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“To make a call.”
The answer did little to ease the knot in my stomach.
“How long will you be?”
“A few minutes.”
He turned to leave, then paused.
His eyes settled on me, and for a moment, something softer passed through them.
“I won't be far.”
His voice was calm, but fatigue had begun to show in the shadows beneath his eyes. He had been awake longer than I had. I had not heard him complain once.
I watched him cross the tiled floor. Without the cassock and collar, no one would have guessed he was a priest. He moved like a man who understood exactly how much space his body occupied. Every step was measured. Every glance had a purpose. People shifted out of his path without appearing to know why.
He reached the row of telephones and picked up a receiver. For several seconds, he stood without dialling. His hand rested over the numbered buttons. I had the strange impression that he was reconsidering the call. Then his fingers moved. He dialled quickly. I turned away before he caught me watching.
The diner had several empty booths along the far wall. I chose one that gave me a clear view of both the entrance and the telephone.
The duffel bag sat beside me.
Demitri remained near the wall, one shoulder angled towards the room. The receiver was pressed to his ear, his back partly turned to the room.
For several seconds, he didn’t move. Then someone answered, and I saw the change in him.
His shoulders tightened beneath the sweater. His head lowered slightly. He listened more than he spoke.
Whatever passed between him and the person on the other end was brief, but it was not easy. His jaw hardened. One hand tightened around the receiver while the other rested flat against the wall beside the telephone.
He said something. Paused. Then spoke again, more sharply this time.
The distance between us made his words impossible to catch, but I didn’t need to hear them to understand that he was conflicted about something.
His face turned towards the diner. Our eyes met. For one suspended moment, the room seemed to fall away. There was something in his expression I had not seen before. As though the person on the other end belonged to a life he had spent years avoiding and making that call had just opened a door he could no longer close. He held my gaze while he spoke again. Then he looked away.
A few seconds later, he ended the call. He returned the receiver to its cradle with deliberate care and left one hand resting on it. Then he turned and walked back towards me. I studied his face as he approached, searching for some indication that the call had gone well. There was none.
He slid into the booth opposite me and set his bag beside his feet.
Demitri looked towards the window.
A waitress approached before I could ask him any questions.
Demitri ordered coffee and food without consulting the menu. When the waitress left, I leaned forward, looking at his hands. They rested on the table, his scarred knuckles so unlike the hands of a priest.
“Who were you before the Church?” I asked.
The muscles along his jaw tightened.
The waitress returned with our coffee and set it between us. Demitri waited until she moved away.
“Not the man I am today.” His tone ended the conversation.
I looked towards the window.
The bus still waited near the far edge of the car park. Passengers drifted back towards it with paper cups and bags of food. The driver stood beside the door, smoking.
