Now and Then: The Time between the Lightning and the Thunder

WEDNESDAY, June 21, Wotan's Day, Odin's Day

It all started with a dream Wednesday morning, or maybe it started earlier and things were already in motion. There was a storm, but I don't think that's what woke me up. I saw sheet lightning, but heard no thunder, so how could that have woken me up? I think it was that dream. I looked at the clock: 6:21. Odd that the time matched the date, June 21... but just a coincidence. I turned on the bed lamp and reached for my notebook. The dream, if shocking, was crystal clear in its details, but the connection to the present and the import were not at all evident. I wrote rapidly, sensing that already precious details were fading. Probably the dream had not taken more than a couple of minutes, but the sensations and memories were lengthy. And what an ending, what a way to wake up--I was a pre-historic man and my enemies broke my bones and drowned me in a bog! Was that even a thing? And wait, one enemy was, yes, my brother in that lifetime and two other men... think... think... yes brothers of my fiancee, or what passed for that in prehistoric England... yes in the time of Stonehenge. In my present life I have no brothers or brothers-in-law. Maybe that's for the best!

Write quickly, plenty of time to think about it later. Write while the details are still fresh. A marriage between the son (me) and daughter (her) of two chieftains. The conflict between her clan and mine was to be ended by this match. But jealous siblings prevented it. As for my older brother... my father knew he was not able to be chief of the clan. That would fall to me. Similarly my fiancee's older brothers were being passed over because she was the brightest and they were not. That day--the Solstice?--we were to be married at Stonehenge, but I never made it, and no one ever found my body. Crazy! But also too crazy to make it up!

My alarm went off. No time to ruminate on the dream--just minutes to get ready. Lightning is inevitably followed by thunder, but there is the apparently empty time in between. The west-coast aboriginals had a word for it, 'Spaha,' I think, something like that. Got to get my head together, big day at the office. First day of a three-day meeting with UK Representation, a kind of British Warner, agents for all kinds of touring artists.

I reflected briefly: our company, just six years old, meeting with a counterpart for a tie-up, or maybe a merger, or maybe even the moment to sell our startup. My CEO has been burning the midnight oil since we began. Maybe he wants to cash out. I own shares. I've been working extra long and hard. Maybe I'm ready to sell too.

I remind myself I'm in operations and operations have to be smooth. Feed the cats, tell them to play nicely, breakfast, shave, shower, dress, show up on time and perky. Have to look my best. Not always easy with the scarring from the fire. I straighten my tie. I reach in the medicine cabinet and apply concealer. Best I can do. I tell myself it's more about the business than about my appearance. Best I can say.

My company? Spaces in Places. We find venues for tours. locations for filming--it saves a bundle to film in Canada. I'm the Chief Operating Officer. Meetings for the merger in the very modern Hotel X Library Lakefront, downtown Toronto. I check my phone. At this time of day the streetcar takes 23 minutes. It's crowded. I grab the strap and read the ad in front of my face. It's an exhibit coming to the museum: 'The Bog People'. So it was a thing! Hmmmn. I use my ride time to run over the business meeting plan in my head . We're all meeting with our counterparts in the other company. Their COO is named "Finn." My job is to review UK Rep's operations and explain our operations to Finn, to see how what we do would mesh with their procedures. In the evenings we're to show the Brits around.

We pair off in breakout rooms in the hotel. Finn has the kind of intimidating beauty that a business suit can't hide: classic proportions, red hair, blue eyes like searchlights. Her voice is melifluous, an alto. A very intelligent, alto redhead with classic proportions and an alluring English accent. I'm not much to look at: scarred and a bit puffy and pudgy. She is definitely not going to pay much attention to me beyond the operations. I put my mind on business. We've both come with binders filled with printouts. Operations are on line, but no one believes that an e-vault is secure in a hotel. Paper is safer.

We swap binders and agree to start by reading, and to interrupt each other if something is not clear. Finn's procedures are detailed, finely tuned, meticulous. "What's 12A?" she asks.

I explain that it's the contact number for twelve-step groups like Alcoholics Anonymous meetings near each of our venues. Some artists need them. Writing 12A reminds our employees to be discreet. "Good plan," she nods, and makes a note.

