Panegyric

by Logan Macnair

  PANEGYRIC

  PANEGYRIC

  A Novel

  LOGAN MACNAIR

  Copyright © 2020 by Logan Macnair

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior ­written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations ­embodied in reviews.

  Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s ­imagination or are used ­fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Macnair, Logan, 1989–

  Panegyric. / Logan Macnair.

  ISBN 978–1–988098–97–5 (softcover)

  Printed and bound in Canada on 100% recycled paper.

  eBook: tikaebooks.com

  Now Or Never Publishing

  901, 163 Street

  Surrey, British Columbia

  Canada V4A 9T8

  nonpublishing.com

  Fighting Words.

  We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the British Columbia Arts Council for our publishing program.

  To Ashley,

  For nudging me off the diving board and into the unexpectedly calm waters beneath.

  But the skylight is like skin for a drum I’ll never mend,

  and all the rain falls down amen,

  on the works of last year’s man.

  —Leonard Cohen, Last Year’s Man

  1

  PROLEGOMENON

  “DO YOU KNOW who I am?”

  Do I know who you are? Aren’t you the cynosure we were all meant to emulate? Aren’t you the heartbeat of industry recently recalibrated to match the rhythm of modern apogee? Are you the towering presence that thought to strike out with such a piercing and focused query or are you the resonant timbre with which it was released? Anyone with even the slightest read on Canada’s political pulse would know who you are. But do I know who you are? Based on common titles I do. Member of Parliament. Self-made millionaire. Prodigious businessman turned equally successful politician. Likely future leader of the federal party and possibly the nation. These were things I knew, but there were also things I had heard. Direct. Strong. Intense. Dangerous. A marriage of such adjectives and a moment to thank those timid enough to refuse having their hearts painted over by the same brush. These things I did not mention. And then his question:

  “Do you know who I am?”

  I was busy figuring out who I was at the time. I knew what they said about me. They said I lack form and discipline, that I am allergic to plot and structure, choked purple in the face, that nothing I write will ever see the light of day lest I learn to play by the rules. But somehow he knew who I was, even when nobody was supposed to. He knew that I had recently ghostwritten the memoirs of a former premier, even when my name was refused space on the cover. He knew exactly where and when he would be able to find me to ask this question:

  “Do you know who I am?”

  And that was the question that brought me some 4000 kilometers across the nation from the mattress in the corner of my Vancouver apartment to the basement office of his Oshawa home, sandwiched between an opulent suburb and a private entry into the waters of Lake Ontario. His proposition was a simple one—‘tell them who I am, in my own words.’ He spoke of lavish payment, of idyllic living conditions, of the freedom to work my own hours so long as I could finish the project by the end of the summer. And so here I am, settling in to what will be my home for the next five months and the task at hand. I’ve been here nearly a week, yet I still can’t shake the question that started it all:

  “Do you know who I am?”

  Aren’t you Maxime Montblanc, born 1959 in British Columbia’s sleepy interior to Québécois parents newly relocated? Surely you are the success story that we were all meant to be. But are you truly Canada’s brightest light? Are you the embodiment of resilience yet to become inured by the dancing pistons of modern machinery? Are you the pleasant, well-mannered man that solicited my services? Are you the ruthless and perfidious harbinger of ruination they say you are?

  I thought I knew who Maxime Montblanc was at the time. As it turns out, I had no idea. But I learned. And you will too.

  2

  PROLIXITY

  ORWELL INSTRUCTED WRITERS of all vocations to avoid using long words when there was a short one that might suitably replace it. Hemingway echoed this notion, arguing that big emotions don’t necessarily come from big words.

  As an infant I had a precocious disposition toward reading that my parents proudly encouraged by surrounding me with books. By the age of five I was reading beyond the expected level, though my pronunciation was marked with a noticeable stutter and I had trouble forming full sentences without tripping over certain words. My parents and their friends thought this was cute at the time. By the age of ten my stutter had become significantly worse to the point where nearly every word was a struggle. As teachers started questioning my intelligence, as other kids started their imitations and mockery, and as I grew increasingly quiet and afraid to speak, it wasn’t so cute anymore. And now at thirty years old, though my stutter is as pronounced and debilitating as ever, I’ve had my whole life to deal with this master ­status the best I can and to accept certain things that at this point cannot be changed. I know I won’t be starting any conversations with any alluring strangers I see in public. I know I’ll never be a contestant on Jeopardy! I know I’ll never deliver any keynotes, best-man speeches, lectures, or eulogies. And I know that to compensate for this I will always disregard the advice of Orwell and Hemingway.

