Tuesday, September 10, 2013

Yes Cecil, A Long Story Short, Part Fifty-One

Arriving at Trudeau International airport on a Sunday evening always aroused a stealth-like guilt for Pavor, a rootless feeling as if he and his dubious fellow passengers were breaking adamantine tradition by sneaking into the city with clandestine manoeuvres under the cloak of darkness while the citizens below in their snug well-lit lives were trying to avoid all thought of their diminishing weekend, that moment when the cold salty undercurrent of the coming days is already nipping at their soft weekend toes with the brackish water of worry, a nettlesome menace to the weary clock-punchers, students, and office dwellers with their bureaucratic politics and pedagogic necessities mapped out before them in an endless series of MTWTF's—or, as his old law school friend used to say: More Time With The Futiles—driving the restless to choose variable escapes such as Chinese take-out, a good book, or the dramatic absorptions of television, and he would imagine his younger self, lying on the pink and blue Aubusson carpet of his parent's TV-less living room with his storybooks or toys, listening to his Mother's occasional quotes from Trollope with her remnant Czech accent—a favourite author to bolster her vocabulary—while his Father in his casual postprandial subterfuge of Scotch and soda behind his main sail of newsprint would listen and offer an Ahh, very good, or Charming my dear, charming, before returning to his fascination with the death of others as rounded up by the obituaries of the week, and he too would provide his own occasional interruptions with commentaries on the stiff little columns and their dry little words—interspersed with such recurring sounds of beloved, peacefully, predeceased, condolences, in lieu, cherished—commentaries spiced with shocking revelations like so and so had really been an unhappy person, or, so and so had had an affair with his secretary, or, so and so had a brother who did himself in after the war, and these competing words would dance a slow quadrille above him as he lay upon the soft colourful pile, as if Mrs. Proudie and Osiris himself were contending, arm and arm, for his soul, and he too would dread the onset of bedtime, and the prospect of darkness, nightmares, and worse, the arrival of Monday morning.

Having nothing to declare but his unwavering thoughts, Pavor passed quickly through customs, and, having but a simple carry-on bag, avoided the further wait at the carousels where a diversity of baggage descended a conveyance slide and circled slowly as tired passengers leaned anxiously like doe-eyed parents waiting for their children to emerge from a modest fun-house amusement park ride, a moment which offered the opportunity for further people watching and the pairing of restless faces with scuffed and colourful ribbon-marked luggage, and as he passed his tweedy flight companions he smiled and nodded to them and remembered the day he saw a robust man retrieve an oversize duffel bag to which a long wood-handled spade had been securely roped, making him think of a possible convention for grave diggers. Alas.

His clandestine arrival with its impending surprise for Mélisande released a reserved energy within him which he hadn't experienced for some time. With gusto in each stride, he walked down the broad corridor and felt fortunate that no one was waiting for him—relatives and friends waving their arms about like he was lost and now found, were anathema to him—and with a keen sense of freedom, he ventured into La Maison de la Presse to pick up a local paper and peruse the best sellers on display. Invariably he would inwardly groan as he stared at the colourful books by pinnacle authors with their sharp-edged titles making all the big bucks while he slogged away in the lower reaches of fictional achievement. No books by P. K. Loveridge. Understandable. Shelf-space was at a premium, and he couldn't elbow a King, a Cornwell, or a Krentz out of the way—although he had thought it would be interesting to place one of his titles alongside the heavy hitters on the main display of a large downtown bookstore and sit back and watch reactions.

As he paid for The Gazette, two familiar faces passed by on the other side of the glass like actors in a film walking towards a vanishing point, and for a moment he had a horrible feeling that Jerome and Thérèse had taken up his invitation to visit him in Trieste and were preparing to take flight.

“Jerome, Thérèse,” he called out, but they didn't hear him due to the high level of ambient noise and whispering echoes in the corridor. He briskly followed up behind them and called out once again making Jerome turn with a look of fear tinged with astonishment.

