“Someone's in the
flat,” she said. “It could be Jerome.”
Arthur Roquebrune
stood with the recycling bin in his hands—a bounty of glistening
plastic, glass, paper and cardboard, the dry tailings of their life,
their public offering to the spirit of the curb. “That's excellent my dear, thank you.” Thinking it unwise
to venture blindly, he thought he would use the telephone as a first
step. It might not be his tenant.
Hoping it was
Thérèse, Jerome picked up on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Jerome, I'm very
glad to hear your voice. Are you busy?” Mr. Roquebrune nodded to
his wife as they stood together in the kitchen and she nodded back
breathing deeply.
He was tired,
hungry, and in the middle of his take-out Thai noodles. “Ah, no,
not really, I'm just having a bite to eat. Is there something wrong?”
“I'd like to come
round and talk.” Arthur pursed his lips hearing Jerome hesitate.
“It concerns Thérèse.”
“Is she alright?
Has—.”
“No, she's fine,
but I must talk with you. I'll let you finish your dinner. I can drop
by in . . . let us say thirty minutes?”
Jerome's thoughts
were now as dishevelled as his hair. “Sure. Right. See you soon.”
The minutes
dissolved into seconds as if Roquebrune's request had drawn him into
a tighter orbit. He stood before his back window looking towards
their large well-lit house. Such normality and comfort. The darkness
of early night permeated the scene before him, while the amber warmth from their windows cast positive shadows of light outwards. It
was like a Baroque nocturne, a chiaroscuro contemplation.
A dark form emerged
from the backdoor, and then he saw Mrs. Roquebrune, her husband's
double, framed by the light as she watched her husband descend the
stairs and then stop and turn towards her. Words were exchanged and
then she closed the door. Arthur switched on a small flashlight and
made his way across the lawn. The scene aroused an image of a gypsy
among the hedgerows at night. Had he painted such a picture? He
couldn't remember.
The flashlight
bobbing in the darkness sparked an unpleasant memory and he closed
his eyes and turned away from the window. He had been young, naive.
It had been a warm summer night, and he had been late for a visit
with his girlfriend who lived on the other side of Mount Royal in Notre-Dames-de-Grace, so, to save time, he had decided to take the mountain cinder
path with his thin-wheeled ten-speed bicycle to avoid going around
it. Little had he known that the mountain with its circuitous paths
became a haven for delinquency at night, and little had he
anticipated the absolute darkness of the path between the heavy tree
growth on either side. He had been half way up the long gradual
sloping tunnel-like path when he had noticed sinister lights ahead,
bobbing like fireflies. Then the voices, anarchic, drunken. Laughter
too, drunken, anarchic. The lights had been the burning embers of
cigarettes. He had picked up speed—drawing all his strength
thinking of his girlfriend waiting for him to arrive—for he had now
fully realised he'd made a serious mistake in venturing up the
mountain at night. His bicycle tires biting into the gravel and dirt
and the strain of his grinding gears had alerted the unseen rabble
ahead of him that an utter fool had made his or her way into their dark
labyrinth. They were like unseen shadow-sirens luring him to
destruction with their shouts and pleas to stop. It must have been a
fear-inspired shot of adrenaline, and luck, that helped him evade
their grasp as he passed their faceless voices. One of them had
pursued him, swearing, cursing, but fear and love, fear and love
focused his body's efforts. The moment he had heard his pursuer
falter and give up had been one of a deep visceral sense of survival.
He had continued unabated, cursing himself along the way for being so
stupid, until he'd arrived at the stairs on the other side of the
mountain. Coasting down past the enormous homes and mansions of the
rich and well-established, past their finely landscaped properties
and expensive cars in their driveways, past the depth of riches and
security, he'd imagined what could have happened. He could have been
beaten, stabbed, robbed, left unconscious in the dirt like roadkill,
and, all the while, people in those homes with their faces
immobilised by television sets, or doing the laundry, talking on the phone, or reading a book, would have been oblivious. It might
well have been his ghost coasting down the streets to his
girlfriend's home, arriving at the light over the door, passing
through the wall like spirits do and watch over her worried
concerns as she waited for the . . .
The doorbell rang.
* * *
Mélisande
had arrived at Amelia and Duncan's front door resolved not to falter
under the weight of the days' revelations, but when she had stretched
her finger towards the bell, she had panicked. A memory of visiting
Thérèse at this address with Pavor in tow had briefly undermined
her resolve. She had been about to turn around when seeing Mrs.
Shimoda smile at her through the window while watering plants, she
had smiled back and regained her composure. A strange serenity had
then overcome her as she had climbed the stairs listening to Duncan's
small talk, his thanking her for bringing the computer bag with the
strange Latin manuscript pages, Hugh's adorable face at the top of
the stairs, and the light piano and vibraphone music tinkling in the
apartment above her, setting a mood, creating an inviting ambience.
The invitation to dinner had been prescient. She had been in need of the company others to avoid that lonely warm bath of self-pity. They had greeted
and hugged her, brought her a drink, and after a few words, had left
her alone while they continued dinner preparations in the kitchen.
The apartment had felt smaller than she remembered. Books and antique
furnishings dominated the space. Thérèse had always lived with few
belongings and a much more modern decor, an Ikea decor, an Ikea
lifestyle. Duncan and Amelia's art work was decidedly old-fashioned: Prints, Veduta of Florence and Rome, small oil paintings of
flowers in vases. She had browsed their bookshelves in the living
room, noting the mixture of English and French titles, the tendency
towards Literature with a capital L, so different from Thérèse's
non-fiction books on history and social causes, Lonely Planet
travel guides, foreign language dictionaries and diverse magazines.
