The Peacock 986

 "There was a movie made about a pregnant man", say I, closing the book and setting it back on the coffee table.

"No kidding?" says Francois popping a grape into his mouth.  He is reclined on my father's sofa like Cleopatra barging up the Nile.  He looks so funny I want to laugh right out loud.

"I think I heard of it", says Carl.

"The Rabbit Test", say I, while holding out my palm to Francois for a few grapes, and he indifferently drops five into my hand. "Joan Rivers directed it."

"She was...?" says Francois

"Would you like me to peal you a grape, Francois?" says Carl.

"Oh, would you please, my dear boy", he says, passing him the remaining bunch from the bowl nestled like a magical egg in his lap.

Carl breaks off a small bunch and greedily pops them into his mouth.  Then glancing at Francois, says, "Oops.  Sorry."

"I wouldn't worry about it my little man", replies Francois.  "Good help is hard to get these days."  And now we're all bursting out in laughter....

The Peacock 985

 The tests were conclusive.  I really was, and am, a woman.  The uterus, the belief that I could menstruate, were not hallucinations or delusions, but the very frank expression of my interior female identity.  Even though there was otherwise not one single traditionally feminine trait or characteristic in my character.  Nor was I really masculine.  Gwen did tell me that, but for her being a biological woman, she otherwise could see absolutely no difference between us as two women.  And Gwen, though not a lesbian, was hardly what anyone could call a stereotype of conventional femininity.  We actually through this process became great friends, and to this day we are still in contact with each other.  I actually had mixed feelings about the hormonal treatment.  I didn't care much about changing my voice, though for a male, my voice had always had a higher than usual timbre.  Nor did I particularly want to grew a set of breasts, and really, the modest gains from the hormones have left me appearing one could say, rather deficient in the chest department.  Honestly, all I wanted was a uterus and the ability to conceive and bear a child, something which not even God was about to do for me, which comes as no surprise, given that my case would have been even a greater challenge to the architect of the cosmos than Jesus being born of a virgin...

The Peacock 984

 "I arrived in Toronto June 30, 1991.  Classes were to begin in September, giving me a couple of months to get on with the therapy.  I was assigned to a psychiatrist specializing in gender reassignment.  It was expensive, but I had managed to bank a good load of savings over the years, plus I had also been enrolled into a special program for financial assistance as needed.  My psychiatrist, Gwen, was a particularly frank and direct kind of woman, no beating around the bush with her. She was well in her fifties, and as a thirty year old I would have to struggle not to place on her any maternal expectations.  She was a hardass from start to finish, with a wicked wit and no patience for idiots.  I had already begun living as a woman, as Karen.  Gwen was puzzled that I did not wear dresses or makeup, nor that I seemed interested in doing anything with my hair, which fortunately was abundant.  I had grown it to just cover my ears, but I otherwise had little interest in looking like a traditional woman.  My uniform was no different from when I was Kevin.  A few random T shirts and blue jeans.  And running shoes.  She later confessed that on our first visit, upon giving me the once over, she almost told me to leave her office.  But when I spoke of having a uterus, of believing that I was menstruating, despite the absence of blood every month, she put me through a whole battery of of tests and questions.  This went on for the whole summer.  Then, as my classes were about to begin in September, I began taking hormones.

The Peacock 983

 "It wasn't too long before I discovered that Moira, my wife was having an affair.  We had known him in high school.  Ted, a truck driver and recently divorced,  It had not escaped my notice that there had long been a spark between them.  I had already been accepted into theological college in Toronto, and so we were already prepared to end everything.  Still a difficult process, for both of us.  As dead as our marriage had become, there was something about all the years we were together that had created and nurtured in both of us a deeply imbedded love or connectedness. We both decided to be adults about it.  And plus, and this I dd not reveal to Moira until several years later, I had also been accepted for gender reassignment therapy, also conveniently in Toronto.

The divorce was quick and relatively seamless.  Months later, Moira and Ted, her lover, were married.  I consigned to him all paternal rights over my three boys, one of the most difficult things I have ever had to do.  I couldn't face the coming reality of having to disclose to my children that their father was really a woman...."

