Backing into a parking space on
boulevard St. Laurent, Pavor recognized a portion of a storefront
that used to be an old bakery back in the 1970s, a shop where his
Westmount Anglo-Saxon Protestant Father would politely request a
dozen white seed bagels and a loaf of country style every other
Friday to bring up to the cottage. As he sat there searching for
change for the parking meter, he could almost see his Dad pulling
into the driveway in his burgundy Volvo 245GL, and emerging with his
brief case and the brown paper bag with its fresh baked aromas which
would follow him down the hallway into the kitchen where he would
inevitably praise the St. Lawrence Bakery as the finest
purveyor of the tastiest, light bready bagels in the city. Having
accompanied him on occasion, Pavor remembered the shop's simple
unadorned window display areas, the dim
overhead lighting, elderly cashiers and assistants, voices from the
back in a language unknown to him, and the overwhelming fragrance of
baked goods, an example of what his Father said used to dominate the
street, a plethora of small shops selling meat, fish, textiles,
hardware, books, leathers, dress goods, shoes, dry goods and
groceries, shops now expanded and merged into larger spaces for
restaurants, discos, bars and nightclubs. The old bakery was now part
of an expanded space selling musical instruments and all the
technological appendages and paraphernalia to accompany them.
As he walked up the street towards
Schwartz's where he was to meet his agent for lunch, the
international language of Graffiti graced the way like so much
signage, though one of high colour and artistic accomplishment he had
to admit. It was only the other night when he was further up on this
hallowed street following Jerome into Le Bar Prufrock to
happen upon Rough Draft
performing their post-modern songs
on a small stage in a small room. His ears were still ringing thanks
to Livia Plurabelle, Adagio and Zoran. Passing the large space where
Warshaw's Grocery used to be, now a Pharmaprix, he
recalled a place where you could buy anything from cabbage rolls to
card tables, figs to flatware, perogies to ping pong balls, but
though it had vanished due to generational change, two institutions
had persisted like guardians on either side of the street, Schwartz's
Deli and Berson & Sons
Granite Monuments with its open yard displaying slabs of
rough stone beneath the rusted iron beams and uprights of the ghost
of a building that once had been faced with bricks and mortar, and
life within. Local street artists had adorned the inner courtyard and
its balcony of the old building behind, with intrusive swirls of
colour, a psychedelic contrast to the grey offerings on sale.
He checked his watch and saw he was a
few minutes early. Looking through the window he could tell the lunch
crowd had diminished, and being late October, the tourists were in
abeyance. Opening the door, he felt his Father’s hand on his
shoulder as he guided him into the restaurant saying it was a
Montreal rite of passage to sit at the counter amidst the manic
bustle and the noise of dish clangings, kitchen slicings, phone
ringings, customer orderings, voice voicings and mouth chewings,
surrounded by the competing elbows of business men in suits, taxi
drivers, factory labourers, truckers, students, an overwhelming male
milieu he had thought, a milieu that had been cramped and noisy but
offered simple dishes of ambrosia, everything else was atmosphere.
Natural atmosphere.
He spotted Luke sitting at a back table
fiddling with his shiny smart phone.
“Texting Thomas Pynchon by any
chance?” Pavor said as he sat down.
“Somehow I don't think he needs an
agent,” Luke Newton said, unperturbed by Pavor's quiet arrival.
“So, the Prodigal son returns. Don't worry, I've already ordered:
two full-fat smoked meat sandwiches, fries, slaw, pickles and two
cherry cokes. When you don't come here often, you have to do it
right, seize the pickle, embrace the cherry coke.”
“What if I'd been delayed?”
“Oh, my friend,” Luke intoned
touching his midriff like a carny at a sideshow, “it would not
have gone to waste.” Luke appraised Pavor and wondered if he
should hit him with the good news, or investigate the bad? “So, did
you come back to Montreal for a special Halloween party or something?
A chance to portray a six foot three, fair-haired Dracula and attend
a dance party put on by Arcade Fire at a secret venue?”
Pavor turned sideways as the waiter
brought them their meal, a balancing act worthy of a circus
performer. “I'm impressed Fig. I didn't know you were up on the
latest trends.”
“Kids, P. K., my kids keep my up to
date. An ironic dividend for ageing me in other ways,” and he ran a
hand through his thinning grey hair.
“No, as I said, personal affairs.”
He bit into his sandwich and almost forgot himself in its succulence.
Finding himself hungry, he finished off one half of the sandwich and
then wiped his lips. “I proposed marriage to Melisande. We're to
marry in the spring.”
Fig, in the midst of stuffing two
french fries into his mouth, heaved as if on the edge of choking, a visualization of the contractions of his heart passed before his eyes,
the diastole and systole ventriculations his Doctor had pointed out
to him in the MRI images of his own dear heart. “A toast to the
happy couple,” he managed, cherry coke in hand. “What
precipitated this? I mean, I know you've been in a relationship with
Melisande for some time. Why the sudden decision? Is she . . . ?”
Pavor bit off half of his crunchy
garlicky pickle and wiped his fingers ignoring the unasked question.