“Pavor? What . . . what are you doing here?”

He sensed something was odd for Thérèse looked at him as if he were an advertising poster for a men's aftershave. “What are you guys doing here? I hope you're not on your way to Trieste!”

The complexity of thought faltered at Jerome's lips. It was as if he had been asked to paint Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel on a match box. He was further exasperated by the appearance of Mr. Roquebrune who asked him whether everything was alright, looking with concern at Pavor and his folded newspaper, a classic hiding place for a silenced gun.

“Mr. Roquebrune please meet Pavor Loveridge, an old friend of ours.” After they shook hands and acquired initial impressions, Jerome took Pavor by the arm and followed Thérèse and Mr. Roquebrune towards the revolving doors.

“Thérèse has suffered some memory loss. We just arrived from Bergen, Norway, where she was staying with a friend. It's all very complicated.”

“Ah, I sensed something was wrong. Is she all right though?”

“Yes, yes, her memory is coming back, slowly. She's going to stay the night with the Roquebrunes. I live right behind in their rental property. Did you just arrive from Italy?”

“Yes, a surprise for Mélisande. I want to, to . . .” he stammered, not wanting to burden Jerome with incidentals of his desires at this moment. “I just want to see her, so here I am.”

“Where are you staying? Isn't Pascal still using your apartment?

“I was thinking of a cheap hotel.”

“You can stay with me. My pull out couch is comfortable, and we can talk.”

They watched as Thérèse and Mr. Roquebrune stepped onto the circular moving platform of the automatic revolving doors, and then they followed by stepping onto the next quarter slice. She turned around to face them through the clear glass, and they looked on silently, like groom and best man to their bride and father, and Thérèse, with a look of desperation on her face, refused to budge, and they missed the exit and continued round, and they too continued, and they too missed the exit while the October evening air swept in and ran its cold fingers through their hair.

Pavor felt his buoyant mood deflate as the discouraging reality before him kept them face to face on this make-shift merry-go-round.

*


A secular vow of silence to remedy the unimaginable overcame them as Mr. Roquebrune chauffeured his large comfortable sedan along Côte-de-Liesse expressway, the central nervous system of the sprawling industrial sector of the city with its squat factories, warehouses, expansive parking lots and rail yards, an essentially treeless landscape, made less disagreeable cloaked in darkness and developing fog. Pavor looked out at the uninviting landscape and remembered how his inquisitive fresh-eyed Mother used to seek out the sources behind Montreal street names, and how she had discovered this expressway was named after an old reference to the religious pilgrimage site of the blessed Virgin of Liesse in north eastern France, and how she thought it had been degraded to a dusty, noisy pilgrimage of endless trucks, cars and motorcycles as if it were a thoroughfare in Milton's Pandemonium. He looked around to see that Thérèse and Jerome were sleeping in the back seat, like models for a Pre-Raphaelite painting, her head resting on Jerome's shoulder. He tried to relax but he felt the awkward imposition of his own presence sitting in the sumptuous front seat beside the quiet concentration of Mr. Roquebrune. Was Thérèse's condition a result of the enquiry she had discussed with him back in January? Was his character of Evan Dashmore too representative of his deceased counterpart, David Ashemore? Was his imaginative fiction too close to fact? Was he inviting a bout of memory loss?

When they passed the large red and blue sign for Kraft Canada, Pavor remembered how his Father, on their trips back from Ontario, would declare they were almost home whenever the sign loomed ahead, and still today, whenever he saw their products in the stores, he would experience a subtle feeling of impending arrival. But not tonight. Their destination, the leafy opulence of Outremont's Maplewood Avenue, was a further twenty minute stretch away, and Pavor, feeling as roped down as the spade to the duffel bag, felt as numb as an anaesthetised dental patient.

*

After settling Thérèse in the spare room at the Roquebrunes, Jerome made his way home and found Pavor browsing his bookshelves.

“How's she doing?” Pavor asked, a copy of Trois Contes by Flaubert in his hands.

