The taxi sped up University Avenue and then west along Bloor Street before turning south onto St. Thomas Street. It screeched to a halt outside the Windsor Arms Hotel and Lord Vader stepped out. Turning to face the driver, he raised a gloved hand. You don’t want any money for this fare. With that, the car rolled away.
“Good afternoon, m’Lord,” the doorman said, bowing to take Vader’s soaked umbrella from him and pulling open the large oak door. Only Vader’s pneumatic hiss acknowledged this nicety. He stepped onto the slate and limestone tiles of the foyer as the heavy door fell closed behind him, shutting out the sound of rain. His cape fell right and then left and then right again as he moved forward in giant steps. He stopped and poked his head inside the barber shop. Men in dark Italian suits sat in all four chairs as dark Italians cut hair, trimmed sideburns and shaved necks. Two waiting customers sat reading magazines. It’s just as well, he thought. The Emperor didn’t like to be kept waiting. Vader didn’t know the men always complained—to themselves and in Italian—about cutting his hair. They just hated pulling off that visor and unscrewing his head plate. He stepped away and continued past the tea room on his left with its gilt mirrors and giant sparkling chandeliers hanging close to tables. His armor may have made him rough and tumble on the outside, but he was all squishy inside: a deep sea creature with glass bones. His cape planed silently across the piano bench as he smoothly arced around the grand piano to reach the wide-striped beige and ochre draperies. He pulled them aside and looked into the great room. Vader scanned the sea of tufted brown leather chairs with curved backs facing islands of circular, wide-striped benches wrapped tightly around giant round pillars. A series of alcoves filled with paired tables for two and separated by tapestries formed a perimeter around the enormous room. Thanks to expert restorers, everything looked just as it had when the hotel first opened its doors in 1927. He moved his head slowly from left to right and hissed some more before spotting a wizened hand waving from one of the sidelong tables. “Good evening, Master,” he said in that deep voice of his as he neared the table and watched the Emperor set down a pencil stub. “Sudoku,” the Emperor said sheepishly, lifting his hooded head slightly and pushing a dog-eared booklet away from him across starched linen cloth. “Yes, Master.” “Be seated, Lord Vader.” “Yes, Master,” he said and sat. The always hungry Emperor settled on the prix fixé: Waldorf salad followed by Peking duck and a double serving of caramel crunch cake. He chewed ravenously through each course and made yum-yum sounds beneath his hood as Vader loudly slurped a milkshake through a straw which terminated in his thorax. Vader daubed the corner of his mouth for show and burped loudly, fog forming on the inside of his mouthpiece. “The Force is strong with you today,” the Emperor said, gently leaning right to fart silently. “Yes, Master.” “Look!” the Emperor said suddenly, peeping out from behind his hood for the first time and pointing excitedly with two hands weakly pushed together and dangling from limp wrists. Vader’s gloved hand moved to his side to find his light sabre. “It’s Margaret Atwood,” the Emperor whispered. “What the Hell is she doing with Ben Mulroney?” said Vader, indignantly. “What did that kid ever do except get himself born?” “Don’t let her see you looking,” the Emperor cackled. “There’s a power in her that scares me.” “You and Michael Ondaatje.” They looked away quickly to see the waiter place the cheque on the table and slowly tiptoe backwards. The Emperor fingered the gold-crested black leather folio and flipped it open with a long thumb nail. “Two hundred and seventeen dollars and eighty cents,” he croaked. Vader’s big black head cocked left at the waiter and his hand moved to his side. The waiter shivered, then shook. “No, no. Allow me,” the Emperor said, reaching deep into his cloak. Tears streamed silently down the cheeks of the waiter who was frozen to the spot where he stood. The Emperor pulled out a small square of parchment and leaned forward to flatten it out on the table before him. “A gift certificate. From Mom,” he grinned. The waiter collapsed. A second and third waiter crept forward and pulled him away by his feet. “I love this place,” Vader said, turning away from this silent tableau and sinking back in his chair. He looked up to where high vaulted ceiling panes let in a brightening sky and then across the expanse of the room. “I know what you mean,” said the Emperor. “It makes me feel shiny and new somehow. Like the Clone Wars never even happened.” He gazed into the shiny black ovals of Vader’s visor. Vader remembered how, in those early years, he and the Emperor bopped all over Toronto in search of grub. Sometimes it was latkes at Shopsy’s. Sometimes, after they had been up all night planning, they sat stabbing thick piles of pancakes topped with over-red strawberries and canned whipped cream in Frans at three o’clock in the morning. Those were the days when the Emperor would travel light years to satisfy a hankering for Swiss Chalet. Vader had fond memories of riding the Queen streetcar east to the beaches. They’d grab a burger at Licks and walk the boardwalk for hours and look up at star systems they hoped to conquer. The universe was a simpler place back then. By now, most of the known universe was under their control. This place had become their regular haunt. It suited them now. The older they got the less patience they had with imperfection and delay. In short, they appreciated good service. Slicing tardy waitresses or errant pizza delivery men in two with a light sabre was simple enough, but it could be a whole lot of work and sometimes you just wanted your quiet time. The food was good here, the service top notch, and the setting deserving of the Emperor’s only real compliment: to-die-for. It’s also true that the more evil grew in him the more the Emperor’s pasty white face crumbled and the more he understood that candlelight was his friend. Like every part of the known universe, Toronto belonged to them. Canadians being what they are, there had never been a rebel base in Toronto. Yet, the city had always resisted definition and description, by insiders and outsiders alike, and wouldn’t allow itself to be claimed—even by the all-powerful lords of Darkness. Here, they could quite literally get away from themselves. It was their favourite unexploded city. Acknowledgement: This writer is a thief. The phrase like a deep sea creature with glass bones is quite deliberately taken from Margaret Atwood’s 1971 poetry collection Power Politics. I was searching my dusty shelves for another phrase so I might sneakily plant an Atwood snippet in support of my mention of her when I came across this second one which I thought aptly described Darth Vader trapped in his life-sustaining armor. Go figure. |