As Melisande Bramente came to the
corner across the street from Café Hermeticum, she noticed
Jerome talking to a roughly clad young man with a knapsack and a dog,
an image which oddly reminded her of a pastoral scene of a squire talking to a hunter and his hound. Not wanting to interrupt their
conversation, she turned and approached a store window display
of trendy winter-clad mannequins, their weightless legs in knee
length leather boots, their heels lightly positioned in a bed of
plastic snowflakes, their long leather coats with fur collars up and
colourful paisley silk scarves stylishly zhushed, and their sightless
eyes gazing over her head, and she remembered how unnerving she had
once felt when she waited in front of such a display window on a
Sunday morning, 6 a.m., not a soul about, the figures had appeared
sad, eerie, and with their stilted animated gestures, ultimately
absurd, prisoners behind glass like tired commuters with frozen
expressions, their large eyes looking beyond the glass as if having
spotted an imagined future in a multidimensional mannequin world.
Seeing her reflection in the glass, she adjusted her scarf and
watched the reflection of Jerome parting company with the young man
and make his way into the Café.
Although she thought the placement of
mirrors added a depth and a positive Feng shui, she could tell there
was a lack of absorbent materials in the decor, all wood chairs,
tables, stone walls and black and white tiled floor. She entered and
was enveloped by the clatter of dishes and the hums, hisses and
whines from the espresso machines, and though the high pitched squeal
of the steaming of milk made her teeth hurt, the babble of voices and
the background jazz music enlivened her with a fresh sense of
otherness. Such a change from her quiet desk at the Religious library
where students padded about in their socks, her co-workers whispered,
and a sneeze was a welcome sign of life.
The heart-shaped surfaces of their soy
lattes jiggled as they carefully approached a table near the window,
a process which reminded Melisande of the egg-and-spoon races of
childhood picnics, stirring up fleeting images of those other church
rituals, three legged race, limbo, horseshoes.
“It's good to see you,” Jerome
said, placing his jacket on the back of his chair. “It's been a
while.”
Melisande nodded. “Yes, we've all
been busy with our own things.” She sipped her latte and looked out
the window. “It's only Friday December 7th and we're
already nesting for the winter. Thanks for meeting me.”
“So, how are you and P. K. doing
these days?”
“He's fine. We're fine. He sends his
apologies for being so busy with his novel.” She dipped her spoon
in the frothy surface and scooped up a portion to taste. “Over
dinner last night he told me he thinks his characters live more than
he does. They're out and about experiencing life, and he's stuck in
his apartment, at his desk, in front of his computer screen. 'Shadows
against the wall' he said.”
“At least he had a taste of Trieste.”
“Yes, Trieste,” she said somewhat
wistfully. “Oh, we just heard that Tullio, the young man who'd
crashed his motorbike and fell into a coma, is now awake and
recuperating in the house Pavor was staying in. The owner of the
house is his close friend from the same university, and Tullio's
grandmother lives a few houses away, and she'll be bringing him
homemade soups, pastas, and such.” She lifted her shoulders. “So
it all worked out for the best.”
“That's good to hear,” he said,
thinking that Tullio would now be looking at that garden gnome Pavor
had described to him, the gnome he'd written about in the postcard limerick.
“The reason I wanted to talk to you
was that I had a visit from Thérèse this week. She was having a
blood test at the Royal Victoria Hospital, and she popped by the
library to see me as she was passing.”
“Did she tell you?”
“Tell me . . . what?”
“I proposed. She's accepted.”
Melisande smiled and touched his hand.
“That's wonderful news Jerome. I'm really happy to hear that. When
did you ask her?”
“Two days ago.”
“Ah . . . that's wonderful. That's so
wonderful.” Smiling, she continued to rest her hand on his.
“So . . . what did you want to tell
me?”
His marriage proposal had been
unexpected. It complicated her own revelation, and she couldn't think
fast enough to find a substitute. “Ahh . . . well,” she said
sitting back, “as I said, she just dropped by to see me since she
was passing. I was busy, so I asked her to sit at my desk while I
helped a student, and . . . well, she happened to see a page of
Pavor's latest manuscript which I'd been rereading in my spare time,
and when I returned, she was staring ahead with a frozen expression
on her face, her body stiff as if she'd been turned into a tree.