“Good, good. She's got a lovely room and she seems relaxed. She hit it off with Mrs. Roquebrune right away. I feel she'll sleep well tonight. Are you hungry?”

“I could really go for a poutine,” he said. “And maybe a strong coffee.”

“That's not a bad idea. La Banquise is open.”

“Great. Something to adjust the gears of the old internal clocks eh.” He put the Flaubert back on top of his seemingly unread book of poetry, Alacrity and Karma on a Yacht Off Palmyra. “I see you've been busy with a Bronzino. ”

“Hmm, yeah, a bizarre portrait request. I'll tell you all about it, Thérèse's story too. Come on, Isodore awaits in the stable beneath.”

“The old Deux-Chevaux's still hanging in there?”

“Oh, yeah. It has more . . . equilibrium than me. At least I hope so.”

Jerome backed his Isodore out of the garage and Pavor slipped in beside him. “Do you remember this cassette?” Jerome asked, shaking the music tape of Depeche Mode's Music for the Masses, before sliding it into Isodore's modest sound system of a jerry-rigged cassette player.

“I haven't heard that in ages. Brings back memories of that road trip to Québec City.”

The driving rhythms of Let Me Down Again followed by The Things You Said filled the small car and sparingly issued from the open windows as they drove the ten minute journey to the restaurant, their hands tapping, heads nodding, lips mouthing the words, youthful memories cleansing their minds of immediate concerns.

*

The restaurant was busy, students for the most part, making Pavor feel that at 47, he was slipping down the other side of the mountain towards the valley of old age. “Bonsoir Sylvie,” Jerome said to the young woman who greeted them at the door and showed them to a table. Pavor noticed the iridescent hummingbird tattoo on her inner wrist, and thought it rather appropriate for her manoeuvres about the restaurant. “Pas besoin d'un menu. C'est très simple. Deux grandes poutines classique et deux cafés, s'il vous plait.” They both smiled up at her as she nodded her head repeating the order.

Pavor let his eyes wander around the restaurant with its youthful customers and employees, its brick wall, wood benches, funky painted tables, quirky art work, and the quintessential black chalkboard. He missed Montreal. Missed its smell, its diversity, its triplexes, even its potholes.

“So, how's your new novel coming along?”

“Right, the novel.” Pavor felt like it existed in another time and place. “Back in January at Thérèse's party, she told me a little about the case, the David Ashemore case she called it, like she was a private eye in a hard-boiled novel. What little I know of it, however, is informing the plot of my recent novel. I was going to lead with the character's death, but I've found him interesting and he's turning into someone with possible breadth, someone I can take places. Maybe I'll dispose of my non-patrician Rex Packard and continue with this new creature. I named him, perhaps a little too close to the bone, Evan Dashmore.”

“Maybe you should change his name to something less . . . coincidental,” and he told him all about the disappearance of Ashemore's papers at the law office, the theft of the thumb drive in Bergen, and then the mysterious spray that caused her memory loss.

“What does Mr. Roquebrune propose? Can we go after them, bring them out in the open?”

“At the moment, he doesn't believe there's anything we can do. I feel so fucking helpless. I should have told her to let up.”

A young waitress brought them their coffees and poutines and they donned their public mask of happy customer and thanked her.

“What we need is someone like Jack Reacher to bring about a resolution,” Pavor said, digging into his french fries dripping with gravy and curds.

“A friend of yours?”

“No, unfortunately. He's a fictional character, fictional like his kind of resolutions.” He chewed the ambrosial offering while thinking he could try to dramatise a form of justice for Thérèse but it made him feel equally helpless. “This is the best poutine I've had in a long time. It's good to be back in Montreal, potholes and all.”

“Best in the city, perhaps the world,” he said, bringing a forkful of the rich salty comfort food to his lips. “They serve so many kinds here, it would take you a month to try them all.”

Silence overtook them as they ate, that most primal of actions, one, that no doubt predated mealtime conversation.

*

Outside, feeling blessed, they leaned on Isodore and picked their teeth with toothpicks. If only life were so simple they both thought. If only.

“Come on,” Jerome said, “I know a place where we can relax and talk.” And they drove back along avenue Rachel towards Mount Royal with its cross glowing above the rooftops like a night light for the homeless. He found parking across the street from the orange fronted club and they made their way over, but on discovering it was a evening devoted to slam poetry, Jerome suggested another club up the street. The sidewalk was littered with cigarette butts like spent bullet casings, and shreds of food wrappers and newsprint. Old discarded gum dotted the concrete like age spots, while wisps of fog the colour of parchment malingered round the street lamps. A pan-handler with a dog gently asked for alms as they approached and Pavor dished out a few loonies for the young guy. He felt sorry for the dog and wondered what that revealed of him.

“Le Bar Prufrock,” Jerome said, pointing up to the gold lettering above the door, but Pavor was looking towards the curb where an old VW camper van was parked. Black print on white, letters neatly painted or perhaps stencilled, covered all surfaces of the van like one of those circle the words puzzles found in newspapers. The side-door had a panel with large letters spelling 'ROUGH DRAFT' and the letter 'G' replaced by a treble clef. “You can't get away from words can you?” Jerome added, prompting him away.

On the door of the club, a small hand-lettered poster advertised that the music group Rough Draft was playing sets that night. Two thin mop-headed guys and a blond with rainbow eye makeup holding drumsticks stared back at them in lettered t-shirts, a textual leitmotif echoing the van, a veritable literary triangle. Once within the bar, whose floor and ceiling seemed to exist in a realm of metaphysics, they found their way around huddled groups of youthful hipsters to a small round table near the back corner whose surface was sticky with the condensation of old beer.

“I'll just go get a couple of drinks. Boréale good for you?” Jerome asked. Pavor nodded his head as he sought to merge with the darkness. From middle-class suburban Italian bungalow to an obscure music club on St. Laurent boulevard in one day was testing his resilience. Jerome returned with two bottles with glass hats, as the song I Melt With You by Modern English played over the sound system.

“So how's Trieste?”

“Triste c'est Trieste said Tristram on the tram,” he replied. “I met a fan, signed some books for him, then later he was involved in a motorcycle accident. I passed it as he was being rushed to a hospital. Tullio Friuli is his name. I visited him at the hosptial before I left but he was still comatose. Poor bastard. Cheers.”

“Wow, so much for the quiet life to concentrate on a book.”

Pavor drank deeply enjoying the sharp bold flavor of the Canadian beer. “I met some interesting characters while there. All grist for the mill. They might show up one day, well, variations and fragments reassembled in cubist fashion to use your phraseology. Have you seen Mélisande lately? I emailed her last week but never got a reply.”

“I did. Last week some time.” He filled his glass with the remnants from the bottle. “We discussed you.”

Pavor's eyes widened. “Really? Nothing good I hope.”

“She . . . no, it's none of my business. You'll see her tomorrow I imagine. You know she's the one for you. If not, I'll have to bop you on the head.”

“I'm going to propose to her.”

“Marriage?”

Pavor nodded, then drank deeply, the golden liquid reflecting amber shadows on his cheeks.

“I'm thinking of the very same thing with Thérèse. When she recovers completely, I'll ask her”

“We can have a double marriage ceremony. Save money,” he added with a wink. “A toast to our future wives, may we all enjoy happiness.”

“Cheers,” Jerome said, clinking his glass with his old friend's.

“So what's this Bronzino portrait all about?”

Jerome was about to frame his thoughts on the subject when Rough Draft mounted the minuscule corner stage at the front of the room and began to prepare for another set. “I'll tell you later. Fascinating couple. Very rich. I met their friend too, an interesting architect, named Harry Harrington. Nice guy.”

“That name rings a bell. Harry Harrington, architect. I think I read a profile about him in a magazine. His picture reminded me of that old jazz drummer . . . what's his name? Max . . . Max Roach, yes, yes, but without the hair.”

