Flight of Aquavit (34 page)

test tubes brimming with different coloured liq-

uids. “A Flight consists of three shots of Aquavit,

each uniquely flavoured. My choices for you

tonight are boysenberry, orange and spicy cinna-

mon.” She then set down two bottles of Carlsberg

beer. “We recommend following each shot with a

beer chaser,” she announced joyfully. Next she

revealed two platters that looked suspiciously like

slate floor tiles and positioned them on the table-

top. “This is your starter. I had the chef throw

together a special smorgasbord plate of assorted

Swedish delicacies and a herring plate. We have

here several types of herring, gravlax with a little

red beet sorbet and espresso mustard sauce; some

Anthony Bidulka — 269

rare, seared tuna and scallops with taro root chips

and sea urchin beurre blanc; caviar osetrabeluga

with potato pancakes, egg, and crème fraîche; and

a selection of sauces and pastes for dipping.”

We oooed and ahhed as appropriate, asked a

lot of questions about what she’d brought and

eventually let her go when it seemed other cus-

tomers were being slighted.

Sereena pulled a test tube from her rack and

held it aloft as if it were made of the finest crystal.

“First, before we continue our conversation, let’s

take a moment to salute how marvelous it is to be

here together in one of the greatest cities in the

world.
Skal
!”

And that is one of the reasons I love Sereena

Smith—she never forgets to recognize the

moment.

I repeated the Swedish toast and we downed

the Aquavit. At first the unusual flavour and

heavy texture of the alcohol seemed strange in my

mouth. For a brief, panicked moment I wondered

if I would be able to keep it down. But then, just as

quickly, the warmth of it engulfed me and the

half-second of resistance became insatiable desire;

I swallowed it hungrily, immediately wanting

more. As instructed, we followed with healthy

sips of beer to calm the fire on our tongues and

walls of our mouths.

“Have you considered,” Sereena continued as

if we’d never been interrupted, “that your worry

is not what you think it is?”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, even

though I could hear a discordant bell ring some-

270 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

where in my head.

She gazed appreciatively at her second test

tube and quaffed it, forgoing the beer. Only

Sereena can play bottoms up with a test tube full

of booze distilled from fermented potato and

make it look as if she were sipping Dom Perignon.

“You’ve had a schoolboy crush on Jared Lowe

ever since you laid eyes on him. And you revelled

in the safety of that crush. As long as he was with

Anthony, he was unavailable to you. You felt you

shouldn’t and wouldn’t and couldn’t do anything

about it. Oh, my dear, what a wonderful thing

unrequited love can be.”

“Wonderful? What’s wonderful about it?” I

asked, waving a piece of herring at my friend.

“Think about it. In retrospect, unrequited love

is always much sweeter than the actual thing. It is

innocent. It is a fairy tale. It is dreamlike. And, I’m

sorry to say, it’s usually a load of hogwash. But so

what? If only we could enjoy it while it’s happen-

ing instead of wishing it were over. Because when

it is, things can never go back to the way they once

were. The illusion is shattered. The fairy tale

becomes reality. And reality is definitely not

dreamlike.” Sereena rolled a marble or two of

black caviar onto a petite triangle of toast and

nodded at another patron who was moving inten-

tionally close past our table. Then she continued.

“You heard Daniel’s accusation against Anthony

and you immediately began to think about your-

self.”

“I…I don’t…oh hell.” Was she right? Could I

subconsciously have sunk that low? I had more

Anthony Bidulka — 271

Aquavit and beer.

“You began to wonder if the unrequited status

of your relationship could possibly change. And,

rightly so, that scares you. And it gives you guilt.

Anthony is your oldest and dearest friend and a

trusted mentor. To think that way would be trea-

sonous, a betrayal. Maybe your worry is simply

guilt.”

Gulp.

Sereena waited until she’d thoroughly chewed

her miniature-sized toast and added with a touch

of offhandedness, “Or maybe not.”

“You think…do you think something might

change between Jared and Anthony…between

Jared and myself?” And in my head I thought,

“Between Anthony and myself?”

She laughed then, a throaty sound that I’d

known at times to draw looks from others hoping

to share in the atmosphere it created. “My God,

Russell, how on earth would I know that? That’s

what makes relationships, of any kind, so difficult.

They’re like a crazy puzzle where every time you

finally put the pieces together you get a picture

different from the one you were expecting.

Anyone who tells you they know what’s going to

happen now between Anthony and Jared and you

is witless. There are no guarantees on how things

will turn out. You know that, Russell.”

I didn’t know that. At least not as well as

Sereena probably did. She seldom gave details of

what she’d been through in her life, but I knew

her words came from experience. A lot of it.

“And then there’s the matter of my mother,” I

272 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

added to the conversation, just to make matters

even more confusing. “I think she may be consid-

ering moving in with me…well, not with

me…into the room above my garage.”

Joyce and a helper appeared then to clear

away our floor tiles and test tubes and replace

them with a fragrant and chalky Petit Chablis and

the main course. The Ocean Curry of bass ceviche,

lobster, tuna duck terrine and shrimp ball and a

hot smoked Arctic Char arrived decoratively

perched on top of four-inch thick, glass bricks. I

had to wonder if someone in the kitchen was in

the middle of home renovations.

