O-Town: Chapter 5
Chapter 5: The Dinner Part 2
The Orange Club’s lobby fills with government personnel. We follow, having just been at a smaller, cheaper lobbying effort on behalf of a pesticide company that wants the Minister of Health to agree that, really, Agent Orange should be allowed for clearing new pipeline routes. It’s going better than you’d think.
The kitchen staff go quiet immediately. Rent is on the line. Sous chefs scramble to their stations, visible from the elevator via a rectangle of window that shows only their concentrated brows and the various cooking implements that dangle above them.
Despite the dealings that go on here, the Orange Club is a sight for sore eyes. The staffers and security personnel who come out of the elevator first draw in their collective breath in admiration for the high-ceilinged dining room, the five candle-covered chandeliers, the burnt orange curtains that minimize echo and the high-backed, plush brown chairs that maximize privacy (and lumbar support. In ample consideration of the Club’s primary demographic, the restaurant is more accessible than Parliament Hill itself. There is enough space between the tables for wheelchairs, there are no stairs or steps anywhere, and all the staff are trained in CPR and geriatric first aid).
Julie lounges at the long, low-slung bar of polished oak, methodically cleaning glasses. Behind her, the famous Orange Club wine cellar glitters in the candlelight behind bullet-proof glass doors. She is about to punch in the passcode to grab a bottle for the VIPs when one of the security staff sidles up to the bar.
“This is special, for the MP and the president,” he says, handing her two small bottles.
Julie lets the hint of a frown cross her face before recomposing it into a pleasant smile. There is no time to question the staffer all in black, still wearing his sunglasses, because at that moment, the PM comes out of the elevator and now it is truly showtime.
By his side walks the Bolivian president, who has been granted the moniker la abeja obrera by followers and detractors alike. The man does not stop moving. He carries a notebook with him always, so he can ceaselessly doodle, and often takes meetings while walking, his bodyguards striding behind him. He is restless, barely pauses while he talks. But, as the people like to say, he does get things done. Hence, the worker bee.
La abeja is average height but walks with the stride of a professional basketball player. He keeps his hair in a neat fade and his beard closely trimmed. He is 35 years old and unmarried. We hear Renata’s thoughts when he passes by the servers. She notes his full, enticing lips; they remind her of someone else’s, but the memory darts away from her with a nudge from Moe, who needs her taking drink orders from the underlings.
Oila was correct that la abeja is an anti-capitalist. What kind remains to be seen. He has courted the Bolivian diaspora to come back and use their skills at home. We know he was a miner, and so has intimate knowledge of that life and its ills, hence his first act as president, which involved not only the banning of the some of the most egregious offenders when it came to safety and environmental protection, but increasing the taxation of all the rest, ensuring decent revenues for at least the first year of his term in office. It helps that Bolivia’s lithium deposits are plentiful and that the president believes in bargaining chips to get what he wants from the global economy. But he has bigger dreams for Bolivia, we can see these scattered in the undercurrent of his mind. Safe to say he is a nationalist; after that it’s anyone’s guess. He was only elected two months ago.
The other guests are quick behind. Normally, this would be a straightforward off-the-books dinner between leaders. But tonight, there are many players, making this evening all the more intriguing. The Canadian Association of Petroleum Producers, the Mining Association of Canada, both have representatives at tonight’s affair. Moe gives the head of Postmedia’s editorial board a sneering smile as he takes his jacket. More unusual—for who could expect better friends for the PM, a former Bay Street impresario who was bought and sold before even contemplating office—are the three guests that follow: the leader of the opposition, affectionately known as Pitty for his tendency to aggressively attack every political decision of the government no matter what (this has led him on at least one occasion to insist that despite the government’s increased attacks on the rights of immigrants and refugees, they weren’t going far enough and should perhaps consider bi-annual “citizen checks” for everyone with PR or a passport, which included a Canadian civics test. He also suggested that if you agreed to take the census, you failed automatically.)
Nadia Jardine, MP for Prescott-Russell-Cumberland is beside Pitty, looking as though she does not know what she’s in for. She is part of the ruling party, but everyone knows Ottawa MPs never get any place at the table of government unless three others have refused to take it. It’s a bad look, to favour the capital too much. Besides, she likes being a backbencher. The chairs are comfortable and the press minimal. Her most recent public appearance was at the opening of a spring farmer’s fair.