Her binder has everything I can think of. Checklists of all kinds. Transportation preferences. Quite a variety for the different artists. James Cameron needs a van because he doesn't want to hit his head. Makes sense to me.

Lunch is in the hotel. Tables for two. I steal a glance at her left hand. Stupid of me, but I can't help myself. No ring. I don't why I bother to look. She's way out of my league. Oddly, I catch her looking at my left hand. Makes no sense. Why would she want to know that?

We talk software, customer management, other operations. If we shell out a little extra for the right coding, the interface could be ready in a couple of months. Test it out thoroughly, we could be up and running in four to six months tops. We mull over the details. Operations can be sexy--if you're into operations. I notice the way she twirls her fork. Forget it, stay professional, I tell myself sternly, she's way out of my league.

Work was going well, but there was a lot of detail to go through and we had to check most points together, so we decided on a working dinner in the hotel restaurant to be followed by a late meeting in the library (a feature of the hotel). Others might venture out to see the sights, not the COOs. She ordered fettucine. I settled on a Cobb salad. Moving parts, so many moving parts, you can't expect to throw two well oiled machines together and make them work as one unless you first check to see if the moving parts will function well together. Just like relationships. We needed to do a deep dive into business plans, projections, addressable market segments, and of course operations.

Finn was interested in our plans for AI. "Actually we're testing it now," I noted. "With web crawlers we can identify available spaces more quickly, and we can estimate audience draw in a given area, if that is factor, even consider details like transportation and parking. We can't afford not to use it. It's the only way to stay ahead of the competition."

She smiled. "I sense you like competition."

"Tennis, bridge," I allowed, "if wine tasting were competitive, I would enter, though I don't have much of a nose," I smiled back.

"May I ask a personal question?" she said softly.

"Of course," I agreed.

"You wear concealer. Why is that?" she queried. "I hope you don't mind my asking."

"It's okay," I replied. "Most people don't notice. I have scarring from a fire."

She looked up and to the right. "You lost someone dear to you in that fire. Your wife?"

"Yes, but how did you know?"

"It leaves a mark," she ventured, in more ways than one. "I lost my brother in a fire," and she unbuttoned her right cuff and rolled up her sleeve to show me a line of scarring."

Both of us marked by fire. And fire is anger. Had we both been marked by anger? We looked into each other's eyes for a time. It must have been half a minute. If we had worked for Netflix we could have been fired for that. After a time we both looked down. She pleaded jet lag, and asked to adjourn for the day. No wonder.

THURSDAY June 22, Thor's Day, Donnerstag, Thunder Day

At the breakfast meeting (companies separated) my CEO listened to brief reports from each of us. "We've gotten quite far," he said, then he asked me to stay behind to talk with him privately. "You've really impressed their COO," he began. They're ready to buy us out. For the right price that would suit me just fine. Both our boards are working on that now, trying to come up with a figure. How would you feel about selling your shares now? If the offer is a good one, of course."

Maybe the sun was setting on our company. "Your call," I said. "We've always planned to sell at some point. But how did Finn report on our meetings already? The two of us were discussing late into the evening."

"Jet lag, I suppose," my boss answered. "She was probably up early this morning."

Finn and I passed the afternoon discussing future business prospects with a view to valuation in the buyout. She was in high spirits.

"Where are you taking me to dinner? It had better be good!" she asked boldly.

I knew just the place for someone who likes Italian, Don Alfonso, rated the best Italian restaurant outside of Italy, Venetian cuisine, inside Casa Loma, Toronto's most famous mansion. Finn, wearing a practical, duster-length coat, gave just a nod to the Gothic revival architecture, but looked more interested when I showed her the silent-film organ. Finn, I mused, was a silent film buff.

The meal was sure to impress. I ordered us both the tasting menu, $220 per person for the food, another $120 for the wine pairings, or $200. for the premium wine pairings. Clearly, my boss would have said premium. So $420 each plus tax and tip--given the value of the buyout, a thousand dollar evening to host their COO made business sense. And these prices in Canadian dollars made it a bargain.