The Peacock 982

 Karen Wilson's book is in easy reach on the coffee table.  I turn to the page where we left off last night. 

 "Becoming".

I received both callings simultaneously: to study for the priesthood, and to change my gender.  Not one first, then the other, but both.  Simultaneously.  I found this as perplexing and troubling, every bit as it was also gratifying and comforting.  I didn't know who to turn to.  Here we were living in this small town in northern Ontario, my wife and I, raising our three sons.  I worked in the bank.  She was a house mom., and we were both secretly miserable.  We were like two tiny uninhabited islands with a narrow strait of water between them, no bridge, no boat, nothing to connect.  We had long accepted bed death and simply no longer desired each other.  Perhaps we never did.  In small towns and in rural communities people still tend to marry out of a sense of obligation and tradition, not necessarily for love, and if one or both partners is queer, so much the better to have a good cover.  We eventually went from separate beds to separate bedrooms.  Curiously, I didn't even feel at the time any particular attraction to men.  I still don't, and have since come to accept and embrace my asexuality.  But as a woman, I don't think I was particularly feminine, and to this day I still prefer to walk around in T shirts and jeans over adorning myself in dresses and high heels.  But there was this other anomaly.  I couldn't shake the sense that I really did have a uterus, the capacity for becoming pregnant, conceiving and carrying a child and giving birth.  As absurd as my male anatomy made the proposal it became for me the very ground of my being, this being a woman, completely and fully.  I even felt a strange urge to menstruate, and every month would check my underwear for blood.

The Peacock 981

 This time we let Carl pick up the tab, as consolation for not wanting. to spend the day with him tomorrow.  He has an obsessive need to give and share, which I should find inspiring, and in a way is inspiring, but there also appears to be a lot of neediness behind it.   Well, why not?  How much opportunity has he really had to develop any healthy close friendships with anyone.  And I really don't know what I could possibly offer him.  Francois, yes.  He appears to be the least damaged of us three.  But he also really wants to get on with his life.  I imagine we are all like hostages, thrown together by the great Divine Kidnapper Himself.  Hardly more than one or two inconsequential sentences have been exchanged between us since leaving downtown and now we are pulling into the driveway of my father's house.  Sheeba the cat awaits us at the front door, and just after stepping inside the house she rubs furiously against my leg.  I pick her up, a purring, delighted mass of dark fur.  While holding onto her I slip off my shoes and carry her into the living room where she sits contentedly on my lap.  Francois is in the kitchen and not even the sound of kibble being poured in her bowl appears to be enough to motivate her to leave me.  He brings her bowl of food into the living room, places it at my feet and down she jumps.  After a few courtesy mouthfuls, she jumps back onto my lap.

"Do you think someone's been feeding her?" I ask.  "She doesn't appear to be hungry."

"Maybe she found something to kill", says Carl.  "Shall we read a bit?"

"Oh, I don't see why not", says Francois, now stretching himself fully on the couch....

Yhe Peacock 980

 The Thai restaurant is pleasant, not brightly lit and the food is exquisite as I inhale both through my nostrils and mouth the steaming red curry on my plate.  We are all quiet, each enfolded in his personal thoughts, or fog.  We have spent so much time together and I think that now even Carl is exhausted from having to talk.  My hope is that we can all get home soon, make it an early night, even skip the obligatory nightly reading time or bedtime story  Well, maybe a bedtime story.  A short one.  I noticed that my Winnie the Pooh books are still in the den.  Maybe something from the House on Pooh Corner.  But really I want time alone.  I need time alone.  I just received from Erik a text.  For sure he is going to have to quarantine for two weeks upon arrival here tomorrow, which gives me a reprieve.  Tomorrow, I am going hiking in the forest, alone, and plan to spend the whole day just like that, alone.  Francois and Carl can take care of each other or themselves.  I really don't care.  I am so overstuffed with human companionship, and have noticed that I am getting notably edgy and irritable.

"What is the plan tomorrow?" says Carl, and of course Carl, being among us the most sociable and the most codependent.

"I move that we all have a free day tomorrow, and just do whatever the hell we want." say I.

"Okay", he says, "Where should we all go."

