Yes Cecil, A Long Story Short, Part Eighteen

Jerome van Starke

c/o Pascal Tessier

Galerie d'Art Crépescule
Montréal, Québec

Bergen, Norway.

October 22^nd

Dear Jerome,

When I awoke this morning, I looked up at the ceiling and saw the reflected leaves moving with the breeze, and it was as if I was under water, and they were reflections from above.The reflected leaves will soon be gone. The plaster ceiling molding around the modern light fixture is quite old, as is the house. The faces seem intent on some distant horizon. How many people have awoken to this ceiling and thought my thoughts? She has witnessed, this woman in the molding, more sunrises than I. What history within this little room? Personal and intimate. What lives? What stories she has overheard, her perspective on the world, at an angle, one ear unseen to the heavens, the other to the mundane realities beneath? I enclose my poor picture taken from my bed. You can see what I see.

I am alone in the house. Martine is off to Stavanger for meetings. Stavanger, she told me is the hub for the off-shore oil business. Also, she informed me, it has a well-preserved old city section of attractive wooden houses. We must take the ferry and visit one day. Preferably in the late Spring when the window boxes will be brimming with fresh blooms. Whenever I see such old homes, I wonder who lives in them. Have they been passed down through generations? Have they merely changed hands to those with greater financial wealth? Then again, living in an old building which has been designated historic, there may be many restrictions on what can be modified. The deception of appearances. We see older houses and imagine qualities and realities that may not exist. I remember when I was very young and was fascinated with a very large Victorian home in Montreal, and how deflated I felt when I learnt that it was not the home to one family—that perfectly imagined family of many children and pets running amok—but a house divided into flats. I don't think I ever looked at homes quite the same again.

Such a crisp, clear day, the clarity of vision unequalled since I arrived. As sharp as the truth. But, the days are getting shorter, and already, at 4:30 p.m., the day is beginning to wane. Daylight savings will soon be upon us.

I know this letter must seem redundant, piggy-backing on the one I mailed to you this morning. You may receive this one first by some sleight-of-hand mistake, but that would not be of great concern. It is likely you may retrieve them both from Pascal on the same day and wonder which to open first. May the cancels lead you. Lay them out side by side and read them each apace.

There was a pleasant southern breeze today. I stopped at Krog og Krinkel Book café, a popular spot, and had a coffee and a skillingsboller—a classic Bergen bun with cinnamon and cardamon. I sat there looking down at the skillingsboller, and I saw a labyrinth in its circular beauty. I walked the labyrinth with my eyes thinking of our future. If others had noticed me, they might have been bewildered by my stare. Perhaps they thought I was praying before the finest bun available. They are very good. I walked my labyrinth and then I ate it.

I later browsed the books, and while doing so, I heard Pop Goes the World by that band from Montreal. Such a surprise. Might have been the owner's iPod mix. Brought me back. I have been humming the tune most of the day! I found a cheap paperback of Margaret Atwood's Wilderness Tips, and a mystery by Karen Fossum. Also, wonder of wonders, I saw a name on a spine I recognized: your friend P. K. Loveridge. The book was in Norwegian, but it was a translation of one of his novels. It was inscribed on the title page: To Felicia, may the moon be ever full. On the back of the title page it states it is a translation of The Olivaster Moon. I don't know his books but I bought it too. Martine may be able to judge it for me, translation notwithstanding.

I then made my way down the narrow streets to the open area around the Lille Lungegardsyannet, an inner city lake with a fountain feature. While taking some pictures, I had to be wary of the seagulls. They seem larger than ours. Seagulls and pigeons stick close to humans don't they. Or is it the other way around, by accident? A brief déjà vu moment of Hitchcock's The Birds. I asked a young couple to take my picture with the lake behind me and the beautiful red and white buildings reflected in the dark blue water. They told me it is used for skating in the winter. A large Christmas tree with lights in the centre—a Norway Spruce perhaps? Reminds me a little bit of Mount Royal's Beaver Lake. I stood there imagining us skating around the tree, smiling, laughter, sun. What would we do without our imaginations?