Finn had changed into a cocktail dress, an Armani. It highlighted her classic proportions. I watched her eat canapés. Man! I was finding it damned hard to keep my eyes off her, and next to impossible to think of anything else. How do other men do that? They must be faking. I've never figured it out, and again, on the other hand, why were these fantasies persisting, when clearly I didn't stand a chance with her? But her beauty and poise were merciless, and that voice... She was wearing an unusual perfume, Chants à Rome, where had she gotten it? Of course, from the Guerlaine Boutique in the hotel. Certain original Guerlaine fragrances can be purchased only in Paris on the Champs Elysée and at Guerlaine Toronto. I complimented her on the scent and asked if I was right. She smiled and nodded. Clearly she was accustomed to the best.

After a while the servers brought out the appetizers, featuring eel gelato with caviar, rose-scented tagliatelle with minced herbs. Lots of women would balk at eel gelato. So would lots of men I know. Not Finn. She had quite a palate.

The dish was symphonic. She complimented the tagliatelle. She identified the herbs. Tarragon--tarragon with rose, what a surprise! She asked the server how they managed the rose flavoring. The pasta was boiled in rosewater. The wine pairing? Zýmé, ‘From Black to White’ a Venetian wine, one she had not previously tasted. She cupped her hands around the glass and sniffed. I was envious. Allergies have left me with not much of a nose. "Floral, maybe acacia," she pronounced, "aromatic." She tasted delicately, "varietal?" she asked. The wine steward was impressed.

"Yes madame," he nodded, "the rondinello grape."

The rondinello grape set the eel off beautifully and there was a big shift in conversation. We were both miles away from our operations. She asked me my favorite place in Canada. I didn't hesitate: Niagara Falls, on the Canadian side. A big tourist destination yes, well known yes, but for good reason: it's a wonder of the world, and the sound of the water--there's nothing like it. "I like it in all seasons and at all times," I explained. "At night there are colored lights on the falls."

"I'd like to see that," she mused.

I asked her in turn her favorite place in the UK. Stonehenge. That fell hard like Thor's hammer. The memory of my dream came back. She asked if I was all right. I said, "Yes, that's a special place for me too." Actually I've never been to Stonehenge.

Our server was good. She didn't interrupt our conversation. As we sat silenly for a moment, she brought the next course: seared duck breast with apple sauce, pulverized cinnamon, borage, and anise demi glacé, paired with a Spanish wine.

"Do you know borage?" she asked.

"Only from literature," I said. "Homer wrote that, mixed with wine, it can affect memory."

"Well," she laughed, "if that's so we are in for memory alteration. We've already had some spectacular wines, and this is a very romantic spot you've chosen. On the other hand, from what I've seen, I don't think you forget very much, so maybe it will add some memories!"

And there it was again--a vague hint of the kind of possibly mildly semi-flirtatious compliment that just couldn't be meant, because she was major league and I was Double A at best. I told myself it was just her way of making small talk. Both our phones beeped, a calendar change. Meetings put off until Friday afternoon because the buyout had moved to the legal departments of both companies.

She excused herself. I pulled out my cell phone. Is your bff the same age as you and the same gender? Then you're missing out, believe me. Intergenerational, opposite gender is much better--the things I don't know Samantha knows, and very occasionally vice-versa. "Sam, thank God you're there. I don't what's come over me. Their operations chief is way out of my league but I can't stop the fantasies."

"Slow down," she suggested. "You've only dated one woman since you lost your wife. Is this dinner after a business meeting, the merger you've been talking to me about?" I confirmed. "Well," she thought, "I would think several times before saying anything that might blow a multi-million dollar deal for your company. Your boss might not take it well. Where are you?"

"Don Alfonso."

"Oh, lucky you! What are you eating?"

I rhymed it off. "Did you say Anise ice cream?" I said yes. "Well Anise is an aphrodisiac. And you're drinking? Anise and alcohol with a big deal on the line? Are you nuts?"

"It's an aphrodisiac?"

"Damn straight. Licorice is an aphrodisiac. What did you think licorice was made of? Did she eat the Anise?"

"We both ate it."

"You're a pair of bloody fools. I hope she's not married."

"Wine is not an aphrodisiac," I argued back childishly.

"No, it's a disinhibitor. You've ingested an aphrodisiac and you're drinking your inhibitions away. Put it together and pull it together!"

"No ring," I said.

"Oh that makes it all right then," she said. "Boss, I blew the deal, because she wasn't wearing a wedding ring. Listen, I'm glad you're feeling these feelings. It's a long time since your wife died. But is this really the right occasion? Look, on her side it's just the Anise talking. Just drink some iced water and later some coffee and go home. No dallying in the hotel. No kissing good night, especially not on the lips. Go home. Got it?"

