“And I suspect that the libido is as good a place to start as any other. Remember, my dear side-lined dancer, there are doers and there are watchers, but only one of these camps may retain any confidence in the constitution of their soul.”
31
PUERILITY
SERENDIPITOUS SECONDS THESE. Can’t recall the formula I used to make it this far, but I’ll be damned if I watch this payload sink to the bottom of the Pacific. I’ll dive in myself. 1991 Pontiac Sunbird. Make friends, if you will, with the burn marks on the bedroom carpet. Catch a few drops of cerebral sodium and feel the burn on your red right arm. Done fucking with the concoction yet? Play me a sad one, Joe, guide me toward the aural tranquility that I am damn-well entitled to. Too close to the ovens, the cloth slugs crawling on my shoulder, sticking with the heat. They don’t make them like the used to. Stay the fuck away from my windshield. I called the number on the back just after midnight, no breathing on the other side. Doesn’t matter so long as we can keep the good graces vibrating. In preparation for my long escalator ride to heaven I’ve been practicing the lost art of standing motionless. My mind wanders and my paltry little legs shortly follow. Now you’ve done it. Rest, reset, resist, rejoice, resplendence. Standing in line to pick up a package. The useless fuck working the desk moves as if any sign of efficiency is a crime against humanity. Take it home, jet black coffee. I don’t have to be here.
Fuck off, I don’t have to be here. Fuck Maxime Montblanc and fuck his memoirs. I want to write the Great Canadian pop-up book instead. You with me?
32
PAEDOTROPHY
SEE MONTBLANC THE iconoclast draped snug in the skins of yesterday’s men, the men we were meant to believe as righteous. There is not enough in his words alone to define him. His list of deeds runs long and reads like an epic of human potential. I observe and I learn what I can but even with my insider advantage I am forced to extrapolate. My portrait of the man is to be reserved and subdued but I wonder on the stories that could be told were my hands not stayed by the grey palate and weak constitution of the masses. For example, I had read that at some point in his life the good Monsieur was a volunteer Scouts leader. Knowing what I do about the man I found this difficult to believe, yet he confirmed this when I asked, though he shared no more on the subject claiming it had no relevance to the book. He’s probably right, though I still find myself dreaming up visions of what that must have looked like. I think I’m familiar enough with his voice now to conjure up an accurate enough depiction.
The way I see it, M is standing in a small forest clearing as his preadolescent Scouts are knelt facing him in a semi-circular formation. His lecture is hypnotic and he speaks to the children as if they were adults, showing them respect enough to not deemphasize his words or the messages contained within. The children listen in stern discipline, eager to impress their towering leader as he orates and pontificates on the lessons of the day:
On Perseverance, Praising Softly, Dispossessed Wallows
Breathe deep the oxygen of these woods my young cubs and know that in the summer of 1970 when I shared your current age there was but ash to surround you. The quantity and severity of the forest fires that year remains unmatched. I remember walking through the naked and skeletal trees, my feet disappearing in their remains. Look again and see what you will. The boundless fertility beneath the erect pines mayhap? How can this exist when I can still recall the graveyard that occupied the same locale? I remember the thickness of the smoke filling my lungs and reddening my eyes and the orange horizon that lit the night sky. The evacuation was swift, though in their panic and haste none of the retreating townsfolk thought to check on the wheelchair-bound Madame Wagner. She lived alone, confined to her stark home. Her remains were found several days later rested on top her bed. And now in the place where here home used to be? A multi-story townhouse complex.
Yes, the fires that summer roared with an ardent ferocity that you should all hope to feel within yourselves one day. But if you could ask the trees here if they can feel their predecessors sap boiling with them, what would they say? And here I ask you more importantly still, does it warrant consideration either way? Who amongst you can in honesty say that they would stand as tall after having walked with the heat of Hell’s fire blazing at your back?
On Power, the Obscured Hand that Steers
Power needn’t be seismic in its exercise or display save for those who would in ignorance or complacency shut their eyes to it. Look around and see one another. Each and all of you know well your approximate place in the manner of things. What if I told you that there are only provisions enough to feed one of you tonight? What if I told you that I wanted you all to take to the pit with naught but your fists and your wits and that only the last one of you standing would be fed tonight? Now see it plain as I do and dwell on these invisible calculations of power. You know which of your peers you could knock down. You know which of your peers could best you. These dispositions existed before I called your thoughts to them and they will exist indefinitely after. Power is understood tacitly and this is when it is most conducive to order. Only when doubts in these relationships arise can this order be challenged.
But the implications of true power will always appear as inevitabilities. True, I could force you all to fight for food tonight—and you would do it, even though provisions are not limited and even though should you all band together you could easily restrain me and take whatever you wanted. But not one among you even considered this as a possibility. That, my young cubs, is the horror of true power.
On Continence, the Binding of Ankles, Cracks in the Pavement
Listen close to any room and the voice of the cleverest person therein will remain unknown to you. For what can they say that is but evasive to the efforts of dullened tools? Loudness in volume will not replace the respect you will all develop. It will come gradual and impervious to measurement, but it will come, for yours are the pedigrees of elasticity and malleability. And should you find yourselves perched above common earshot you will by then know better than to forfeit your days looking beneath you for signs of compatible life. Were I on record I might say that you could binarize your existence into things that need to be done and things you are currently doing and suggest that these paths should most often be intertwined. But no, my cubs, for the absence of words is preferable to those which are wasted.