All my love,

Thérèse 

photograph and text © ralph patrick mackay

Yes Cecil, A Long Story Short, Part Seventeen

Mélisande Bramante sat on the penultimate pew of the chapel reading a book and eating her organic apple. With a bite, a fine spray of the fruit's nectar bridged the pages, from verso to recto, infusing the paper with its sweetness. She gently rubbed the excess moisture away and turned the page, the dedication and prologue still humming in her thoughts. She scanned the next poem and then read it with more attention:

Not quite a hero's quest—that's much a realm

Of online multi-player games—but more

A reckoning of life to overwhelm

That sense of passing time, that final score,

That echo in the garden maze. You say

Each cobble's placed by hand like lead type in

A printer's form, an alphabet the rain

Will ink, for notes we'll make along the way.

Allegro, largo, grave, our movements terse.

Our cumbrous strokes the margins will invade

With title, preface, footnotes, end notes, verse.

You say we're typographic interludes

In variations infinite. Remade,

Recycled cosmic dust all faith includes.

She closed the book and finished her apple, thinking about P. K. and why he wrote the book of verse. A reckoning? She wasn't sure she wanted to go on this voyage. She heard a noise in the hall, like someone sighing loudly. Going to the door she opened it slightly and saw a young man in dark green cords and a corduroy jacket to match, bending over his shoes, obviously struggling with a recalcitrant knot. Hesitating, she continued to watch as he succeeded in untying his shoes and place them beside a pair of desert boots.

“Duncan?”

Turning, he saw Mélisande standing at the open door of the chapel across the hall. She wore a black dress with purple winter tights, and a thin purple cardigan and held a book in one hand and an apple core in the other.

“Ah, eating in the chapel, someone is being naughty. Just the person I wanted to see,” he said. “I was hoping you could do me a favour.”

“A favour?” Hearing students coming up the stairs, she gestured for him to follow her into the chapel, “Come on, we can talk in here.”

Settled on a back pew surrounded by the muted light from the stained glass windows, Mélisande faced Duncan with her apple core held in front of her. She looked from side to side wondering what to do, so Duncan pulled a few tissues from his coat and wrapped the core and placed it back in his pocket, much to her amusement.

“So, how is Amelia?”

“She's great. Busy, which is good. Translation jobs here and there, and her course is popular, so she is doing alright. How are you?”

“Fine, fine, just taking a short break. The calm before the storm. Well, it never really gets too busy here.” She pushed the sleeves of her cardigan up to reveal her tattoos. “How is the book selling business these days?”

He looked down at her arms noticing new tattoos since he last saw her, a red rose and a bee on her left forearm and a spider web in a Gothic arched window on her right.

“Those are lovely,” he said gesturing to her illustrated arms.

“Thanks. An artist friend designs them for me. I can roll down my sleeves and they become my secret. Of course during the summer they are revealed much more. I am a bit more revealing in the off season.” She smiled.

Her arms rested on the book on her lap obscuring most of the words, but he could make out Love, Karma and Palmyra, and he thought she must be reading a slim obscure religious monograph.

“I'm sorry, you asked me about the book business. Well, I imagine some booksellers are managing, like The Word which is so well situated near the University, but for my humble offerings, the tide is out. I think the eReaders are starting to have a major impact.”

“We try to buy anything you have of interest, and we thank you for those older volumes we were missing in the Luzac and Probsthain series, but our budgets have been cut, which is becoming a boring refrain everywhere isn't it? Are those new glasses? They look good on you.”

“Oh thanks. The heavy frames are back in style. I had a similar pair when I first started wearing glasses back in grade three. Those frames were found in a glove compartment of my Aunt's car and she gave them to my Mother for me.”

“Found in a glove compartment?”

“Yes, that was the story. God knows. Cheap as in free. Anyway, my brothers thought they looked like ones people wore in Russia. It was the cold war era.” He thought of that cartoon with Rocky and Bullwinkle and the side characters of Boris and Natasha, Russian stereotypes, and Mr. Peabody and Sherman, spectacle wearing time travellers. His brothers had mimicked their voices quite well. Dark-rimmed glasses still retained a residue of that odd mash-up in his mind.

“I was hoping to look like Michael Caine in his Harry Palmer movies. Some men buy red sports cars, I buy dark glass frames. Sometimes I think I look more like Buddy Holly though, a bit on the whimsical side.”

“Not at all, they look really good on you.” Looking at him she found it hard to believe he was 53, he looked so much younger, though the grey hairs were more evident with proximity.

“And how is the rope business?” she asked.

