In the Beggarly Style of Imitation

by Jean Marc Ah-Sen

  Through the miracle economy of the time-lapse, Smidlarge and Modwind come to the reception desk. Ailsa has taken particular notice of this curious duo before her.

  “Hullo, my name is Smidlarge. Rewdilf Smidlarge.”

  “I suppose you’re brothers?” an H&F functionary remarks sarcastically.

  “What? Oh no, this is my colleague, Mr. Modwind. I don’t know about the rest of these impostors, but I am the true son of the late Allan Cuthbertson.”

  “And you have documentation supporting this allegation?”

  “I do, making it no mere allegation. A birth certificate, notarized by my mother and Mr. Cuthbertson’s assistant Mr. Emedonds, records of a trust in my name disbursed annually, and letters my father wrote to my mother.”

  The functionary swallows a hard lump of humility before Ailsa interjects.

  “Good morning. Please allow me to introduce myself. I am the superintending officer of the Heredity and Filiation Department. Who did you say your mother was?”

  “Emas Smidlarge. But don’t you think this is a subject better discussed in private, madam?”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Smidlarge. Please follow me.”

  Ailsa, Oscar and Smidlarge enter single file into a cramped corner office, but before the door can rasp shut, a halting voice off-screen bawls “Smid-large! Mod-wind! Why haven’t you reported for duty yet?”

  A cold, uniform shiver runs up Smidlarge and Modwind’s spines and they turn their heads past their shoulders to see the imposing figure of Foreman Dogel, a bullheaded and comminatory browbeater.

  “You’re an hour late! Just what exactly do you think you’re… Oh, Ms. Cuthbertson, please do forgive me! Pardon the outburst, but these two have a history of truancy, they do.”

  At the mention of Ailsa’s family lineage, Smidlarge and Modwind’s necks swivel. A clownish note from a Harmon-muted flugelhorn carries the point across.

  “W… what did you say your name was, madam?”

  “It seems you’re late for work, gentlemen. Now is that any kind of impression to leave on your employer?”

  Smidlarge and Modwind are now in the lower-level changing rooms of Cuthbertson Industries putting on nondescript, twill one-piece uniforms, unidentifiable and featureless except for the smallest of insignias bearing the letters CI stitched on the lapels. As he is fastening his suspenders beneath his uniform, Oscar flicks Mr. Smidlarge’s chest with his index and middle fingers.

  “Your ship’s come in, eh?”

  “Not even close, Oscar. I can sniff a termagant a mile away.”

  “You’ve got her wrong, Mr. Smidlarge. Her eyes reflected a noble and gentle spirit.”

  “Whose side are you on, anyway? Best to get a move on before that Dogel gets back. C’mon now, hop it.”

  The scene transitions with breakneck speed to the two men joining a small army of other Cuthbertson maintenance workers boarding panel vans and transport trucks. Out of the back garage, a handful of vehicles pour out to various corners of the city. The A35 van on which Mr. Smidlarge and Oscar are sitting appears to be slower than the others, and is sputtering thick black smoke out of its exhaust pipe. Oscar calls out to the driver from the rear bench seat to give it more gas.

  “C’mon, then! Haven’t got all day!”

  “Sorry, Oscar,” the driver whines. “I think it might be the return line… we won’t get far in this heap. Looks like you’re going to have to go out on foot.”

  “Ahhhh-ohhhh!”

  Oscar and Mr. Smidlarge carry the spirit of grim death on their faces, but beat a forsaken path to one of the Cuthbertson properties, a four-storey walk-up that sits as a perfect brick cube in a rundown part of town. The two men enter the property, and then head to a door marked Cuthbertson Employees Only. Inside the small, closet-sized room, there are mops and brooms on racks, a basin and a special telephone with the words direct line labelled on the handle. Mr. Smidlarge picks up the receiver and calls HQ. Oscar pulls out a key from around his neck that dangles from a chain. He opens a complaint box attached directly beneath the mail slot.

  “Apartments six, eleven, twenty-eight and thirty-one. That’s not too bad.”

  “Hullo, headquarters? Employee #1193 here. We’re at the Waverly Heights property, confirming a work order for four apartments. Mmmhmm… are you aware of why we are behind schedule? There’s hardly anything I can do about that. I see. Alright, I understand. Hmmph.”

  “Well, then?”

  “We still have to clear all seven sites today.”

  “Owwhhh… It’s not even possible!”