She had stood over their stereo turntable watching the record revolve
slowly—Crystal Silence by Chick Corea and Gary Burton—mesmorized by the
stylus, a still point travelling the grooves of a darkly carved
labyrinth of sound. The
longer she had looked at the motion of the long playing record, the
more fantastical it seemed to her that sound could be imprinted into
vinyl, stranger even than digital. She had browsed the small display
of records, perhaps their choice for the evening, Hiroshima, Pat
Metheny, Sade, Keith Jarrett, Roy Hargrove, Brahms.
The
evening had been as smooth, pleasant and filled with golden warmth
as the butternut squash dish Amelia had prepared. They had finished the bottle of wine while reminiscing and telling stories. Duncan had recounted a story of visiting the cemetery and happening across a misspelling of a headstone inscription, and Amelia had coaxed him into telling a story of how The Splices had been well known for splicing songs together for their cover arrangements, even providing Mélisande with a small vocal sample of how they used to slip back and forth between Fun, Fun, Fun by the Beach Boys and Kraftwerk's Autobahn. Feeling relaxed and at ease, Mélisande had told them about the collapsing shelf and the handsome young
student, and when Amelia had teased her that Pavor might get jealous
with her carrying on in the stacks, the wine had softened her
reaction and she had replied that she was starting to feel like the old man in the sea, and Pavor was the fish. They had laughed lightly.
This had prompted Duncan to relate that Zane Grey had been a great
sport fisherman and had written books on the subject, a comment so dry,
flat and non apropos that, after a heavy silent pause, an irrepressible fit of laughter had overcome them, and they had fed off each others laughter in a triadic rhapsody, an eye-watering cathartic release of all their pent up anxieties and concerns.
Mélisande
now stood in the hallway looking at a copy of John Donne's Courtier's
Library that Duncan had found interesting enough to mat and
frame. No. 9. Quidlibet ex quolibet; Or the art of decyphering and
finding treason in any intercepted letter, by Philips. 'Anything
from anything.' She didn't know John Donne had written this brief
list of satirical book titles. No. 3. Ars excribendi omnia ea quae
vere ad idem dicuntur in Joanne Foxe in ambitu denarii, autore P.
Bale. That was an odd one she thought. To write down everything
within the area of a coin, a penny, all truths told to John Foxe. A
jab at Foxe's fabrications in his Book of Martyrs no doubt.
“The
translations are on the back, not that you need them,”Duncan said,
advancing down the hall to stand beside her and look at the curiosity
upon the wall. “I like number 8.”
“Number
eight,” she said, “'Pythagoras Iudaeo-Christianus, Numerum 99 et
66 verso folio esse eundem, per super seraphicum Io. Picum.'” She
smiled. “Yes, that's a good one. 'The Judeo-Christian Pythagoras,
in which 99 and 66 are demonstrated to be the same number if the
folio is inverted, by the angelic Pico Della Mirandola.' Snap. I
guess he was puncturing a few Hermetical balloons.”
“Hmm,
yes.”
“Number
32 is quite good. 'Quid non? Sive confutatio omnium errorum tam in
Theologia quam in aliis scientiis, artibusque mechanicis,
praeteritorum, praesentium et futurorum, omnium hominum mortuorum,
superstitum, nascendorumque; una nocte post coenam confecta per D.
Sutcliffe.'” She laughed. “A confutation of all errors in
Theology and the sciences and mechanical arts, by all men, past,
present and future, drawn up one night after supper by Doctor
Sutcliffe.” She searched her memory to recall a Matthew Sutcliffe
who'd been a severe critic of Roman Catholics.
“Perhaps
you two can come up with some satirical titles while I attack the
dishes,” Duncan said as Amelia joined them.
“Duncan
and his book lists,” Amelia said. “Are you still creating your
own list of apocryphal book titles?” she asked, standing beside
Mélisande smiling.
“Um,
yes, and perhaps one day I'll complete it with long textual notes in
an overtly scholarly style, and have it properly printed up for an
amusement to roll into large homemade Christmas crackers. My
favourites so far are: The Interpretation of Drams, or, Whiskies I
Have Known, by Brandy “Shot Glass” Evans, Travels With
My Ant, or the Peregrinations of Elwood Spinkle and his Pet Ant, and Eastern Simpsonianism, or,The Profound Manifestation of Homerologists in Outer Mongolia by Goforth Wheeless. I'm working on textual notes to each title in the style of Pale Fire."
Amelia
faced Melisande and rolled her eyes. “Come along, we can talk in
the living room while Duncan cleans up. He enjoys it bless his
heart,” and she kissed her husband on the cheek before following
her friend to the front room. Hugh was at a loss at who to follow, but opted for the Amelia and the visitor who carried the scent of cat on her slacks.
Dishes
were rarely a chore to Duncan. He had his most fertile thoughts while
washing dishes, taking a shower, or brushing his teeth. These tasks
were so well-ingrained after 53 years that his mind was let loose to
be creative. Who knew what would pass through his thoughts. What
fool's gold might glitter like the real thing.
© ralph patrick mackay
© ralph patrick mackay
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