“Can I interest you in a clothes-line, a rope-ladder or perhaps our tug-of-war model? So, so. Getting by. Which brings me to the reason for my visit. I was going through the old cash books of the family business, and I came across an old Latin text bound in at the back, upside down and missing the prelims. From the paper and print, it is very old. Possibly 1600. I found half of a watermark which I shall try to find out more about. With my rudimentary Latin, I think it is a religious text. I was hoping I could leave it with you and you could discover its true nature.”

As he fumbled with the laptop bag, she thought that Amelia had done well meeting Duncan. He had his feet on the ground. And they would be alright, for she thought her Uncle must be very wealthy. When she was a student with Amelia attending Marianopolis CEGEP, they occasionally visited his house, and she had been impressed.

He pulled the bound volume half out of the bag.

"I hope you can help with this one.  The leather is deteriorating so mind your clothes.  I'll put this back in the bag for now. Keep the bag too, I don't need it at the moment." He placed the bag on the pew beside her. "Thanks again. If you're looking for a book, any book, I'll get it for you as a present.”

“No problem. So, any book eh? Perhaps a Gutenberg Bible, or two?”

“If I can find one, it's yours,” he said touching her left arm. “I better let you go. It was great to see you again. And thanks for doing this for me.”

“Ah, no problem. It will give me something to do in the quiet moments,” she said with an ironic smile. “Say hi to Amelia.”

“I will, I will.” And with that he left the chapel and quickly laced his shoes, quietly coveting the desert boots which were back in style. He had had many a pair in the sixties and seventies. Perhaps he should shop for some. They would be a change from his brown leather Sperrys. Give Amelia a surprise.

He made his way across campus to the main library thinking that this invasive fog was beginning to infiltrate his consciousness. He wouldn't be surprised if he saw whirling dervishes spinning about on the soccer field, or a schooner's sails emerge between the trees.

Putting his hand in his jacket pocket he discovered Mélisande's apple core in its damp shroud. Seeing one of the many campus squirrels standing in the mist, he began to call to it in a high pitched tutting sound. Remnant apple in hand, he tried to entice it. It jumped onto to a cement plinth which resembled a water-fountain and lifted his front paws up in the air sniffing and peering warily at Duncan. He didn't understand the language but he comprehended the human gesture. Getting quite close, Duncan held the core at arms-length and gave a little toss, the core landed beside the squirrel. Inquisitively, he smelled it, picked it up and nibbled at it briefly. Then holding it pensively, looking at Duncan as if for a reaction, tossed it to the grass below. Duncan rolled his eyes. Everyone's a critic.

*

Jerome, standing in front of the five-arched central window of the library, was flipping through Zimmer's Myths and Symbols in Indian Art and Civilization. Mélisande, seeing him from the desk, wondered what atmospheric disturbance was causing men to descend upon her bookish quietude. First it was P. K.'s volume of poetry, then Duncan, and now Jerome. Approaching him, she noticed how the red rosette stained glass device inset in one of the windows seemed to hover above his head due to the strange light from outside. She also noted he had a small hole in the heel of his left sock.

“Jerome?” she whispered to his back.

He closed the book, and leaned towards her ear and softly said, “Could we talk?”

She led him out of the library and across the hall to the chapel. She sat him down where Duncan had sat and asked him what was wrong.

“I wondered if you had heard any news of Thérèse?”

“No, I'm sorry. But you know Thérèse. She is always breaking away. She'll be back. Have you talked to her Mother?”

“Yes, she advised me that her daughter was fine, and just needed to be on her own for awhile. Not to concern myself, not to worry myself.”

“Well, that is reasurring.”

“I received a book of P. K.'s the other day. Poetry.”

“Yes, me too.” She didn't know what to say.

“What's with those two?” he said. “Here we are, stranded in this fog, and they are . . .” He couldn't finish his sentence.

“Why don't we have dinner. We can talk more then. I finish at five.” She got up. “It will do us both good to talk.”

After he laced up his shoes, she gave him a brief hug before entering the library.

Jerome descended the stairs thinking she smelled of apples. What was that quote, he thought. 'Comfort me with apples.'

photograph and text © ralph patrick mackay

Yes Cecil, A Long Story Short, Part Sixteen

But for the momentary interest in the handsome Airedale terrier looking out from the passenger window of a small white sedan, Jerome's drive home was much like a stylus in a groove, his mind preoccupied with Thérèse, this new mysterious commission, and the invitation to Trieste by P. K. Loveridge. Habit had taken him home. All he could really remember was the face of the Airedale.