"Wherever the hell we want, but I am spending tomorrow alone."

"Me too", says Francois.

After briefly drinking from his water glass, Carl, deflated, says, "Alright then.  It's probably a good idea.  But what about your ex-brother in law?

"Tomorrow when he arrives he begins his fourteen day quarantine..."

The Peacock 979

 "Did you sleep?" say I to Carl.

"Maybe for ten minutes.  I found your conversation too interesting."

"An eavesdropper", say I.

"So, Francois, my advice", says Carl, "Would be exactly what Chris just told you.  Stick close with us, especially during this time.  And don't meet with those vultures in black dresses."

"The archbishop and clergy?"

"Whom else would I be talking about'".

"Like scared little old ladies in black dresses", say I.

"Exactly."

"Where should we go to eat?" say I.

"how about Japanese?" says Francois".

"I was thinking of Indian curry", says Carl.

"There's a really decent Thai restaurant nearby", say I.

"Rock" says Carl, simultaneous to Francois'  "scissors."

Then I say "scissors" to Carl's paper.

"We're going for Thai", say I .

"Let's Thai one on", says Carl.

"You're designated driver, Carl", say I, "so you are drinking water tonight."

"You just want to Thai me down."

"Yeah, and spank you too."

"Oh promises promises!"

"Why me?" says Francois, looking up in dismay...

The Peacock 978

 Carl is flaked out in the bedroom, leaving Francois and I alone to carry the conversation.  He is stirring his coffee, pensively, I think, and rather noisily, as though there is something eating at him, that he just is not going to let go of.

"Okay", say I.  "Spit it out."

"Spit what out?"

"Whatever it is that you are holding onto right now.  Or maybe it's holding onto you."

"Whatever do you mean, brother Christopher."

"Stop being coy.  What is it.?"

"That was quite the visit we just had."

"With Carl's cousin? Yes, that it was.  Any thoughts?"

"There's a lot to digest here.  I mean, I can see the need for harm reduction in sex work.  But actually maintaining the women in such a disgusting and degrading occupation?"

"It's either that or they go homeless and starve to death.  And a lot of them have kids they're supporting."

"But there must be some employers willing to give them a chance."

"One would hope.  But in this climate of cutthroat capitalism when everyone is only going to hire the best and the brightest.  You know, there are coffee shops now that will not hire anyone who doesn't have at least a bachelor's degree."

I've heard that.  Creeping credentialitis."

"That's a good word for it.  Now, please, François, spit it out already.  What's bugging you?"

"While we were in the coffee shop, I got another text from the abbey."

"Now what do they want."

"They are insisting on meeting with me here in Vancouver, in the archdiocesan office.  Apparently, I'm up for excommunication."

"And if you don't show?"

"They'll still go ahead and excommunicate me."

"Can they take any legal measures against you?"

"None."

"Then you owe them nothing."  I am definitely starting to enjoy this hardass persona I seem to be taking on now that I'm back home again.  It's not exactly that I'm getting my power back.  This is all new.  I have never before felt this strong, never in my life, and I am going to run with it.  "And anyway, you've been expecting this, haven't you?  And wanting it?"

"I just didn't know it was going to be this hard to face and accept.  It's like a major part of my identity is being stripped away from me."

"I think I understand.  I've been going through something similar as I am distancing myself from the Anglican Church."

"But the Anglican Church never quite takes possession of the human soul the way Holy Mother Roman Church can.  She is one possessive mistress.  And when you have turned against her, far deadlier than the woman scorned."

"In which case, Francois, I really l think you should stick close to us, to Carl and I.  We can bring the cat back to the mansion with us, and you can conduct your job search from there, but you really should not be on your own for now."

"You're right", he says, just as Carl is emerging from the bedroom...

The Peacock 977

 On Carl's request we are delaying going home right away in order to explore downtown a bit.  It is around 4:30 and here we are on Wáter Street, standing in front of that absurd steam clock.  The place is mobbed by tourists and Francois has just commented on the absolute absurdity of the place, and all the tourists greedily snapping photos of the monstrosity as though they were picking up from the ground manna from heaven.

"Are we still in the Downtown Eastside?", says Carl, already looking bored.

