Sonia once told me I had a knack for completing the kind of tasks that shouldn’t be started in the first place. I’d set out to frustrate and mystify Anthony Qiu, and to do so without breathing a word about Chris Chambers and what I’d seen behind the Crossroads Inn. What remained was to see how Qiu would jump.
As I opened the front door of the library, a sparrow brushed past my ear. It fluttered and gained altitude, sailing up to the heights of the crescent-shaped concourse. It settled above a large reading-is-good banner featuring a quote from Milton. I walked past the pizza and coffee shops and through the scanners. I zigzagged up the escalators to the seventh floor.
Near the help desk, a bearded man in a starched paisley shirt and suspenders was laying out a display under glass. History books with black-and-white photos on their covers showing haggard Sikhs, placed next to a model of a cargo vessel turned on its side. The man adjusted a piece of Bristol board with the title pasted to it, “Rethinking the Komagata Maru.”
I leaned over his shoulder to examine the display and to make sure I was talking to Sabar Gill. “What’s to rethink?” I asked. “Wasn’t it a bad decision?”
“It was a horrific decision,” Gill said. “A Japanese ship full of Indian passengers denied entrance into the country for no reason other than they were the wrong skin color, spoke the wrong language. British citizens, but of the second class. It’s an event that’s still being reinterpreted, hence the display.” He grinned. “But if I have to explain the title, maybe that’s not a good sign.”
I examined the craftsmanship of the boat, which lacked only a miniature crew and passengers.
“A local artist,” Gill said. “She donated it for this exhibit. Did you need a hand finding something?”
“I’m looking for a Mr. Gill,” I said. “Unfortunately I dinged a car in the underground lot. Someone told me it was his and he’d be up on this floor. Know where I could find him?”
“That would be me.” Gill’s expression soured a little. We shook hands and I noticed the wedding ring.
“I think I only kissed the fender,” I said. “Why don’t we take a look and then decide how to make this right.”
Sabar Gill replaced the glass lid of the display. I looked around baffled and said, “Mind leading the way? I’m not even sure how I got up here.”
“There’s an elevator this way,” he said. When we were on board I asked him how long he’d been working here.
“Close to four months,” he said. “I was part-timing during grad school. I finished and took some time off, but then a position opened. It’s pretty much the job I’ve always wanted.”
There was an element of self-conscious irony to his dress and mannerisms, but Gill spoke with a genuine reverence for his vocation. He was almost bashful about it. Curating library displays and wading through the stacks wasn’t everyone’s dream. But it was his, and he accepted that.
“What does a librarian do when he takes time off?” I asked.
“See a bit of the world. Relax.” He stared at me. “What do you do for a living, Mr.—”
“James,” I said. “I install security systems. I know that might sound boring, but it’s actually fascinating work. Are you in the market? Because I can get you a honey of a deal. Person can’t be too careful.”
“Maybe,” Gill said.
“We should swap insurance info.” I dug out a Manitoba driver’s license in the name of William J. James. I took Gill’s and copied down his details. The 400 block of Quebec Street. A Mount Pleasant address, not an apartment.
I followed Gill as we threaded through the parking level, an ominous maze of concrete and flickering neon. He stopped by an SL-series Mercedes and crouched down to examine the fender.
“Not a scratch,” he said. “No harm done. Where’s your car?”
I looked at the oil stains on the concrete. “I feel pretty stupid about this. The car I touched was a Honda. I think I’m parked on the other end.”
“I don’t know anyone who drives a Honda,” Gill said. “Hope it works out.”
“I’ll muddle through.”