The Video Watcher Read Online Free Page B

hurt?”
    â€œOh, no,” I said, imagining that the man in the car was Chad. I reached for the remote. “It’s just some late night movie.”
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    C am’s flight was late. To kill time I wandered the airport, went to the kiosks and through the souvenir stores, and got the impression of the city that a tourist might get—maple syrup, smoked salmon, totem poles, stuffed toy killer whales.
    The girl I’d noticed earlier was still at the flight status screens when I returned, and I went up beside her. She was about my age—maybe nineteen or twenty—she had an olive complexion, and hair that was thick and wavy and black. She stood patiently, holding her black leather handbag at waist level with both hands, a purple cardigan draped over her right arm. The dress she wore was white with black orchid prints, and there were copper medallions on her brown leather sandals.
    As I stood beside her, I took furtive glances while pretending to study the computer terminals. Her demeanour and clothing suggested that she wasn’t from here, and that fact, for some reason, made it easier for me to speak to her.
    â€œAre you waiting for someone from Mexico?” I said finally.
    My voice was weak and I started to repeat the question.
    But a smile was already there. “Yes, yes, Me he co .”
    The smile remained and I felt encouraged to say more. I forced a grin. “My friend. He’s coming from Mexico.”
    â€œYes? He from Me he co ?” she said. She had obviously misunderstood and thought Cam was from Mexico.
    The strap of the blue bra was visible beneath the white dress strap. I looked back at her face. “Are you staying in Vancouver?” I asked.
    â€œYes, studying English.”
    â€œYou like it?”
    â€œYes. It very nice.”
    â€œI’m Trace,” I said. I held out my hand, and she shook it, her hand soft and cool. “My name Maria,” she said.
    We said one or two more things.
    Then, afraid of freaking her out by asking for her number, I offered mine.
    She seemed enthusiastic. She took an agenda from her handbag. As I waited for her to open it and get a pen, I tried to guess the size of her breasts under the dress’s material.
    â€œO. Kay,” she said carefully.
    I gave her my number. She wrote it on one of the pages, and I noticed her chipped nail polish. She looked up at me. Her eyes were very dark brown.
    â€œI. Will. Call.” she said, concentrating hard on the pronunciation of each word.
    She waved to someone coming through the door, then turned to me and said—this time a bit faster, “I. Will. Call.”
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    Cam came through the doors, wearing a sombrero, and so tanned he looked black. As always, he had the hulking posture and the intense glare that had frightened people in high school.
    I had to shout twice before he saw me. When he did, his expression softened.
    â€œHola,” I said.
    â€œMr. Patterson, Mr. Patterson,” he said, shaking his head with a sort of sad/happy disbelief. “Long time no see.” He held out his hand and I put mine in it, and he squeezed hard.
    We didn’t say anything else till we reached the end of the railing that separated us.
    â€œCan you watch this?” He handed me his grey duffle bag. “I got to use the washroom. Those fuckers in customs wouldn’t let me go.”
    The duffle bag was the one he’d taken to outdoor school in Grade 11. I had a clear memory of that period, but at the same time, the memory seemed distant.
    When Cam returned, I pointed at the bag and asked him if he remembered outdoor school.
    â€œOh. Yeah,” he said, obviously thinking of something else.
    â€œTrouble with customs?”
    â€œFuck! I was this close,” Cam said, indicating a few millimetres with his thumb and index finger, “to punching the bitch in the head.”
    He picked up the duffle bag. I started toward