  Maxime Montblanc personally recruited me to ghostwrite his memoirs because he had heard that I was capable of completing this task with the same quality that he demonstrates in all other aspects of his life, but between you and me, I think he may have been misinformed. Regardless, he was unaware of my condition at the time he solicited my services but he has so far demonstrated a high degree of patience and empathy. Most people do. I’ve had a long time to acclimate to the lexicon of pity that I am routinely exposed to. Still, in the week that I have been living in the basement guestroom of Monty’s Oshawa home he has proven to be a courteous and respectful host. Under such conditions, spending the entirety of the emerging summer here to write his memoirs sure beats the hell out of spending another summer languishing amid the rolling waves of underachievement.

  But as I soon learned, my arrangement with Mister Maxime Montblanc—the highly esteemed paragon of politics—was to be far more multifarious than the simple writing of a book.

  3

  PROMULGATION

  “IT IS TIME that we discussed your impediment.”

  “What imp-p-p-imp-imped-imp-impediment?”

  “Clever boy. Funny boy. Still, I would rather not do you the discourtesy of pretending that your problem is invisible. I would prefer that we be transparent about it, for this arrangement will only succeed if we remain fluid in all things. We must appear as translucent to one another. I need you to see me unfiltered and without pretense or expectation. If I am to trust you with writing the story of my life, I must also be assured that you see me complete. This is a trust that must be reciprocally felt. No hollow peaks tickling the azure and no rolling sediment. A subject within and a magnified gaze inverted inward. A man uses a chainsaw to fell a tree, but what fool of a man would not first familiarize himself with the innards and mechanics of the tool itself? Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Good boy. A good boy, and one able-bodied enoug
h and undeniably of sound mind. I see in your words an intellect that hovers above the vacant stares of the crowded congregation below. You are a rightful heir of appreciation, but am I correct to assume that not many acknowledge your birthright? Your teachers and classmates, they all thought you were retarded, didn’t they?”

  “Suh-suh-sssome of them d-d-did.”

  “Yes, of course they did. But that is far from the truth, isn’t it? There is no established link between intelligence and those who stutter, is there?”

  “No.”

  “No, there isn’t. Of course you would know that. Though I suspect that little piece of information failed to console you as a child. I don’t imagine that made the taunting hurt any less. No, it didn’t make you feel any better about yourself at all, did it?”

  “Na-na-not really, no.”

  “I can feel your hesitation, Lawrence. I know these are tumultuous waters that you are not particularly eager to navigate, but I will thank you for your continued endurance and bravery. What you have endured will surely not be undone by my continued probing. Now then, modern science has yet to pinpoint a specific cause for stuttering, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nor has there been any consensus on a cure?”

  “No, b-b-b-but there are tuh-treatments and, and, and, and therapies.”

  “And you have attempted them all, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And yet you stand before me with what is undoubtedly the worst speech impediment I have ever personally witnessed. The treatments did not work for you, did they?”

  “No.”

  “No, they certainly did not. And yet you have made habits of some of the practices, haven’t you? You still speak very slowly, you still change certain words that you know will be ­troublesome, you still take deep breaths from the diaphragm and over-enunciate, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re still afraid to be introduced to new people, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re terrified of asking a stranger for the time or for directions, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You dread having to place your order at a restaurant, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because people still think that you are retarded when they hear you speak, don’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “And so you’ve immersed yourself in the written language. You have overcompensated for your inability to communicate verbally by learning how to communicate through the magic of the written word, haven’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Something tells me that you have studied the dictionary in some detail. Am I correct?”

  “. . . Yes.”

  “All of those complex and complicated words, all of those beautiful and obscure words that are seldom seen in common conversation, all of those lovely words that lend themselves so well to poetry and prose, all of those words that you would never be able to properly say. I’ve noticed it’s the ‘P’ words that you have the most trouble with, isn’t?”

  “Yes.”

  “I imagine that engaging in romantic endeavors must be quite the ordeal for you.”

  “It can be.”

  “It is, you darling boy, it surely is. And here you are, thirty years old and unmarried. As I understand it, the prognosis for adults is not promising. You will likely have this debilitating condition for the remainder of your life. You may be able to mask it at times, but surely you must have accepted now that this is and forever will be a part of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You cannot speak French, can you?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, you wonderful boy, of course not. Have you ever imagined your wedding day? Have you felt the terror creep up the hairs of your arm when you picture a man of God speaking to you those inevitable and sacred words? ‘Do you, Lawrence, take this woman, to have and to told, in sickness and in health, until death do you part?’ Have you practiced your response?”

  “No.”

  “Very good. But surely you must feel as if time is running out for you?”

  “Uh-al-almmmost.”

