I’m sorry Abigail Edington. With purity of intent I wanted to tell them who you were, but all I found on the screen was a glimpse of my own visage reflected against your white background. All we can be is ourselves and all we can have is each other.
With love,
L. Sierra Mann
23
PALINGENESIS
AN UNUSUALLY LATE dinner tonight as Monsieur Montblanc returns from a brief trip to Ottawa. Unusually late and unusually silent. I had already eaten about four hours prior, but at the Big Man’s insistence I joined him at the dining room table. As if there were any real choice in the matter. By now I had accepted that my tenure as his ghostwriter came with other obligations, something I had to remind myself of as I sat at across from him in my sleepwear watching him eat in silence. Still, it felt odd that despite his apparent desire for my company he had not yet spoken any weighed words or near any at all. I have absolute confidence in my ability to win this little game of taciturnity, but I feel an empathetic poltergeist tugging on my tongue. He wants to say something. I can tell. I would know that feeling a dozen bodies away. In a flash of a moment, a single-frame of blinking light, I feel sympathy for the mum and monumental man sitting across the table, as if I have the power to somehow help him. As if I am supposed to. Sympathy for the man who has more than me in every respect. In an act that I immodestly felt transcended the trappings of internal confliction, I make a meager attempt to open a dialogue.
“How-how-how wuh-wuh-was Ot-Ottawa?”
“As it happens my appetite is not as mighty as I felt it to be. Come now, show me what you have written today if you would.”
I excuse myself, leave the table, and head to the office downstairs where I print the chapter I had been working on that day. I return to the table, now cleared, and hand Montblanc a few pages like a cat delivering a dead bird. Without hesitation, he begins reading aloud and I immediately wish that he hadn’t. Forced now to face the discomfort of hearing my own words recited back to me I become hyperaware to any examples of bad grammar or awkward wording.
“I had walked up the steps of Parliament Hill several times before, but in December of 2000 I walked up them for the first time as a Member of Parliament.”
He stops dictating, but his eyes are still darting from one side of the page of the other as I watch for any break in his stoic expression.
“So it is to be a series of moments is it?”
An inquisitive look on my face as he starts again.
“Why are you in front of me in those rags? Could you not be bothered to get dressed? You are in a dangerous position, you do realize that, yes?”
“You, you, you want me to . . . to . . . to get d-d-d-d-dressed?”
“Do not let your ignorance shine through, Laurent. You are before me in rags, offering me a series of moments, a series of my own moments. I will ask you again and you had best answer plain—do you realize that you are in a dangerous position?”
“A d-d-d-d-d-dangerous puh-puh-puh-puh—”
“Tabernac, out with it already! I’ve never before met a man who claims himself a wordsmith yet butchers the language so egregiously. Is that all you are capable of? Parroting my words back to me as a fractured mess in the form of a question? Do not do me that disservice. Do not do yourself that disservice. If you can only speak one language you had best learn to speak it properly. Now answer the bloody question.”
“I-I-I-I don’t know wuh-wuh-wuh—”
“Get up. Now. Follow me.”
Max leaves the table and leads me back downstairs to the office.
“Sit down.”
He points to the chair at the desk and I oblige.
“Now write.”
He stands behind me and points to the computer. I shrug my shoulders and turn both palms upwards.
“It’s to be a series of moments, is it? So write about a moment from your own life and do not think about stopping until you have finished.”
I stare at the screen, avoiding the possibility of eye contact. I think he sees my hands shaking. His voice slightly softens.
“Listen. I know there are things you would say to me right now, and I know that you cannot. You know that you cannot. There lives a demon in your throat that slices up every word that passes though, but he wields no influence in your mind. Never mind the blood or the muscles, I want you to write and I don’t want you to stop. Write with no fear. Transcend your broken flesh. Lay your soul bare and conqueror what pain so ails you. You wear rags now, but you will write like a king. Paint me a moment if that is indeed what you are so inclined to do. Go. Now.”
In chaos and confusion, I create a new document and set my hands on the keyboard.
“Don’t dwell, just write.”
And so I did.
