Coming Of Age

To the Carisma restaurant, for the best ravioli in Toronto. There I was to meet my CIA colleague in The Trade, Matilda Hatt. I had ordered two martinis, and had just taken my first sip when Tilly stormed in,  her face contorted in fury. She plunked herself down, grabbed the martini in front of her, and swallowed the whole thing in a gulp.

Whatever was bothering her, it was serious.

"I," she announced dramatically, "have been re-assigned. To a desk job! Me! The best field operative they've got. This is unbelievable.!"

After ordering her another martini, I heard her tale of woe, and the words Giuseppe di Lamedusa wrote in his fine novel The Leopard flashed into my mind: "If we want things to stay the way they are, things will have to change."

It turns out that Tilly had been promoted to head up field operations emanating from the UK, and was to liaise with Sir Harry to boot. This irritated her no end.

"The man's an outright curmudgeon," she stated. "Once called me a shrieking banshee! I mean, really."

"A shrieking Banshee?" I responded. "Well, I can certainly agree that Sir Harry is guilty of redundancy."

"I don't know what you mean. And look. They want me to wear this kind of an outfit from now on. It is all too much."

What Tilly was wearing was a dark blue woolen A-line dress, and I know an Armani when I see one. Truth be told, she looked smashing. Admittedly, this was a far cry from Tilly's usual apparel, which tended to be jeans that had seen better days, and a tattered sweater that resembled something that might have been worn on Mao's Long March. (This was not totally improbable -- Tilly had spent a great deal of time in China, meeting any number of Politburo members.)

At this point,  I decided that a greater perspective was needed, and over the course of a (very fine) lunch proceeded to unload a few truths, truths which applied to me as well as to her. Physically, we were still in good working order, but -- and here's the thing I explained -- not what we once were. Secondly, I got her to admit that on the shooting range her groupings were not as tight as they should be, nor was she as fast in reloading. Thirdly, what her superiors had recognized via the new appointment was an ability not determined by age -- her knack of imaginative planning and tactics.

"I mean," I said, "just look at how we got out of Libya with that physicist. I still don't know how you arranged that boat."

""Yeah," she stated, "but that got you shot in the ass. The whole thing could have gone better."

I shot back, "Nonsense. Just took one for the team. Doesn't take away from my point, that as we age, our abilities alter, and we have to adjust. So Matilda Hatt should also adjust. Think of it as a coming of age."

"I'll think about it. Don't have to like it, though."

"To my knowledge, no one does. But so it goes."

So there we left it.

Now a final word on a situation I have been harping on recently, the First Nations 'Idle No More'* movement. It amazes me that no commentator has drawn a parallel with Sophocles Oedipus Rex. In the play, Oedipus, King of a plague-ridden Thebes, tries to ascertain the cause of the plague, without realizing that the cause is he himself.

Admittedly, the parallel is not perfect; Oedipus truly doesn't know what his precise sin encompasses -- the murder of his father and marriage to his mother -- until it is revealed. In the case of the Idle No More thingy, a number of chiefs, and certainly Chief Theresa Spence,** know exactly the sins they have committed, condemning the band members under their charge to poverty, alcoholism, drugs, and ghastly living conditions. Their followers, however, may be truly wearing the shoes of Oedipus in not being aware that the solution lies within themselves. Let us hope that at some point awareness will dawn.

* The 'Idle No More' title seems oddly ill-suited to the initiative. It implies that prior to this, all First Nations were idlers, something history attests was certainly not the case. Now if all the protesters were to take a year off and do some reading....

** Theresa Spence. Idol no more.