The last to leave the elevator is none other than the mayor of Ottawa. He trails the rest like a stray dog eager for scraps. He is pale and gaunt, no doubt more so than we he took office six years ago. Renata frowns slightly as he passes the staff by with nary a glance in their direction. Sure, the man liked to insert himself into federal politics in the hopes of moving out of his current office in a city he is at best ambivalent about, at worst actively hostile toward, but meeting a head of state? Why?
The guests file into the Orange Club’s lush and thick-walled private dining room. There is a golden chandelier above them—lit, Renata realizes, well before she arrived at work—and the table has been set with rich blue linen. The room’s grand wall to ceiling windows look out toward the Alexandra Bridge.
There is another surprise in the seating arrangements. The Mayor walks over to the PM’s left. Moe pulls out his chair with a look of disbelief. Lucy seats la abeja to the PM’s right. The rest of them suddenly seem out of the loop. But there is no time for further contemplation, because the PM likes his dinner served at speed. Lucy and Jude gallop to the kitchen to acquire the first course. Moe and Renata are on drinks duty because—it comes to Renata all at once as she passes the first bottle of light, refreshing white Duncan has chosen to Moe—she was once a bartender. She doesn’t remember where or how, but she knows it’s true.
Chilled wine acquired, Renata turns to follow Moe back into the dining room, when, from behind the bar, Julie grabs her shoulder.
“They’ve got some special drink requests,” Julie mutters to Renata. “For the first course, this is for the Bolivian and Jardine.”
Julie holds a green long-necked bottle, unlabeled, with a bottle cap. Renata takes the bottle opener from Julie’s proffering hand, opens the bottle with a satisfying pfft of carbonation, and sniffs.
The smell is a heady mix of cat urine and cough-medicine sweetness. It is the kind of smell that should deter any sane person from taking a sip, yet once tasted, the smell loses its pungency. Renata knows that it tastes slightly metallic and that the bubbles pop on the tongue like pop rocks. She knows it very well indeed.
“This is O-town,” she says loudly, unthinking.
A few staffers look over at her and Julie, eyebrows cocked.
“Are you sure?” whispers Julie.
Renata nods, her spine tingling. She turns to see Moe about the open the door to the dining room when he looks behind and sees she is absent.
“What are you doing? Hurry up!” he yell-whispers.
Now, two bottles in hand, Renata rushes over.
“This is O-Town. Supposed to be served just to the President and the MP. Julie just gave it to me.”
“Wha—” begins Moe, but just then Lucy and Jude are next to them with the appetizers and there is no time to lose. With the door slightly ajar it is possible to hear the PM already getting antsy.
“Don’t let him drink it,” whispers Moe.
Then he opens the door with a smile and glides towards the PM, pouring a generous glass of wine. Renata leaves the second wine bottle on a side table and contemplates the O-Town. It made no sense. O-Town is a cheap, local seltzer, unremarkable except for its overnight ubiquity in the city. And how on earth is she going to avoid giving it to la abeja?
She starts with the MP, who crinkles her nose at the smell, but seemingly doesn’t notice the waiter's change of vessel, for she looks at her dining companions, sees they are taking ample sips and does so herself. Renata watches is dismayed recognition as the MPs eyes glaze over.
And now she has no choice. She walks around the table, the PM’s eyes darting over to her. Is he urging her on? She is too nervous to tell. There is la abeja’s glass, just in front of his drumming fingers. Renata leans over on his right side, bottle ready to pour, and says gently:
“Something different for you, Mr. President.”
La abeja whips his hand over top his glass.
“I don’t drink alcohol,” he says, looking over his shoulder.
“Not to worry,” chimes in the mayor. “This is actually an Ottawa specialty. A non-alcoholic seltzer. You’ll love it.”
La abeja turns fully to Renata now and looks her up and down.
“Have you had this beverage?”
“Yes sir,” Renata murmurs.
“It’s very good,” says one of the CEOs.
“Practically an institution on the Hill,” adds Pitty.
MP Jardine says nothing. She nods along looking dazed. La abeja glances at her for only a moment.
“I will have water for now,” he concludes.
“Of course, sir,” says Renata, and dashes out of the dining room to get the water before anyone has a chance to issue a protest. Jude and Lucy come in and dispatch of the appetizers. Renata returns, pours the water and steps back, wanting nothing more than to melt into the wall.
“Good job,” Moe mouths at her from across the room.