"In a word, yes", I reply, "Though no two neighbourhoods could be more worlds apart.  Gastown is for the tourists and of course is nice, expensive and extremely tacky.  But it's still the same neighbourhood.  Thing is, no one wants to cope with that kind of cognitive dissonance."

"It's bad for the skin", says Francois.

"What do you say that we regroup in my condo, have a coffee, then go out for dinner."

"That works", says Carl....

The Peacock 976

 "There's more.  That house has a very bizarre and twisted history.  Somehow it got into the hands of a nudist commune in the forties and fifties, and then a particularly bizarre cult in the sixties.  We suspect there might have been a massive group suicide there, a la Jim Jones, but the journal we have read from one of the survivors indicates something even more bizarre, which I won't go into right now, also we suspect that drugs might have been involved.  From there, we don't really know what happened except that my father began to visit there regularly during the eighties and nineties and sunk a lot of money into restoring the place.  Melissa and I would go out there from Holland when we were kids and spend the summer there, that was after my patents' divorce, then my father disappeared, died, an alleged suicide.  We've had it turned into a Christian retreat cetre, but there are still really weird things going on there."

"Weird in what sense?"

"Supernatural.  Various people, including us three just days ago, have had rather bizarre hallucinations and otherworldly visitations.  The place is clearly haunted."

"Cursed, I would say", says Cynthia  "I must be getting back to the centre.  I would like us to continue this conversation.  Next week, here at this coffee shop suit you okay?  Monday again at three?"

"I don't see why not", says Carl.

The Peacock 975

 It is hard to say now where the conversation is going to go from here.  Carl appears to be completely out of his element, and of course he is outside of his element.  This is going to be for him a hard and difficult apprenticeship, made all the harder if he isn't prepared to accept his chosen teachers.

"Tell me about the house you live in, Carl", says Cynthia.

"The mansion?"

"Yes.  If you don't mind, please."

"It was built just after the First World War.  My, or our, great grandfather was suddenly extremely wealthy from his silver mines in Indonesia.  He wanted to raise his family outside of Europe, since the devastation of the Great War.  But when he returned to Europe to  fetch his family, his wife refused to leave Holland, plus he had a lot of pending business to take care of, so he never got to live there.  He rented the place out as a hunting lodge.  Problems of family, business and state kept him in the Netherlands where he died, never to return again to Canada."

"How big a house is it?"

"Sixty rooms."

The Peacock 974

 "How long have you worked in palliative care?" says Cynthia.

"About ten years."

"Very challenging work. "  I can tell she is saying this as though wondering if maybe it is time for me to change careers, to try something else.  And just now, upon hearing her speak in this kind of tone, I am myself suddenly wondering if that could be the case.

"Have you ever had problems with pimps", Carl asks.

"A few times.  We sheltered the women who were escaping, then tried to give them safe passage back to their own countries or elsewhere in Canada.  It's happened about six times."

"Are all the girls safe now?"

"Three of them are dead.  One was sent home to India, where she died in an honour killing.  Her family was not about to forgive the disgrace, even though she was abducted and brought here and forced against her will to do sex work.  Two others were tracked down and killed by their pimps.  The other three, they're okay now, and I hope you'll forgive me for not revealing any details about them.  Those are also the three that successfully transitioned out of sex work..."

The Peacock 973

 "How many people have you seen die?" asks Francois.

"After the first twenty I lost count.  This is why I'm on leave."

"How did you cope?" 

"I didn't.  That's why I'm on leave.  The pandemic came as a convenient excuse."

"I would imagine that with the pandemic", says Carl, "That your services would be in particularly high demand."

"To avoid contagian patients have been kept out of palliative care, leaving them to die in place."  And now I know I have to change the subject because I can feel myself teetering on the edge.

"Are you okay with talking about this?" asks Carl.

"Not right now.  It's all a bit much."  And already, I can see again that recurring vision, day afer day as our people were dying off, a great brilliant green field or meadow shining like solid emerald in the dying sun, and the feeling that I was walking in that field with the dying patient. It is engulfing me and now I cannot function.

"Are you okay, Chris?" says Carl.

"Just give me a moment, please...

The Peacock 982

 Cynthia pauses and reaches for her mug.  She is struggling and trying to keep her voice from breaking, her eyes from welling up.

"I'm sorry", says Carl.  "Maybe I went too far."

"No, it's okay", she says, recapturing her composure.  "It's ten years ago yes, but...those wounds never heal.  But ten years, still, it's a long time."

"She is your daughter", say I.

"Thank you", she replies.  "And thank you for acknowledging that Celia still is my daughter."

"I work as a palliative care nurse.  I am on leave right now, because of the pandemic and for health reasons.  But this is something I know.  Death does not alter or end intimate relationships, it merely deepens and transforms them."

"Yes, that is true, so very true.  Thank you Christopher."

"You are very welcome."

"That sounds like a very challenging profession."

"Probably no more or less than what you are doing..."

The Peacock 971

 "But you want persuading."

"It isn't that so much, but the dynamics of patriarchy are very much present in sex work, and I would imagine that when it is between two men, then perhaps that changes things somewhat.  I don't know., I'm thinking out loud right now."

"Wouldn't it just come down to something as simple as physical strength?" says Francois.  "A male sex worker could well have an advantage over his client in most cases, given that he is likely working out every day in the gym in order to stay in shape."

"There is that", says Cynthia.  "Many of our women are very vulnerable to physical assault."

"What do you think of some feminist academics", says Carl, "That think it should be called sex work because it should be seen as a legitimate profession, given that some women would want to make that choice about what to do with their bodes."

"And I as a Christian", says Cynthia, "Simply am not prepared to go that far.  I will stand my ground on this, that ninety percent or more women in the sex trade are there because they were sexully abused as chuldren.  I was interviewed last week on CBC, and when I made that statement I started getting nonstop hate calls and texts from academic feminists, calling me a complete sellout and a disgrace to women's liberation and a Christian sycophant, and those were the gentler names I was called.  But no woman who is the product of a healthy and happy childhood would ever think of selling her body.  There is something decidedly pathological about sex work, and I only wish we had the resources to get to the bottom of it."

"So then", says Carl, "What would you have said to your daughter?"

"I would first ask her why?"

The Peacock 970

 "I never would have imagined..."

"It was more than twenty years ago.  Mom divorced dad, to protect my sister and I from his depredations, and even though he was stinkin' rich he withheld funds from us.  Plus, I'd developed a nasty coke addiction, and along with a thirst for adventure, that drove me to selling my body along the canals.  

"How did you get out of it?"

"Through the help and friendship of another sex worker.  She was older, in her thirties, a British transwoman named Stella who had set up shop for several years in  Amsterdam.  She took me under her wing, and basically got me into treatment.  Stella actually scrupulously avoided drugs and alcohol.  But she was determined to see me get better, and because of my tender age, she felt good and determined to get me out of the profession .  It wasn't as hard as we thought it would be.  Treatment also dulled the thrill of selling my body, plus, by that time I was so sick of it all, that I was only glad to get out.  So, when Mom accidentally tracked me down and dragged me back home with her, let's just say that I was already prepared to go willingly.  It also put me off sex, probably for the rest of my life."

"This is very interesting", says Stella.  "I have never met any male or trans sex workers."

"We're not really different from the girls."

"I am not so sure about that" rebuts Cynthia.  "Patriarchy."

"do you really think that when a dude is paying for sex that he's really going to think much about the politics.  If he is thinking at all, that is, and he is not going to be thinking with the head that is above his neck..."

"You might have a point..."

The Peacock 969

 "How I wish that we could. How I wish that we could."

"I imagine your girls need the income."

"There aren't a lot of folks out there who are thinking of employing a former sex worker.  There is a seed project beginning that might address this, but so far it doesn't seem likely to germinate.  Stigma, you know."

"Would you like to see them get out of sex work."

"Nothing would give me more joy.  But right now we are stuck with keeping them alive and well and at least passably happy.  There is so little political will.  And a lot of the pigs they service are shall we say pillars of society, and not one of them is about to table any legislation that will help these women move into a new and better life."

"Can I share something with you?"

"Please do."

