Yes Cecil, A Long Story Short, Part Thirteen

1

“In the beginning, there was dust,” Duncan intoned, reading the first line of A Trifling Monograph on the Subject of Library Dust, an attractive little book that had been collecting that very subject on his shelves. He brought it over to his desk and hesitated before the two stacks of books on either side of his computer, the two Martello towers that represented his quandary over what to read and what to sell. He placed it on the left tower, on top of a dusty copy of The Lone Rider of Santa Fe, the tower of books to be read. He picked up his cup of tea and walked over to the window.

A foggy Monday morning. It was still foggy. Perhaps Uncle Edward was looking out his windows at a nether sky beneath him, clouds of fog truncating skyscrapers, fingers of fog writing indecipherable messages on brick and glass, blankets of fog hiding wet dark streets leaving the bare grasping upper branches of the tallest trees to form a landscape like a haunted grave yard. In his 53 years he couldn't remember so many foggy days.Was it climate change he wondered. He had hardly been able to see his finger tips at arms length when he had crossed St. Antoine street twenty minutes ago, and, being startled by a bicycle bell—that classic old-fashioned bell he remembered having on his tricycle as a child—he had, for a fraction of a moment, hesitated, not knowing whether to move back or forward. 'He who hesitates is lost', he heard his father say, one adage of many his late father had often dryly pronounced. If it hadn't been for the bicycle bell he might have been dust himself. What had the bicyclist been thinking? His elbow had clipped Duncan and spun him round, and he had heard a muffled curse as he caught sight of the phantom bicycle, enveloped in its own wake turbulence, disappear into the brumous atmosphere. Rubbing his arm, he had continued on his way only to discover, after a few minutes, that he had been walking in the wrong direction. It would be odd, he had thought, if the fog lifted to disclose a completely different reality, an alternative world. One of the future or one of the past, Blade Runner or Bleak House.

It had been fortunate he decided against bringing Hugh to work that day. On Mondays, Duncan liked to arrive early with Hugh at Strand Cordage Ltd. in order to grasp the week by the lapels like Sam Spade dealing with an unruly crook. The time between 7 and 9 were the hours he felt he had a modicum of control over the business week. It was like the calm moments before getting on a roller coaster, the ups, downs and curves inevitably awaiting. He felt there were to be many curves on the horizon.

He sipped his tea and looked out at the vapourous miasma on the other side of his windows, and pondered over what he was going to do with the two businesses he was juggling. Having inherited Strand Cordage after his Father died in 1991, he had decided to move most of the 10,000 books of his Lafcadio & Co. bookshop into the large unused store room on the second floor of the family business, the store room where, as a child, he and his brothers would play among the coils, flats, bales and heady scents of rough and soft fibres imported from such exotic places as the Philippines, Russia, New Zealand, Mauritius, Ireland, Yucatan, Bengal, Belgium and Holland, with strange names like Manila Hemp, Sisal Hemp, Palma Istle, Flax and Jute. They would play pirates and pretend they were aboard ship. There was a climbing rope attached to the ceiling and they would swing on that like dashing swashbucklers, swinging their swords, wooden yard sticks with the business name printed on them. The pine floors creaking, the yard sticks slapping, he could almost hear the sounds. There had been two hammocks his father had fastened near the front windows, and Duncan would often lie there, one leg dangling over the cotton edge, reading an array of adventure books from his Grandfather's collection at the back of the office below, Henty, Marrayat, Ballantyne, Stevenson, Conan Doyle, intermixed with his own gunslinger comic books and the complete Hardy Boys series. He had been a keen reader of western comic books, and yet they were long gone: The Cowboy Kid, Kid Colt, The Apache Kid, Two-Gun Kid, and Rawhide Kid. The brothers had shared them till they must have fallen apart. He had not been one for collecting, only reading mattered at the time. He felt that those old comic books had vanished much like the demand for what he had to offer.

Duncan stared at the lustrous fog and thought once more of the papers he had found in his Father's files, an expansion project planned for the early 1970s. A plan to become a manufacturer of rope products, mountaineering and search and rescue ropes, circus and athletic ropes, and specialized marine and aviation ropes. Losing his wife in 1970 had taken the wind out of his Father's sails. The projected expansion had been filed away and never mentioned. Adrift, the business had managed to stay afloat, but only just. The competition overtook Strand Cordage with the slightest of momentum.

He turned his back on the recalcitrant morning. Sometimes he thought he had ruined Amelia's life. If it hadn't been for a dumb waiter in need of repair, they would never have met, and she might have married an engineer or a lawyer, someone who could have easily financed her desires, fulfilled her wishes.

If he could only sell the family business and some of his book stock, he could possibly raise enough to enable Amelia to take that post-graduate course in England she had talked about so often. They could sell up and move. Live in England for a year or so. He closed his eyes thinking he should have sold them both back in 1991. The Internet had been an exciting new prospect for bookselling, and those first ten years were good, but the ebook revolution had dawned with bright force. Becalmed in an era of digital tailwinds, his book business had faltered. More Blade Runner than Bleak House.

2

He sat at his desk and pushed the computer back. Out of a large deep drawer, he pulled out an old ledger from 1881, the red leather spine drawing lines and shedding small musty fragments on his pale green blotter. It was a somewhat unusual ledger for it had finely marbled endpapers.  He had been going through the company's files, interested in the day to day operations. His forebears had been a source for many retailers of the day, the grocers, the dry goods stores, mattress manufacturers, shoe companies, ship builders, fish mongers, spice factors, coffee roasters, stationers, plumbers, printers, newspapers, laundries, florists, flour mills, butchers, glove makers, furniture manufacturers, fruit merchants, awning, tent and carpet manufacturers, and many, many others. Rope, twine, and string were products of necessity.

The last retailer whom Duncan could remember wrapping a package with string was Stuart Grange. An old world ritual. Stuart would first wrap the books in brown Kraft paper and then tie them up, neat packages that felt special when you walked out onto the street with them under your arm. It was as if you had been browsing in a bookshop in the 1880s and emerged to find a bright loud world a century older where plastic bags were ubiquitous. Grange Stuart Books had been a veritable time machine. He missed Stuart and his old shop. When he and Amelia would eat at the Commensale restaurant, he would often look out the window and re-imagine the buildings that had been demolished, buildings that housed an F. W. Woolworth store and Stuart Grange's bookshop among many others. Or had it been a Kresge's store? The buildings had been taken down long ago in order to expand the street and construct a new shopping complex and business tower. Duncan remembered the day he came across Stuart Grange sitting on a street bench facing the new complex and they had sat there reminiscing about the old shop, the old buildings, Stuart pointing with his cane towards the spot where his shop used to be on the upper floors, pointing to open air. They had both agreed that though physically the buildings had vanished like a morning fog, there was still a remnant manifestation that drew them to the spot like a vortex exerting its pull. A black hole of the past. They had sat there seeing themselves moving about in the past, walking on air, phantom walls and books surrounding them. Stuart wrapping a package of books with twine while modern day Montrealers walked beneath his imagined self oblivious to their past.

Duncan also missed his one-eyed cat. An abstraction of ashes in an urn remained. A picture of his cat, he realized now, would have been a better memento mori. The weighty urn had become exceedingly non-representative. It was placed on the shelf to his right where books on the Far East were shelved. Lafcadio was presently propping up The Story of the Geisha Girl by T. Fujimoto, and Japan by Walter Dickson both rather frayed and faded with age, behind which lay many works of fiction, Kawabata, Tanizaki, Mishima, Dazai, and more modern practitioners like Murakami. Lafcadio used to enjoy snoozing on the shelves.

Duncan came to the end of the ledger for 1881 and yet there was a facing page with an ink stain in the shape of Sri Lanka, the Serendip of old, like a dark tear drop of an ink God. The paper seemed to be older and of a completely different type. He lifted the volume and looked through the page and could see an edge of an old watermark. Turning the page over he came to a blank page, and he continued to turn a few more pages until he found a half page of printed text, upside down. He fanned the pages and realized the last section of the ledger was made up of old paper signatures bound-in upside down. Turning the book over he opened it from the wrong end and came to a half-title page with a finely written inscription in purple ink.

© ralph patrick mackay

Yes Cecil, A Long Story Short, Part Twelve

To J. van Starke

c/o Pascal Tessier

Galerie d'Art Crépescule
Montréal, Québec

Bergen, Norway.

October 21.