  “Let’s not tarry. You take the top floor and—”

  “Eh? Why do I always get the top floor, Mr. Smidlarge?”

  “Well, ahem, you know how my back gets, Oscar.”

  Sometime later, Oscar is barrelling down the stairs carrying a broom and dustpan, his face and uniform covered in soot. There is some sort of commotion coming from inside the stockroom and Oscar throws down his cleaning materials and hangs on to his cap while his feet carry him away. Two musclebound toughs are on either side of Mr. Smidlarge, shoving him about like a ragdoll. Mr. Smidlarge grimaces awkwardly as spasms of pain flutter across the lower half of his face.

  “Now listen here, Smiddy, we don’t want anything to happen to you. Of course we don’t, do we, Eric?”

  “Aye.”

  “So be reasonable, Smiddy. We’re not asking much.”

  “What’s all this, then?” Oscar yarps. “Let go of him!”

  Oscar dives straight into the man holding up Mr. Smidlarge by the collar, but is deftly kept away by the second man, Eric. There is hardly any moving room.

  “Oh, Oscar, it’s you. You’re with this bag of bones, then, are you? You’ve done right by us, but well, should we explain it to him too, Tom?”

  “Occurs to us that we could do your jobs for you. Save you a spot of bother coming down here. We couldn’t do that for free, though, now could we? Big job, making sure the heat don’t cut out.”

  “You’re out of your mind, you tallow-headed hooligan. Don’t you listen to one word, Mr. Smidlarge. Whatever they do to us, you can be sure the boys back at headquarters will pay it back double. We, eh, eh, we know where you live, after all!”

  The two extortionists consider this advice thoughtfully. Tom, the bigger of the two, lets Mr. Smidlarge fall to the ground in an ashamed heap and squeezes past Oscar. “We didn’t mean anything by it, Oscar. Just messing about.”

  “Mr. Smidlarge, are you alright? Let’s have a look at you.”

  Mr. Smidlarge is clutching his heart, his temples are pulsing rhythmically and he has lost his facility of speech.

  “Hey! Heeey, Eric! Call an ambulance! Somebody call an ambulance!”

  * * *

  An L cut follows, and the scene shifts to Oscar at the side of Mr. Smidlarge, who is rolling in and out of consciousness in a turned-down hospital bed. Mr. Smidlarge looks up at his companion with stilled resistance in his eyes, his face in the agony that only a supposititious mortality can produce.

  “Oscar, come closer…”

  “Yes, Mr. Smidlarge, what is it?”

  “Oscar…”

  “Yes? Go on.”

  “You’re sitting on my arm!”

  Oscar bolts upright, while Mr. Smidlarge yanks his arm free from under the covers.

  “Blasted hospitals, they’re all the same, preparing you for the final curtain, even if you’ve nary begun the second act!”

  “You gave me quite a scare, Mr. Smidlarge. How much longer do you reckon you’ll be holed up in here? We’ve got six more jobs to finish, not to mention a trip back to Heredity and Filiation if we have the time.”

  “Oscar, does it look like I’ll be leaving this bed any time soon?”

  “But you just said—”

  “Never mind what I just said. A man earns his rest as much as he earns his right to a little griping here and there.”

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “Typical gobble
dygook. Lots of bed rest, get your affairs in order…”

  “Prognosis?”

  “Apparently, I had a stroke.”

  “You what? Cor, that’s you having me on, then! A stroke. At your ripe old age.” Oscar considers his wording.

  “One more and I’m finished.”

  “But what about what’s rightfully yours then?”

  “What’s rightfully mine and rightfully anybody’s is of no concern. They have us running around in circles while this Ailsa is getting her house in order. I didn’t want to play this card but they’ve forced my hand. You’re going to have to stand in for me, you hear? And look after Clara.”

  “Don’t go talking nonsense.”

  “I have at the home, the title deed to a property on the outskirts of town—attendant documents, warranty deed—in my father’s name. It’s inside one of Clara’s bandboxes. False bottom. I need you to go to the house and find it before Ailsa can get her mitts on it. I’ve left further instructions—”

  “You’re paranoid!”

  “I’ve been on enough medication to sing the tune of a half million pounds, Oscar.”

  “Well, what am I supposed to do with it in case you’ve gone for a Burton by the time I come back?”

  “Who’s talking paranoia now, boy?”

