7:30 am—Wake up to the same family of birds singing their ancestral aria on repeat. A two-note tune, once pleasant, though more resemblant of an atonal factory whistle of late. The sheets of Montblanc’s guestroom bed absorb me.
8:00 am—Breakfast with Montblanc. We go over the day’s plan, he tells me stories, he moralizes and philosophizes, he helps me find the character. ‘Don’t put that part in the book’, he’ll tell me. I take notes. I tune in and out. He leaves to go shake hands and kiss babies and take his place in the grand assembly line of progress and leadership. What a model of a man. I’m so blessed and humbled to be in a situation where I can learn from him and . . . oh, he’s gone? Good, time to get to it.
9:00 am—The work day begins. I dig through boxes of documents both political and personal to get a sense of my subject. Meeting schedules, voting records, personal justifications for the nation-shaping decisions he helped make, a journal entry detailing his trip to the Party’s national convention in Edmonton, who he had dinner with, the son-of-a-bitch who wasn’t going to last, the quality of the towels at the hotel, the name of the escort, the colour of her underwear, it’s all a rich tapestry you see. It’s a jigsaw puzzle with no edge pieces. My grandma taught me to start with the edge pieces. Lot of good that’s doing now. These documents allow me to sketch out a black and white picture, Montblanc’s explanations fill it with colour, and lo, the template for a soon-to-be bestselling memoir dances like Persephone incarnate.
11:30 pm—A light lunch. I recall one of the rules laid down by my hospitable host, ‘help yourself to any food you like.’ The overabundance of choice and the inherent perils it provides. Our modern dilemma. When you can do anything you end up doing nothing. The emptiest of feelings crawling up my legs. Inevitably I just make a turkey sandwich and shut up about it.
12:00 pm—Begin writing. Compile all the elements and paint them onto the page. Remember to say it in his voice, but don’t use too many big words—it turns off casual readers. This needs to be accessible, not elitist. Keep it just sophisticated enough so that anyone can read it while ensuring that those who do will feel smart and informed. Something you can be proud to have on your bookshelf. Obsessively check dates and facts to make sure no mistakes are being made. Produce something that I can proudly show to Monty. Question why his approval is so important to me. Assure myself that I don’t have to do any of this, that I’m free to leave whenever I want. Remember how much money I’m being paid to do this. Realize that for the right price there’s probably nothing that I wouldn’t do. Call myself pathetic, but then remember that this is indicative of the society we live in and the importance that it places on financial accumulation, and not on my own materialistic greed. Feel slightly better, though self-aware enough to accept that I can only hide behind my shallow rationalizations for increasingly limited periods of time. To research and write an entire book over the course of just a few months requires a substantial daily output. I heard that Stephen King writes 2000 words per diem. I put my ambition on trial.
6:00 pm—Stop writing. It’s quittin’ time. I don’t care if I’m on a roll. My ambition pleads not guilty.
7:00 pm—Dinner. Sometimes with M, sometimes alone. Depends on whether or not he’s out of town, and more importantly, whether or not he wants to see me. When we do meet it gives me a chance to show him what I have completed. When he doesn’t like it, I make mental notes for revision. When he does, I allow myself a quick moment of internal validation. Gentle dinner conversation usually follows. At the end of the day I find him more prone toward waxing lyrically—at times in a manner annoyingly opaque. I know him as a man that enjoys having an audience, even if I am the sole member. I try to just listen, though buried in his voluble soliloquies are occasional moments that arouse a curiosity in me. Some nights I ask and some nights he is jovial and eager enough to engage in mutually enjoyable discussion. Some nights he verbally berates me. Some nights we sit in total silence. I suspect his sex life must resemble these dynamics.
9:00 pm—M retires to his bedroom on the top floor. I don’t know what he does up there. As per one of the other established rules of my tenure I am never to venture to the top floor. I return to the guestroom in the basement. If I am feeling ambitious I might make some edits on the day’s writing. I never feel ambitious.