'David Ashemore,' she said. 'I remember now.' And then she got up to
leave. She said she was fine. Just a memory had come back to her.
Nothing to worry about. She had to meet her Mother downtown and it
was nice to see me. She gave me a hug and smiled and was out the
door.”
Jerome, his mouth agape, looked across
at her hands cupping her latte for warmth, a whisper of steam rising
from edge of the foam. “What day was that?”
“Tuesday morning. Yes, Tuesday
morning.” She could tell his eyes were looking inwards, searching
the permutations of time to see whether Thérèse's recollection of
David Ashemore might have influenced her decision to accept his hand
in marriage. They sat quietly while the complex rhythms of Charlie
Parker's tenor saxophone overlapped and weaved the silence between
them.
“I was just concerned, you know, that
. . .Thérèse might have remembered something traumatic. I wanted to
know she was all right.”
“No, she's . . . she's good, fine.
Actually, she's been more like herself these past few days.” He
sipped his latte and looked out the window. The young man with the
dog had emerged from around the corner and had sat down with his back
to the wall.
“Would you consider,” she began,
hoping to shift the conversation away from the past, “making it a
double marriage with us on May 18th at the McGill Chapel?
There will be so few people attending. No one from Pavor's side of
the family, too far for his Mother, and only a few from mine. It
would be lovely to have you join us in the ceremony.”
Shifting his head to one side, he
looked at her as if he was judging the beauty of a vase or a statue.
“I'll ask Thérèse what she thinks, but I feel she'll go for it.
Sounds good to me. We won't be having many family guests either.
Though I was thinking of a small reception at my friend Pascal's art
gallery, Gallerie d'Art Crépescule. What do you think? Would
that be ok?”
“Sounds like it would fit our
budget. Wine, cheese, nibblies, nothing too formal. Yes, that sounds
just right. Talk to Thérèse and then we'll get together for dinner
sometime. I hope she thinks it's a good idea. It would be lovely for
us all to share the day.”
Jerome nodded, then looking past her,
raised his chin and lipped a silent hi to an acquaintance behind her.
“She's been staying with her Mother in Varennes, and writing a few
articles for a small local paper. Her Mother's actually happy we're
getting married. Even to a painter like me.” He smiled broadly.
“She'd like to see Thérèse settle down.”
“Mrs. Laflamme should feel lucky to
have a future son-in-law like yourself,” she said. staring at
his hands stained with remnant pigments deep in the creases and
whorls of his fingerprints. “How's your painting these days?”
He checked his watch. “In a few hours
the portrait I've been working on will be picked up and delivered, so
I'm feeling good. Ready for some of my own work for a change.
Something original I hope. Oh, I almost forgot, Pavor left this CD
booklet at my place.” He pulled it from his coat pocket and placed
it beside her cup. “A local band I dragged him to see on his first
night back from Italy.”
“Rough Draft. How appropriate.
Two bachelors on a night out eh?” She laughed. “Would they be
good for the reception?”
Jerome shook his head. “No, I don't
think so, too loud. The art gallery can pipe in light background
music unless you have something in mind, a jazz combo or a classical
trio.”
“I guess we can figure that out over
dinner.”
“Right, good.”
“Hmm.”
Reduced to monosyllables and silence,
they each sipped their coffees and looked out the window at the
street view outlined in the welcome light of the diminishing day.
She wondered, as she looked at the
lengthening shadows across the street, if marrying Pavor would soften
his protective shell, loosen the stiffness at the corner of his eyes,
deepen his vulnerability and open him to writing about the death of
his wife and child. She could see them walking a labyrinth together,
his tall figure before her taking each step slowly as if learning to
walk, step after step, occasionally loosing balance, feeling dizzy,
feeling lost. Pausing, she too would pause, and then follow him on to
the centre.
