Secrets Dirty and Otherwise

No one likes to admit it now that the city has become a fashionable destination celebrated for diversity but Toronto has a bigoted past. For years one of the finest real estate agencies in the city could boast that it was the exclusive agent for some of the most desirable—and socially restricted—neighbourhoods in the city. I won’t reveal the name of the firm, as they are still in business but now happy to take money from anybody. (Caveat emptor.)


Esther Steinberg could remember a childhood trips with her mother as they drove through one of the grandest districts Toronto could boast. Her mother was a determined but nervous driver who followed her own distinct routes through the city to avoid any obstacles that might somehow involve left-hand turns in traffic, or intersections without traffic lights. One such route involved the steep hill bordering Casa Loma’s west wall and two sharp corners plus a view of Ardwold Gate. “You see that, Honey? That’s where my princess is going to live one day. You’ll see! Momma knows these things,” said Momma and Esther had believed every word.


Esther Steinberg remembered her mother’s words years later when she and Harry purchased their home, which was not quite on Ardwold Gate. In a delicious turn of fate it had come to pass that Esther Steinberg’s service drive—but not her address—was on Ardwold Gate. Delivery vans, service vehicles, gas company trucks and the like parked behind the house littering the view on Ardwold Gate and walked past the large garage to the back door of her house. Esther’s guests, visitors, friends and family all entered from the front door, which was located at the south end of the block-deep property on another street. Even the trash and recycling containers from the Steinberg house were put out on Ardwold Gate.


So in life it can be so that you not only get what you need but you also get what you want.


Karma wasn’t quite depleted for Our Esther. She was also in the fortunate position of being able to afford to hire someone like Ardie Beebe to look after the interior design of her home—acquiring some social status en route—and was now his dear friend and confidante. She could look forward to fun parties, weekend jaunts and sunny holidays on breezy beaches with shady people as a benefit of his acquaintance. She was already “assisting” him with his apartment; he was so busy someone needed to manage The Help.


Ardie was in the living room looking out across the city at the view, smoking a cigarette and sipping on his drink. He had watered his down in a tumbler with ice and was remembering a party he had once attended in this very apartment. Ardie was a young man who enjoyed a good time and possessed the money and connections capable of making good times happen. In the late 1960s he enjoyed the friendship and intimate camaraderie of people popularly considered to be among the city’s upcoming movers and shakers.


Cutting-edge architects foaming at the mouth over planned suburban communities argued with passionate sociology professors who dreamt of urban utopias that were both nuke-free and vegetarian-friendly. Young political-establishment lawyers (eager for public office or partnership, whichever came first) bantered with beautiful young women eager for political-establishment lawyers.


Old money drank with no money and it seemed as though a new social order was being created. Not a social order that touched upon the civil society—Ardie didn’t care about that—but a social order in the sense of “Who’s Who." Ardie’s new social order was about smart society. It was about breaking the rules—or at least the ones that didn’t really matter—and trying new things. They wanted to have fun!


It was a heady time fueled by soft drugs and hard liquor. Ardie turned to see me coming in from the entrance hall and remembered standing there himself all those years ago. Of course at that party he was naked and, handsomely preceded by his erection, in a much different frame of mind than this afternoon. “All hands on deck!” he had said that night as he strode into the living room to join the fray.


“There you are,” he said to me. “Let’s find Esther and go for lunch. I’ve just decided to have a house-warming party and I’ll tell you both all about it.” Ardie laughed and gave my arm a squeeze as he walked past me, his voice smoked to a low timbre. “I’ve been here before but somehow I just never noticed the beautiful view.”