I had hiked up the mountain by the river several times before, but in December of 2003 I hiked up it with a specific purpose in mind. I wanted to get away, much like I do right now. I wanted to find a place where no one could find me so that I could do at the time what I felt needed to be done. I woke up early that morning and set off without telling anybody. It was snowing lightly and still dark outside. As I made toward the river I passed through the industrial district and in one of the yards I saw an automated cage used to capture bears. I fantasized about encountering a bear on my way up the mountain and I thought about all the things that it could do to me. Every scenario I envisioned ended with me being maimed and painted red atop the fresh snow. I felt content in this possibility. It would be a good way to go. And what would they all say about me? Would they feel bad? I hoped that they would be forced to hear all of the graphic details. My only wish would be to see it myself.
Soon after I made it to the river. While I knew there was a bridge a half kilometre away, at one point I saw that there was just enough ice formed on the riverbank to form a jumpable gap. I tested the integrity of the ice a few times before I nervously but successfully leaped the distance. I was at the foot of the mountain now, but still nowhere near the trails. I didn’t want to be anywhere near them. I started hiking straight up. Slippery and steep, the ascent was a physically difficult one. As my legs turned to fire the thought of my eventual reward propelled me forward. One grueling step after another, I knew the summit would eventually come, and with it, my release.
I stop typing just long enough for M to remind me of his presence.
“Don’t stop, keep going.”
And I do, but the tense changes and sways and it’s hard to keep track. It was then too.
Under laboured breath, stiff muscles, and my own unwavering determination I soon reached the clearing at the top—that place where I knew I wouldn’t be found. It was early in the afternoon now and the sunlight was causing the snow around me to sparkle. It looked like the snow was weeping. It was almost too bright to look at. I made it. The last challenge was over. I took out the notepad and the pen from my back pocket and began writing the proclamation that I knew I needed to write at the time. And then I sat. I sat in the snow, looking toward the sun with the entire town in view. I don’t know how long I sat there, but I remember feeling blessed and thankful for what was before me. I don’t know if it was the elevation, or the view, or some divine or spiritual intervention, but I felt each breath deeper than ever, as if I were drawing in more oxygen than I ever had before. When the time felt right, I stood up to begin my descent. I took one small detour to peer over an edge overlooking the river, and as I did, the ground beneath me broke and I fell, tumbling down the cliff and toward the angry river below. There was nothing to grab onto during the fall. All I could do was prepare for my landing in the water. I felt the frigidity before I felt the pain. Heightened adrenaline acts as a natural painkiller. The river pulled me as I felt the rocks on my legs, blunt and unforgiving. It will be over soon. Just go to sleep.
I was found shortly after on the side of the river by an elderly man walk
ing his dog. I still remember seeing the orange stripes of his tracksuit as I came to, cold, bruised, and bloodied.
And soon came the whispers.
“Why else would he go up there by himself without telling anyone?”
“He’s always had a hard time making friends in school, you know.”
“He’s very reserved because of his impediment.”
I told everyone from the doctors, to my parents, to the other kids at school that I was just there to hike, but deep down I knew that none of them believed that. Everything was different after that, and not in the way that I had originally intended. During the fall my only exonerating evidence, the notepad, fell out of my pocket and was presumably carried down the river toward the Pacific.
I stop writing again, but instead of an order I get a question.
“What was it that you wrote on that notepad?”
I close the document. ‘Do you want to save changes to Document 1?’ No. I turn around and make eye contact with Maxime for the first time since we left the dinner table. I stay silent and a quarter-smile forms on his face.
“Point taken.”
He rests his hand on my shoulder.
“Goodnight, Lawrence.”
He leaves the room and I stay seated for awhile staring at a white computer screen that now resembles snow.
Point taken.
24
PETULANCE
I AM SPEAKING directly now to Leonard Cohen, the Amethyst Jew. What is Montblanc’s position on that trouble over in Israel?
Float me some words. I feel dry in my knees, my bare bones breathing brittle wisps of limited oxygen. I was once gravel stuck to your sandals, walking with you across the beaches of Hydra. I’m here now as your forgotten son, asking for the overdue alimony I am owed. Please pops! Toss one back with your bastard. I’ve wrested and I’ve weened between the unclean and the serene, the obscene scenes seen leaking through your wrinkled seams. I’ve scanned the environs both immediate and intangible for a sign that I’ve done all that which I’ve endeavored to do. Anxiously I check the mail every day at half after eleven for the telegram I know will never come.
LAWRENCE SIERRA MANN
Still—nary enough, never was. And it won’t be until I earn your good graces. The critics are fickle; they say my sentence structures are all the same. No variety. Tired and obvious metaphors. Needlessly opaque. These slanders I can forgive, but only so long as I am able to find acceptance in your eyes.
I never wanted to walk on the moon, I would have sent my son instead. A strong support network provided by my unscarred and underworked hands. To the stars my dear boy, and never shall you need to worry about securing the love of your father. Do you see now the clarity of my perils? Rushing red firetrucks stop in front of the nursery, the first responders look younger every year. I see them on their nights off, inside the grocery store, dallying about the eighth aisle with their ladies—securing the night’s provisions. All matter is subject to change. Do you accept this statement? If you do, then perhaps it is not too late for us to stage a reconciliation under the public gaze? 628 loons carrying us across the pond, upwards toward the heights you were kind enough to visit from. Your wet gunpowder isn’t helping. In meditation you witness craven images of subordinate lilies and a garden soon overgrown. I want to be pure in your eyes. Deem me worthy of inheriting your infinite ink bottle.
I don’t count myself amongst the ignoble rabble who would fuck to save their species but wouldn’t run to save their lives. But then, who would? Ask me if there is reason in my responses, ask anyone, and affirmation will become familiar to you. So where doth such incessant incredulity make berth? I am not yet a registered sperm donor, but I’ve been thinking about it more frequently. My demand is that whatever product results from my frozen fellas be introduced to me in its best attire at the age of twenty-five. Let them see firsthand that their daddy does indeed maintain a corporeal form. I willingly offer them that courtesy, so why can’t you?
I am speaking directly now to Leonard Cohen, the Amethyst Jew. Can you hear me? Give me something. Give me anything. My feet are soon to meet the ocean floor.
25
PARSIMONY
“SHORT CHAPTERS, LARRY. That’s the way to go about it. Our current media climate thrives on succinct encapsulations of ideas and feelings and so too shall we. Write for the rushed, do not spare a single wasted word. Is this agreeable to you?”
“Sure thing, M-Mmmax.”
“Very good, although truth be told I expected more resistance to this idea. Are you not a self-professed student of speech-craft and wordsmithery? Are you not one who enjoys discharging his verbosity all over the page after a heated round of loquacious self-pleasure? Will you find it difficult to refrain from masturbating within the paragraphs of my chronicles?”
“I’ll muh-mmm-manage.”
“You’ll manage . . . Oh, mild-mannered Larry. Were this conversation to take place on a battlefield where you might stand on both legs I wonder if your subservience would give way to more formidable responses. It’s uncommon that I meet someone of high enough caliber worth verbally sparring with, I’ll ask that you not squander this opportunity for me. Still, we meet on this plane unevenly matched and must find a way to circumvent your handicap. What say you to a game of Scrabble?”
Not exactly what I was expecting, but given that this is one of the more normal requests Monty has made recently, I’m willing to oblige. Besides, having spent the finer moments of my youth with my mouth shut and my nose buried in the dictionary, Scrabble is a game I’ve some proficiency with. I agree to his challenge, and I see a child-like glee in his eyes as he darts up from the dining room table to retrieve the game from the nearby room. He continues speaking as he leaves the room, the resonance of his voice slightly diminished.
“I know you have interpreted your impediment as something of a curse, and rightly so I should think, still, believe me when I say that the alternative is not without its own set of inconveniences. A man in my position is not allowed to waste words, nor is he meant to publicly engage in any intriguing arrangements of them. Earlier in my political life I used to write my own speeches, but that is an agency I have since had to relinquish.”
He returns and places the Scrabble box on the table. It’s an older version of the game—it looks just like the copy they had at my old elementary school. The box is covered in a thin layer of dust, a fact that along with Montblanc’s apparent giddiness to play suggests that it hasn’t been opened in quite some time.
“Words are surgical tools. A banal story told with the right combination of words can become entrancing. This is an art my current speechwriters have perfected. They know the precise amount of words that can be properly digested by the general public and in what order they are most palatably delivered. I must admit their skills are quite commendable. Did you ever read Moby-Dick? Its admirers will point out that it contains over 200,000 words of beautiful symbolism and prose, while its critics will point out the exact same thing. One star in the sky is a marvelous sight, itself an isolated miracle, but what does that one star lose when positioned among the galaxy’s innumerable? Take my point? Short chapters. That’s what my book needs. Obtuse wordiness will not be met well.”