"For three years, when I was a teenager, in Amsterdam, I was a rent boy..."

The Peacock 968

 In this past year", says Cynthia, "We have been able to save ten women from dying from overdose, and by getting them off the street and doing their work online another fifteen from almost certain harm from men that would have picked them up on the street.  As well we provide community and camaraderie and fellowship and support."

"Have any actually left prostitution?"

"Three."

"In the past year?"

"Longer than that."

"Past two years, three."

And here I can finally identify this trait that I have noticed in Carl, this at times offensive and nervy bluntness, or should I say complete absence of tact, and this is something he appears to share in common with his cousin.  This is pure and simple Dutchness.  Why didn't I notice this earlier?

"We don't keep stats."

"But maybe you ought to."

"That is a huge back and forth that I go through with the Anglicans and the Catholics who are funding us. The United church is less judgmental and more open minded."

"But how about also dealing with the male swine that they service?"

The Peacock 967

 "We take a harm reduction approach.  There is onsite care for safe drug injection, as well as mental and physical health support provided by practitioners in the community, all of them women, of course.  We also have access to free laptops so they can do all their work online, where it is much safer than working on the street.  And of course we provide daycare."

"What would be your success rate?" says Carl.

"I beg your pardon?"

"How many women have you actually been able to transition away from sex work into productive working lives."

"That isn't what we are doing."

"Well, then what are you doing?  you're not simply enabling them?"

Now I can tell that Cynthia is really having to struggle to maintain civility with her distant cousin.

"For the most part, they are not ready to, as you call it, transition."

"But by keeping them in that kind of life, aren't you only hurting them in the long run.  And what about the men that they service?"

"Oh to hell with the men!" and now she is clearly trying not to shout.  "They are all incurable swine."

"On that point we are agreed."

"Perhaps, Carl, " she says "You might ask how many lives have been saved?"

The Peacock 966

 "First of all", she says patiently, "They are not my girls.  I am not their madame, and they are not under my care.  They are all incredibly courageous, strong and resilient women I am honoured to work with and have as friends.  We have a centre further down, I cannot say where because of privileged access."

"Privileged how?" says Carl.

"They need a place here they can feel safe, from bad dates and pimps especially, as well as unhinged boyfriends. Which is why I arranged that we meet here in this coffee shop."

"To protect your women from us."

"It's common sense."  I can tell that she is struggling not to lose patience with Carl, who does appear inappropriately combative.

"I understand perfectly", says Francois. "My father, a Tutsi, was murdered by Hutus in Rwanda.  "I am, or till very recently, was a Roman Catholic priest.  It's a bit of a long story, but a Hutu, one of the men who murdered my father, approached me for confession.  I couldn't absolve him.  Yes, I understand perfectly well, why the women you work with need to be protected from men."

"Thank you very much, Francois", she says, relieved.

"Yes", says carl, not quite grudgingly.   "Thanks."

The Peacock 965

"You call this a ministry," says Carl.  "How are you funded."

Fortunately the Anglican, Catholic and United churches in this city have seen the value of what I am doing, so they have stepped up all sorts of funding and other supports.  I could say that the Catholics are my most tricky players, because they do not like their money going to abortion services.  But sometimes that is what is needed for the women I work with to be able to make it through the night."

"Where is your granddaughter now", asks Francois.

"She is attending the university of Toronto where she is studying social work and dramatic arts."

"That could be interesting", say I.

Carl says, "Besides helping them get abortions, what else do you do with your girls.?"

The Peacock 964

 "I am so sorry to hear that", says Carl.

"So am I", say I.

"Yes, very sorry", says Francisco.

"Thank you", she says quietly, closing her eyes and bowing her head.  "Thank you all of you."  She looks in her cup of coffee, now half empty, glances at the screen of her laptop, then renews her focus on us.  "Celia was murdered.  We are sure it was a bad date that did it.  He was never caught.  Her body was found on the side of a road in Richmond, of all places, less than a kilometre from the house where I grew up..  I hadn't heard from her for several months.  At that time I was raising her daughter for her, on her request, because she didn't feel she could give Lara a safe environment.  I wanted to see her more, and for her to  see more of her daughter, but she was always hard to get hold of.  I knew what she was doing.  We never talked about it.  She was too ashamed.  And too proud.  Six months later, I found myself down there in the industrial neighbourhood where she worked on the street.  I just randomly began talking with a young indigenous sex worker who knew my daughter.  They were close.  And suddenly we were both weeping in each other's arms.  I was already a well seasoned social worker, and Denise asked me, begged me, to start coming down there often to see them.  And that is how this ministry began..."