  “Brilliant. Brilliant young man. You’ve the soul of a cosmopolitan with wings tragically clipped. So true a form that I can feel myself weep. There is not another person on this planet who I would have tell the story of my life. This world is too much. No, it’s not enough. Non terminus. I have tested the limits of my empathy, endeavored to feel the phantom pain of amputated limbs, the loss of a mother tongue, but I am at once negligent and diminutive to your plight. I have become a champion of the market, a leader of the nation, and a master of myself all because of my ability to say exactly what needed to be said in any given situation. I have made my millions and repeatedly earned my Parliamentary seat from an impeccable insight into the social condition, yes, but all of this would be wasted without a vessel from which to strike. You beautiful boy. I will never know the angels in your privileged vision, but pray that I might one day find the talent to translate a sorrow as sweet as yours. Look at me, Larry. See through me as I am starting to see through you. Do not leave me wandering alone and unrequited. Fly beside me with your broken wings and we may yet reach the teasing shores of placidity.”

  4

  POETASTERS

  AND DEATH TO the Hacks!

  I see them gnashing away at levity as they do, sucking on life’s rind with their uncut teeth. Proper indications of fatalism with their ‘born to be’ discourse, each of them anomalously persuaded that they are painting with the inherited brush of Picasso. I see them walking the hippest streets of Montreal and Vancouver, eyes toward the sky and shouting at the unresponsive ether for a sign of validation. They step on my toes as they pass, ignoring me and my bad haircut. And what are they to offer but another muzzled voice?

  And disdain for the Hacks!

  And their cleverness, quantifiable as currency, and their words, intriguingly arranged, but predictable as ever. I know their warped vision. They view each of their outputs as rungs on a ladder. Callous calculations spinning in their thoughts, they would eat the heart of you or I so long as an audience would be formed. And what of their gift, absorbed through the blood of Apollo, that courses through their veins? No, you members of the inane gaggle, a gift not conducive to condemnation is no gift at all.

  And examination of the Hacks!

  Who once upon a time discovered the sway that they held over the bisexual nymphets, moon-grass grazers, and precarious exhibitionists who so keenly took to the untouchable mediums of this new century. And let this further illuminate the distinctions between us. Know that I would willingly castrate myself if it meant that I could work more peacefully. And while their cocks were being massaged to whispers of suicide pacts and elopement, I would sit unaccompanied under dim light with a growing collection of unread postulations, the existence of which I could never be fully sure of. A tree falls in a forest, but that doesn’t get anybody laid.

  And empathy for the Hacks!

  Because we are one and the same. Astute readers would have already picked up on that. You are safe and you are correct to judge me. The arrows I volley are not shot from a bow of otherworldly material, nor are they readied by untarnished hands. My first taste of tangible success came fairly recently with the publication of Restoring Conviction: The Hope and Faith of a Public Servant, and while my name was not allowed anywhere near it, I read every single review and followed the public and critical reaction to that book like a man possessed. Are these the actions of an enlightened creator? No, these are the actions of a eunuch who has retained a trace of feeling in his groin. These are the actions of a Hack.

  And envy for the Hacks . . .

  Because I know the things I would do to be openly counted amongst their ranks. Because I’ve often dreamed up a life where I
am not just accepted by them, but embraced. I want to walk their streets with shoes unscuffed. I want to be their chosen king, the man who came from nothing, the man whose bad haircut they all now emulate. I want the keys to their Royal Palace and the secret backroom where the elite congregate and hand jobs are wordlessly initiated.

  And now a parting gift for the Hacks.

  This is tearing me up. Quartered by my arms and their genuine desire to gesture something that matters and my legs and their commitment to standing tall on the cliffs of contrarianism. I was once told never to offer advice to those who do not ask for it. I adhere to this, though ironically, I didn’t ask for that particular piece of advice when it was given to me. So if these words are to be immediately dissipated and lost to the wind before reaching unwelcoming ears, this I will accept.

  Ready then?

  Neverkisssanguinelipsneverguideinlawlessshipsneverwatchrustbeformedneverdanceintorridstormsneverdrinkfromunknownuttersneverliewithtwooldloversneverbreakwithscriptedwavesneverdelveinunclaimedcavesneverbuildwithflawlessnailsneverrepeatoncetoldtalesneversignwithborrowedpensneverboundtowardeasyendsneverpraytofadingflamesnevergorgeonfetteredfamenevercalltheclearestbluffsandneversleeponjustenough.

  5

  PROCRASTINATION

  RECALL, IF YOU will, the modern fable of the man with no mirror in his bathroom. He styled his hair by watching his shadow on the wall. Now squeeze from this tale a moral that I might use to anchor this bloody chapter that I’ve been stuck on all day. I’ve settled quite quietly into a new routine under the divine protection of my new landlord. Yes, he my trusted innkeeper, my ­personal concierge, dutifully assuring that all my earthly needs are continually met. And what have I to offer in return? An empty page, willfully defiant. I haven’t been outside today. Come to think of it, I haven’t been outside all week. I don’t need that kind of unpredictability. No, I’ll stick to the formula. ‘Keep playing my game,’ as the professional athletes say. Do we need to keep this grounded? Forget it. I’m all for demystification these days. Peel off the veneer, see how the sausage is made, anything to compromise the charade. It looks like this: