Storm of Fortune

when he struck the policeman on Marina Boulevard. But that was such a long time ago: since then he had been beaten up by two policemen, again on Marina Boulevard. The cuts and bruises he had got from that beating were now healed; and usually, he forgot about them, and also about the newspaper report and the large photographs that were supposed to have been arranged by Mr. Turnbull. He would remember the cut on his face only when he shaved. But he had stopped shaving now, since he had taken up writing down his thoughts and his frustrations in verse form. And he had become so preoccupied with this recent literary diversion that he did not have much time to look behind, to understand what he had done in the past five or six months, and to see whether in fact someone was following him, or whether it was his imagination. He could not believe that anybody would want to follow him.

But someone did. There had always been a shadow. One night, Agatha came home late from the university library and told him, “Henry, there was a man out there in a car, parked. He was there when I left. He was there when I came in.” And he said, “Oh?” There had always been men out there on the street, parked, in cars, and with women in their laps. It was near the car wash on Spadina Avenue; and some cars would park on Baldwin and on other side streets to get away from the traffic policemen. But this night, when he found out he was being followed, had been followed for some time, he was alone, and heading for the Embassy Coffee House on St. Nicholas Street.

Recently, he had started going to coffee houses, hanging around, trying to relax, trying to unwind, also to get away from his wife. He was now interested in poetry, and had heard that young men and women read their poetry there, on certain nights. He never told Boysie he was going to these places because he knew Boysie would laugh. It was not the thing that sane West Indians did; and West Indians, he knew, did not write poetry. And he did not tell Agatha because he wanted to keep this part of his life private … “except if I should get a poem published in a poetry magazine, then …” This was his first time going to read his poetry at the Embassy. He was hoping that no one would call on him to read. But he was going nevertheless. He was not sure if what he wrote was really poetry; there was no one he knew who knew anything about poetry; and he was self-conscious about beginning to write at his age. Recently, he had read many books of Canadian poetry. But he didn’t like any of them. All the poets whose works he read were younger than he, except one old man with a beard from the days of the westerns and saloons.

He took another deep pull on his cigarette to steady his nerves; and he made to climb the long narrow flights of stairs to the darkened moaning voice above. Just as he put his hand on the door, a man came out of the darkness and stood in front of him, for a moment; having made his quick and brief identification, he moved on. Henry ignored him. Henry regarded him as a drunk, or perhaps he was a poet, so he went up and entered the coffee house. A man was telling someone on the telephone there was no reading tonight.

Henry started to go down the steps again. He stopped to light a cigarette. He walked on. He stopped because the cigarette was not burning. He thought of calling Boysie or visiting him; perhaps visit Bernice and Estelle. Henry had just stepped off the last step and onto the cobblestones in the street when he sensed there was someone nearby, in the shadows. He could not see very well because the street was narrow and flanked on both sides by tall red brick buildings and chimneys the same age as the cobbles in the street. It was now too late for him to turn left and go the few yards to Wellesley Street. His instinct told him it would be safer to turn right, and walk the farther distance to the other street, north. He could hear his footsteps echoing. He was trying not to give the impression he was more frightened than he was. But he was frightened. Many scenes from crime movies came back to him; and he realized with great terror that this street, St. Nicholas, was similar to a street that had something to do with waterfronts in New York. He was frightened.

He was terrified. He started to think of Agatha. He should have brought her along with him; at least there would be a witness. He made a promise that in future, no matter where the hell he was going, Agatha would have to come with him; she would have to come; she would have to put down her goddamn textbooks on zoology, and come …

Before he could make more promises, the man from the shadows was upon him. He held Henry firmly. He was close, very close to his face. He held him firmly, but not like a policeman would hold a suspect, or a murderer would hold a victim. He was holding him like a man would hold a woman he wants to kiss, against her wish. “Jeffrey, you bitch! Jeffrey, you weird old queer!” the man said, in a voice uncertainly feminine and masculine at the same time. “I knew one day I would catch you up there with him, letting him feel up your ass. If I waited long enough …” The man raised his hand to strike a blow, and it was then that he saw he had approached the wrong man. “Oh my God! oh my God!” he cried, in