“Just to let you know,” Joyce cheerily informed

us, “the wine is compliments of Mr. Parkridge.”

Sereena wordlessly pulled a pen and small

card from her purse (as if always prepared for

such a moment), jotted a quick note on the card

and handed it to our server, along with a five-dol-

lar bill for her trouble. “Please give this to Mr.

Parkridge the next time you see him, dear.”

When Joyce departed I gave Sereena a ques-

tioning look which she chose to ignore. I knew

from history to accept that response.

“Is that good news or bad news?” Sereena

asked. “Your mother moving in.”

I nodded thoughtfully as I mulled this over.

“You know, I guess I’m not sure. With everything

else going on right now, Christmas coming up, the

case I’m working on, keeping Brutus for Kelly and

Errall, my mother being here, I feel like I’m falling

behind on my ‘thinking things through’ time.”

“Those are bits of life, Russell, not excuses for

Anthony Bidulka — 273

why you’re not thinking things through.”

I knew she was right but I wasn’t happy about

it.

“You’re trying to balance career and home life,

you’re concerned about Anthony and Jared,

you’re witnessing a difficult time between Errall

and Kelly, you’re trying to figure out the inten-

tions of your mother. Of course it’s not easy. But

it’s not impossible. And certainly not the worst of

possible situations. You’re going to be okay,

Russell. I know you are. I think we’ll be needing

another Flight of Aquavit.”

I felt like a true New Yorker (whatever that is)

heading off to meet James Kraft at The Townhouse

restaurant late Friday morning. I was hoofing it,

alongside regular, workaday New Yorkers a little

off the beaten tourist track on East 58th, coffee and

pretzel in hand and without a map in sight (I did

have one hidden in my jacket pocket just in case

the “easy-to-navigate grid system” failed me. The

pretzel, which I’d purchased from a comically

surly street vendor for a couple bucks, was yeasty

and salty and warm and the perfect companion on

my chilly walk.

As I descended the two steps down from street

level into the restaurant, I could only hope James

Kraft would be there. And why wouldn’t he be?

Any unemployed actor living in New York City—

or anywhere for that matter—would be crazy not to

show up for a meeting with a talent agent. As I

shooed a few flakes of snow off my shoulders, I

274 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

noticed a sign instructing would-be diners of the

dress code—no hats, workout clothes, sleeveless

shirts, cut-offs or torn clothing of any type. I was

good to go. I had chosen The Townhouse because

Anthony and Jared mentioned it as one of their

favourite places, describing it as a “gay version of

‘21’ where discerning and discreet gentlemen

meet.” It had to be worth a look.

My first thought as I stepped into the room was

that this was where beige had gone to die. Beige

floors, walls, table linens. Was I in the right place?

Gay people came here? The restaurant was actual-

ly a series of rooms, end to end. The first consist-

ed of a twelve-seat bar and long, narrow booth

seating against two walls with beige chairs oppos-

ing and a few small tables in between. The adjoin-

ing rooms were similar but without the bar. I

walked through the lounge past a collection of

already soused middle-aged regulars of the pink-

shirt-and-ascot variety. They were lined atop a

row of stools that creaked noisily (both the stools

and the regulars) as they swivelled to cast not-

very-subtle glances in my direction. I felt like a

prize Jersey at auction. A surprisingly lovely sen-

sation. Beyond the bar I could see tables of mostly

mixed couples, many a little long in the tooth, and

even though it was only lunchtime on a Friday,

many of them were enjoying cocktails or sharing a

bottle of wine. Again I wondered if I was in the

right place. But what did I expect? A scene from

Queer As Folk
or Sodom and Gomorrah with

chintz and a brunch special?

Just as a pixie-faced youth came over to greet

Anthony Bidulka — 275

me with menus in hand, I spotted James Kraft.

The publicity picture I’d gotten from Persephone

Theatre and Daniel’s description told me exactly

what to look for. And there he was, in his full

youthful, blond, blue-eyed, gap-toothed splen-

dour. He’d obviously taken some care in groom-

ing for our meeting. His shoulder-length hair

(which Daniel had said was messy) had been

combed back off his face into a tight ponytail that

sat obediently at the nape of his long neck. He was

wearing a conservative striped shirt, buttoned to

the neck and a pair of olive-coloured khakis. His

Sunday best. He was a beautiful kid, no doubt

about it. I indicated to Pixie Face that I saw my

party and he motioned for me to go ahead with a

flirtatious wink that was probably more out of

habit than real intent.

Like a seasoned businessman James Kraft

stood and held out his hand when I approached

the table. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Quant,”

he said eloquently. “I’m James Kraft.”

We shared a firm handshake, exchanged fur-

ther pleasantries and sat down. As soon as we

had, our waiter appeared offering drinks, menu

suggestions and more flirty winks (none of which

were free). We both ordered iced tea and I asked

for the pea soup and mussels while James request-

ed fried calamari and Caesar salad.

“How are you enjoying New York?” James

asked. “Is it your first time here? I’d be happy to

give you some suggestions of things to do or even

show you around a bit if you’d like.”

Boy, he really wanted whatever it was I was

276 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t

supposedly offering! I was going to hate disap-

pointing him, especially after he was being so

charming. I decided it was best to get it over with

right up front.

“James, I’m not a talent agent. I’m a private