Using the electronic garage door opener, he entered the dark cavern that would safely sequester his ageing deux-chevaux for the winter months. Stepping on fog spiced with exhaust fumes, he made his way out, pressing the button to close the door. No mail in the box. It was an odd building. Standing alone, a three story thin building at the back of a property, with access along a leafy back alley. It had initially begun life as a substantial brick car garage, but the present owners had developed it into a modest home, with living quarters on two added upper floors, the top-most of which Jerome used as his art studio, rich in natural light coming from large windows and skylights.

The neighbour's little white dog yapped in their yard as he climbed the exterior stairs to the second floor. His answering machine was blinking its red beacon of hope, but Jerome only found a recorded message for a contest to win a cruise. Up to his studio, he went over to a work table and chose a cassette to play. He truly loved the sound of a cassette tape in its plastic box when handled. And their size, you could flip them over in one hand in a continuous pattern like a meditation device, a pleasing plastic percussion instrument. He was in the mood for Etienne Daho and put his Paris Ailleurs in the stereo, then walked over to the unfinished painting on the easel as the singer broke into Un homme a la mer.

He could paint himself in the bottom right of the painting, kneeling down to pet an Airedale who looked out at the viewer. And Jonathan Landgrave, he could use his face and his long camel hair coat for one of the figures in the distance. That would almost finish the painting. He could do it today, but the need to do a little research on the Bronzino painting disrupted that calmness he required to do his best work. Suddenly feeling fatigued, having slept poorly the night before, he went over to the chaise-lounge and lay down. The sharp edge of the binding of P. K. Loveridge's collection of poetry, Alacrity and Karma on a Yacht off Palmyra, jabbed at his ribs. He withdrew it and opened the volume. Turning the first pages, he came to the dedication page and read:

To Mélisande

I know no joy wherein thou hast not part,

My speeding wind, my anchor, and my goal.

-Giordano Bruno.

What an obscure reference he thought. He turned the page and read the first poem entitled Prologue:

While tourists come and go below the antique light,

Above the horse's hoof, aloof the spiders spin

Twin galaxies of thread. They spread with octave might,

A danse macabre, a rondo, lento with each step

The lamp their mystic moon, and soon their school of night.

In morning haze, the maze of silk reveals its prey

Like sailors in the shrouds, or clouds in distant space.

Entanglements of string that linger with the day.

Mute requiems in lace. To trace all time in warp

And weft, has left me on the cobblestones astray.

The street my labyrinth path, my breath an open gate,

With lifeline, headline, heart, I'll start; I'll chalk the slate.

Jerome closed the volume and rested it on his chest. Mélisande. He wondered if she would take old Loveridge back. Perhaps this volume was his attempt to curry her forbearance. Trieste. What was he doing over there anyway? Breathing the second-hand smoke of Svevo, tripping on uneven paving stones like Joyce, or scaring horses with his eyes like Richard Burton?

He closed his, and soon fell into a light sleep.

He could see Thérèse and Mélisande at a table in the crowded night club or restaurant, but he was blocked from getting to them and forced up a spiral staircase by faceless jostlers. Then, finding himself outside at the entrance, he began walking away. A sleek convertible drove by, Loveridge and Landgrave sitting side by side, but they didn't see or notice him. There were people everywhere, as if a street party had broken out. He began to run after the car and soon found himself down by the old port, a tall ship at anchor. He was running towards it along a narrow path and saw another man running towards him. Just before he could recognize the man, he awoke, the book slipping off his chest to the floor, bumping the soft front edges of the volume.

He sat up and rubbed his eyes, wiped his lips and sighed loudly. Mélisande. He could go see her at the Religious Studies library where she worked and talk to her. Maybe she has heard from Thérèse. Then he could go over to the main library to do some Bronzino research.

He changed into more comfortable jeans, and put on his soft desert boots. The walk would do him good he hoped.

♪

“Split Enz.”

“Sorry?” Julie said, smoothing her hair with that most classic of hand gestures, thinking it odd that her boss would be commenting on the state of her hair.

“That song you're humming. It's by the group Split Enz. I haven't heard that one in ages.”

“Oh. I heard it on the radio coming to work. My boyfriend changed the radio station and that song came on. I can't get it out my head. One of those ear-worms.” And then she sang the refrain from Six Months in a Leaky Boat followed by la de da de daaaaaaaa de da de da da de da da.