***
And such is the clockwork of my current existence. It is currently 3:39 pm and I’ve yet to produce anything substantial. Anything at all if we’re being completely transparent about it. Lack of material maybe? I find myself struggling with the overwhelming desire to go to the bathroom and smash the mirror, though I relent, and opt instead to stare at the blank screen in front of me for the next two hours and twenty-one minutes.
6
PROTHALAMION
I KNEW BIG M was married and I had seen him and his wife on TV once before. She was delivering a speech on behalf of some environmental group whose name I can’t recall, urging politicians to do more in the fight against climate change. I remember the fervor of her environmentalism juxtaposed against the steamrolling industry spearheaded by her dear husband. Despite this, I saw her the way that I assume many others did, as an inherently likable person. Attractive, articulate, compassionate, and with an impeccable sense of style. I had expected to meet her upon arriving at Château Montblanc, but nearly two weeks had passed since beginning my residence and she had yet to be seen. Her prolonged absence was curious to me and so at dinner tonight I decided to ask M where his wife was.
“Wuh-wuh-wuh-where your wife was?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I meant wuh-where is your wuh-wife?”
“Out of town.”
Brevity and hesitation! The plot thickens. Usually Max’s responses to my questions were prolonged to the point that I regret asking them in the first place. Something’s afoul here. Better do a little sleuthing to get to the bottom of this.
“For wuh-wuh-wuh-work?”
“Work? Her job is being my wife.”
His front isn’t budging. Let me try once more.
“Is she c-c-c-coming huh-huh-home sssss-suh-soon?”
“You will never meet her, Lawrence. Do not forget what you are here to do.”
It’s hard to get a read on what’s happening right now. Is he being overprotective of her? He never struck me as that insecure. I nod in the affirmative and we wait in silence for a moment before he makes an unexpected but welcome proposition.
“Very well . . . You truly wish to know where she is now?”
I nod in the affirmative.
“Indeed then, but I will caution you not to interrupt me whilst I’m speaking. Can you assure me of this?”
I nod in the affirmative and Monty begins filling me in on the current state of his marital circumstances.
“Twenty-two years ago it was ‘dearly beloved’ and my forehead sweating under the stage lights as I ticked away the seconds until the next act break. Today, she lives in my home, but no longer in my heart. Ours is no longer a union made under God and witnessed by the State, no, we are today bigger strangers than we have ever been before. This was not amongst the images cutting through my mind when I took a knee before her to declare in sincerity our future. She dwells in these walls as a breathing body with oxygen unshared. Gradual was the displacement, and where is she now? Out west, visiting her sister, visiting her mother, visiting ex-lovers that are providing the amorous attention that I no longer can. And when shall she return? Assuredly in time for the election campaign’s commencement, as punctual as ever. And she will kiss me as I take the stage, the lips once welcoming, later poisonous, presently a prop. She will applaud me with a calming smile affixed to her face as I profess my love and gratitude to her from center stage. And so perfectly cast is our charade. Myself, the soon leader of this nation, and my brilliant wife, strong yet nurturing, fashionable yet not materialistic or shallow. The boxes have been checke
d and the team is convinced that she appeals to most demographics. A flawlessly concocted blend, an old-fashioned soul with modern sensibilities, well tapped-in to the cultural milieu. And how natural she looks in the photos she takes with the dullards of the upper echelon. She speaks confidently though not haughtily or condescendingly when she makes the case for increased environmental protection and the importance of education. Yes, indeed, our children are the most valuable resource we have. And after the performance we return to the hollowed hallowed halls of our home. Our master bedroom, a former Pangea, now islands gradually drifting from their origin point. And witness the contents of my heart, extracted and exhausted. There is no contempt anymore. There is no hate or disdain. Worse—there is nothing. No spectrum of emotion to enliven our condition, no influence of unpredictability, just an empty space between us and within us. No contact, no wasted words, and none of the conversational dancing that brought us to that moment twenty-two years ago with the ‘dearly beloved’ and my forehead sweating under the stage lights. No, this is our existence now. An eternal ruse, mutually beneficial and without the fear of irrationality. We glide safely into the waters of stoicism, not in love, not in danger. And when the light of lecherous thoughts shine through into vision, I reflect them onto the bodies of new strangers and old familiars. I once concealed any evidence of my lascivious liaisons out of respect, but that courtesy has evaporated, and with it, any attempts of subtlety. The whores come to my home directly now and we play in the guest bedroom while my wife sleeps a staircase apart. She pays no mind so long as we keep our decibels in check.