Jerome, though not familiar with the drummer, nodded his head in acknowledgement while Rough Draft positioned themselves. The two guys, draped in low slung fenders, one bass, one guitar, were bookends to the blond rainbow-eyed girl in the middle, a standing percussionist before her snare and top hat. A young man with piercings and tattoos mounted the stage and squeezed behind the girl's microphone.

“Yes, it's Al, the guy who runs this joint and I just want to introduce the band to you. On bass guitar we have Adagio, on guitar, Zoran, and on lead vocals and percussion, the lovely Livia Plurabelle. Let's hear it for them, great, yes that's wonderful. They'll be signing merch at the break when you can buy their new cd, or vinyl and that wonderful t-shirt everyone's wearing. So their first song is called, Hold Me, enjoy. Rough Draft!

Pavor and Jerome clapped with the crowd, shared a look of raised eyebrows and settled back to listen.


In the shadows I've been searching for you,
Since I left you on the shore alone.
Paranoia's feeding on my life's blood,
Tainted by my visions far from home.

Hold me, hold me,
Hold me, hold me,
Darkly,
Darkly, (Adagio & Zoran)
Can't you see me with your Google Glass?

Hold me, Hold me,
Hold me, Hold me,
Starkly,
Starkly, (Adagio & Zoran)
Can't you feel me oh my Mucho Maas?

Imaginary forms are taking over,
Androids chasing sheep in chorus sing.
Joseph K. And Hamlet are debating,
Who will be the ghost and who the King.

Hold me, hold me,
Hold me, hold me,
Darkly,
Darkly, (Adagio & Zoran)
Can't you see me with your Google Glass?

Hold me, Hold me,
Hold me, Hold me,
Starkly,
Starkly, (Adagio & Zoran)
Can't you feel me oh my Mucho Maas?

Alice slayed the dragon with a hat pin.
Grendel roasted up old Moby Dick.
Molly Bloom's run off with Dr. Watson,
Lizzy Bennet's loose and won't commit.

Hold me, hold me,
Hold me, hold me,
Darkly,
Darkly, (Adagio & Zoran)
Can't you see me with your Google Glass?

Hold me, Hold me,
Hold me, Hold me,
Starkly,
Starkly, (Adagio & Zoran)
Can't you feel me oh my Mucho Maas?

Deep within a text of fine conjecture,
Lost within the maze with the Minotaur.
Wildly running from the sound of footsteps,
The tree of knowledge's now an apple core.

Hold me, hold me,
Hold me, hold me,
Darkly,
Darkly, (Adagio & Zoran)
Can't you see me with your Google Glass?

Hold me, Hold me,
Hold me, Hold me,
Starkly,
Starkly, (Adagio & Zoran)
Can't you feel me oh my Mucho Maas?

Pavor's head was spinning with the golden liquid coursing through his veins, all the tensions of the night dissolving with the rhythms, and he closed his eyes as Zoran veered off into a wordless musical bridge with crying blues and greens of musical texture, launching Pavor, with the essence of driven youth, to the other side of the dark valley beneath him.

Pynch is hitting on the dusty home plate,
My hair is grey, my pitch is slowing down.
He hits it to the bleachers and the bleeders,
Is that you, with catcher's mitt and frown?

Hold me, hold me,
Hold me, hold me,
Darkly,
Darkly, (Adagio & Zoran)
Can't you see me with your Google Glass?

Hold me, Hold me,
Hold me, Hold me,
Starkly,
Starkly, (Adagio & Zoran)
Can't you feel me oh my Mucho Maas?
Can't you feel me oh my Mucho Maas?
Can't you feel me oh my Mucho Maas?


Applause arose from the small room amid the clink of glasses and murmurings and whistles. Jerome and Pavor felt it was just what they needed to forget the world for awhile, and ordered another beer, eager to hear the next song.

© ralph patrick mackay

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