Unlimited Plan (*)

The widow

5

Toronto, Canada

The black taxi pulls away from its parking spot, leaving Jeremy alone in front of the porch of a luxurious residence.

North of Sunnybrook Park, between Bayview and Leslie Avenues, lies an enclave of greenery and high-standing homes. A paradisiacal islet in the middle of Toronto. Everything here looks more spacious, centuries-old maple trees adorn the streets, properties lay far from the roads, and few vehicles clutter the area. When entering this neighborhood, even the brightness seems different. This is not a mushrooming suburb, where developers, building as quickly as possible, clear all vegetation and line up identical houses' models for hundreds of yards. The quasi-sequential alternation of the facades' appearances proves a weak palliative to the monotony of these constructions. Here, each residence transcends its unique character, whether from an elitist catalog or custom-built by an architectural firm. The immense lots display great greenery. Private pools and tennis courts come standard, while some have indulged in a French or English garden, adding an even more luxurious aspect to their property.

Jeremy advances towards one of these villas' threshold. Erected with taste, a speckled gray stone coating is highlighted with the discreet white contours of windows, doors, and railings. The immense multi-pitched roof embraces the dormers, balconies, and the large veranda at the back. The forest green hue of the bituminous shingles blends with the canopy of the old maple tree that overlooks the dwelling.

The door opens before he has pressed the bell. A captivatingly beautiful woman, despite her drawn features and lack of cosmetics, appears in the doorway.

"Jay!"

She throws herself into her friend's arms, who places one hand on her back and the other in the ebony threads of her long wavy hair.

"Sarah..."

"You came. I..."

Weakened by grief, her usually melodious voice chokes into a short whimper. At this sound of distress, Jeremy, moved, tightens his embrace tenderly.

She would have likely burst into tears if her body could still produce them. The Frenchman gently cradles her oval face between his hands, they are almost the same height, and their eyes meet. Proof of a long complicity, this silent exchange replaces all the words they should have said under the circumstances. He sketches a grimace meant to be a forced smile, but the gravity of the situation prevents this simple gesture from playing its soothing role.

Taking him by the hand, she leads him inside.

"Come, let's go in."

Sarah was born in Israel forty-two years ago, the daughter of an Afro-Polish father and an Indo-Egyptian mother. Very early on, she had inherited the charm of desert princesses, with a copper complexion and jet-black hair. Jeremy used to say that Sarah looked like a "worldly mixed-race," with her cheekbones and slightly elongated green eyes, the natural wave of her mane, her full lips, and her stature of an ancient Greek bust.

They met twenty years ago in Paris. At the Sorbonne, Sarah was successfully pursuing a two-year degree in languages. Jeremy, on the other hand, was unenthusiastically chasing scientific studies at the University of Jussieu in the fifth arrondissement. He often left the hideous Zamansky Tower to head towards the much more attractive Latin Quarter. He would then take Rue des Écoles to pass in front of the capital's rare microcomputer shop at that time. Sometimes, to enrich his collection of science fiction novels, he followed the banks of the Seine, browsing the bookstalls.