Dear Jerome,

I know you have been used to my absences in the past, weeks, and sometimes months, so my departure and my note, I felt, would not be unusual. I had hoped you had read between the lines. Why did I leave so suddenly? Forgive me. My apologies for any emotional trauma. I waited three months to contact you hoping this would help counter the momentum, and provide us both with a safe distance from the obscure events that were aroused by my investigative work. All I will say at this moment, is that I had been researching a story and was beginning to receive flak. A few shots across the bow as my Father used to say. Samples of threats that were spreading outwards, to friends, associates and family; efforts at cutting away my connections to those who support me in any way.  I have stored most of my few belongings at my Mother's house in Varennes. I have addressed this letter to your friend at the gallery to cover its tracks. I know this sounds bizarre, it is Canada not Russia, but I quickly felt endangered and did not want it to spread to those I love. My lawyer in Montreal is looking into the grim details while I am away.

But enough of this, for now. 

I spent two months in Edinburgh staying with my friend Judith. A wonderful place to live, but the cost of living there is very high. I wrote a few occasional pieces for arts magazines using my father's surname, Sinclair, Tess Sinclair. It is still my official surname. I am fortunate in having the two names to use as I wish. What is that classical reference I am looking for, Janus faced? I can't remember if it would be appropriate but there it is. While in Edinburgh, I met a woman from Bergen, Martine, and she invited me to visit. So, here I am, living in uncertainty. In limbo. She is a lawyer and has a very nice house with a number of rooms which I rent for very little. I even feel she may be keeping the money to reimburse me somehow. I take care of the shopping and help keep the place tidy, do some cooking. Just like my old roommate years. My savings have been seeing me through.

I was up early this morning and out for a walk, the showers of yesterday gave way to a light blue sky with an azure promise. The dark puddles on the pavements reflected images of the few passing clouds, clouds that reminded me of the ones in some of your paintings.

The northern light here is, at times, seemingly filled with vestigial reflections. A special light. I sometimes see ourselves in the shadows of this city, as if we have been here long ago, penumbral presences on the narrow cobblestone streets, turning corners, looking back, laughing.

I have been taking pictures. Autumn surrounds the city like a mosaic cloth, a rich complement to the colourfully painted wooden houses. The mountain as a backdrop reminds me of Montreal. There is graffiti here as well. Montreal graffiti is so commonplace now, and I know you have your opinions on graffiti, but what we have gotten used to in Montreal as expressions of a youthful Zeitgeist, is here more shocking. The buildings with their wood-clad siding of soft blues, yellows, greens and reds are, to my fresh eyes, exquisite, a pastel landscape with red-tiled roofs, like a picturesque fishing village that retains a miniature toy-like feel. I still find the graffiti on these buildings disturbing, but I know that some of the younger locals must have a different perception of their own city.

It is beautiful though. I can see us living here.

This morning I walked down by the wharf, the Bryggen, where the old Hanseatic fishing buildings face the water and the tall masted Statsraad Lehmkuhl, with its webs of attractive rigging lies at anchor. The hordes of tourists have diminished and to wander about in the early morning, the shop keepers busy with their preparations for the day, the pedestrians and cyclists on their way to work, makes me feel like a local, breathing local air. This harbour city exudes its watery essence much more than Montreal which seems to have turned its back on the water as it developed,  its barricade of high rise buildings blocking out the view. Bergen is so much smaller that it still retains its direct connection to the port.

The old Hanseatic buildings, their multicolour exteriors and their peak roofs reminded me of a visit to Port-Menier with my parents when I was small. My Father had business in Havre St-Pierre, and he decided to combine the trip with a short family vacation. I remember a picture in Havre St-Pierre as we waited for the Ferry to take us across to Ile Anticosti, my Mother standing beside me, her hand behind my back as I sat on an enormous dock horn or cleat they tie ships to, my little foot resting on the thick coiled rope. Such innocence and momentary pleasures we have in youth. These very old buildings on the Bryggen stirred up a memory of a street in Port-Menier, one facing the water with a row of colourful homes, old fisherman's houses, running obliquely off to the south west, a natural perspective of diminishing colour. Aren't we all just a storehouse of memories waiting to be aroused? That visit included feeding the white-tail deer that roamed the streets of the small port town. I wonder if they still wander freely. Probably. It is safer in the town nibbling people's lawns, than in the scrub forest eating blueberries during hunting season. Very human of them.

You probably know the story of Ile Anticosti. I remember reading about Henri Menier when I was in my young teens. I was fascinated. A man from France who made a fortune by making chocolate buys an enormous private island in Quebec, builds a huge Scandinavian-style mansion, introduces white-tail deer, and tries to develop local industry; it had many elements that led to some of my early romance writings while in my teens. Yes, a romantic recluse in his mansion in the woods, white-tail deer roaming about freely, a heroine and, yes, chocolate. Unfortunately, the mansion was purposely burnt down in 1954. What a loss. Would have made a wonderful Inn for tourists. Reminds me of the loss of many of Montreal's old mansions during the 1970s. A twenty floor high rise apartment makes for more tax revenue than a deteriorating mansion... I am sorry, here I am writing you a letter and I have gone off on a journalistic rant about the architectural history of Montreal. My apologies.

Bergen is indeed lovely. So much to tell, but I want to get this in the mail this afternoon. I will write again soon. Write to me at Martine's business address but do not put my name on the envelope and do not put your name and address as a return either. Just draw Mercury's helmet in the return area. Martine will know it is for me.

I hope you are finding inspiration for your paintings. I have been wondering what you have been working on. My lawyer has kept his eye on you from a distance, providing me with assurances that you are alive and well. Since he owns that odd little building you live in, I imagine Maurice is, unknowingly, his source of information.

As I write this, the red ink drying before my eyes, I worry over its passage to you. It feels as fragile as a paper boat. The time between the last touch of my fountain pen on the envelope and the moment your hands touch it, will be a test of fate. May the water between us be accepting.

All my love and seeking your forgiveness,

Thérèse

End of Chapter One

© ralph patrick mackay

Yes Cecil, A Long Story Short, Part Eleven

Surrounded by the tools of her trade, a colourful assortment of dictionaries, phrase books, manuals and textbooks, Amelia sat at her desk, the aroma of cooked rice making its way towards her room like an overcast sky. She reached over and gently closed the door to her office not wanting to upset Duncan who was humming away, busy in the kitchen preparing his chick pea curry. Adjusting her earplugs, she started her iPod, a personal mellow mix of songstresses to bring her closer to that inner space she found necessary to do her best work, Bat for Lashes, Kate Walsh, Sarah McLaughlin, Sade, K. D. Laing, Loreena McKennitt, Jane Siberry, Kate Rusby and many others intermixed with soft classical pieces and Nordic folk music.

Duncan's strange discovery, the manuscript in code, lay upon her unopened laptop, a virtual paperweight from the past. Why would someone actually print such a text? It must be fairly old she thought. And its hiding place was a concern. Very odd. She fanned the pages and was slowly overcome with the feeling of frustration. The hundreds of specialized books in her office were of no avail. Although Duncan believed she could do anything, it was, for her, untranslatable. She put the manuscript on the table beside her desk and opened her laptop with the idea of searching the Internet to discover who lived in the flat before them. Online telephone directories were her first choice. She typed their address into the reverse address search box, the tinge of anticipation arousing a deep-set memory of Nancy Drew. She rolled her eyes, inwardly, and gazed at the magical looking-glass and its proffered information while the soothing voice of Kate Rusby sang Falling.

T. Laflamme.

Well, it was a beginning. T. Laflamme. She thought the previous tenant had been a woman, but there could well have been a man involved. She heard Hugh scratching at the base of the door, his nose and then his head appeared and he looked up at her expectantly. The rich earthy scent of curry mixed with the rice clouds began to enter her office. "Do you want to go for a walk?" she asked Hugh. He followed Amelia to the front of the flat, his tail wagging, his nails clipping along the oak floorboards. At the front window, Amelia looked down and saw Mrs. Shimoda's son Paul talking to Natasha Roy the single mother of one who lived beneath the Stirlings. She quickly put on her shoes and made her way down the stairs. As she opened her front door and stepped out, Paul noticed her and raised his hand in greeting with a nod of his head before getting into his car. Mrs. Shimoda was in the passenger seat, off to dinner with her son's family. Amelia had waved and then tried to catch Natasha's eye.

“Hi Natasha, how are you?”

“Good, and you?”

“Great. How is Anisha?”

“Oh, she is fine. We were just out shopping. Clothes. Very tiring. Do I smell Duncan's curry?”

“Ah, yes,” she said, realizing that the aromas had followed her down the stairs and out on the stoop. “He is doing his best chickpea curry. Would you like to come up for dinner? There is always enough for four. We have store-bought Naan bread which is really quite good.”

Natasha looked hesitant, weary and hungry, yet having to take into consideration Anisha's moods. “Let me ask Anisha, but I would love to come up.”

“No rush, please take your time. The curry gets better with simmering.”

“Thanks Amelia, very kind of you.”