“My wife says that if you hum the tune of Spider Man you can get rid of any earworm.”

“I don't know that one.”

Duncan realized once again he was old.

“I have to go out to do some errands this morning. I know you can hold the fort. There are no deliveries or pick-ups today, so if you want to lock the front door, and put the sign up for people to ring if they want to enter, please do. I'll be back by one o'clock before you go. By the way, how is your other job going?”

“Good, good. The salon is doing well.”

“Good, good,” he said, feeling like an idiot repeating her words. “Right then, see you later,” and with those parting words he was out in the fog with the 1881 cash book in a laptop bag over his arm. Julie was a smart young women. He was glad he could offer her the four hours each morning from nine to one before her shift at the salon from two to six. She worked hard and her boyfriend was studying engineering so they would be alright in the end he felt. In the end. He sighed as he walked along in the fog in the direction of up town. It would be a bit of a walk, and he wondered if he would have luck in catching a bus. Amelia had the car today so he was au pied.

Mélisande Bramante would be able to help him.  The Religious Studies library where Mélisande worked was such a warm and generally inviting place. Perhaps the quietest library on campus. A favourite spot of his to study when he was at the University.

She was fluent in Latin and would be able to help him with the text he found at the back of the cash book. Missing a title page and other preliminary pages, he hadn't been able to make much of the text, other than to think it touched on religious themes and that it was very old. Had he gone to that private school when he was eight, he might well have studied Latin. He tried not to bring up the fact with Amelia for she had tired of hearing how he had been chosen and had passed the admittance test like his best friend David, but his parents, finding that the yearly fee was $1,000, had to tell him it was something they could not possibly manage. Such a sum in 1966 was insurmountable to them. His parents had only finished high school and higher education and its culture was unknown to them. A stay-at-home Mom raising three sons and a Father struggling to keep a family business running was already a test of their perseverance skills. And how would his other brothers feel if he went to Lower Canada College while they remained in the public system? Guilt. Pride. He could see now it had been a roadblock that had stirred up pride, that most blinding of sins. Frustrated pride had steered many of his movements from that moment on. It was only with many years of looking back, could he see the circuitous path, with all its choices and decisions, punctuated by the 'if onlys' and 'what ifs.'

Seeing a bus waiting at the corner, he ran and managed to just get on before it heaved into the street sending Duncan grasping for a hand-hold. Fumbling for change, he managed to produce the required coinage and find a place to stand near the back. It was as if the bus was in a vapour tunnel. The windows were quite fogged with humidity. He looked down. The woman in front of him was using an Kobo eBook reader. Duncan could see it provided secrecy and anonymity. One could be reading the latest Daniel Steele or the Hohenstaufen Inheritance or whatever those titles of Robert Ludlum books were, and no one would know. And to read with such ease. And to be able to download out of print books printed before 1923, books he had pined for when in his early youth they had been so far from available, was extraordinary to him. Such a wealth of information available to kids these days. He was sure there must be some youngsters out there taking advantage. They should be geniuses by the age of ten. Surely.

The bus came to an abrupt stop sending Duncan swinging round bumping shoulders with a large bearded man who merely glared as Duncan said he was sorry. No wonder people take their cars he thought. He followed the flow, inching toward the back door like automatons, and out into the foggy but welcome open air. He realized he was two blocks short of his destination. Two blocks short of a destination. That was a good one he thought. He should write that one down. 'That guy's two blocks short of a destination, if you know what I mean.' He would have to walk the remainder, but he was fine with that. The walk, he hoped, would do him good.

© ralph patrick mackay

Yes Cecil, A Long Story Short, Part Fifteen

Feeling that everyone else must equally be late due to the dense morning fog, it was with reassuring firmness that Amelia Strand pressed her foot upon the brake pedal as she waited at a red light, her green dash indicator blinking left. George III, beside her, seemingly oblivious to the unusual weather, was enjoying the outing—at least she thought so. On the car radio, the announcer discussed the overtures and symphonies of William Boyce as a small European car drew along Amelia's passenger side. The driver turned to look at George III who looked back at him, each cocking their heads with interest. The driver raised his eyebrows. George III shifted in his seat and opened his mouth to produce a small guttural noise of self-consciousness. The light turned green and Amelia, reaching out to pet him, noticed the small car drive away into the fog, and, with a swift intake of breath, she realized it could have been the painter they had been talking about, the boy friend of Thérèse LaFlamme. How many of those little cars could possibly roam the streets of Montreal?