"Thanks Sam," I said.

"Pleasure, knucklehead chucklehead," she finished.

That was followed by wild turbot cooked in mugnaia sauce with Sicilian capers. Okay turbot is mild, so the mugnaia has to be spicy, which it was, minced beef with basel, oregano, garlic, and those salty Sicilian capers. The wine was from Piedmont, another off-white green offering, which she had tried and I hadn't. She tasted it, and invited me to assess.

"I don't have much of a nose," I explained, "certainly nowhere close to yours, so I try to make up for it with taste." I took a sip. "Hmmn, apples," she nodded, "limestone?," again a nod, "and quite a bit of acid--citrus, grapefruit?"

"Well done!" she said. "Lemon too. This meal and these pairings are out of this world! But you say you have no nose? You picked out my perfume right away." I nodded shyly. The scent of grapefruit evaporating from a glass of wine is one thing, but a $200. perfume is designed to go straight to a man's brain. "You have selective nose-blindness," she mused.

There followed buffalo with buffalo mozzarella, a red sauce (with San Marzano tomatoes) and a green sauce, quite a dish. And buffalo is hard to come by in the UK. They served a great Barolo, a 2006. I think that Barolo is the best Italian wine, no exceptions. Age it at least ten years. Give it at least four hours to breathe in a carafe. Sip it slowly and enjoy the music. It speaks of opera, orchestra, deep bass and glorious high soprano. Barolo. The Nebbiolo grape. I have, over the years, tried Barolo hacks, including putting up a certain Mexican Nebbiolo for ten years to turn it into a credible facsimile of a Barolo. The real Barolos--and this was one--start at about sixty dollars a bottle.

The light was waning. A woman once told me that we all look better in lower light because our features seem softer, but not Finn. I found I wanted to see all the brightness in her face, I wanted to look at the line of her jaw bone. After all, the jaw bone is one of the most attractive features of a beautiful woman's face, don't you think? Good thing I had myself firmly under control...

For dessert there was a Piedmont Hazelnut Parfait, mousse, sponge cake, with raspberry marmelade and chocolate. The wine pairing was Vino Santo, a traditional choice. There could be no better. Her phone beeped and a voice said "Your Uber is here."

"No coffee?" I checked. I was sure Sam had said something about coffee. I left my full glass of iced water on the table.

"We'll have that when we get there," she said cryptically. "Surely by now you trust me. All good business relationships are based on trust."

Again that little note of a semi-amorous oboe melody creeping into my mind. What was it that I had said about out of my league? What was it that Sam had said? Something about straight home? These things seemed far away. "Of course," I said, "implicitly and explicitly." Did I just say that? And off we went, the company credit card seeming a bit lighter.

The car went downtown towards the hotel, but then the driver took the Gardiner Expressway followed by the QEW. I thought about it a few moments, then ventured, "Niagara Falls? Are we going to the Falls?"

She clapped her hands, "You said they are beautiful at night." Enough said, and we motored along. As we approached, she asked me where my favorite viewpoints were.

Actually there are two," I answered. "Right down at the spot where the water seems to wait a second before it falls over the edge the sound is the best and you can feel the ground vibrating. Then up high above, at the second level you get a better view."

"Which is more dramatic?" she asked.

"Right by the falls," I answered. We decided to start there. If you've never been to the falls, I should explain that the effect is overwhelming. All of that water going over the edge, the shaking of the pavement under your feet, the awe of it all. There is always a mist. "Is your coat waterproof?" I asked. She nodded, but she looked chilly. I took off my tweed jacket and put it around her shoulders. A bit of chivalry. Old fashioned perhaps, but always appreciated, always in style.

But there was a slight tremor in her body as I gave her my jacket. Was it a happy, slightly excited tremor or a keep away tremor? I had no idea. They feel the same. Best to just wait and see.

"Oh I can hear overtones!" she exclaimed. Wow, I thought, most people can't even make out the main musical pitch of the falls. She hears that plus the higher notes that I hear. Sure wish I were handsome, higher on the scale of the economy of romance....