“No problem, just ring the bell and come in, the door will be open.”

Amelia turned around to see Hugh managing the last stair, an expression of anxiety on his face. She got the leash from the back of the door and they went off for a quick walk. Once she and Hugh returned, she told Duncan they might have guests for dinner. After a moment to adjust to the information, he said that was wonderful.

“Maybe Natasha knew the person who was here before us,” he said.

“Yes, it had been my motive when I saw her from the window, but she smelled your curry and I thought we could ask her about the tenant over dinner. A little serendipitous give and take.”

“Sounds good.”

“I looked up our address online, the reverse search, and the name was T. Laflamme.”

“Oh,” he said, and repeated the name twice thinking it was a fairly common name. “Did you look up the name too?”

“I was going to, but Hugh entered the scene, fortuitously it seems.”

Duncan looked at her as he squished the tomatoes into the onion, chickpea, and curry mix thinking she was a bit fatigued. Her eyes were a bit red. Dehydrated too he thought.

“Maybe you should lie down for fifteen minutes. Have a bit of a rest. I'll come in and wake you if you've fallen asleep.”

Fifteen minutes later, Duncan, sitting on the end of the bed, gently stroked Amelia's leg and foot to wake her.

“I hope I didn't let you sleep too long,” he said offering her a glass of water.

“No, no, it's just what I needed,” she said stretching under the comforter, petting Hugh who lay beside her on the bed. “Odd little dream though. It was as if I was Nancy Drew and Natasha was Bess, and we were trying to open a door in a walled garden.”

“Hmm, was I involved?”

“Sorry, I didn't find a role for you in my ten minute nap dream,” she said, giving him a gentle prod with her foot. “Perhaps I should get out my old Nancy Drew books. I know The Strange Message in the Parchment is on a bottom shelf in the office.”

The door bell rang. They heard the door open and Natasha calling out hello. Duncan said he would entertain their guests while she freshened up.

“Her name was Thérèse, Thérèse Laflamme,” Natasha said, dipping a piece of Naan bread in the curry mixture at the edge of her rice. “She was a journalist.”

“Did she work for a Montreal paper?” Amelia asked.

“Not that I know of. I believe she was a freelance investigative journalist. Quiet, but very pleasant, always said hello.”

“She had a boyfriend who looked like Johnny Depp,” said Anisha.

There was a silence at the table while this statement hovered in the atmosphere mingling with the scents of curry, rice, naan bread and beer.

“Would that be a pre-pirate, or a post-pirate Johnny Depp?” Amelia asked with a wink to Natasha.

“Post-pirate I would say. A painter. A post-pirate painter,” Natasha said to their general laughter, although Anisha, being ten years old, was bewildered and perhaps a bit embarrassed.

“Very nice as well. A bit odd perhaps, withdrawn, but polite. He drove one of those old cars, what do they call them, a Citroen of some kind.”

“Was it one of those sleek long DS models?” Duncan asked, thinking of the car he had coveted when he was a youth after seeing Alain Delon in the film Le Samourai.

“No, it was one those tiny ones, a deux chevaux I think they're called. Anyway, when she moved, it went quickly. I don't think she had many belongings. Mrs. Shimoda told me after that Thérèse was going abroad for a job. It was all very sudden. I believe she had family living in Varennes.”

Duncan had instructed the girls to relax in the front room while he cleaned up. He wasn't sure if it was conditioning that prompted him to clear the table and take care of the dishes, having done so since he was twelve, order and satisfaction the reward. He sensed it was probably conditioning.

After their guests had left with many thanks, Duncan and Amelia sat in the kitchen with cups of tea, Hugh on the floor looking content but tired.

“Anisha loves Hugh, she gets along with him so well. They're so cute together. Poor Natasha. Her job is giving her a lot of stress. I think she needed a shoulder to cry on tonight.”

“Doesn't she work for that cultural institute?”

“Yes, and her boss keeps overlooking her for promotion. Natasha is so capable and smart but her boss keeps hiring people from outside who will essentially be pawns around him."

“I imagine such behaviour wouldn't last long in the real world of profits and margins.”

“Who knows, office politics seems to be rampant. It is a wonder anything gets done in the world.”

“I'm glad you could offer her your shoulder and ear. Must be hard with only Anisha to confide in. She must have to keep her frustrations bottled up."

They sipped their tea.

" Well, to change the subject,” Duncan said, “we learned quite a bit tonight. A few more pieces of the puzzle.”

“Yes, we can now look Thérèse Laflamme up to see if she has an online presence. Maybe find a contact.”

“And that deux chevaux, not many of them around. Not a car for the winter either. Might be easy to find owners of such a car.”

They sat at the kitchen table sipping their tea feeling much like Sherlock and Watson, yet not quite sure who was the detective and who was the doctor.

© ralph patrick mackay

Yes Cecil, A Long Story Short, Part Ten

ex Packard was not his real name, but the dust on his $600 Cordovan Strand cap-toe lace-up Oxfords was all too real. How the hell was he going to get the dust out of the decorative perforations? He could see his shoe mender now, his skin darkened with age like the materials he'd been working with for over forty years, looking down at Rex's shoes with dismay and bewilderment. He didn't know a helicopter ride was on the agenda he could say as the enveloping smell of leathers, glues and polishes invisibly attached themselves to his clothes as he stood there explaining his dilemma to Georgios. Probably the best thing was to merely hand them over to the master with a weary shake of his own head and ask him to do his best.

He turned his back to the helicopter, and drawing out his gold coloured monogrammed cigarette lighter, which also contained his Powerpoint presentation on the built-in USB, he cupped his hand and tried to light his smoke. Being far enough away from the slowly moving blades, he succeeded and drew deeply wondering why he agreed to come along on this joy-ride. One of the Russians was relieving himself—marking his territory—against the metal fence that surrounded the ruin of the Michigan Central Station. The sound of the traffic on the Fisher Freeway leading to the Ambassador Bridge in the distance provided Rex with a fleeting image of where he and his SUV should have been by now, enjoying the pleasure of driving to the sounds of his favourite dance mix, relaxing with a cigarette, large hot coffee in the holder, it would have been just right, but now he would be late getting back to Toronto, late for the party at the night club his girlfriend had planned, late for his other life.

He turned around to make sure their transportation was safe. Why did all helicopter pilots look the same he wondered. Aviator sunglasses, headphones, white dress shirt, often short-sleeved, clean-shaven. Like clones. This one looked around slightly worried, anxious. Probably sharing Rex's state of mind. What if the police showed up? Would they be arrested? The Russians must have offered him a hefty sum to make the landing on the remnant lawn on the north side of Roosevelt Park. A tour from the air of Detroit's decay was one thing, but this was pushing Irish luck.

The Russians were calling him over now, gesturing with their cameras and cell phones. Rex took the devices and directed the dark-suited men to skitch in closer to each other and then he began to take their  photographs, egging them on to break out of their poker faces, “Za vas!” he yelled to them. No reaction. He thought of bringing up Luzhkov and his bees, but thought better of it. They might be friends with the mayor, the apiarist of Moscow. He thought perhaps of making a joke that they were in front of the mausoleum to the American Dream but his patience had already met up with his nerves at the acme of his fear. He took their photographs, like hunters in front of a kill, digital mementos of their visit to an icon of a metropolis struggling to get back on its feet.

Once more on board the helicopter, Rex tried to check his messages on his Blackberry while the others drank toasts out of hip flasks filled with Vodka. The pilot's voice came over his headphones instructing him to shut off his device before they took off and then away they went, carving the air in a smooth arc like a Nike swoosh on their way to the mansion off Lake Shore Road up towards Grosse Pointe yacht club, where the view of Lake St. Clair was like a grey carpet to the horizon on this overcast day.

It was going to be a long drive home. Perhaps he should stay one more night and leave in the morning. The mansion was at their disposal for the weekend, the Russians having planned a feast this evening before leaving on Monday for a week in the far North. He thought they had said Northern Ontario, but he wasn't quite sure. Moose, bear, polar bear. It had all been arranged months ago. Rex knew nothing about hunting though he was fairly sure polar bears were off the list of fair game. A joke perhaps. He could never tell when they were joking.

He didn't think Tina would be too upset. Business, that's what it's all about baby, he heard himself saying to her. His Sunday seminar in the plush conference room was a success and the Russians wanted to reward him with a fine meal. They said they had learned a great deal. Well, not in those words, but that was their drift. Yes, he would stay the night. A little work-out in the gym, catch-up with his favourite Youtube reality couple vloggers and their cat, and maybe a few pages of that Chuck Palaniuk novel on his Kindle.