On Empathy, Becoming Halos, Moral Cartography
Listen well to this final lesson for it supersedes all others in importance and in urgency. Know that only recently have I found this to be true, and rejoice that you might enjoy the fruits of my discovery at a such an enviable and advantageous age. And the lesson is this . . . Find a ghostwriter, find someone to tell your story! I got a guy and he’s literally the best. He’s so talented and awesome and what’s more, he’s my friend and I just respect him so darn much. Seriously, kids, I may be rich and successful and wear nice clothes and talk fancy, but I’m still not as badass as this dude is. I’m so blessed that he came into my life and I wish you all could find someone like him to make your worlds awesome too!
Okay, so I might have lost his voice toward the end there, but other than that I think I did a pretty good job capturing Montblanc’s diction. It’s almost noon and I haven’t done a damn thing today.
33
PROCIDENCE
I LACKED THE tact to think to call him ‘doctor.’ I was counting the numbers well before they were organized sequentially. I think that the anesthetic maybe isn’t working as intended sir. She’s getting out of bed again. Montblanc says to omit that part. I am not a journalist. I have no obligation to the truth. I say ‘okay’ as if I have any agency at all. There are no brands on my bones. Tomorrow’s archaeologists have already forgotten about me. What would the Ouija say if she could see us now? We were never particularly graceful. Rest, rest, Lucifer lacked the foresight for us. Sundered up the sins of our past, makeshift sutures too lax to
last. I happen to already know how this chicanery ends—with me wandering the southern states of America for a place to call home. With the doctor’s permission, I would like to remove her from these squalid conditions. Some might say she deserves better and I count myself among their ranks. On the twentieth of July, in the year of our Lord 2012, Montblanc, while still maintaining sufficient influence from behind the lunar curtains, relinquished official operational control of his company to a trusted associate he had worked with for nearly two decades. On whatever the hell day it is today, I managed to hold my breath for exactly one minute while M’s microwave warmed my burrito with its radiating hug.
I need to get out of this damn house. It’s raining for the first time since I’ve arrived.
34
PECCADILLOES
MONTBLANC SAT UPRIGHT at a circular table in the corner of a London hotel lounge with his back to the wall. From this vantage he could slightly redirect his eyes upward from the organized mess of papers in front of him to see all comers and goers and this he did. He had been surveying his presentation notes for the duration of near three glasses of blood-red wine and was content in his mind with his current level of preparedness. His oratory eloquence was often deemed as a gift of inheritance, and perhaps it was, but he nevertheless supplemented this with sufficient review and preparation—he only did so from the safety of inconspicuous corner tables where he might remain incognito, another foreign transient of no importance. The playlist of the evening—a disimpassioned mix of piano-driven jazz tracks curated and organized by the artificial hands of some algorithm—played now at a volume just gracious enough to allow the essences of surrounding conversations to seep through the air to curious ears. Montblanc took visual roll call of the room as he had long since trained himself to do.
Straight down his field of vision were the two Poles. They had been there since before Montblanc arrived and were drinking at a heroic pace which served no explicit purpose beyond allowing them to drink more still. The Poles were incapable of remaining sat for any extended amount of time and they alternated uneasily and loudly between sitting, standing, and obambulating closely within the orbit of their table. Speaking Polish, they were engaged in a fervent discussion, the volume of which superseded all others in the room. To those not privy the two red-faced men seemed locked in cyclical verbal confrontation that might at any moment erupt into blows.
The American had announced his nationality first through his attire—jeans and a black tee shirt with the logo of some company not worth knowing adorned to its front—and second through his inexperience with the environment’s folkways. He sat at the bar drinking from a glass the only beer he recognized on the taps. He drank clumsily and gauchely as if the glass were a baby’s bottle filled with formula. When he paid for his drinks he fumbled through a handful of British notes, the colours and their respective denominations unfamiliar to him. He was far from home.
Two tables to Montblanc’s left sat a man and a woman also enjoying the relative privacy afforded by the room’s corner. The woman in a black dress and speaking with a British accent, the man in a maroon sweater with an accent Montblanc recognized as Australian. The woman had excused herself from the table several times and when she did the man would look down through his glasses and fixate on his cellphone until she would return several minutes later.
Tending bar tonight was a short and young brown-skinned man with a hairstyle Montblanc had never seen before. The night was slow and the barman walked from one end of the long wood to the other cleaning arbitrarily and engaging in other menial tasks between sips of carbonated water. The Poles conversed loudly. The American searched for a TV screen. The Australian waited patiently. Montblanc danced a slow waltz routine in his head.
At this moment another man enters the lounge. He scans the mostly empty room until he locks eyes with Montblanc. The man is not wearing the standard employee garb of the hotel, but seems to have a familiarity with the establishment. He makes his way to Montblanc’s table, cautiously maneuvering around the Poles who were standing and swaying and flailing with near-empty glasses in hand.