He could see the dog resting his chin
on the young man's knee, and a hand held out as a woman passed. It
was going to be a cold winter he thought. Why didn't Thérèse tell
him about her recollection? Now he would have to wait. He couldn't
ask. Not now. If she wanted to let him know, she would. He would hold
her tighter when she stayed with him on the weekend. Kiss her more
passionately. Listen to her more attentively. He'd paint her
portrait. A cozy setting, sitting by the window reading a book. Late
afternoon shadow and light. Domestic scene, Saturday, December 8th,
2012.
*
“Jacques Futrelle,” he
said quietly to himself, leaning back against the bookshelves in the
Sir Gawain section of the book stacks. He opened the book in the
middle and gently snapped it shut sending a fine spray of dust into
the air which hovered briefly before descending like a whale's
exhalation to the taped and labeled boxes near his feet. He'd
finished boxing the F's, all the Farjeons, Farnols, Farrells,
Faulkners, Feinsteins, Feurbachs, Ffordes, Fieldings, Fitzgeralds,
Flauberts, Flemings, Fords, Forresters, Forsters, Forsyths,
Foucaults, Fowles, Freuds, Froudes, Fryes and Fuentes and others in
between, but a remnant of Futrelles remained. A dilemma: start a new
box, or add them to the beginning of the G's? Perhaps it was a sign.
He'd always wanted to read the work of this author. The Chase of
the Golden Plate by Jacques Futrelle. Might as well start here he
thought. He flipped a few pages and read the dedication: To three
woman I love: Fama, and Mazie, and Berta. He
turned to the first chapter and read the first sentence:
Cardinal Richelieu and
the Mikado stepped out on a narrow balcony overlooking the entrance
to Seven Oaks, lighted their cigarettes and stood idly watching the
throng as it poured up the wide marble steps.
Perfect
escape reading he thought. He left the Futrelles on the shelf and
looked towards the G's, his eyes skipping from Gaddis to Garcia
Marquez, Garnett to Gaskell, Gass to Grass, Gernsback to Gibson, and
then he slowly scanned the Gissings, Goddens, Godwins, Gogols,
Goldings and Greenes. An empty box awaited, but he felt lightheaded,
short of breath. Taking off his glasses, he rubbed his eyes. Dust, he
thought, he just needed some fresh air. He selected a handful of
books and bending down to place them in the box, he noticed the
works of Robert Graves, specifically The White Goddess in a
pale green Faber & Faber paperback edition. Slipping it out from
between the author's Watch the North Wind Rise and New
Collected Poems, he fanned the pages and breathed in the special
scent of the paper and ink thinking of his first reading of the book
when younger, the years when he was deep in the works of comparative
mythology, enlivened by the books and lectures of Joseph Campbell,
and seeking out authors in the Bollingen series, Bachofen, Eliade,
Jung, Kerényi, Newman. Feeling a tightness in his chest, and
overcome by a sense of claustrophobia, he sought out the narrow red
floral runner rug in the central aisle between the stacks, a carpet
that used to be attached to the stairs in his parent's home, a
well-worn carpet upon which he used to sit, listening, thinking,
following the patterns with his eyes and his fingers. Unsteady on his
feet he looked towards the blind porcelain angel holding the open
book in her out stretched arms, and thought he saw the great scholar
of comparative mythology standing there as if guiding him on a museum
tour, one hand in his tweed jacket pocket, the other gesturing
towards the angel, his throaty voice discussing the lost powers of
the pagan Goddesses. Nausea overcame him. He collapsed on the carpet,
the bookshelves spinning around him with their gilt bindings a
colourful blur. Was he suffering from an aneurysm like his Mother? A
ringing in his ears and a darkness pressed down upon him.
He
opened his eyes and he was on the beach once again, the beach where
as a child he'd stubbed his toe on the sandstone rock with its
perfect hole. He looked down and the book he'd held in his hand was
now the lost amulet. Bringing it up to his eye, rough stone against
his smooth skin, he scanned the horizon. A lyric from his earliest
adolescent attempts at songwriting passed through his mind, Let
your summers' breeze take me by the hand . . . a full moon seemed
to hover over the horizon, blindingly bright through the weathered
orifice, bright as the beginning of light at the birth of the u . n .