The Youtube vloggers were so funky. He had thought of possibly starting his own Youtube reality vlog. I mean really, he thought, all the couple did was go out and do stupid things, or film around the house with their pet cat. They were seemingly making a nice living by, well, just living. But did he and Tina have the right stuff? Personality and character that would attract followers? Were they capable of being so goofy? Would Tina even consider the concept?

Back at the mansion, he helped himself to a cold beer. Pausing to look into the library, its floor to ceiling shelves glinting with gilt leather bound books, he sighed and took a sip. Nothing to read there he thought.  The Russians invited him for a sauna and a swim but he declined, gesturing to his Blackberry as he made his way up to his room.

He stretched himself out on the king size bed, turned the enormous flat screen tv on, and scrolled the channels, his brain falling into a diminished perception zone while the ever revolving circuit of talking heads and bad acting flitted over the screen. Coming  to a rerun of MacGyver, a show he had enjoyed as a kid, he threw the remote aside and began to check his messages. Tina had sent him one earlier in the day with a link to a cruise she wanted to book, it would feature a number of top DJs in the country, lots of dancing, drinking and fun. No family and kids. Rex saw that it could lead to some interesting connections. Networking was so important in his freelance work. The timing looked good, the cost just right. He sent her a message to go ahead with the cruise and that he was sorry for not being able to get back for the party. He would see her Monday afternoon.

Another email reminded him of a meeting in Montreal on Thursday. He wasn't keen on going. His old employers were fickle, ever wanting to keep tabs on his freelance activities. The Russians he thought, they probably wanted to know about the Russians.

© ralph patrick mackay

Yes Cecil, A Long Story Short, Part Nine

Jerome van Starke stretched out upon the antique wicker chaise lounge, his head upon the large brown corded sofa pillow, images of the day's faces—emotions and enigmas, profiles and recognitions—making entrances and exits upon his inner stage. The fashions and body movements, the glances and stances. So few looking at him, don't look at the 'homeless man,' the 'unfortunate,' the 'emotionally challenged.' Occasionally he would find an inquisitive eye, one that couldn't quite figure out who he was and what he was doing sitting on a street bench watching people go by. The police knew him by now. Only dogs met his eyes consistently, a mixture of bored curiosity and latent sympathy. He always included a dog in his paintings, lower right, looking out at the imagined viewer, his name underneath in a flourish, 'van starke.' The owner of the restaurant that faced his bench would tell his patrons that the man was “une artiste, nothing to worry about, not a beggar, but a painter looking for inspiration,” and he would point to the painting behind the cash, a portrait of the owner which Jerome had painted for him, having used Anthony van Dyck's portrait of Cornelis van der Geest as inspiration. There was the owner, complete with the slightly limp piccadill ruff collar of the original painting from 1620 but a much more handsome specimen than poor old van der Geest.

He reached over to the crumbling white plaster Grecian style pedestal and pressed the cd player on and let the soothing melodies of Coeur de Pirate wash over him like a sacred rain, the piano notes like drops of water upon his face. He looked at the figures on the pedestal, handmaidens, one hand over a breast, one holding a jug, libation bearers, and he imagined the flow of wine, wine falling into the river of life like red coiled snakes.

His burnt umber rags were neatly hung on a suit hanger upon the back of the door to his studio, his lace-less shoes positioned on the mat like offerings to Hermes. He now wore honey-coloured wide wale corduroys and a large denim shirt. A half-completed oil painting on the large easel reflected the late afternoon northern light.

Conjuring up the two women he saw today walking arm-and-arm, expressions of contentment, their colourful thin scarves flowing in the cool air, he visually placed them in the painting to the left of centre, envisioning the colours, the brushstrokes, the tonal contrasts.

He was glad he had decided to venture out on a Sunday. It had been worth it, those faces. Just what he needed for the painting. Weekday mornings, he found, produced a monotony of morose facial expressions, grey-steeled, rushed, yet, with less-concern in their tired eyes. They came like a river from the direction of the Central Train Station, an army of suits, shoes, purses, briefcases, shoulder bags, holding digital devices before them like maps guiding their steps. Lunch-time crowds were the most interesting by far. A mixture of office workers, students, tourists and those with time on their hands. Time on their hands. Was it incised upon their palms? Their expressions were a mixture of release and forgetfulness, the day half over; the lunch buyers, the sun seekers, the health walkers, the window shoppers. The evening rush hour towards the train station was much more hurried, their gait anxious with the passing of every second, not wanting to miss their departures. Determination in their strides and on their faces.

No, quite definitely, lunch-time crowds were the most inspiring.

His occasional forays into Dorchester Square were also beneficial at times. Leaning back on the park bench facing the equine statue was his place. His other place. The occasional tour guide would pontificate about the statues in the park, calling it an 'equestrian' statue, but he was not one to correct, he was not a stickler as was said. Equestrian, equine, what did it matter to the tourists who would likely forget about it by the next encounter with Montreal history. The unmounted horse was a favourite view. Rearing, the horse's expression of fright at what he imagined would have been an explosive sound, the soldier looking up with determination, pulling down on the reins in a frozen attempt to control that remnant of untrained wildness, that glimpse of a true nature in face of a fabricated horror. How few looked at the statue. Truly looked. It was now a place to take the sun, leaning against the warm concrete base, cell phone to the ear. Pigeons invariably perched on the outstretched forelegs like dark furies.

He closed his eyes, listening to the music. The image of Thérèse sitting across from him, laughing, wine glass half-full, the glimmer off the white dishes before her, the background music massaging the atmosphere, the glowing lights and the table candles, the shadows and darkness through the windows, the dark reflections off parked cars, the passing headlights. It had been three months since he last saw her.

He had lost count of how many paintings he had completed, how many portraits of Thérèse he had produced. She was always the beginning of any painting. The focal point, standing in the forefront of vanishing points, or, in this half-completed painting, to the extreme right of the canvas as the vanishing point was off canvas in his modern version of Carpaccio's The Disputation of St. Stephen. Rare were men in his paintings. Women predominated his scenes. Hearing his neighbour’s dog bark, he looked over to the distant wall where his favourite painting hung. His modern version of Carpaccio's Vision of St. Augustin. The dog in the original was timeless. Absolutely timeless. He replicated it as closely as possible. Thérèse as St. Augustin, sitting at a desk with laptop open, looking up at the light, pensive, books and papers surrounding her. In the distance, he had painted a fireplace with a miniature of the original painting above the mantel shelf. A wing-back chair and ottoman at the left side, and shelves with modern books and small statuary and china pieces. The dog looking up at Thérèse expecting to be fed, or was he, or she, perceptive enough to notice inspiration alighting? He could never sell the painting. Not now.

A knock at the door, a familiar knock. Jerome turned off the cd player.

Maurice, the man who looked after the property stood before Jerome, a package in his hand.

“I found this within the flyers and junk mail. You must have missed it on Friday.”

“Ah, merci mon vieux. And how are you today?”

“Uh, I am feeling like shit. My gallbladder is killing me again.”

“Maybe you should cut out cheese, and pasta.”

“How can I cut out cheese, how could I live without my cheese?”

“What about having surgery? It's not a complicated procedure anymore. A few holes, and they do it all by miniature camera, vacuuming it out with one of the tubes.”

“Ah, my friend, you make it sound like a bit of plumbing. The cleaning of a drain, eh. No, no, I am not ready for the knife, monsieur. Not yet. My brother had a camera put down his throat to look around in his stomach and he's never been the same. No sir, I am not in a hurry for the knife.” Maurice paused, half turning, “There were two men here earlier asking of you.”

“Two men? What did they want?”

“They didn't say.”

“What did they look like?”

“Hmm, well, they didn't look like artists. Expensive suits, faces only a mother could love.”

Jerome thanked him for letting him know. Shutting the door, he listened to Maurice's low moans as he descended the stairs. Maurice, he feared, was half in love with his pain. He looked at the package postmarked Trieste. He tore the envelope open and drew out a slim volume entitled Alacrity and Karma on a Yacht off Palmyra, by his good friend P. K. Loveridge. The cover, pastel colours of palm trees, white sand beach, a sail boat in the distance on a placid aquamarine sea. Jerome turned to the title page and found an inscription to him:

Dear Jerome,

My latest offering from your humble servant. Have settled in Trieste at a friend's place, will be here a year. Come and visit if you can. Give yourself a rest from all those fetid paints.

All my love to Thérèse,

P.K.

He flipped a few pages and a piece of paper fell out. Picking it up he read:

Ah Ha! If you have found this slip of paper, you are well-rewarded for your curiosity. And here I thought you might have tossed the book onto your shelves to be forgotten. Yes, my dear Jerome, a collection of poems. From a writer of novels you ask? Well, it is a narrative poem. You'll find it all here, sonnets, villanelles, haiku, triolets, rondeaus—have I lost you yet?—ghazals, odes, acrostics, blank verse, clerihews, dramatic dialogues and a Rubaiyat or two. You might even recognize yourself within. The spirit only of course, the spirit only. Read it if you can in small doses. Something to ease the pain of your insular existence. I jest, I jest. I do hope it is readable. May it not be “compassed murkily about.” P.K.

