of paramount importance here is that for the first time in his life, Frank MacKlatchie became so enraged that he entirely failed to recognize the man — himself! — who, as a result of those ill-spoken words, directed the blast of a high-pressure fire hose tirade at the bully who’d so casually slandered him. (I had almost forgotten that my Sir encouraged me, in telling this story, to use the name he went by before he was ‘transformed’—Franklin MacKlatchie, Esquire.) Now as it was last call, customers began to pour from the front door; the bar was on a corner so that cars were poised at the stoplight and their passengers watched the embarrassing altercation for sport. It may have been just the sort of ‘colorful’ rowdiness that would have captured my guru’s attention himself, had he not been a star player in the spectacle… and then suddenly, as if deflated by a pin, the accuser dared to apologize! Without looking Frank MacKlatchie in the eye, he begged pardon, humbly admitting that it must be a case of mistaken identity! Which was the same as trying to unring a bell that’d been struck by lightning. The remorseful thug went on to remark upon the uncanny physical resemblance between my noble, my delicate Sir, and some other terrible fellow who’d made trouble some while back.
“Well. As Mr. MacKlatchie’s remonstrations began to shrivel and he felt himself returning to his body, as it were, he became aware of the small, drunken crowd that had gathered to watch the ‘fun.’ When the fireworks ended, they lost interest and dispersed. My teacher left shortly thereafter. He went to bed but tossed and turned; humiliated and angry, he was unable to sleep. He felt an awful fool for losing his temper and handling the situation so poorly. He finally made peace with himself and drifted off. But in the morning, he was shocked to find that his rage had returned, white-hot and undiminished! He canceled his trip home and phoned the club, demanding to speak with the manager. He was surprised when the fellow got on the line and even more surprised when he coolly said, ‘I know what this call is about — you’re the gentleman from last night, no? I was in back of the club when it happened. I heard you arguing. Right after you left, Marcus came directly to me and admitted he’d made a horrible mistake. You see, a guy came in about a year ago who was very bad news. You really do look like him — and Marcus had a particularly shall we say personal involvement with this vicious, abusive man during the period he harassed our club. To his credit, after you had your… disagreement, Marcus said to me, “The moment I accused him of being that piece of shit, I knew I was wrong. But the words somehow had already come out.”’
“‘I understand,’ said the formidable Mr. MacKlatchie. ‘But I’m afraid his apology wasn’t believable in the least! He never looked me in the eye nor did he offer to take me inside for a proper amends, i.e., to seek out his boss—you—“for the record,” as they say. The only conclusion I could draw was that it was the end of his shift and I simply wasn’t worth the trouble; that he sorely wanted to go home to whoever or whatever awaited him. It’s as easy as that! I should tell you I’ve already spoken to my lawyers, who’ve assured me that a case for defamation is clear. They’ve advised that in such instances, the courts do not “consider” apologies. They are after the fact—the damage has been done.’
“It made no difference that the manager was profuse and proper in his apologies — all day long Franklin stewed in his suite at the Drake over his public shaming, a violation of ancient taboo that unexpectedly aroused a volcanic atavism in its target. He no longer felt he knew himself at all.