The Peacock 963

 "So", says Carl to his distant cousin, "You work in a supportive role with prostitutes."

"With survival sex-workers, yes", she says carefully and cautiously.

"Do you prefer the term sex-worker?"

"Well, it's less judgmental, and doesn't create stigma."

"But isn't that inescapable, I mean,no matter how we chose to name the oldest profession?"

"I don't say we can ever get it right.  But we have to remember, and remind ourselves and one another that these women are first and foremost human beings."

"I'm a journalist.  I write and edit an online magazine about social and international issues and human interest.  And I've been following for sometime some of the changing trends in popular speech and terminology.  I mean, I totally agree with you, Cynthia, that we have to be careful to protect the women's dignity who are involved in this kind of degrading work.  But isn't it also a mistake to whitewash prostitution, or sex work, as they like to call it now.  To legitimize it as yet another career choice, equal to practicing law, teaching, or nursing or suchlike?"

"Sex work is work", she says patiently.

"Yes, but say you had a daughter who one day said to you, Hey mom, I want to be a sex worker when I grow up?  What would you say to her?"

"It just happens that my daughter was a sex worker", she rebuts.

"You say was.  What does she do now?"

"She died ten years ago."

The Peacock 962

 "That does come as a bit of a shock", says Carl, carefully sipping his coffee, as though it could easily burn his lip.  "How did you find this out?"

"From my mother six months ago, just before she died."  Now Cynthia is taking time to compose herself.  She takes a sip of coffee, then resumes:  "My father had sworn her to secrecy about this, because it was his side of the family, and he simply didn't want it to be known.  But mom felt she had to break her promise, that I had a right to know these things, and that that was one secret she was not going to carry to the grave."

"So, there we have it", says Carl.

"Yes.  There we have it, indeed."

"My mom will be arriving here from Switzerland this Wednesday and she will be staying at the mansion.  Following her two weeks of covid quarantine.  

"I've heard of your mother.  She was part of a Christian miniustry in that country?"

"Yes, for many years.  Melissa and I also lived there for several years."

"Melissa?"

"My sister."

"Oh yes.  Naomi mentioned her to me..."

The Peacock 961

 I don't know what I seem to be turning into over these last twenty-four hours since leaving the mansion.  It's as though an impish snarky, wisecracking little fourteen year old boy has been gradually taking me over.  I have never before been one for making sarcastic remarks, being punchy, or turning everything into a joke.  I think I like it.  Francois returns with our café americanos and Cynthia appears to take this as a signal to resume.  Apparently she really does want to include Francois and me in this conversation.

"I only found out in the last several months, that what really happened was that my great-grandfather, your great-grandfather, raped my great grandmother, who was a servant, or slave rather, in his household, and she became pregnant .  His brother was a Christian minister, and seemed to have enough consciousness of the faith of Jesus, to want to do good for the poor woman.  Apparently they had an eye for each other, and she was attending his church.  So, to cover hers and our great-grandfather's disgrace, he married her, and took her back with him to Holland.

"What I also learned, was that my great great grandmother, the mother of my great grandmother, was a kind of witch or wise woman.  Knowing what had transpired, she put a curse on your great grandfather.  which I believe some unfolding events in our family have been but the bitter fruit and outcome....

The Peacock 960

 "It turns out", says Cynthia, gently shoving her laptop aside, as though to clear space for us, "that Naomi's, and your great-grandfather, also happened to be my great-grandfather."

"Hold on", says Carl, "Wasn't my great grand father your great great uncle?"

"Apparently not", she replies.  

"Would you guys like coffee?" says Francois.

"I can get it," says Carl.

"No, you need to talk with your cousin.  I'll get it."

"I didn't bring any cash with me."