PS: Do visit! Plenty of room here for you and Thérèse. You should smell the harbour. And the coffee, ambrosia. Ciao.

Jerome placed the book on the chaise lounge and walked over to the window. A visit to Trieste is just what he needed. Fresh air, new faces. Thérèse having left him three months ago, he was still lethargic and withdrawn. He relived the scene, going to her flat, no one answering his knocking. Her landlady, the petite Mrs. Shimoda he had painted in one of his canvases, coming out below to say the apartment was empty, and recognizing Jerome, pausing before saying she has moved. No, she did not have a forwarding address, she was sorry.

Jerome pressed the cd player on again and walked over to his easel. 

© ralph patrick mackay.

Yes Cecil, A Long Story Short, Part Eight

The rosewood mantel clock seemed to tick louder, or was it only, he thought, because his good ear was towards the fireplace. He was looking out the living room window, the early October evening sky darkening from the distant eastern horizon where the lowlands of the St. Lawrence river basin gradually rose to the hesitant first outcrops of the Montegerian hills, now diminishing in the first shadows to islands like they were once before, and no doubt redolent with the scent of fallen leaves and woodsmoke, where cottages and homes clustered nearby with windows glowing with the colour of clover honey, and where, perhaps, a man or a woman stood, like him, looking out upon their views while pondering their inner lives, the evening humidity hovering invisibly upon the cool glass as if seeking out the warmth of their breath.

Edward Seymour turned to look at the eight day fusse timepiece clock, the blued moon hands pointing to 6:40 p.m. 'Time to keep time running' Lavinia used to say, and he would wind the clock for another week. Sunday evenings were their favourites. He looked up at the portrait of his wife above the clock and raised his small glass of port and drank a silent toast. How many were left to him he wondered. Four a month, fifty-two in a year. Perhaps this was his last. Everything was ritual now. His morning cup of warm water with lemon, his gentle yoga exercises he had been doing since he was in his early 40s, his all too brief walk with George III, his light morning breakfast, his opening of the morning mail, the appointments with doctors, the rereading of a special book, the conversations with a neighbour, his interactions with Mary, his recollections of youth, his sharing time with family.

'Look, the clock is happy,' Lavinia would say when the time was ten minutes past ten, or ten minutes to two; or, 'look, the clock is sad,' when it was twenty past eight or twenty minutes to five. Her personification of time would always conjure up the image of a smiling or frowning clock face with eyes, nose and mouth like the image from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There. What would she have said about 6:40 he wondered. It reminded him of a landing signal officer directing a plane; or flag signals he learned during the war. The letter A came to him, yes, the letter A.

Looking back out upon the lights of the city, he would soon notice the four beacon spotlights from Place Ville Marie searching the undersides of the evening clouds like a flashlight pointing into an alabaster cave. It generally reminded him of London during the war. He drew the curtains on another day and walked slowly over to the ornately carved mahogany cabinet in the corner of the living room, lifted the top, turned the record player on, started the turntable and lifted the stylus, his hand shaking, before dropping it as close to the outer edge as was possible. George III lifted his head from his outstretched front limbs and rolled on his side. The clicks, pops and snowy crackles of the grooves were as much the past as the record itself, Danny Kaye singing a silly song, The Thing, Lavinia's favourite light-hearted depression-lifting silly song. The record remained on the turntable, a permanent home in her memory. He sat down in his mahogany framed wing chair with the worn orange damask cloth chosen by his wife, and listened. It was not much. A short song, a ditty if there ever was one. He closed his eyes and imagined Lavinia at the record player, her foot tapping on the carpet, her richly curled dark red hair catching the lamp light, her cool gin rickey clicking in the glass as she moved, smoke furling towards the ceiling from her long Benson & Hedges cigarette. The room became crowded with party guests from the past, high heels and nylons, ties and brogues, the chatter of so many voices, laughter. All of them ghosts now. He had outlived them all. 

Glancing at the books on the lamp table, Fourteen Stories by Henry James, and a blind-stamped leather bound copy of The Poetical Works of Robert Browning, he picked up the latter, its fine grained cover as lined as his old hands and opened it to the brass paper cutter, smooth and thin with age, that held his place. Waring. It was a poem he never tired of rereading. Taking a sip of his port, he looked forward to having Duncan read the Henry James to him tomorrow evening. Amelia was a good reader too, better in fact when it came to diction and pronunciation, but he was fond of Duncan's odd mannerisms. This reminded him of his resolve to look at some of his private journals. He was unsure whether a decision had to be made concerning their future. To leave them where they were, untouched, or have them sent off to be recycled. A memory of a short story by Robert Graves came to mind. Something to do with compost, he remembered, we are all but compost in the end. How Lavinia was shocked to see the gardener pissing on the compost pile. It was an old method of helping with alkaline soils he had said. Well, he didn't say it in such scientific words but that was his drift. He too has long shuffled off from this spiral of never ending seasons with all their fallen joys and nether currents. He put Browning aside, walked slowly over to the cabinet, took out an album at random from the shelf underneath, a long playing recording of Borodin's In the Steppes of Central Asia and other Russian pieces, and set it going. Then he made his way across the hall to his book-lined study.

Dark oak shelves with fluted pilasters and rosettes housed his collection in precise order. In his youth, he had been much less concerned with placement, relying on memory and serendipity, but the older he got, the less time he wanted to devote to searching for desired objects. While in his early seventies he had donated years of dusty psychiatric journals to the University, journals which had been moldering away in the lower level of the coach house, volumes he hoped they had benefited from by way of recycling. The price of paper was decent at the time he remembered. The books that remained in his collection were the special volumes that reflected his life's journey. Many inscribed by the authors.

Two low shelf units beside his desk under the window housed his private journals, light brown leather with the date stamped in gilt at the base of each volume. He retrieved the volume for 1988 and made his way back to his comfortable chair in the living room, the strains of the oboe drawing him forward, his slow steps in half time to the pizzicato camels of his imagination. That recording was a bit faster than he liked, or was it just because he had gotten slower? George III did not appreciate the music it seemed, having gone off down the hallway towards the kitchen for water. Edward watched George's relaxed gait and thought that even to this day he didn't know why he loved Airedales so much. It was something deep within. An identification with character? Perhaps he had been one in a previous life.

Sitting down, he lay the volume on his lap, closed his eyes and listened to the rest of the music, gently swaying his head with the beat, envisioning a caravan, himself atop a camel, lumbering from side to side, dream-like visions of seraglios and colourful woven rugs rising like phantom oases in the distance. During the silence between the end of Borodin's piece and the beginning of The Romance from The Gadfly by Shostakovich in a piano and violin version, he opened the journal and sought the month of February. The piano's opening notes sounded like a lullaby he thought as he turned the pages until he found the first passage relating to Duncan. He began to read:

Friday February 19, 1988.

Lavinia reminded me of our dinner party tomorrow evening. PET and a few other distinguished guests have been invited. Should be a long day of preparations. Do hope weather holds, PET said he would walk. I can always drive him home if necessary.

Massella Landscaping have been doing a very good job of snow removal. They seem to have a firm grip on the market around here.

Duncan Alastair Strand (DAS) age 29, phoned this morning. Joan placed the message on my desk, with his full name and phone number. He wanted to ask if I could possibly see him as a patient. I had gotten along with his father Joseph Strand of Strand Cordage Ltd., when I needed the dumbwaiter repaired. I asked if there was an emergency, but he replied that it was not an emergency, but he simply needed to talk to a professional over the circumstances of his life at this moment, and having gotten to know me briefly when fixing the dumbwaiter, he felt comfortable in asking. I agreed to meet him next week. NOTE: I do remember seeing an obituary in the paper last year for a 'Strand'. One of those 'suddenly' obits. Could very well have been a relation. Strand is an uncommon name. I do hope, it did not involve, rope.

Monday, February 22, 1988.

It has been a slow but full day. Tired from much thought. Quiet dinner with Lavinia. Snow has kept us within, the fireplace crackling in the grate. My door is open. Lavinia playing the harpsichord. Sounds like Bach.

Heavy snowfall made for cancellations today. Did not get far with George, the front walk had to do. Snow too heavy. Joan couldn't make it to work and I said it was fine. Quite understandable. I said I could handle the desk and phone. I told her to stay warm and safe, I would phone the patients to cancel appointments.