“If I am elected Prime Minister we shall continue this farce. She will play her part as expertly as I have come to expect. If I am not then we will have no reason to remain in each other’s lives and that will be that. Ours is now a marriage of convenience, bereft of the love that we once vowed to always maintain. Do you understand?”
Eye gnawed indie afore motive.
“I no longer have any endearing words to say about her. But as your perceptive mind might have already guessed, that will be your part to play. You will be responsible for writing our story in the words that I have forgotten to speak. But that will come in due time. For now, I will ask your permission to leave this topic of conversation behind. Is that agreeable with you?”
I nod in the affirmative (and those words officially lose all meaning to me). I take a moment to reflect on what Max had just told me and decide to redefine my parameters of lost meaning.
7
POSTERITY
LEGACY, DICTATOR OF my calendar, bedfellow of my purpose. My deficit, my debt. Leg-ah-see: the tip of the tongue taking a trip—actually, hold on, best to stop there if I intend to keep my letterbox free from sternly-worded warnings from folks representing the estate of Nabokov. Leg. Ah. See. And let that then be the word of the day, however you choose to internalize it.
Enter Cornelius Nepos, a name with which you are likely unfamiliar (and rightly so). What was his connection to Cicero, a name with which you are likely familiar (and rightly so)? The majority of the works written by Nepos were unfortunately lost to the sea of time, so what legacy of him remains? I will pray at your altar Nepos. I will have your name seen in print once again. You, my unadorned ancestor of the backstage, shall find life anew in the fickle netting of my own legacy. Life like a flicker, while my heart is lit aflame like a Viking funeral. And if my bloodline can be traced back to Nepos, then Montblanc’s could certainly be traced back to Cicero. And I can’t make it any clearer for you beyond that I’m afraid.
Legacy. Again, let the word percolate through the soils of memory until you have arrived at a refined definition. Can the legacy of one be assigned an arbitrary value to be directly compared to that of another? Operationalize and quantify the concept. Is it the stinging sensation in the genitals after copulation? A promise in nine months delivered? Tread on the dirty bills, I always walk barefoot in the summer, it hurts at first but the soles don’t take long to toughen up. Funny how far our luxuries remove us from the legacies of the past. Maybe it’s a direct articulation of name notoriety. By the time this is all over, every national newspaper in the country is sure to make mention of Montblanc at least once in every issue. You won’t find my name anywhere within those pages, however, if you are taking the trip from mainland B.C. to Vancouver Island and happen to be aboard the ferry, ‘Spirit of British Columbia’, you will find, in the video-arcade area located on the starboard side of the vessel, a Donkey Kong cabinet. Focus on the screen of this cabinet and eventually the high scores will be displayed. At the top of this list of high scores, and by quite a safe margin if I may be afforded a small boast, you will find the triad of letters ‘LSM’. My initials. My legacy.
Then again, I’ve never been one to question the will of the seraphim. Lower your head in respect, count on your right hand the blessings.
On my thumb, showing to myself an early sign of approval, I count the gifts left by Johann Strauss II. My body never could answer the call to coordination, barring me from all but the blurriest of dance floors, but imagination affords us the opportunity to see ourselves move in wondrous projections. I am waltzing in perfect synergy with my partner as the eyes of the room follow us in hypnotic admiration. I am, therefore, I think.
