A Fickle Wind. Elizabeth Bourne

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СКАЧАТЬ to me. He and his wife, Mildred, were from Essex County, not too far from my parents’ home, and wonder of wonders, they lived in our apartment building.

      Max took my number and promised they would call. True to his word, they did so the following week. It was a situation made in heaven for Craig and me. Max and Mildred were about twenty-five years our senior and somehow stepped into the role of surrogate parents—but the kind who are happy with the way you are, have no expectations that you will do what they think is best, and are generous to a fault. They had one son, Julian, who was in high school, and he seemed to accept us also. We were invited to dinner several times a month and always for holiday celebrations. They lent us their books as though they ran a lending library, and they were always pleased to see us for a chat.

      We shared war experiences, ours, of course, through the eyes of children. Max had been much closer to the action, as he had served in the Navy. Because he had been employed in a necessary, and therefore protected, position before the war (I believe it had to do with chemicals), he’d had to replace himself before he could be released to the fighting forces. Mildred had agreed to be his replacement, which required that she first obtain her driver’s license and then drive from one end of the country to the other to cover Max’s territory. Most road signs had been removed to confuse any Germans who might “drop in,” so on many occasions, under cover of darkness, she was lost while trying to find her next bed and praying she wouldn’t enter an area that was under a bombing attack. And she did all this as a new, inexperienced driver. Her stories were priceless.

      As that first year wore on, I was starting to feel more confident about my ability to obtain a better, more appealing, and higher-paying position. I felt I had learned the necessary prerequisites of my new country well enough and I was now dealing from a position of strength. I had the security of a job while I started the search and interview process. I decided on my criteria: I wanted an interesting company and a plush ambiance—corporate offices of a company that produced something with appeal. I couldn’t get excited about a utilitarian end product. And I could wait until the right thing came along.

      Then, as now, the desirable area of Toronto was Bloor at Avenue Road. The classiest ladies department store was Holt Renfrew, as it still is today. I secured an interview with the senior vice president of Jordan Wines, Ontario’s second largest wine-producing company, which owned the building that housed Holt Renfrew on the first four floors, reserving the top two for their own executive offices … on Bloor at Avenue Road! Could this be it? It certainly sounded promising.

      When I walked in, I knew it was where I wanted to be. The reception area was attractive and tasteful: Mies van der Rohe chairs covered in beautiful tan leather, a heavy glass table between them, all resting on a black carpet. How striking. How elegant. How like nothing I had ever seen before! And how I loved it all.

      When I was shown into Mr. Philip Torno’s office, I saw that his elegant furniture and black carpet reflected the lobby. No two ways about it—I was sold. But was he? He was somewhat stern as he probed with his questions, and I had the impression of someone arrogant and hard to please. I was told afterward that the staff was taking bets on how long the interview would last, as he had made short work of the many applicants who had preceded me. I withstood the third degree and, after much deliberation on his part and a second interview, I was hired.

      I was elated. However, I soon learned that my first impression had been correct, and this would not be an easy situation. Philip Torno turned out to be the most difficult man I had ever encountered at that point in my life. But I so wanted to succeed, and I hadn’t been raised to fail. I had to persevere, master the position, and become someone he wouldn’t want to lose. At that point, leaving would be my choice—and he would be sorry. That was acceptable in my book! But that could happen only after I had survived the hurdles he seemed to set up daily, met his unreasonable demands with alacrity, and become a valuable commodity—because commodity was about all I was to him. He seemed to lack humanity.

      Luck was with me in the lovely woman with whom I was most closely associated. Florence and I were seated together in a recessed section visible from the reception area, both positioned outside the offices of the men for whom we worked. She was working for Philip’s oldest and most revered brother, Noah. He was all the things that Philip wasn’t—at least, so it seemed to me. He was confident, suave, charming, very friendly, and personable—and the president of the company. He was wealthy and married to a wealthy widow who was prominent in Toronto’s social circles. The two of them were often featured in the social pages of the newspaper, which reported on what events they were attending, what trips they were taking, which designer she was wearing, and on and on. What an idyllic life! What an enviable situation!

      Florence and I became great friends. She was willing to take this young, unsophisticated, but eager-to-learn English girl under her wing. Her parents were both English, and she had been a baby when they had made the move from England to the Midwest where they had homesteaded. After her education, Florence had moved to Toronto.

      I soon learned from her more details of Noah’s amazing life. Mrs. Torno attended the runway fashion shows in Paris and Milan. No three-years-behind-Europe clothes for her! They always stayed at The Pierre hotel in New York, one of many cities they frequented. Noah was more out of the office than in, and the day-to-day operation was left to Philip, their younger brother, Chum, and their cousin, Sam. This was a self-made, successful Jewish family; Philip and Noah’s parents had arrived in Canada from Eastern Europe in their youth.

      It was the young Noah, brilliant and ambitious, who had instigated this upwardly mobile life for them all. He had been in Naval Intelligence during the war, had somehow come to the attention of the Bronfman family, had engineered their backing the purchase of an established winery, and had brought his family along with him. They held the fort while he pursued much more interesting and exciting activities. He sat on the Seagram Board, handled mergers and acquisitions for them all over the world, and generally continued his successful, upward trajectory. When he was in the office, things seemed more alive.

      The time had come to confront Philip. I had bitten my tongue for months when I had been called to task over ridiculous minutia, or chastised for running out of his office to avoid his roving hands when an amorous mood struck. And the opportunity was presented one afternoon on being told to bring him coffee across the length of the general office, to his brother’s office, and then being unceremoniously waved out without a look or word as I opened the door. My long, embarrassing retreat was followed by thirty pairs of sympathetic eyes.

      He was always so rude, but I think it was actually that arrogant, dismissive wave that was the last straw. I asked to meet with him and opened with the remark that I would like to know if I ever did anything right for him. He looked surprised and told me that I was doing an excellent job. I countered with that being a great surprise to me, as all I ever received from him was criticism, and all I experienced was rudeness that bordered on bullying tactics. I told him that I was considering seeking other employment unless we could come to an understanding wherein he would not attempt to grope me, bark at me, or unceremoniously dismiss me, and he would treat me like a person, not an object who provided a service.

      He was shocked. Of course he didn’t want to lose me. He had been unaware of how objectionable his behavior was and how I was feeling. He said I should have spoken up sooner. So we came to an agreement that I wouldn’t leave, that he would try hard to be more respectful and appreciative, and that I would speak up if he ever offended me. That was all fine with me, and he did make an effort. He was a dyed-in-the-wool narcissist, I realized years later, which meant that he could really only think of another if it benefited him. Apparently he thought it did, as we managed to jog along together for another few years. He was a hard taskmaster, but I learned a lot from him that proved invaluable in my future working life and in life in general.

      Craig’s career was about to undergo a change. Max approached him to join his company, Kee Klamps, as a salesman. The company sold the fixtures used in the СКАЧАТЬ