"No worries man. I'm pretty flush right now."

"Do you guys actually fight over who gets to pay?" says Cynthia.

"In a way...Yes", says Carl.

"That is pretty rich", she says, laughing.

"So's your cousin", say I, just dodging the warning concealed venomous look Carl is darting my way.  and now I am laughing...

The Peacock 959

 She is large, but not fat, and maternal, around sixty years old,  with short dark hair and a wide smiling face framing brown eyes that sparkle with gladness.  One can only feel immediately at home, home with Mom, with this kind of person.  Her voice is rich, full, melodious.  

"I am so glad to finally meet you, Carl", she says.  "And your friends.  Hello, my name is Cynthia."

"Christopher", say I.

"Francois.  The pleasure is mine."

"And you drove out here from the Valley?"

"We are staying right now in Chris's house", says Carl.  "We just arrived here yesterday."

"Yes, Naomi mentioned you would be coming."

"You know each other?"

"By a happy coincidence.  I was doing a presentation at her church in Abbotsford two years ago.  And, well, Vancouvoerden is not even common for a Dutch name, so we both immediately started asking questions..."

The Peacock 958

 We are passing a young man begging seated on the sidewalk.  His dirty jeans and T shirt, like him, have seen better days.  Francois reaches into his pocket and hands him a two dollar coin.

"That was kind of you", says Carl.

"Even if I don't have a lot, I like to help when I can.  I often feel I'm doing it more for myself than for the panhandler."

"What do you think he's going to spend it on?"

"I don't know, and I really don't care.  Some need the money for food, but if he wants to spend it on cigarettes or drugs' or alcohol, it is none of my business."

"So you could be also contributing to their harm."

"Or not.  It is like that with the gifts that God gives us.  He trusts us to be good stewards of his generosity, even though usually we are not."

"Well said". say I " Here's the café."

"The place is almost empty, save for a table in a corner occupied by an older woman looking at her laptop.

"Would you be my cousin Cynthia", says Carl, approaching her with a shy timid smile.

"And you must be Carl", she says, smiling warmly, glowing rather, as she rises up to shake his hand....

The Pracock 957

 There is room on the third level of the parkade.  We walk down to street level.  This is the border of the famous Downtown Eastside.  Chinatown is just one block to the right.  We have to turn left to find the coffee shop where Carl's distant relative is going to see us.

"Pretty sorry looking individuals out today", says Carl.

"It's much worse along Hastings", say I.  "There has been an explosion of homelessness in the last several years, and now with the pandemic it's gotten even worse."

"Don't any of those people want to work for a living?"

"It isn't that simple", Francois weighs in.  "I did some work with homeless people in Montreal.  Some of the stories were just heartbreaking.  but to accuse them of not wanting to work would be like kicking a child. And it simply isn't true."

"Drugs?  Alcohol?  Mental illness?"

"In some cases yes, brother Carl.  But let's just say that there are people who have never enjoyed your privileges, and from what you've told us, for a while not even your own privileges were much protection for you when you were on the street in Amsterdam."

Carl does not deign to dignify that with an answer, but I can tell by his silence that Francois has just hit him in a ver y tender, and very vulnerable place...

The Peacock 956

 As we exit from University boulevard onto West Tenth avenue, Carl suddenly asks Francois, who is in the front seat with him, "I have a brilliant idea."

"Shoot."

"How about after the piece I am working on about Amanda that I also do a feature article about you, or better still, why don't you write the article, and I will see that you are generously remunerated for it."

"Not going to happen."

"Perhaps you could think about it."

"No, Carl.  Not even."

"But it could be a helpful way for you to process all that you've been through."

"Your magazine already has a good readership.  Can you imagine the shitstorm that would explode?"

"You would be paid very generously, Francois."

"The answer is an unequivocal no, my friend."  And I can tell by his tone that Francois is getting very annoyed with our friend.

"You can't be bought?"

"Nor rented."

Say I, "And we are not going to touch that one."

Ignoring my quip, Carl says to Francois "I must say, your integrity is inspiring.  Annoying as hell maybe, but also inspiring."  And now it appears that the rest of the ride is going to be pretty quiet.

"