DAS was my only patient. I wasn't able to contact him in time to cancel. He arrived, understandably, late. I asked how he managed to get through the snow and he replied 'an early departure and perseverance.' Well, I told him he was my only client for the day, so there was certainly no rush.

DAS, his initials remind me of the Sanskrit surname, and this in turn brings up my early interest in yoga from reading B. K. S. Iyengar's 'Light on Yoga' back in the sixties. I can see it on my bookshelf now here in my study. It truly influenced my direction. There I was at McGill, a climate tainted by Dr. Cameron's views, and I was moving away from such scientific manipulation. The abuse of science, I fear, will continue with every scientific discovery. I fear the more we discover, the more we will be moving towards a society which can use the information to control people in an Orwellian sense. For every benefit these discoveries bring, there will be people who will take advantage of the knowledge and use it to harm people. Scientists will come across odd permutations in experiments, offshoots that can have negative results on human health. These will be used and abused. 

I often wonder what life I would have had if I had remained in England. If I had not become interested in Eastern thought. We are all made of decisions and choices. Few of us, I imagine, find our ways smooth and even. Few of us. I realize how fortunate I have been in life. Very fortunate.

DAS was certainly ruddy cheeked and had a healthy appearance. He hadn't changed much from his first visit to the house to fix the dumbwaiter. He appears to look younger than his age, but his speech and the look from his hazel eyes reveal a maturity of soul. His body language, his dark brown hair, his manner of speaking with hesitant thought, all seem to conjure up characters from the past.

I began with small-talk concerning his family, their business, and hoping his family was well. I then asked him how I could be of assistance. He was obviously troubled and had difficulty in expressing it at first. He didn't know where to begin. Then he just said that his brother, a fraternal twin, had died in a car accident late last year. They had been in a music group together since the age of 14. His late brother, Gavin, had helped out with the family business and he too on occasion, but now that Gavin had passed away, he had to help out a bit more. Their mother had died when they were 12. A younger brother, George, lives in Ontario, a sports journalist.

With the death of his brother, their music band, The Splices as they were known, disbanded. Duncan had been working at Grange Stuart Books, his day job he said. I told him I knew Stuart. Knew the shop well, too. DAS said he helped Stuart at sales. Stuart would choose books, and DAS would box and cart them. He also did quite a bit of the cataloguing in the back room. The business was not really geared for street traffic, hidden as it was on a side street, up a flight of stairs from a door without signage. Most of Stuart's business was with specialty collectors, catalogues, and universities. He had started there in the late 1970s when a student. Stuart Grange's wife had been a childhood friend of DAS's mother, and they had remained friends, living one street over from each other. He has a B.A. in English Literature. McGill. He said we could have crossed paths in the hallways. Quite likely, yes, quite likely. In the mid 1980s when Stuart Grange retired, Duncan took over his stock and opened his own store, Lafcadio & Co., while still playing with his brother in the band. I told him I remember hearing about Lafcadio & Co., the name had intrigued me, but I admitted never having visited the shop. He said the name was after Lafcadio Hearn, and specifically his cat, blind in one eye, a stray tom who he had named Lafcadio. He was the Co. 

His problems seem to stem from an accumulation of incidents:

-A breakup with a girlfriend, a Hong Kong born young woman who he had met at a club where they were performing.

-A tryst with a touring performer from China.

-Conflicts with his brother over creative pursuits.
-A brush with death, skin cancer, a fortunate early detection.

-Difficulties with his book selling business, juggling this and music.

-Pressures from their Father concerning the family business.

-The death of his brother.

-Demands of his father's business as the elder Strand is not well and is near retirement age.
-All the above couched within the parentheses of his Mother's early death.

These, in general, have slowed his momentum. Damaged his sails so to speak. He is in port for repairs. He seems keen on nautical terminology. Understandable from growing up with his Father's shop selling all types of rope, much of it for the marine market. I sense a touch of depression, and feel perhaps a light tonic of some kind would not be amiss. But I shall see with further developments. He is still youthful for his age, still resilient. I hope I can help him repair his vessel and send him on his way.

Edward noticed the music had stopped. He closed his journal feeling quite exhausted with the past. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, in and out, deep breaths, before falling into a light sleep.

Text and image © ralph patrick mackay.

Yes Cecil, A Long Story Short, Part Seven

Faltering at the corner of Dark and Light, he stepped back into the shadows, the distant shimmering of an asphalt mirage reflected in his eyes. Falling, he stretched out his arms. The darkness rose to embrace him and he found himself walking slowly alongside a large tent structure, its pennants fluttering a semaphore in the dim light; he tripped on a guide wire and landed upon a lawn heavy with dew. A light in the distance led him to a narrow passage leading up to a rough concrete walk. A redheaded woman with feline eyes ran past him. She looked back. He felt he must follow her; anxiety and dread rose up in him like a bile and he ran, ran towards the woman who was escaping from something behind him.

A white tower against an oddly muted electric ultramarine blue sky, appeared above the trees. He followed her into the tower to find a brightly lit vortex rising above him, a heavy bell-ringing cord rising up through the middle. He climbed the spiral staircase, staying close to the outer wall as there was no inner railing. The red-headed woman with the feline eyes had scaled the steps effortlessly, leaving him far behind.  Finally reaching the top, he saw the woman on a window ledge, her hand on the rope, a rope leading up into the sky, attached to what he could not see. She pushed herself off the ledge with her feet and was swept up, out of sight. He too gripped the rope but it became as smooth as polished marble and he found himself slipping down through the eye of the vortex to the ground.

Duncan awoke to find his hands around the wires of his headphones, his wife sitting gingerly on the end of the bed, Hugh wagging his tail and looking up at them.

“Have you been asleep for long? You were fast asleep.” Amelia thought how the word 'fast' was so nonsensically versatile. On a fast, fasting, and fast living. From abstinence to self-indulgence.

He breathed deeply, stretching, trying to find words but could only maunder incoherently, hardly knowing what day it was. He hadn't heard his wife's question. Still in the haze of the dream that was quickly evaporating, he pulled the large padded headphones off, and managed to push his conscious mind to the fore and moan about how he had only been resting, reading, listening to music, but he must have fallen asleep.

Amelia rubbed his foot as he lay there gaining his faculties.

“How was your lunch with Jacqueline?”

Amelia said it had been very good, they did a bit of shopping and had a pleasant lunch. She told him she had invited Jacqueline and her husband to dinner at the end of the week. She thought she would leave it at that, not disclosing her disclosures. She picked up a paperback book fallen to the floor, The Best of Cordwainer Smith, and placed it on the duvet beside the cds of Arvo Part and the soundtrack to Trois Coleurs Bleu that Duncan had presumably been listening to. Then, picking Hugh up, she plopped him down on the bed and snuggled up beside them both.

“Tomorrow I have to bring George III to the vet,” she said. “I drop him off around 9:30 and pick him up at 4:00. I was thinking we could have dinner with Uncle Edward.”

“That would be nice. Oh dear, I'm sorry, I'm a bit groggy. That three o'clock Sunday afternoon snooze gets me every time," he said, random images of his recent dream slipping away from him like waves rushing back to the sea.

"How was your day?" Amelia asked.

He yawned, "Good, good. I  tidied up the house (don't worry, I didn't disturb your desk) and then I took Hugh for a walk but I felt a bit off so I came home and then went out again to pick up the items we needed. I was in line at the shop and in front of me was a rather grumpy looking women with an old brown dog. The portly old Labrador retriever turned and looked up at me with such sad eyes I just melted. I've never seen such a sad expression on a dog. I put my hand down and he perked up and began to lick my hand, his tail wagging. I didn't see that he sported a yellow vest which said do not pet, a working dog. Well, I broke the law and petted him. Poor thing, he seemed deprived of affection. Although she wore glasses, I couldn't see how the woman needed a working dog, she didn't seem to be visually impaired. Her husband was beside her and his vision seemed fine. He too was grumpy and rather sallow. Poor dog I thought. Well, I felt I brought a bit of happiness to a living being today. Brightened up his day.”

“It might have been a seizure dog.”

“Oh, I didn't think of that.” He paused thinking of the ramifications.
“Sounds like the old dog needed a bit of affection though. Lucky dog."
Duncan gave Amelia a squeeze, kissing her hair and breathing the lovely scent of her. "Thank you my dear."
"Remember the German Shepherd on the train as we sat for hours at the border waiting to go on to New York?" Amelia said. "You seem to have a blind spot with working dogs."
"Hmm, perhaps. Remember the odd questions the border guards were asking people."
"Yes, right out of left field."

Hugh sensed a moment of calm between them as they lay on the bed riding the wavelets of memory. He raised his head and licked Amelia's cheek.