“Everything to your liking so far, Mr. Montblanc?”
“Quite nice indeed, thank you.”
The Poles, still partnered in stentorian dialogue, had approached the bar to replenish their refreshments. The larger of the two men twice smacked the palm of his hand down on the wood in front of him and gestured to his glass that was empty save for some partially melted ice cubes.
“I’ve arranged for your transportation to the venue tomorrow morning. A driver will meet you in the lobby at eight.”
“And until then?”
“If you would prefer company tonight, that can quickly be arranged.”
The barman, professionally masking any disapproval he may have felt with the lumbering men on the other side of his wood, produces two fresh glasses of vodka topped with water and tells them the price. The same price as before. And the time before that. As the Pole on the left pays, the one on the right gracelessly extends his arm across the bar for a napkin, spilling the drink that had just been placed in front of him. The glass falls over the edge of the bar, emptying its contents on the shirt and pants of the American before falling to the carpeted floor.
“No, I should like to be alone tonight, though I do have something of a shopping list.”
“Of course, anything you need.”
The American raises both arms above his head as small cubes of ice slip off his jeans and onto the floor. The barman instinctively reaches for a clean cloth and hands it to the American who was still undecided as to how he might react. He stands up and brushes the remaining ice off his thighs. The innocent Pole begins to laugh a donkey laugh as his partner invades the American’s proximity.
“Will you be using all of this?”
“That’s irrelevant. Can you get it or not?”
The Pole, inches now from the American, bends down to retrieve the unbroken glass from the carpet. He places it on the bar and, making eye contact with the barman, points to it several times. As the barman takes the glass the Pole uses his thumb to point at the American while simultaneously reaching into his back pocket. The Australian watches silently from the corner.
“Of course, Mr. Montblanc. Is there anything else at all I can do for you?”
“In fact there is. See those two?”
The barman hastily mixes two new drinks that the Pole pays for. He raises his glass to the American who mirrors the gesture.
“Those two?”
“Mhmm.”
Through their language barrier, the Pole and the American share a drink.
“You’re sure?”
“Just take care of it.”
The Poles return to their table and resume their thunderous conversation. The American is still slightly damp and still far from home.
“Of course, my apologies, Mr. Montblanc, it will be done, and please do feel free to reach out if you need anything else at all tonight.”
“Good night then.”
The man stands up and leaves. Montblanc does not watch him go. He takes the glass of wine to his lips and closes his eyes for only a moment. Revelry underscores the images on the back of his eyelids and all is exempt and untaxed. The aura generated from the room sat weightless, floating on top clear water of some rarefied purity. Montblanc did not believe in auras. A new darkness fell as he placed his hands over his shut eyes and rubbed them up and down. The purple silhouettes of butterflies and flown-over swamps blinking and disappearing and it may have lasted for all time under any opposing definitions of consciousness. There were no frontiersmen of note that sat in the lounge of this airport hotel. They would not ride out at first light to the sound of horseshoes on the tarmac. They would not trespass the holy lands of the natives nor lay with their women. Montblanc removed his hands from his face and opened his eyes. The Australian was speaking to the Bri
tish girl who was feigning interest enough. The American was still far from home.
And here did Montblanc remain for a length of time no one seemed to be counting until two new men arrived. They entered the lounge and though they immediately recognized Montblanc sitting wistfully in the corner, they did not outwardly acknowledge his presence. Instead they proceeded directly to the Poles and without a single wasted action each took grip of a Pole, locking their necks with their arms and turning an even darker shade their already reddened faces. The Poles dropped their drinks while kicking and throwing unfocused punches behind their heads. They grunted and wheezed as they were dragged out of the lounge. The patrons watched on, mouths agape, eyes unblinking. The barman knew better than to ask questions. The British woman had her hand over her mouth and the Australian sat in silence. The American was still far from home. They all watched on as the Poles were carried out of the building and into the cool night.
They all watched on save for Montblanc, who did not once avert his eyes from the notes in front of him. He finished his glass of wine and calmly retired to his room on the sixth floor.
35
PACIFICATION
I’M STILL TRYING to save you, Edie. I know there’s still a heaven for us. While I have never met you in this life I have often envisioned how our first night might have transpired. You’re sitting in the corner of a room that I have no business being in. I’m a country-boy with no experience in that world, but maybe that would have been novelty enough to get me through the door. Either way, you’re sitting there in the corner with one leg flat on the floor and the other bent up with your arm resting on it. In one hand burns a cigarette, in the other a clear glass half-filled with vodka. You’ve kept a smile on your face that draws me in on every stolen glance. You laugh and I can’t help but smile when I see your dimples and your eyes and your teeth. You laugh and the whites of your eyes disappear under your dark and heavy makeup. I don’t care for the smell of second-hand smoke, yet I find your continuous drags endearing. I’ve heard that you were a bit of a lush, but you seem to be composing yourself with the elegance of someone who is used to having all eyes in the room focused on them. And in that moment, I am awe. I am the character in a story that my heart could never bear to read. And I see ours with crystalline precision and inevitable conclusion.
Panegyric Page 10