He had been invited to a Toronto TV station for what was to be an in-depth interview. He arrived promptly in the late afternoon and discovered that the interview slot had been double-booked. Would he mind, Nana Beanflower asked him, if she went ahead and interviewed Slas Stanley, the figure skater, first? “Not at all,” said Meershank. He knew his adopted country, he knew his place in it. Besides, what was half an hour in a lifetime?

He had come to discuss, promote that is, his latest book, Maple Foot Jelly, and couldn’t help noticing when his turn came that Ms Beanflower, a fresh copy in hand, had stuck her bookmark at what looked like page ten. An old story: too busy to read, these media youngsters. “Shall we begin?” she said violently.

Her hair was brilliant media orange and she wore violet clothing made of layers of wrinkled cotton. Her feet in their thong sandals could have been cleaner. Meershank took a keen interest in costume, believing it revealed what the north half of the brain repressed, but Ms Beanflower, he decided, seemed unsteady in her yearnings. Still, he had not come to analyze; he had come to discuss his new book.

The plot first. They always wanted the plot; they thought it mattered. Then a little personal background, what was he working on next, his thoughts about the dark side of humor, what he was really saying underneath all his puns and jabber.

“I really am saying what I’m saying,” Meershank said wearily, slipping thinly away from her gaze.

“Ah, come on now?” The voice coy. The twinkle turned on high.

“There are no hidden meanings, Ms Beanflower.”

She bit her lip wickedly, leaned close to the microphone and said, “They say you’re an old toughie, Meershank, but do you know what you remind me of?”

“No, what?” he said stupidly.

“A great big teddy bear, that’s what.”

“Ah.”

In the following weeks he speculated on what might have been a fitting reply to this announcement. Thank you? Pardon? This interview is now terminated? Would you tell John Updike or Slas Stanley or Pierre Trudeau that he looked like a teddy bear? What exactly does a teddy bear look like? Is looking like a teddy bear something that serious and enlightened men aspire to? Is it media policy to pin labels on the teddy bear minority? Is this resemblance to a teddy bear physical or metaphysical? Is a teddy bear man lovable or grotesque? Deeply cute or profoundly shameful?

It was a mistake, he knew, to take Nana Beanflower seriously. What lapped between her ears was orange Jello. What motivated her was the wish to be adorable. Nevertheless she had managed to make him doubt himself. Something intensely frivolous about his work, about himself, had encouraged her contempt, entered his body, and deeply injured him. A sword stuck in his chest.