“Yes, Hugh, my little baby. I don't think you would be a very good border dog, would you?” she said giving him a hug. “It's Uncle Edwards's birthday soon. I talked with Mary and we are planning a special meal. I ordered a cake yet I wonder if we should come up with something innovative for the 92 candles.”

Duncan lay there wondering if Uncle Edward at 91, still healthy, still living in his mansion, would outlive George III and go on to find another Airedale to name George IV. Perhaps even outlive another housekeeper like Mary. It must be difficult to outlive so many of his friends and relatives he thought. “Hmm. Perhaps they might have a a figure of a man and his Airedale. You never know.”

“I will see if they do. Good idea. For the candles, nine on one side and two on the other would work. Or perhaps candles in the shape of 92.”

“Brilliant my dear, brilliant.”

“What is the envelope on the kitchen table by the way?”

“I don't know. It could be the manual for Dr. Who's Tardis for all I know.” He told her how he came to find it and how he was waiting for her to make a decision about what to do.

“I wonder who was living here before us?”

“Wasn't it a single woman?”

“Do you think it's money?”

“No, It feels like a thesis.”

“A thesis? That's not very exciting. Come on, let's take a look.”

Duncan delicately cut the top of the plastic and slipped the sealed vanilla envelope out.

“Maybe you should wear gloves,” Amelia said.

“It just feels like paper. I'm sure it will be fine.” He used the scissors to cut the edge and they both peeked inside. It certainly looked like a thesis. He drew it out and the uppermost page was blank. The upper left corner held an old-fashioned copper brad which bound the papers together. It looked to be about half a package of printing paper. He swept the envelope aside and positioned the papers between them and turned the first page.

They looked at each other with raised eyebrows. Duncan turned a few more pages. Then he riffled the pages from the back and they saw it was all the same. A jumble of numbers and letters that mimicked a text.

Hugh scratched at the envelope that had fallen to the floor, then he sniffed it before looking up at them. “Sherlock Hugh is already on the case,” Amelia said.

Text and image © ralph patrick mackay

Yes Cecil, A Long Story Short, Part Six

“I guess it all started with a dumbwaiter," Amelia said.
Jacqueline raised her eyebrows, turning her head slightly to the right. "A dumb waiter?"
"Yes, one of those elevator-like conveniences in older homes."
"Ah, bon, a dumbwaiter, yes," Jacqueline said.
"Perhaps I should start with my Uncle Edward,” Amelia offered, as Jacqueline took a sip of her coffee. “My mother's sister met him in England and they married and lived in London for many years. He trained as a psychiatrist and had a practice there. He was friends with many artists and authors such as Mervyn Peake and Graham Greene,” Amelia added, half thinking it was an unnecessary fact, but also thinking it was one that helped place her uncle in a more literary light. “There was an offer of a teaching position at McGill University and they came to Montreal. It was in the early 1960s. A military moustache graced his upper lip and he generally wore a cravat. Quite different to my other relatives. Uncle Edward bought a large house—there was old money on his side of the family—on the slope of Mount Royal, on Redpath Crescent, which is an odd name for the street as it is laid out like an elongated circle and rather looks like a noose.”

“Oh yes, I know the street,” Jacqueline said, “it runs up from Pine, not far from Trudeau's old house.”

“Yes, yes. A street of lovely houses and trees. My uncle's house is a beautiful stone mansion, slate roof, mullioned windows, gorgeous oak panelling inside, and it has a coach house. They never had children and my sister and I would look forward to family visits for we had, for the most part, the run of the place. Wonderful for hide-and-seek. Uncle Edward had a cork-lined study which I believe was even off limits to my aunt. Off limits to us certainly. Anyway, he left teaching and opened a private practice in his converted coach house. His clientele was select. His patients were generally well-to-do and suffering from depression, anxiety, marital problems, family problems, but no cases involving extreme mental illnesses. In 1988, his secretary was leaving to have a baby. My aunt suggested that I could take up the position for the summer break to make money for my university courses. I was 19 and soon to be 20. It was a pleasant job in a place I adored. From time to time I would ride my bicycle up from my shared apartment on Laval Avenue. But most often, I would take the bus, and walk up from Pine.”

“Where about on Laval did you live?”

“South of Pine on the east side across from where Émile Nelligan had lived, well, a few doors down at least, so our landlord told us.”

“Oh mon dieu, Didier had a flat on Laval, close to rue Napoléon around that time. Le monde est petit.”

“We could well have passed each other in the street, or stood behind each other at the shops. It is funny how the world works.” The thought occurred to Amelia that if she had met Didier and become romantically involved with him, then this conversation with Jacqueline, and much else besides, would not have taken place. “Well, it was at the end of July when in walked Duncan. He was wearing a denim shirt with a sign over his breast pocket, Strand Cordage Ltd., and at first I thought he was there for a service call of some kind, but he said he had an appointment. He was youthful looking, handsome, sporting aviator sunglasses. He was not a typical patient.”

“Was it love at first sight as they say? Le coup de foudre?”

“It may not have been as sudden as that, but their was a . . . a frisson lets say, an emotional reaction. But, here he was seeking psychological assistance. I didn't know what to think. Duncan had been the last patient of the day, and my uncle asked me to close up as usual, and while he sauntered home to walk his dog, an Airedale named George, there I was, with access to the files. I had an interest in Duncan, but it would have been unethical to look. I was tempted more than once during the week to dip into the file but I resisted. The following week, Duncan arrived promptly, looking just as handsome. He was rather quiet and shy. Without fail he would produce a slim paperback book to read. I remember thinking that he could at least make some small talk but it seemed it wasn't part of his character. At least he wasn't hitting on me in a vulgar way.”

“So, what did you do? Cleavage or leg?”

Amelia tapped Jacqueline's hand in mock admonishment. “Honestly! I can't remember," she smiled. "Anyway, one week he had forgotten his umbrella, and coming back in, he bumped into me on my way out to find him, holding his umbrella. We had laughed and he apologized and then just before he was going to turn around and leave, he asked if I would like to go out for a meal.”

Amelia sipped her coffee and noticed the young actress behind Jacqueline was smiling at her. Stories overheard, she thought, become stories retold. She lowered her voice slightly, “I said sure, I was ready to leave and so we left together, walking past the beautiful houses in the light rain towards Pine. I remember seeing my uncle emerge from the main house with George as we started off on the sidewalk.”

Jacqueline reached over and placed her hand on Amelia's, “Did he show you the door for fraternizing with a patient?”

“Well, when I arrived the following Monday morning, I heard my uncle practising his oboe in his office. This was a hobby of his but I had never heard him play it before in the coach house. He asked me into his office and advised me that if I was to begin a relationship with Mr. Strand, I should be discreet at the office. I was an adult and he respected me, but there were professional aspects involved. He said Duncan was a very nice young man, and there was nothing to worry about on that score. I had thanked him, saying we had only gone out to have a meal together and I wasn't sure if we were going to have a relationship, but I completely understood.”

A silence hovered between them, a silence of unasked questions. What was Duncan seeing a psychiatrist for? Did curiosity overcome her ethics? Did she look at his file? Had there been a falling out with her uncle?

“I couldn't look at his file,” Amelia continued. “I actually gave it to my uncle saying it might be better that he keep Duncan's file in his desk. He thought there was no need for that, he had complete trust in my discretion. That actually gave me the power to overcome the temptation. I never did look at the file.”

Jacqueline nodded with serious understanding.

“Well, only the first day,” Amelia added. “Just the basic information. His name, address, age, and that sort of information. Duncan Alasdair Strand, born October 29, 1958. A secretary has to know these things.”

They laughed and finished their dessert. Amelia wondered how far to go with her revelations. There was so much to tell about her life and Duncan's. Too much for the capacity of a light lunch conversation. And what would Duncan feel was appropriate? Had she already gone too far? Would she benefit in any reciprocal way with such revelations?

"But you said it all started with a dumbwaiter," Jacqueline prompted.
"Oh, right. My uncle's house has a dumbwaiter. As youngsters my sister and I actually took turns pulling each other between floors until Uncle Edward banned us from using it as an amusement park ride. Too dangerous he had said. Well, the dumbwaiter needed a new rope. My uncle looked up 'rope' in the yellow pages, and came across Strand Cordage Ltd. He didn't phone, but visited the business and talked to Duncan's father. They generally just sold ropes of all types but they also provided the service of replacing ropes on dumbwaiters. Mr. Strand senior sent Duncan to fix the dumbwaiter and my uncle liked him very much. So when Duncan .  .  . when Duncan had some difficulties, he approached my uncle for help." Amelia sipped the remnants of her coffee wondering if this was the right time to tell Jacqueline a bit of Duncan's story. She couldn't see a better opportunity. She could tell Jacqueline was sympathetic.