  Oscar makes shift to hurry to the Smidlarge residence. He is on his knees surrounded by twenty hatboxes that have all been upturned and discarded haphazardly in the Smidlarge bedroom. He is flinging shoes over his shoulder looking for the legal documents in question.

  “Oh now, where is it?”

  A shadow begins to eclipse Oscar’s body from off-screen.

  “Looking for something?”

  Expecting Clara, Oscar rises sheepishly, but is taken aback when he sees Ailsa standing in the Smidlarges’ bedroom, flanked on both sides by two boulder-headed bruisers. In Ailsa’s delicate right hand is a document folded along the middle, and in the other, a bone folder and a torn manila envelope.

  “How did you get in here? You’re trespassing on private property! I’ll notify the authorities, I will.”

  “I have a much more appealing proposition for you, Oscar. Why don’t you come with us and let me tell you about it?”

  “You must think I’m awfully gullible to fall for a nasty trick like that. I’ll scream. The Smidlarges have paper-thin walls. The neighbours don’t hardly leave their houses.”

  Ailsa divides a look of hesitation between her thugs.

  “And you’re in possession of stolen legal documents respect­ing the last will and testament of one Mr. Rewdilf Smidlarge. Felony charges, the lot of you!”

  “Easy, Oscar. We were merely keeping them safe until your arrival. You know, at Cuthbertson Industries, we’re all one happy family.”

  “Throw it here then, you pack of jackals. No tricks!”

  Oscar has picked up some Christmas wrapping folded around a cardboard tube, and is brandishing it like an admiral’s cutlass, stabbing it forward each time one of the burly men leans forward too suddenly.

  “How about we all go on our merry way, and you can have Clara back.”

  Oscar is taken aback by this threat, recalling his promise to Mr. Smidlarge. He drops the tube, and the men descend upon him in seconds. He is held fast between them and escorted to a Silver Wraith waiting outside.

  Type Reader: Type Books Talks with Jean Marc Ah‑Sen

  1) What is the first book you remember loving?

  JMA: I don’t know what it was called, but when I was a kid, I was obsessed with this book that explained the human body with leering automatons representing blood cells and antibodies and what not, helping its functions along: exercising, eating, getting sick. They looked like they were doing a terrible job, had been at it for donkey’s years. I remember when it explained sex, the automatons were driving a tank, and with waste production, they ran this intestinal factory in a slipshod way. I was terrified, but it was a good diagnostic on life. Everybody’s just barely hanging on, going through the motions, and we’re just a few layers from the filth.

  2) What is your favourite virtue in a book?

  JMA: Probably iconoclasm, bonus if it derails the senses a bit. Not a virtue, but I’m partial to anything about subcultures, or which has a character assassination or two. Top marks if it’s designed by Zak Kyes. It’s a tie between those things.

  3) What do you appreciate most in a book character?

  JMA: World-weariness, degradation, poor posture, a cavalier attitude towards the reader.

  4) What character (real or fictional) do you dislike the most?

  JMA: James Bond has always annoyed me. Subtextually, a great stand-in for late capitalistic society, but otherwise it wears the adolescent male fantasy a little too liberally on its sleeve. He should be in a hospital bed reading about Gérard de Lairesse, crying himself to sleep every night. I’d read that.

  5) If you were to write a non-fiction book about anything, what would it be about?

  JMA: Score-settling! Most likely an unauthorized biography of someone I know.

  6) Your favourite prose authors?

  JMA: Keith Waterhouse, Terry Southern, Gillian Freeman, Barry Hines. Tad Friend and Graeme Wood’s writing can be quite good. Joe Orton’s plays rank very highly, and read prosaically I suppose.

  7) Your favourite poets?

  JMA: John Betjeman, the Sitwells, Shelley, Ivor Cutler, Phyllis King, Giuseppe Gioachino Belli.

  8) Has a design or art book ever had an impact on your life, and if so, what was the impact?

  JMA: My friend Chris gave me and my wife a copy of Marshall McLuhan and Harley Parker’s Counterblast as a wedding present. We all worked at a university newspaper, and the designs and types in that book somewhat informed Chris’ aesthetic sense. I married my editor, so it was quite a fitting memento.

  9) Do you read on public transportation?

  JMA: No, not if I can help it.

  10) What qualities do you want in a book you’re reading while travelling?

  JMA: I don’t read any more when I’m abroad. I’m out and about.