A taxi driver behind her pressed his horn. In her rear view mirror she could see an arm raised in admonishment, so she took her corner and drove on, forgoing any improvisational sleuthing. Coming to another red light, she felt it was turning into one of those frustrating days. Duncan had left early and she had overslept. She had wanted to look over her translation work for the small insurance company that was due this week but that would have to wait. Then, as she stood before the toaster like a supplicant before an oracle, plate, knife and jam at the ready, she came to realize she had forgotten to put the raisin bread in. Will my toast burn? No, your toast will not burn. Then her scarf and shoes had proved elusive. And of course the fog. Yes, she thought, it might be one of those days, one of those days to be extra vigilant.

“And we will now hear William Boyce's Symphony No. 1 in B flat major, based on the overture to the New Year's Ode, Hail, hail, auspicious day, followed by C. P. E. Bach's Cello Concerto in A major.”

Amelia envisioned a baroque orchestra on a float in front of her, sawing away, dispersing the fog with their vigorous movements, leading her on towards the light of an auspicious day—and a parking space.

♦

“Trying to be mindful is difficult when surrounded by mindlessness,” Amelia said, sitting down at the kitchen table. “But I did manage to drop George III off for his check-up, tests and shots and get back here without incident. The fog is as thick as my mind on a Friday afternoon.”

“I'm glad you made it back safely my dear,” Mary said. “Mr. Roquebrune almost had an accident coming here this morning. He is meeting with your uncle in his office at the moment. I've brewed a large pot of tea and the scones should be ready soon.”

“That sounds lovely. I thought I recognized Mr. Roquebrune's car. How is Uncle Edward?”

“Well, I found him asleep in his chair last evening. A book on his lap. One of his old journals. But he was fine. I helped him up the stairs to bed and he mumbled a few words. When I asked him what he said, he replied, 'Milton, my dear Mary, Milton,' and he repeated the lines out loud. Something along the lines of 'tomorrow to fresh pastures new and. . .' no, that wasn't it, it was ' tomorrow to fresh woods and pastures new.' Well, one or the other. I must say it brought a tear to my eye.”

Amelia got up and hugged Mary. “We're so lucky to have you looking after him. We're all very fortunate.”

Amelia felt that Mary, a widow in her late 60s, was inching her way towards retirement. She owned a condo in Florida but, attached as she was to her position, and to Uncle Edward, she only made infrequent short winter visits.

She helped Mary with the scones and  the tea.

“Is it one of Mr. Roquebrune's regular visits?”

“Yes, I believe so. It was on the calendar.”

Amelia liked Mr. Roquebrune. Even when she was a rambunctious youth, he had always talked to her as if she were an intelligent adult. His soft spoken cordial nature, quiet movements, and kindly eyes belied the stereotype of a lawyer. He was certainly not young, but he still retained an upright and elegant bearing. The firm he worked for, Wormwood & Verdigris, was a very old law firm. Mr. Roquebrune had been with the firm for many years, as had his father before him. Amelia remembered the first time she accompanied her Uncle Edward to the firm's offices, a large nineteenth century Jacobean revival greystone which she had thought ideally suited the name on the brass plate. The wood panelling, ornate wood staircase, mullioned windows and the rich furnishings within, paintings, statuary, and carpets, had been an impressive setting for grey-haired men in dark suits glimpsed in the shadows. Whenever she happened to drive past the building, she always imagined Mr. Wormwood and Mr. Verdigris at the windows, tea cups and saucers in their hands, ghostly presences looking out on a changing world.

“I almost forgot,” Mary said, “while you were off delivering George, your Uncle was on the phone with an old acquaintance from England, a Mr. Gough. Apparently he is in Montreal and is coming to visit this afternoon, and will be staying for supper.”

“I guess the casual meal of spaghetti squash I was thinking of is out.”

“Mr. Seymour suggested a meal. One that he shared with Mr. Gough many years ago, grilled herrings and mustard sauce. A meal to stir up memories I suppose. I had to phone around to find the herring.”

“Herrings? Do you think he would still like us to stay for supper?”

“Oh, yes, he told me quite definitely he wanted both of you present. Don't worry, we'll have the squash and let the men have their fish.” Mary looked out the kitchen window and said, “Mr. Gough certainly brought English weather with him.”