"Duncan's fraternal twin had died in a sports car accident in 1987. It was a difficult time for Duncan and he needed someone to talk to. He very much liked my uncle and being a psychiatrist, the decision was easy. Duncan and his brother Gavan had been in a music group since they were young. They called themselves The Splices. They wrote songs together. Played in clubs. When Gavan died, the band fell apart. There were two other members, a bass player and a drummer. Duncan keeps in touch with them on Facebook."

"I am so sorry for Duncan. They must have been close, fraternal twins often are."
“Yes,” Amelia nodded. “It is still difficult for him. We don't often discuss his brother. Well, that is how we met. I didn't mean to end on a sad note. Sorry."

"Not at all. I feel much closer to you both already. We all have stories," Jacqueline said thinking of her own family history.

 "I wanted to invite you and Didier for dinner one night," Amelia said trying to change the mood. "What about next Friday or Saturday?”

“That would be lovely. Let me talk to Didier and we can set a date."

“Great. Duncan and Didier can get to know each other.”

“Yes, Duncan and Didier. Hmm, their names would look good on a sign don't you think: Duncan et Didier, Notaires. Or Didier et Duncan.”
"Yes, a nice ring to it."

They carried their trays to the front of the restaurant, Amelia thinking it was fortunate the place did not have waiters, or she might have offended someone. The busboy nodded a thanks as he wiped a table down. She remembered that a number of famous people had once been busboys. She smiled back. Her mother had taught her to be nice to waitresses and waiters. People who work on their feet all day she had said, deserve our respect. Other people too, but just think of how tired their feet are after a day of work. To this day she was mindful of workers and their feet and thought it was a wonder she hadn't become a chiropodist 

Image and text © ralph patrick mackay.

Yes Cecil, A Long Story Short, Part Five

Emerging from Simons department store, each carrying a bag with a new sweater, Jacqueline and Amelia stood at the corner waiting to cross the street. A frayed remnant of a poster on the lamp post fluttered in the gusts created by the high buildings. The bottom half was concealed by a cheap black and white photocopy promotion for a punk band, The Paranoids. The poster underneath was for an old concert of the Orchestre Symphonique de Montreal, a graphic image of a ship with a black sail on the sea, the music for the evening had been the Prelude to Tristan und Isolde, and a composition by Messiaen. The rest of the poster was covered up.

“I remember attending that concert,” Jacqueline said.

“The Paranoids?”

They both laughed and gently bumped each other's shoulders as they imagined her in the audience of a punk band concert. They crossed the street on their way to the book store for a bit of browsing, their fellow pedestrians seeming so young, so preoccupied with their hand-held devices, some with white wires falling from their ears like remote tethers to their mothership.

“You would think punk is passé,” Amelia said.

“Ah, oui. Though I don't remember the bands that played the punk music in my younger days. It was Beau Dommage, Harmonium, Paul Piché, Véronique Sanson. Douce, with melody.”

“Hmm, yes. I haven't heard Beau Dommage for ages. What was that song they had, 'pour un instant' or something? It was more my elder brother's age but I remember him playing the record.”

“Oui, 'Pour un instant' mais c'etait Harmonium. A very big song for them. Very memorable. But that too, is passé.”

They reached the large bookstore, a new advertisement on the window for the Montreal orchestra with a picture of the conductor, Kent Nagano. Jacqueline held the door for Amelia gesturing to the picture saying how handsome he was, and enjoyable to watch. Amelia lifted her eyebrows and and said, “Ohhh, I seeee.” They followed their light laughter through door and made their way past the housewares and stationery to the back of the shop to look at the books in French. They separated and browsed the display tables, the colourful temptations of text and art vying for their attention.

Amelia looked down at a provocative, or 'racy' as her Mother would have said, cover of Maleficium by Martine Desjardins, a Victorian image of a nude woman, arms above her, with a religious symbol photoshopped onto to her loins. She picked a copy up and casually read the back cover. A respectful envy for the translators who gave the author an English voice overcame her once more. She had read all of the author's books. In French. As she was placing the book down, Jacqueline came up beside her with a copy of L'Amour en Kilt and Le Monde Selon Bertie by Alexander McCall Smith. “A translator's dream, don't you agree?” she asked. “He writes so many books, c'est incroyable!”

“I love his work. Poor Bertie,” she said and laughed sympathetically. “Who is the translator?”

Jacqueline searched for the name and said, “Elizabeth Kern.” They didn't know much about her, or what else she had translated. The representation of Bertie on the cover didn't resemble Amelia's visual conception but she thought the covers were clever.

After looking at books for fifteen minutes, Amelia purchased a copy of Espèces by Ying Chen, while Jacqueline picked Va au bout de tes rêves by Antoine Filissiadis.

“Commensale?”

“Mais évidement!” replied Jacqueline, and arm and arm they crossed the busy street for a light lunch, Jacqueline humming a tune by France Gall.

In the eyes of the man who occupied the end of a sidewalk bench beneath the second floor restaurant, the two women approaching could have been sisters. Both had light brown hair cut in a modern shoulder length style, one slightly taller than the other—he remembered he was 5' 6” and the taller one was about his height—both wore glasses, stylish with colours, well-dressed and probably around forty years of age.

Whenever Duncan lunched with Amelia at this restaurant, he would like to get a window seat and casually observe this homeless man. He never pan-handled. He would just sit there, people-watching in his designer shreds, running his finger through his stiff 'Edward Scissorhands' hair. Duncan, though sensitive to the homeless plight, had a number of theories concerning him. His clothes were so perfectly frayed, so strangely sand brown in colour, that Duncan often thought the man had just come from wardrobe for a Dickensian shoot. Perhaps there was a sociological experiment taking place, secretly filming pedestrians and their reactions to him. Another of Duncan's theories was he was privately payed by a competitor across the street, to sit on the bench during the all important lunch time period to hopefully discourage customers from entering the restaurant below, thinking no one would enjoy eating while a rather desperate looking man stares at you as you bring the fork to your mouth. His third theory was that he was really an undercover cop or a private detective. Amelia had said he was reading too many mysteries. A modern Sherlock Holmes in disguise? The Case of the Recalcitrant Waiter? He too didn't think much of this theory. It didn't hold much weight.

Amelia believed Duncan was suffering from, P.R.O.F.N.I.D.L.E. : Persistent Reference of Fictional Narrative in Daily Life Experience. She had jokingly made up this acronym, telling her husband she was thinking of writing a paper on it, using him, Mr. Y., as the case subject, and maybe even pitching it to the CEGEP where she taught a course in translation terminology, so she could add another course. She could be a Professor of Profnidle. (Professor Profnidle sounded good too.)

Seated by the window with their plates half full of cold salads and hot vegetarian selections from the buffet, they quietly ate and took in their surroundings. An attractive young women seated behind Jacqueline was talking to her phone as if it were a video camera; she seemed to be an actress of some kind discussing with her agent the details of an offer. Amelia sensed her refined use of language and accent came from Outremont or possibly upper Westmount. Then again, it could be from around the University of Laval in Québec city.

Soft classical music filtered down from the ceiling like a calming mist.

“So how did you meet your husband?” Amelia asked.

“Ah bon, we met on les Îles de la Madeleine.”

“Making castles in the sand?”

Jacqueline smiled. “No, we weren't that young. I was interested in the seal pups from having read about Bridget Bardot's visit back in the 1970s. There was a new eco-tour during the winter, and I went with a girlfriend. It was 1991. Didier was there with his camera. We met 'on the ice' so to speak.”

“That is very romantic.”

“Yes, we were staying at the large brick building on the island, a former convent which had been converted into a hotel. They were the tour operators. A helicopter took us out to the ice floes. We got close to the white seal pups, so soft and vulnerable. We had a marvelous experience. Cold, but merveilleux.”

“Well, I hope he kept you warm.”

They laughed as they guided their forks into pieces of Greek Tofu and Chinese Seitan.

“And Didier is involved with computers?” Amelia asked.

“Yes, he has worked on many projects, recently his company is developing social media tools for business, as well as a new side project which examines digital photography for authenticity. Photography is Didier's great hobby.”

“He seems very talented.”

“Yes, he is, but he works long hours. Thierry and I often eat alone. So, how did you meet Duncan?”

Amelia looked down at the remnants on her plate. Her story was very personal. She had only recently met Jacqueline, and yet she was so at ease with her.

“How about I tell you over coffee and dessert? A little poppy seed cake with fresh fruit on the side? We can share," Amelia offered, thinking it would give her time to frame her story.

“Oh, a story and dessert!” Jacqueline said. They both looked out the large floor to ceiling windows at the lovely wide street, the sacrificial trees dropping their first leaves of the season. They noticed that the homeless man had moved on.

Image and Text © ralph patrick mackay