On my index, my hand now making the shape of an L and signifying to myself the ‘loser’ gesture, I will count as one collective some of my missing memories. I don’t remember the sands of Juno beach shifting under my boots—vacate my legacy. Nor do I remember loving hands being laid upon me in any fashion that might betray the authenticity of that adjective. I don’t remember water filling my lungs or the aftermath of cracking leather upon my back.
On my middle digit, occasionally called upon to be raised in isolation against those who would insult the honour of its host, I count the open doors lining the horizon. Let it be known that the absence of legacy is not entirely without reward.
On my ring finger, ever naked as its adjacent brother, I count the plentiful salmon of British Columbia, caught, cured, smoked, and served to me amidst the company of those dearest and closest to branch. Affirm joy in the most base of needs and pray that they remain forever met.
On my pinky, once used to bind the most solemn of my youthful oaths, I count the quarter in my pocket that allowed me the opportunity to climb to the top of the Donkey Kong scoreboard and assert my legacy. It may be a beggarly legacy of velleity, but it belongs to me, untarnished and perhaps not respectable, but admissible. And maybe that’s enough.
That was a reassuring exercise. I don’t think I could be bothered to do it every day though. Not enough room in the morning routine. Maybe the life of Cornelius Nepos isn’t any of my concern. Maybe I’ll go to Hawaii for my honeymoon and meet another couple while I’m there. We will drink and laugh and then part ways and never see each other again. And that will be the only trace that the legacy of Mr. and Mrs. So-and-So will ever leave on me. Will they lie awake at night pondering that doom? Doubtful I imagine. There’s a lesson to be learned there I suppose.
Fine. I admit obscurity. That’s right children. Raid your piggy banks. Search the cushions of your couches. Sell watered-down lemonade. Pester your parents. Do whatever you can to collect as many quarters as possible. Take them to video-arcade area located on the starboard side of the Spirit of British Columbia. Keep pumping them into that Donkey Kong cabinet. Beat my high score. Shatter it! Play as if your future depended on it . . .
One day your legacy might.
8
PARALLELISMS
IT’S BEEN A month since I’ve come under the secret employ of Mister Maxime the Marvelous and I’ve settled nicely into a stable routine of sorts. I do research, I learn things about MMM, some uninspired words get written, I struggle with what the critics would refer to as my ‘selling out’, I remind myself that I don’t have any critics. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. That said, while this has thus far been a strange an
d wondrous world to inhabit, I do often find myself pining for the simpler life I lead back home in British Columbia. I’m not sure why that is, Montblanc’s house is a palace, better in every conceivable way than that crap-shack of an apartment I call home. Well, on second thought, I do know why. But it’s only when the two domiciles are directly compared that this becomes clear.
***
Apartment 315—Home. Located in plain sight somewhere in the dodgy outskirts of Vancouver. There’s a stained mattress in the corner of my bedroom, still made up and waiting for me to return.
Château Montblanc—What is currently home. Located in partial isolation somewhere in an affluent residential section of Oshawa. There’s a queen-sized bed in the basement guestroom that I have no idea how to properly make.
Apartment 315—It never stops raining. The locals still find unique ways to comment on this, though most of them have accepted it as a way of life and act as if the shitty weather has some baptismal power that inundates them into the divine protection of their metropolitan overlord. The courtyard of my apartment resembles an impassable marsh for most of the year. Even on atypical days of dryness, you can’t walk across it without your feet sinking into the water inconspicuously collected under the surface. I can look out my third-floor window and see the reservoir of rainwater slowly expand and turn opaque as it absorbs the surrounding filth of the unkempt courtyard.
Château Montblanc—I can look out M’s dining room window and see the faintly rippling cerulean water of Lake Ontario. The warmth of the Oshawa summer has compelled me into that lake a few times now, and while I’m not much of a swimmer, the crispness of the water has proven its invigorative properties. The grass leading from M’s back door to the lake is characteristically manicured and visibly lush. I don’t think it has rained once since I’ve arrived here. I’m not sure if that’s normal and I have no desire to ask any of the locals if it is. There’s a consistent redolence in the air that remains uncompromised by the industries of Toronto some sixty kilometers to the west.
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