  11) What book have you never read but have always meant to? Do you think you will ever read it?

  JMA: Before I’m forty, for sure, but I’ve never finished Gargantua and Pantagruel. I’ve been building myself up to it. I don’t quite hate the world enough yet to be ready.

  12) What book do you pretend to have read, but in fact have not?

  JMA: I’m up front about what I haven’t read. There’s a good chance the person telling you about it hasn’t read it either.

  13) If you could force a single celebrity to read a specific book in its entirety, who would you choose, and what book would you make them read?

  JMA: If he were alive, I’d love to have Norman Wisdom read to me from A Child’s History of England every night. That would be a laugh.

  14) What book(s) are you reading right now?

  JMA: Jack London’s John Barleycorn, Momus’ Black Letts Diary 1979 and G.V. Desani’s All About H. Hatterr.

  Notes

  Beggarly Imitation is best paired with Menteurism.

  The cover photograph of Kitty Collins by Ally Schmaling is reproduced here with permission.

  Interior photographs sourced from the Ah‑Sen, Lagacé, Bestvater and LCK archives, unless stated otherwise: Underside of Love: LCK archive; Sentiments and Directions: LCK archive; Defence of Misanthropy: Ah‑Sen archive; Mahebourg: Ah‑Sen archive; Ah‑Sen and I: Ah‑Sen archive; Sous Spectacle Cinema Research: Ah‑Sen archive; Triolet: LCK archive; The Slump: Lagacé archive; Swiddenworld: Lee Henderson; Baie-du-Tombeau: LCK archive; As to Birdlime: Bestvater archive; Triolet album cover: Ah‑Sen archive.

  Lyrics to “Ambition” by Subway Sect used with permission from Vic Godard.

  The hypomnemic paragraph structure used in this book is appropriated with esteem from the works and writing of Stephen Potter. />
  “Underside of Love” is loosely based on Austin Clarke’s “Give Us This Day: And Forgive Us” from When He Was Free and Young and He Used to Wear Silks. An earlier version of this story appeared in a commemorative issue of The Puritan celebrating Austin Clarke’s legacy. Matt Lehner and Kilworthy Tanner contributed to some of the dialogue.

  The palimpsest “Ah‑Sen and I” is based on the James E. Irby translation of Jorge Luis Borges’ “Borges and I” published in Labyrinths.

  A longer version of “Sous Spectacle Cinema Research Consultation with Bart Testa” originally appeared in a 2010 edition of The Innis Herald.

  The collage “Untitled 2019” attributed to Thusnelda Baltuch was made by Lee Henderson, and is reproduced here with his permission.

  The concept of the “chansons des mouches” is borrowed from Osbert Sitwell’s poem of the same name published in Wrack at Tidesend.

  The poem “X” from Behzad Molavi’s Exilian is reproduced with permission.

  The Patrick Hughes and George Brecht quotation is taken from their book Vicious Circles and Infinity: An Anthology of Paradoxes.

  Fripperies of thought, violations of form and ropey dialogue are all desired outcomes in this miscellany.

  Acknowledgements

  This exercise in “birdcage lining” was sustained by—

  Katrina Lagacé, Chester Lai-Lagacé and Wallace Lai-Lagacé, my web of sound.

  The planetary consciousness of Grace Lai, Monique Ah‑Sen, Cécile Ah‑Sen, Ah-Peng, Bob Lagacé, Dolores Bestvater, Justin Lagacé, Alia Lagacé and Ivor Lagacé.

  George Mantzios and Behzad Molavi, fellow auto-vulgarizers in the Age of Spleen.

  Kilworthy Tanner, Naben Ruthnum, Paul Barrett, Adnan Khan, Inaam Haq, Martin Zeilinger, Christopher Heron, Robyn Thomson Kacki, James Davidson, Paul Pope, Matt Lehner, Genevieve Iacovino, Laura Briffaud, Lee Henderson, André Forget, André Babyn, Jonathan Tsao, Jason Foo, Jenn Foo, Barry Hertz, Bronwyn Dobchuk-Land, Owen Toews, Georgia Toews, Mark Boucher, Sherita Bassuday, Ranée Dong, Cory Chatwell, Rachit Chakerwarti, Kevin Fong, Pete Marino, Rick Meier, Bart Testa, Vic Godard, Ally Schmaling and Kitty Collins. With apologies to Elpenor Morien-Khalid and the White Light Technician Thinking Throne.