The tension in the room is palpable. The guests chew their hydroponic lettuce and greenhouse-grown peaches with only the soft footfalls of the waitstaff and the susurration of flames breathing up oxygen as accompaniment.
When the entrées arrive, the politicians fall back on small talk mundanities. The PM asks how la abeja likes Ottawa. Renata can barely hold her face straight as she pours the others more wine. She hates this question. The answer is always non-committal and vague, which tells you all you need to know. Visiting dignitaries always see the most boring parts of the city. A memory bubbles up in Renata’s mind. Staffers. From Belize? She took them to an Alleycat race—one, a young woman named Perla got a signed manifest from the race winner, and blushed while Renata took their picture.
“The people are very quiet,” says la abeja. "The whole city feels like a field of mice when a hawk is watching.”
“What a delightfully cultural metaphor,” quips Pitty.
“It’s nice isn’t it? People in Ottawa know their place,” says the PM.
“Never a mob or a riot, no subversive elements making a mess of things,” purred the CAPP representative.
Dessert is served—a stone fruit tarte tatin—along with a cocktail that wasn’t on the menu. Julie gives Renata a warning look. She sniffs at the coupes on her serving tray. Beneath the elderberry gin, egg white and sinfully expensive blueberries, she can still get a whiff of O-Town. It sends a shiver down her spine.
This time, the drinks are proffered to everyone. Renata gives warning glance at Moe as she dispenses of the drinks. The PM nods at her in thanks and she sees him take something out of his pocket. He takes his napkin, wipes his mouth and smiles at la abeja.
“Are you sure you won’t try the drink?” he asks. “It’s made with a local seltzer that has become quite iconic.”
“You won’t bend your rules just a teeny bit for new friends?” mewls Pitty.
La abeja demurs with a shake of his head and a placating smile.
“That’s a shame. As it happens, this wonderful beverage is the reason we invited you to town.”
Renata’s skin prickles. She is standing behind the Bolivian, and can see the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
“Oh? What could a drink possibly have to do with me?”
“It was actually something our illustrious mayor of Ottawa discovered. Smart man when he wants to be,” says the PM.
The mayor is sweating in his long-sleeved button-down and jacket. Yet his eyes are alert as he directs his attention to the Bolivian president. His smile is maximally solicitous with only the slightest tinge of desperation. We see Moe put a hand in his left pocket slowly, slowly as though detonating a bomb, then cough, to cover a tinny, electronic ping.
“You see, says the mayor, “I believe O-Town Seltzer is going to be the making of this city. It’s going to be my legacy. It all started…”
Renata loses focus and watches as the CAP representatives down their desserts like pirates on gold. The MP looks ill. The blue wallpaper is mesmerizing. Renata traces the raised pattern of a vine snake its way from behind the Postmedia man’s right ear, behind Pitty’s left shoulder—
“And that’s when we discovered something incredible!” says the mayor.
He leans closer to la abeja, who almost reels back. The mayor’s cologne is overwhelming.
“Have you ever heard,” says the Mayor conspiratorially, “of Dokein’s disease?”
“I have not,” replies la abeja looking relieved that perhaps there is some value to the meeting after all. “Is it dangerous?”
“Oh very,” says the PM.
“Life threatening,” adds Pitty.
“Profit threatening,” slurs one of the Mining Association reps, with a giggle.
All the other guests, except for MP Jardine, who appears catatonic, nod their heads. Yes. So, so bad.
“What does it do then?”
“People become plagued by intrusive, disturbing thoughts,” explains the mayor. “And the disease leads them to respond to completely normal events in most unusual ways. Say, for example,” the mayor smiles again now, a look of performed amusement, “that there was a minor change in the qualifications for a national income supplement program. An administrative decision to make some efficiencies in the program and ensure those who really, actually needed it, were benefitting. If you had Dokein’s disease, you wouldn’t go through the appropriate channels to engaged in your legally protected right to free speech, say by calling the CRA and waiting 6-10 days on hold for a reply. Perhaps if you were a government employee and were tasked with solving this problem and you had the disease, well, you wouldn’t go through the correct chain of command. You wouldn’t wait patiently for your superiors to discuss the issue, form a committee and take incremental, modest steps to solve the problem. They would go rogue, you might say.”
“People turn into animals,” says Pitty with his characteristic snarl. “It happened at NRCan a few years ago. People run around in the streets, they encourage a mob and pretty soon there’s a crowd of five thousand people in front of the office and the RCMP is on the roof trying to see if anyone’s out there with guns!”