Sipping their tea while the scones cooled on a plate, they heard the front door close and then footsteps coming down the hallway.

“I followed the delicious aroma of baked goods, ah Amelia, good to see you. I hope George was behaving?”

Amelia got up and gave her Uncle a hug and a kiss, and said, “He was no problem, as usual. I think he enjoyed getting out in the fog.”

“Yes, it does seem quite adamant about settling in,” he said joining them at the table. “Has Mary told you of my imposing an old friend on our casual dinner tonight?”

“Yes, we all look forward to meeting him.”

“Noel, his name is Noel Welwyn Gough, came to Montreal last Thursday to visit his daughter who has been working here in finance for a few years. She is soon to be transferred to Paris, so Noel thought he would make a short visit.”

“How old is Noel?”

“Oh, dear, a youngster compared to me. I believe he is 72. He was a patient of mine when I practiced in London. An unusual case. I was in my early 40s and he was in his early 20s. When he heard I was leaving to teach in Canada, he was a bit distraught, so I invited him to dinner at Pratt's. Such a peculiar little club. It was, and still is I believe, in the cellar. Rather dark. It had a very small dining room and the cloak room was a billiards table. A lot of stuffed birds under glass, perhaps much like ourselves at the time.  But it was a warm and convivial place.”

“Has he been to Montreal before?” Amelia asked.

“Oh yes, he did come to visit with his wife in the 1980s. I remember we lunched at the old-fashioned art-deco restaurant on the ninth floor of Eaton's department store. It was a favourite of Lavinia's for lunch. It was full of odd characters. Quite a mix of people, business types and old fogies like myself. Mid-afternoons were often busy with elderly women in heavy make-up, perfume and fur stoles re-living the 1950s. We had a favourite waiter there, what was his name. . . Fred, I think. God knows what happened to them all. The restaurant has been closed for so many years now. I imagine it has quite deteriorated.”

“Duncan and I lunched there a few times in the early 90s before it closed. On one occasion, we were sitting on the balcony area overlooking the tables below, and Duncan dropped his napkin onto an older man's head.”

"Oh, ho, well, better on his head than in his soup! There will be no such concern tonight, as long as Duncan can restrain himself. Mary, we must watch Duncan's wine consumption."

Their laughter startled a rather sad looking stray cat who was exploring the fringes of the back door porch. After silence resumed, he was brave enough to spray his presence before disappearing into the shrubbery.

text and photo © ralph patrick mackay

Yes Cecil, A Long Story Short, Part Fourteen

Extinction events. Don't you feel we're on the cusp of one?

Could be but I don't think we'll be around for the party.

Pas pire. C'est un Android.

Je pense à l'achat d'une tablette.

Honestly, I am so tired of struggling with them. The glass ceiling is becoming thicker and thicker.

Have you tried talking to the head of Personnel?

Jerome van Starke tried not to listen to the voices of those around him as he painted, with intention and finesse, a dark cave into the forbidding landscape of his espresso. Quietly, he placed the small spoon on the saucer and attempted halfheartedly to look out the windows of the Café Hermeticum, the view of the street and the passing foot sloggers was obscured by the humidity of warm bodies and their exhalations. But there was not much to see anyway, the fog having extended its veiled visitation. He crossed his legs at the side of his table and casually bounced his finely aged expensive leather boot up and down. An old habit. He took a sip of the dark bitter liquid and, glancing around him, noticed that the other customers were unfamiliar. A younger crowd was now frequenting the café. There was a time when he would overhear conversations about the latest Bertrand Blier film, or a discussion of Réjean Ducharme and the music of Renaud, but change was inevitable. Perhaps he too was involved in an extinction event. Our very lives, he thought, are extinction events.

Cusp. He liked that word. Cusp.

Of course, it was a Monday morning. Conversations were bound to be prosaic. It wasn't a Friday evening, sultry jazz dripping from the speakers.