“When I was in Italy, I experienced a series of fortunate, and
perhaps unfortunate incidents which helped me reevaluate my life. You
know me Fig, I've not felt at home in Montreal for a long time. All
my late Father's relatives live in England. My Mother now lives in
Prague. I have no family here. Victoria and Tamara have been gone for
a long time, and at 47, I'm starting to . . . waver in my isolation I
guess.” He ate a few french fries with the concentration of an
epicure. “After the tragedy, I moved to Toronto, yes, you didn't
know that did you, but I didn't last. I felt alien there as well. All
these years my sensibilities have been in a virtual space
halfway between Europe and Montreal. I often considered moving, but concluded I'd feel just as alien abroad. But I can see now that Melisande is my
grounding, my home.”
Nodding to Pavor's revelations, Luke
decided he should tell him the good news. “Well, that's great P.
K., I look forward to the wedding. Fabulous. And talking about
fabulous, we've received a new option on your Olivaster Moon.
I know the first one died in development, but you never know, this
one might make it through.” Luke gave him a slip of paper with the
amount paid. “So my friend, some nice cashola for your upcoming
wedding eh!”
“That's wonderful,” he said, and as
he stared at the numbers, the thought came to him that if he'd only
known, he could have kept the inscribed Sir Richard Francis Burton
book and offered it to Duncan to sell; as it was, he hadn't mentioned the book to Duncan for it would have caused him some pain to know he
could have been the recipient of such a rarity to sell, an item to
add prestige to his modest list. But then, how could he have known?
“That's wonderful Fig, thanks so much. Who's behind it?”
“The name and information is on the
back of the paper, Grindel & Poe Productions. Looks good.
Could be some big names attached. So, how's the new book coming
along?”
“It's progressing. Getting there.
Early days though.” Pavor finished his sandwich and dug into the
slaw with abandon. Should he tell Fig his thoughts about knocking off
his anti-hero Rex Packard? Three Rex novels was a good number. He
could see a large trade paper edition, The Rex Packard Trilogy.
“I've been thinking of leaving Rex behind after this one and trying
my hand at something a bit more . . . literary.”
Luke finished his pickle while looking
at Pavor for signs of jest. “You're starting to sound like an
unreliable narrator P. K.”
“Aren't we all, consciously or
unconsciously, unreliable narrators. Anyway, three Rex novels is a
good number don't you think?”
Plying his french fries with vinegar,
Luke tried to think of what to say. Why discontinue a good thing he
thought? Why go from a sports car to a station wagon? “Three's a
good number, yes, but there's a hell of lot of competition in the
'literary' world these days, all those twenty-somethings with their
MFA's in creative writing pumping out novels only to be picked up by
colleges and universities to teach creative writing classes in order
to cultivate further crops of designated writers, creating an ever
expanding literary loop.” He finished his cherry coke like it was
a shot of whiskey.
“I know, I know,” Pavor said
pushing his plate aside. “I didn't start by publishing poems and
short stories in the small journals, making connections and confreres
in the culture, no widening ripples of welcoming arms to embrace and
support my efforts. I just sat in my corner of the boxing ring, no one
behind me, no trainer with a swab, a stitch, a soft towel and a water
bottle telling me to watch my left side, no family or friends
cheering me on, the ring a blinding light, the imagined audience a
series of dark outlines with murmurings of discontent, cigar chewing
denouncements, snarky asides and derisive snorts.”
“But I've been there for you.”
“Yes, of course, but in the beginning
I was out there by myself. The canvas of the ring was so thin I
thought I'd go right through it and that would be it. Finis.”
“Don't you want to keep working
towards one of those great awards, an Edgar, an Agatha, a Gold
Dagger, an Arthur Ellis or what's that other one, the, the . . . Grant Allen?”
Pavor stretched with his arms behind
his head, raised his eyebrows in response and breathed out slowly.
“Next thing you'll be telling me
you're going to move to a small town in southern Ontario and try to
get published by Highmore & Limbert. Do you really want to
be gilded by the Giller, governed by the General, manipulated by the
Man Booker?”
Pavor laughed. “Maybe we should have lunch more often so I can copy down all your bon
mots and phrases of wisdom.”
“Well, you've got me thinking, on a
full stomach no less. What's your Mother's maiden name?”
“My Mother's maiden name? Valasek.
Why?”
“That's perfect. You could use her
name for your literary work, and keep P. K. Loveridge for your crime
series. Pavor Valasek gives off the the aura of a European author.
Yes, I can see some of the titles already, Vespers by Pavor
Valasek; Valour by Pavor Valasek; Vestiges by Pavor
Valasek.”
“I don't know Luke, as I had one of
my characters say, 'Where vanity raises its head, vulgarity is sure
to follow.' Pavor Valasek? Really?”
“Why not? You can keep the sports car
and also have the station wagon. Loveridge and Valasek. Win, win. You
can knock off a book for each author every year. Brilliant. Why
didn't I think of this before?”
Pavor finished his cherry coke and
quietly, with his hands over his mouth, burped. “Sorry, no offence.
Two books a year?”
“Just think of it Pavor. An Edgar
and a Booker. In the same year!”
Outside, Pavor breathed in the cool
refreshing air and waited for Fig to finish paying. Two books a year!
He should have remained quiet and said all was well, the book would
be in on time, blah, blah, blah, but no, he had to be honest. Then
again, there was a certain appeal to such an idea. Pavor Valasek? It
might work. A different set of clothes. Vespers had a nice
ring to it. He looked across the street at the granite slabs and
wondered what would be on his gravestone. Loveridge or Valasek? Then
he shook his head. How ridiculous, Vanitas it would read. Vanitas.
© ralph patrick mackay
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