. i
The
phone rang. After the seventh ring, the old-fashioned answering
machine's message played in the silence of the bookshop: “You've
reached Lafcadio & Co. Bookshop. If I can't find it, Lafcadio
can. Please leave your message after the beep and we'll get back to
you. Thank you. Vous avez bien fait le numero pour Librarie Lafcadio
& Co., s'il vous plaìt, laissez votre message après la
tonnalité. Merci.”
“Hello,
Mr. Strand. My name is Jonathan Landgrave of Landgrave &
Landgrave, Notaries. I represent a client who is currently
involved in the condominium development. My client was unaware of
your bookshop on the premises, thinking it was occupied solely by the
cordage business. It's also been drawn to his attention, that you
were of service to him many years ago in preparing a special
catalogue of a book collection in his possession. With this in mind,
he would like to extend his hand in in a gesture of assistance. If
you are interested in selling all or a portion of the stock of both
businesses, he would be pleased to acquire them at the going rate. If
you could arrange for a catalogue overview of your stock in both
businesses, their estimated retail values, and what you would
consider a reasonable purchase price, we could meet at my office to
discuss the proposition in detail. We look forward to hearing from
you. You can reach me at this num . . . .”
*
Melisande
sat at her desk rummaging in her purse for her lemon lavender lip
balm. Applying it, she noticed Pavor's CD booklet Jerome had given to
her. Out of curiosity, she looked Rough Draft up on Google,
and finding numerous bands with the name, narrowed her search by
adding 'Montreal.' Finding the webpage, she clicked on the link and
up popped a black and white site designed with letters in different
fonts and scripts with the band's name across the top in bold with a
treble clef in place of the letter G. Headers beneath listed News,
Tour, Store, Music, Photos, Lyrics, Connect, and along one side,
all the social media buttons. She clicked on photos and looked at
pictures of the band performing at Le Bar Prufrock last month.
The musicians seemed very young. She didn't see Pavor or Jerome
amongst the attendees, but she did recognize Tom Culacino, Duncan's
friend who worked down the street in the science building. Clicking
on Music she read the list of songs from their eponymous
album:
Thread
of Love
S&M.
Hold
Me
Mary
Mad Maud
Phone
Me Persephone
Symbiotic
Syntax
Merry
Mary Marry Me
Daphne's
Laurel
Azure
Eyelash
Muse
in a Man's World.
She was
about to click on the last song when Manon, her co-worker
approached. She closed the window and returned to her database.
“Did I
catch you looking at wedding dresses?” Manon asked, with a wink.
“Ah, coupable.”
*
Jerome
was surprised to see both Bartholomew and Thaddeus at his door. He
noticed the latter was holding a neatly folded Hudson Bay blanket as
if it was an offering. For a brief moment, the thought crossed his
mind the blanket was really for him, something to wrap his dead body
in as payment for the unexpected tryst with Lucrezia, their employer's wife.
“Come
in, come in. Good to see you guys again. How are you doing?”
They
ignored the question, their eyes levelled at the fine white cardboard
box with the dimensions of a painting. “Is this it?” Bartholomew
asked pointing to the box.
“It
is. I've packed it well so there shouldn't be a problem with transport. It's surrounded in a protective veil of fabric cushioned with styrofoam
edges and housed in this special cardboard box I made for it. I have a large plastic bag you can put it in it you like.
Will it be going to a framer first?”
“No,
they have an antique frame waiting. Mr. Landgrave asked me to give
you this envelope. The final payment. And our employers would like to
thank you for your excellent work.”
“Thank you. Just doing my job. I hope they like it.” Jerome sensed they were both more
abrupt and business-like in their manner towards him, making him
wonder if Thaddeus had disclosed to his brother the details of his
having dropped Lucrezia off here a few weeks back. He held the door
open. “Oh, Bartholomew, I just wanted to let you know I'm
getting married in the spring.”
Thaddeus
had already descended the outer staircase and was opening the trunk
of the car, and his twin brother, holding the painting in one hand, turned
around on the outdoor landing, smiled, and said, “Congratulations.
When's the big day?”
“Oh,
it's not for awhile. May 18th at the McGill University
Chapel. We'll be having a small reception at my friend's art gallery
after. We'd be pleased if you would all join us.”
© ralph patrick mackay