A glass ceiling. That would be a challenge to paint. An image came to him of men and women walking on a glass floor, mirrored to reflect themselves while below, women and men looked up, seeing only the soles of the shoes walking above them. He tried to think of an old painting that would be adaptable to that image. Lost in this thought, Jerome didn't notice the dark outlines of three men in front of the café window. Two of them remained outside in a shadow play of cigarette rituals while the third made his way to the door. The expensive camel hair coat reaching to the man's knees was the first item that caught Jerome's attention, followed by the face. It was a mature handsome face that would not have been out of place in a magazine featuring models wearing expensive European suits and jackets. He was a customer visually out of place amongst the jeans, tattoos, piercings, and indie Icelandic music coming from the speakers. He watched him approach the counter and order an espresso, his reflection in the large oval mirror catching the mirrored wall behind Jerome creating a cascading effect. Jerome liked to sit in his spot to catch just such moments. The man carried his espresso over to Jerome's table and placed his cup down. He then took off his coat and draped it over the empty third seat. Sitting down with a sigh, he crossed his dark suited legs and looked towards the opaque light from the window. Half turning towards Jerome, he said, “English weather,” and then busied himself in stirring his espresso before tapping the spoon gently on the edge of the cup, a practice and sound that reminded Jerome of his Father. “At least it adds character to an otherwise, mundane world.” He lifted his cup and said, “Shall we toast the day?” Jerome, feeling like a vulnerable piece in a chess game, hesitatingly lifted his cup. They drank in unison.

After a pause, the man drew out a thin portfolio wallet from an inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a business card which he laid before Jerome. “My name is Landgrave, Jonathan Landgrave. I've been asked to make a request on behalf of my client. He would like you to paint his wife's portrait. He has heard of your reputation and knows of your great skill in reproducing older styles of painting.” Mr. Landgrave finished his espresso with a flourish. “The renumeration will be considerable.” He reached into his shirt pocket and extracted a folded piece of paper, and laid it before Jerome. “This is the initial payment to cover your costs. A minor cheque for supplies. He would like you to start tomorrow. My associates,” he gestured to the window, “will pick you up and carry anything you require. There is an excellent room for the sitting with the requisite light.”

Jerome looked at the cheque, images from Fragonard and Nattier flitting through his thoughts.

“Who is your client?”

Mr. Landgrave rose and proceeded to put on his coat. “That will be, I am afraid, undisclosed. He would like a degree of anonymity. I am his appointed agent.”

Jerome opened the folded cheque to see it was made out to him for $2,000, to be drawn on the account of Landgrave and Landgrave, Notaries.

“I shall leave you to think upon the offer. They will pick you up tomorrow morning at 10:30. Oh, the subject or painting to be reproduced is on the back of my business card. We do hope you will accept the proposition. My client admires your skill very much.”

Jerome was hindered in his reply by the very nature of Landgrave's direct and efficient approach. He wasn't used to such abrupt decisive interactions. The notary had already joined his associates and moved off into the fog before Jerome could think of a response. He turned over the business card and read: 'the portrait of Lucrezia Panciatichi by Agnolo Bronzino.' He was intrigued and tempted. This could cover his Triestine vacation. December, January and February in Italy would be a change. Not that much warmer but he could take trips to Florence and Rome and perhaps a diversion to Capri.

Jerome closed his eyes and laid his head back against the cold mirror and tried to visualize the Bronzino portrait. Much satin, velvet, and jewelry darkly framed. It would be a challenge. A fairly straight forward portrait though. No ponderous mythological or religious connotations. He could care less about the meaning of old paintings, he merely enjoyed using their settings. It was all visual to him. The art historians and critics could write their pages and pages of exegesis but it was, for him, form, colour, structure and, the faces. 

His curiosity and his financial self-interest began to dissolve his inertia like a sugar cube in coffee. He could go tomorrow and if he didn't feel at ease, he could back out. He hadn't signed any contract.

He withdrew a small brown notebook from his leather jacket and with his pencil he made notes

Cusp, elaborate.

Glass ceiling / floor.

Bronzino – supplies, size of orig. canvas, new brushes, etc.,

Any perceptive craquelure? Desired replication?

Look up Landgrave and Landgrave.

Then he sketched Jonathan Landgrave's face from memory. A caricature. He wondered if there was fog in the desert. Wondered if his coat was genuine camel hair. Wondered if camel hairs would make good paint brushes.

He walked to the window wrapping his scarf around his neck, and with three fingers, he flourished a thick line at eye level and looked out. The softness in the atmosphere muted the sharp-edged greyness of the fall, a foreground impressionism of wet pavements, bricks and dessicated leaves. Trieste, it could very well be Trieste in a morning fog.

© ralph patrick mackay

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