We admired the colored lights on the falling water. She leaned against me, and I put my arm around her shoulder. "Thank you for this," she said softly. We took our Uber up to the higher level and stood looking out over the panorama. Nothing beats Niagara Falls. If the world was created by a designer, the plan must have started here.

"The sound," she exclaimed. "I could listen to it all night."

"The hotel rooms facing the Falls have slits in the windows to open up so you can hear the sound," I noted. Was that over-eager? I was fairly certain it sounded over eager. Maybe I should learn to stop myself from seeming over eager. I've just never tried.

"Then let's," she said. I looked surprised. "We're not needed until tomorrow afternoon, and I have an expense account too, you know."

Before I could say anything, she opened her phone and made a reservation. Have you ever been caught up in a whirlwind? A whirlwind you are only to happy to ride on?

We had adjoining rooms. She told me to change into the hotel robe and join her at the window to listen to the sound. I was powerless to do otherwise. Do you know the story of Casanova and Mozart's librettist? The poet was going to London. Casanova gave him three pieces of advice: 1) Don't go to London, go to Paris. (2) If you go to London, don't go to the Italian cafe. (3) If you go to the Italian cafe, don't co-sign a loan. The poet ignored all three pieces of advice, lost a great deal of money, and ended up selling groceries in St. Louis. I could count my own failures to heed good advice. Drink iced water. If you don't do that drink coffee. If you don't do that go straight home, do not pass GO, no kissing, no kissing at all. Adjoining hotel rooms and a skimpy robe were pretty far along the list of dont's I figured. Would I soon be bagging groceries in St. Louis? Good thing I left extra food for the cats.

You have realized that I am a man of limited self control, and I'm pretty sure you're already scolding me about what happens next, but a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell. So I'm cutting the story of the evening short. You can figure it out. I did finally fall asleep, and I had another version of the dream, same setting, but Finn was my fiancee, the other characters the same. I pictured her in Stonehenge. As I drowned, my only thought was of her and the life that could have been. I was angry. I awoke with a start.

FRIDAY June 23, Freia's Day, Freitag

Which goddess was Freia anyway? Youth? Freedom? No, she was the goddess of love, sex, and she rode a chariot pulled by two cats. I have two of them...

Finn was up, working at the desk with her phone. She heard me sit up and smiled. Coffee and croissants were on a table by the bed. "It's afternoon in the UK. A lot has happened," she began. Yesterday's talks went VERY well. They're making an umbrella company using management of both. If it operates well, they'll dissolve the individual companies in four months and just keep the joint business. This was a lot to take in, especially after the night before and the dream. "And you know all of these because?" I asked.

"Because I've been up talking with my father, who owns the company," she said. "He's in the UK."

Another piece fell into place. Daughter of the chieftain. I took a quick sip of espresso. Nothing like it to boost the mind. I had heard the lightning, and the thunder must not be far off this time. "This new umbrella company?" I asked.

"Places, Spaces, Reps," she answered. Of course. It had a name already.

"My CEO?" I asked.

"Wants to retire," she replied.

"Your father?"

"Same. I'm the new CEO." She looked at me pointedly "I need a COO. It would mean shuttling between Toronto and Surrey. It means shadowing me. You know what a COO does. You would be in charge of operations and my shadow. You're the best I've met."

At the most important moments in life--and this was clearly one of them--I hold fast to two principles that my grandmother taught me. 'Say what you mean. Mean what you say. Nothing convinces like the truth'.

I've found there is a safe way to ask a certain question. People can treat it humorously if they want, or they can take it seriously. No harm, no foul either way. "Finn do you believe in reincarnation or did you give up believing in it in your last lifetime?"

She smiled. "I believe in it, yes."

I related my two dreams. She listened patiently.

When I finished, she took a breath and said, "The neat thing is.... that I have dreamt the same thing, though until now I didn't know why you didn't show up for the wedding. I thought you got cold feet. I was angry with you." I looked at her left hand. It was closed around a small jewelry box. Room service in Niagara Falls can be every bit as helpful before or after hours as room service in New York.

Spaha: from the start of our meetings three days ago to now.

Spaha: from making this company to selling it off, now.

There was the sound of thunder. Spaha: from that solstice three thousand years ago when I was murdered to now. "Then yes," I said. I looked at her closed hand, and said, "And yes!"

She took me in her arms. Sam will make a great best man. Why say more?