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feeling, yet he struggled to find the words and the intonation. It had to be more than appropriate. This was their first time, and all they said and did would resonate with them later that day, in the ensuing weeks, for the rest of their lives. Toby worried that he would seem arid or Belle Époque if he remained silent. He continued along for some time, and his mute lovemaking acquired a colour and a density. Then, just when he thought it would never arrive, the perfect phrase came to him. He summoned all his actorly vim, and manufactured a sneer that he hoped would render him both serious and surprising. He said, “Oh fuck, yeah, baby, you want me to fuck you hard?”
    Either Alicia didn’t hear it, caught up in her own reveries, or she was too embarrassed for them both to respond. To his relief, she soon began speaking again, making demands and stating conclusions, but it was thereafter clear to Toby that Alicia was not trying to make conversation. She was a sexual monologist.
    What did she say to Dwayne?
    Candidate Isidore looked at him with both confusion and mild rancour. “What are you talking about?”
    “Being black, and in politics.” Toby had to keep talking. Somehow, the tiny engine of blandness would mulch through all of this misunderstanding. “What’s it like? I mean, historically speaking.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean…” To lie down now, to lie in a bed of soft, red, dead leaves. The hibernating squirrel. “Look at you. You’re a handsome gentleman. The world is yours. Yours to seize.”
    “Mine?”
    “You people. All of you.”
    Candidate Isidore looked away from Toby, straight at Bruce and the camera.
    “Barack Obama, right? Rejoice. In the context of.”
    The candidate shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t get this.” He looked about the schoolyard, dished a smile that was not a smile. “Can someone help me here?”
    “Election day!” Saying the words with authority summoned Toby’s engine back to life, if only on auxiliary power. His voice returned. “It’s election day here in the federal riding of Westmount-Ville-Marie. Conservative candidate Stephen—”
    “Stéphane.”
    “Stéphane Isidore just voted for himself.”
    “I should say that I don’t have a people, Mr. Ménard. I don’t think in those terms. My family, I suppose, my friends are my people. Canadians. My parents are from Haiti. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about that. I’d like to talk about the Conservative plan for—”
    “Splendid! Tell us all about it.”
    The way the word “Splendid!” had exploded from him, automatically, almost involuntarily, awakened Toby to what was really happening here on the grounds of Roslyn School. The last of the blood and warmth threatened to leave his face and hands. His legs tingled. He shook off the sedative, and as Candidate Isidore began speaking of the Conservatives’ plan to battle the effects of the recession and to work for regular Canadian families, Toby interrupted him to put a hand on his shoulder. His viewers had to know. “I have black friends.”
    “You have…”
    “Dozens of black friends, whom I love dearly. We’ve only just met, but I like you, too, Stéphane. I believe in equality. Racial equality. Other kinds, you can’t really force those. Social equality, economic equality. But we’re not so different, you and I. We look different. People can see that at home. Sure we do. Why pretend we don’t? Personally, I think it’s something to be celebrated, our looking different and living together in relative harmony, wearing fine suits, both of us, despite the colour of our skin. Don’t you?”
    “What’s happening?”
    “No misunderstandings, that’s what’s happening here. I adore black people, basically, is the message.”
    Bruce held up his left hand and began counting down from five. There was just enough time for Toby to mention Candidate Isidore one last time and to sign off. Toby Ménard,