Feeling lonely and slightly hungry,
Pavor Loveridge stretched out on the settee, a print out of his day's
writing on his lap, his foot tapping to the beat of Corcovado from the classic Getz/Gilberto album. It was 11 p.m. and his eyes were dry and his will was weak from a long day of writing and tossing baskets with paper rejects. Stucco
ceiling. Who does stucco ceilings anymore he wondered. It was almost
a language written on the surface of an alien planet. Perhaps he
could develop a series in speculative fiction, The Vortex
of Souvenirs. Something like those stories he read as a kid. He could use his Rex Packard character, leaving
the spies and thugs on the surface of twentieth-first century Earth
behind, to follow the trail of evil in a distant time of Steampunk
shenanigans.
He thought of the email he had sent to
Mélisande early in the morning, an email she had yet to respond to.
Understandable. He deserved the silence. Time, he thought, time will
see him through.
He had given up the struggle of writing
a literary novel, The Under-glasse, a novel which he felt could fit in with the standard Canadian novel with its vast territory of guilt, failure, identity and conflicts of interest. Rex Packard lived again. His
agent and publisher would no doubt be heaving the quintessential sigh
of relief. What was he thinking they would all ask? A literary novel?
The Under-glasse?! Midlife crisis? A love affair gone wrong? Male
menopause?
Pavor had left Rex in the mansion north
of Detroit looking over his text messages and watching MacGyver on
the television. He had now slipped him into Montreal for the meeting with his former overseers. The return of Rex and Vernon. Picking up the sheets of paper, he
began to read this second cast of the Packard line, hoping the hook and sinker would develop as the days progressed.
Packard Under Glass, part 2
Rex Packard gazed intently at the palm
of his right hand. A road map, topography unknown. What past or
future could be seen in the lines of his hands, the arching life
line, the yearning head line, and the dipping heart, rivers among the
tributaries and striations of experience and the supposedly foretold?
He rubbed his dry hands together as if they were cold and looked down
at the open menu. The dissonant tone of an old-fashioned
service bell sounded from the depths of the Mexican restaurant, an
abstract sound of hope merged with hunger. Pavlovian. Melted cheese,
chili, guacamole, tomatoes, beans, his mouth watering with
anticipation. He could have used a Corona, but his el jimador with
cranberry juice and Tabasco would do. The soft mariachi music danced
with the susurration of the other customers creating a soothing
background noise for his sense of social unease, being a solitary
diner. He thought he would go for the Cactus Gratinado, and then,
perhaps the . . . Enchilada.
A waitress wafted by, fresh-scented,
vanilla.
“Do you still tell woman that you're
twenty-nine,” a voice said, hand resting on Rex's left shoulder.
Rex disliked being taken by surprise.
He usually took seats that offered a perspective on the room, the
better to grasp any situation or newcomer of interest, but the
restaurant was busy and he had had little choice. The sound of Vernon
Smythe's cool enunciation was, he supposed, inevitable.
“Have a seat,” Rex offered, “I
hear the Ceviche is very good this time of year.”
“Very kind of you Rex,” Vernon
said, who sat down with suave casualness, crossing his right leg over
his left knee like a chess movement. “So,” he continued, his grey
eyes looking through Rex, “you've come a day early for our
meeting, put yourself up at an expensive boutique Hotel here in old Montreal, and are
enjoying some fine dining.”
“I suppose you know what hair gel I
use too,” Rex shot back with a smile, “or perhaps, the tales I
tell my hairstylist.” Rex sipped his drink thinking they must have
extreme knowledge of all his movements to be such a few steps behind
him. “Is it about the Russians?” he asked, thinking Vernon's hair
had advanced to the stage of ashen grey.
“My dear fellow, we were the source
for your Russians. We passed them on to you.” Vernon managed to
smile a waitress down. “May I have a gin and tonic, my dear, a
touch of ice and a twist of lemon. Thank you.” He looked around to
gauge the distance of other diners. “I do hope they coughed up a
decent penny or two.”
Rex looked at his menu and tried to
remain calm. Think of a beach in Mexico, Rex, he told himself. Warm
sand, blue seas, the gentle break of the waves. Palm trees, shade
umbrellas, attractive women in bathing suits. “How many others
have you been passing on to me?” Rex asked, raising his head and
shifting it to the left the better to emphasize his concern.
“My dear fellow, we can't have you
starving, can we?” He looked deeply into Rex's eyes trying to see
if the penny had dropped. “You're our free-lance asset, you see.”
He smiled as the waitress brought him his drink. “Thank you my
dear.” Feeling that the staff and other diners would view them as
Father and son, Vernon Smythe played the part accordingly, raising
his clinking tumbler and offering a toast, “To your future, may it
be prosperous, flamboyant, fragrant and brightly wrapped.”
Rex hesitated, but then raised his
glass like a reluctant or recalcitrant son. The glasses were held
aloft but did not embrace over the cutlery. "Something about the intonation of your voice every now and again reminds me of a cartoon character on television. Someone called, Stewie."
"I'm afraid your cultural references Rex, are quite over my head," Vernon said with a smile. "I have little time for television. And certainly not the news."
“So, then,” Rex said, “what's it all about?”
“Alfie . . .” Vernon sang the
syllables, extending the second one with a dulcet touch. “Dionne
Warwick is one of the great, and classiest singers of our age. The
film was rubbish but the song, yes, the song will last.” Vernon
sipped his drink looking at Rex to see if his cultural references had
any effect. “What's it all about? Well, we have a rather . . .
nostalgic bit of work for you.” Vernon withdrew a pair of glasses
and began to read the menu, making a few humph sounds as he inspected
the selected dishes offered. “You can relax your mind. It doesn't
involve teaching additional Russians modern 'Democratic' methods on
how to deal with dissent.” He looked over his glasses at Rex. “We
hope your seminars have given them a new perspective. I don't think
anyone is pleased to open their newspaper in the morning and see that
another Russian journalist has been killed. We need the Russians to
get with the program. Anything we can do to keep them from employing
radicals from their former 'stans' to take out a busybody journalist
or two is well worth the effort.” Vernon emitted another little
humph sound as he read the menu. “They have red snapper, hmm.”
He closed his menu and drank deeply of his gin and tonic.
“Nostalgic?” Rex said.
“Did you know that this building goes
quite far back? 1840s. Yes, you look surprised. Imagine,” he said
looking about, “here we sit where the old printing presses and the
artisans once laboured; the strong smell of inks and the fresh smell
of printed books and papers in the air. Ah yes, history under foot.”
He finished his drink and looked at Rex. “We'll give you a buzz
tomorrow morning to set up our little meeting. I'm sorry I can't stay
longer. Dinner engagement.” Vernon got up, nodding towards the bar. “Enjoy your evening young man. Don't party
too late.” And with a wink Vernon was off.
Rex watched as he made his way out
followed by a dark-suited associate who must have been keeping an eye
from his perch at the bar. He looked back to where Vernon had sat and
noticed a twenty-dollar bill under the tumbler, the remnant ice and
slice of lemon a shimmering accent over the Queen's head.