I force a contemplative look onto my face in an attempt to convince Max that I am pondering and processing his words, when in actuality my mind is focused on the wooden Scrabble tile now held between my thumb and index finger. I recognize the wood as maple. The wondrous wood of this land and all others north of the line—invisible to those standing on the location etched onto the globes made in sunken, overheated factories. The leaf of this proud genus adorning th
e national flag and stirring within me a patriotism, artificially indoctrinated through the lessons learned while sat at an ill-fitted desk made of the same special wood. I recall now my own, found in the third parallel row of six, fifth position of five. A knot of the wood still visible on the surface, smoothly sanded and with an assembly line veneer applied. During unimaginative lessons of rudimentary algebra, I would fixate on the knot, itself the size of a Canadian two-dollar coin, which is known colloquially as the ‘toonie’, and is the largest standard coin found in the Canadian currency. The toonie was introduced as legal tender in the year 1996. The coin is unique in that its outer circumference is both ridged and smooth, alternating between the two terrains. However, while the toonie is perfectly round, the knot on my desk, though similar in size, was not of similar geographic soundness. It was instead a random and disjointed shape, unpleasing to an eye that has been trained to search for perpendicularity and rule. Though a markedly different look from the rest of the manufactured maple, if one closed their eyes and ran their fingers across the knot, they would notice no difference in touch. What I’ve learned of senses, betrayed by the incompatibility between sight and touch, and I am left to meander on the role that knots play in the lifecycle of their towering hosts. In the lifespan of a standard maple, which can last hundreds of years, several branches are grown, many of which outlive their usefulness and will ultimately drop off from the trunk leaving behind an imperfect reminder that will eventually become a knot. This is why many of them have a relatively circular shape as opposed to more chaotic arrangements. Knots are not found and created arbitrarily, they are the physical scars of outgrown wooden limbs. Watchers of these limbs and of the forest floors on which they land have known several names including Nemestrinus, Porewit, Medeina, and Tapio, and are often depicted as valiant hunters, so it is easy to overlook their contributions to the creation of the knot on my desk in lieu of this more daring imagery. I would caution against adopting a glamorized interpretation of the forest deities and their workings, and will point to the example of Arthur Froley to illustrate the importance of this warning. In the seventeenth century, Arthur Froley, sworn to the throne of Charles I, walked the woods of present day Vermont, and while officially employed as a trader, he additionally practiced in the arts of cartography and dendrology, finding himself fascinated with the forests and landscapes of the New World. Noticing the similarities between the maples of his homeland and those of these foreign forests, Arthur Froley concluded, with a conviction characteristic of the time, that the trees must have been placed by a divine force, the subtle differences between them simply a matter of the different air and fauna found on this new continent. As he sat under a particularly mighty maple, sketching the dense view in front of him, Arthur Froley was struck on the head by a falling branch that was a moment previous attached to the very tree his back was resting against. The strike of the branch, itself the size of a mature man’s thigh, did not immediately kill Arthur Froley, though it did render him unconscious. That night he would freeze to death, while a fresh knot on the murderous maple was formed. Prior to his demise, Arthur Froley had frequently envisioned returning to England as a hero and being personally commended by King Charles himself. Thoughts of this ceremony and the indulgent feast that would follow provided existential nourishment for Arthur Froley during the cold and lonely winters he spent away from country and family. He had pictured the royal hall and the seemingly limitless variety of dishes that were to be served within it, prepared and garnished by the most talented chefs in the entire kingdom. The meats that would be separated effortlessly from bone, the thick soups with their chemically pure combination of spices, and the wines, O Heavens—the wines! The royal vineyards persevering through the glassy heart of December to fulfill their promise of delivery. And with abundant choices, by the by. Sparkling wine, having only recently been invented when product from Champagne underwent secondary fermentation during winter storage. While this bubbling variety was considered by the French to be treason against the Lords of Drink, it was well-received on the tongues of the English, and presumably, would have been by Arthur Froley as well. Alas, by the machinations of some fate, Arthur Froley’s throat was to remain perpetually unintroduced to the bubbles of his distant home, while his maps, crude as they may have been, were lost to the mighty winds of Vermont. The remains of his body were likely stripped of all valuables by the resident Iroquois before becoming food for the various woodland creatures inhabiting the area. On the subject of the woodland’s fauna, while human remains were not an expected part of their daily diets, the arrival of European explorers did alter the ecosystems in many ways, some implications of which still linger today. For example . . .
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