“All that over a minor change,” says la abeja softly.
“Just an example to illustrate the issue,” says the mayor with a wave of his hand.
“It turns out that our O-Town Seltzer, well, it cures Dokein’s disease. Isn’t that marvellous? Total coincidence,” says the mayor. “And we’d like to distribute it more widely through the city and eradicate the disease entirely from Ottawa. From there, perhaps the whole country!”
“I still fail to see the relevance to myself or Bolivia,” says la abeja.
“The main ingredient of O-Town, what gives it its distinct flavour, is a rare-earth mineral called Eldrium. Have you heard of it?”
La abeja shook his head.
“As it happens,” says the PM, with a nod to the Mayor, “Bolivia has some of the largest Eldrium deposits in the world.”
“I see.”
“We’ve long wanted to improve partnerships with our South American friends,” says the PM. “We see Bolivia becoming one of the world’s middle powers, and we want to extend our hand in friendship.”
“As you know,” says la abeja after a long pause, “Bolivia currently has a moratorium on foreign-owned mining operations, until we develop strong regulatory policies that will favour Bolivia and its environment. It was key to my election win. Already we are holding citizen assemblies across the country to begin drafting the policies.”
"Ah, but you are a leader now. Speaking from experience, leaders must be pragmatists, realists, and take the world as it is, not what it could be, in order to survive. And Canada is not your enemy. As Plato said, courage is knowing what to fear. We can help each other.”
La abeja takes a sip of his water and scans the room. The representatives from CAPP and MAC are listening intently, though they do not look at him. Each plays with the remnants of their dessert like naughty children, forced to finish what’s on their plate before they can leave the dinner table.
MP Jardine’s eyes are half closed. She is slumped in her chair muttering to herself, a dollop of crème fraiche trailing down her mauve blouse.
"And of course,” the PM continues, “the hand of friendship isn’t just a gesture. We will make it worth your while.”
“A blank cheque,” says Pitty. “No strings, no obligations. Restore your rainforests, decarbonize your economy for all we care, do whatever hippie shit you want.”
La abeja laughs now. A low belly laugh, that speaks more to the endless tension in the room than the humour of what his dinner companion has said.
“What would your advisors say about such a reckless proposition?”
“Nothing after a few cans of O-Town,” said the mayor with a chortle.
Snake oil salesmen, the lot of them, thought Renata. Nothing would be in writing and nothing would come of it for Bolivia. It was the only game in this town. Governments using private companies as proxies, dressing up their imperialist ambitions; private companies using government to rake up as much money as inhumanly possible until the next grift came along. They didn’t even merit the name locusts, or whatever animal metaphor that was trotted out in moments like this. Locusts’ only intent was survival. These people looked on survival as someone else’s problem. More. That was all they were after. More what? Anything. Everything.
“More water please.”
Renata comes out of her daydream rant with a jolt and pours more water in la abeja’s glass. He glances at her with a frown, but she has only the courage to tighten her mouth and squeeze harder on the handle of the water jug.
“This drink. It will be manufactured in Canada I suppose. There will be no factories in Bolivia. You only want the raw materials.”
“Exactly,” says the mayor. “We’ll be manufacturing it right here in Ottawa! LeBreton Flats will once again be a hub of industry. The warehouses and labs are already half-built.”
“And I name my price, is that it?”
“As we said.”
“You want suitcases of gold? We’ll get some for you,” says Pitty. “To you personally, or to the government, up to you!”
“And if I refuse?”
“That’s your choice of course,” purrs the PM. “But then we may make the choice to cease all trade with Bolivia over concerns about government corruption. Was it not Epictetus who said, it’s not what happens to you, but how you react to it that matters?”
“I will think on this. Very carefully indeed,” says la abeja.
“That’s all we ask,” says the PM. “My people will reach out in, let’s say, 24 hours to get your answer.”
The dinner ends swiftly after that. The VIPs exit the private dining room, their underlings following suit. La abeja looks to Renata like a man trying very hard not to show his rage. The PM, meanwhile, looks like a smug cat. The mayor, as usual, walks by with a thin, rictus smile on his face. What does he look like at home with his family? Renata wonders. Surely not like this.
The waitstaff, all in a baffled daze begin to clear the tables. Finally, holding a plate of melted crème and mushy cake, Lucy says what they’re all thinking:
“Did that really just happen?”