An infant gorilla scarcely taller than the grass was walking clumsy as his mother watched on nearby. The Boy’s run shifted to a cautious walk as he approached the infant primate with a new curiosity. As the distance between them closed the infant’s mother with no wasted movement set to protecting her child from the upright stranger. With a screech the mother sprinted toward the Boy who swiftly jumped and rolled to evade her charge. The Boy darted his head in all directions looking for any advantage he might use against his oversized opponent. The mother charged again and again the Boy with sonic reflexes dodged the attack. He then noticed the skeletal remains of some animal long departed. The bones had been stripped clean of all protein and strewn about the clearing save for a small pile that the Boy quickly bound toward. The mother had regrouped with her baby and continued to screech at the Boy who had now picked up a femur bone slightly shorter than his own arm. Holding the bone at its base with both hands the Boy slowly walked toward mother and child. With another harrowing shriek the mother once again charged the Boy who in one fluid motion sidestepped the charge while bringing down the bone atop the gorilla’s skull with force enough to break his improvised weapon in half. The Boy’s hands rang with the force of the impact as he used the half he was still holding, its ends now jagged where it had been split, to stab the dazed mother in the face several times over. Once the beast had fallen defenseless to the ground, its eyes and face now lost, the Boy recovered the other half of the bone and with one half in each hand proceeded to bludgeon the mother’s skull in a flurry of up-and-down blows as if he were trying to puncture the skin of some tribal drum.
The mother lay dead on her stomach with her thoughts exposed and littered atop the grass. The Boy noticed her lifeless rump pointed upward in a manner he found inviting. He relieved himself on the corpse and wiped his member on its fur as the infant watched on. In the infant’s eyes the Boy saw a vulnerability. He picked up the infant by its neck, leaned back far, and hurled it deep into the woods where he could no longer see or be seen by its vulnerable and accusing eyes.
The Boy ran on, his legs unspent and furiously pumping. He stopped briefly to release excrement, some of which landed on his calf and clung to the hair of his legs. He ran on and by the time the sun had started its nightly withdrawal the volcano from which he spawned seemed a fading landmark in the distance. It grew dark and his eyes adjusted quickly. He stopped running and felt pangs of hunger in his stomach. He picked an indiscernible lump out of his matted hair and ate it though this did little to satiate him. And then he saw the light from a flame nearby.
The Boy was born of fire from the Earth’s core and so would the fire always attract him. He walked slow toward the source of the flame and as it grew nearer, he saw the structures made of wood and crafted with expertise and care. He noticed five of these structures build in a circular fashion and in the middle of this circle the fire burned tall. The Boy could see no others and approached cautiously, but the inhabitants of the settlement had heard whispers from the jungle and had prepared for the Boy’s arrival. Just as he was to emerge from the brush and breach the perimeter of the settlement, his right foot was snared tightly by a rope that lay obscured on the ground and he was lifted partially into the air by a spring noose mechanism that he did not understand. As he dangled the Boy began thrashing about to free himself creating great noise in the process. He heard vocalizations from the nearby structures which exacerbated his panic. Through the muscles of his core he brought his mouth to his dangling ankle in an impressive display of flexibility and began to gnaw at the rope. The inhabitants of the settlement continued to muster and soon a group of four set out to approach their catch. They approached carefully by the light of a solitary torch, but when they arrived the Boy was gone and had left no trace save for the broken rope he had chewed through.
The Boy ran on through the night rejuvenated by the fear of his near capture. He ate leaves and other forage when he could find it but he was pained with cravings of flesh. He was growing fast. His naked body was bruised and bloodied and filthy but still he ran. He was born of rock and flame. He left the trees behind and came across a mountain. He was ejaculated from the Earth in a burst of destruction. He climbed the mountain. He moves on impulse. He is the king of all he surveys. At the top of the mountain he sees skyscrapers and highways in the distance. He urinates on his feet. His feet are tough as boiled leather. He descends on the metropolis. He is the son of the Earth. They were not ready for him. Lava courses through his veins. It was rapturous and despaired. He is the Boy.
He is the Man.
43
POLTOPHAGY
IT SHOULD GO without saying that I’ve never been accused of talking too much. Thinking too much? Now that’s a much more valid criticism. I realize that my role here is to act as a buffer between Montblanc and all of you out there in the real world, but lately I’ve been wondering if I could be subtler about it. For instance, M asked me to help him prepare dinner tonight. On the surface this started as an uneventful affair that resulted in what I thought was a good meal, but beneath every action subtext festered and seethed, each moment acting as a potential power play. Or maybe that’s just me overinterpreting things as you know I do. What if I were to let you decide? I submit to the jury the mostly complete transcript of tonight’s conversation with M in the kitchen. I’ve omitted all my responses, thoughts, and interpretations, leaving only the words of the Big Man himself. Based on this evidence I’ll allow you to decide how much of my guidance you think is necessary moving forward.
***
Thank you, Lawrence. That we may share in both the process and the results of this labour will surely enhance what nourishment soon follows. Shall we begin? Tonight’s entrée is a Hawaiian pineapple chicken which we will serve alongside a pilaf of wild rice and green beans. Admittedly this dish is perhaps a touch pedestrian, but I would ask you withhold any reservations you may have until your first taste comes to pass. What traces of pulchritude lay dormant in such simplicities may be overlooked by those of haughtier predispositions, but will never become imperceptible to us my dear friend.
Alors, before we begin I would kindly ask you to wash your hands. It’s not that I worry where they have been, my concern rests with where they are headed. Yes, a rich lather, that’s the way, and the pleasing scent of hibiscus rewards our diligence. Very good. Now if you agree I will assume the role of saucier, not because I doubt your capacities, but because I need you to prepare the pineapple. Inside that brown bag you will find it. No, Lawrence, the other bag. And voilà, there it is. Some may lay claim that using canned pineapple will suffice for this dish but I won’t allow it, for the entirety of your existence may become preprocessed should you submit to the enfeebling influence of convenience. Have you ever peeled and cored a pineapple before? Ah, well there is a first time for everything. See the knife block there? The one in the middle, the chef’s knife, that’s the one you’ll want to use for this. Yes, take off the top and remove the outer layer but do not be too bold with your cuts, the outer layer is thin. Remarkable fruits, wouldn’t you say? The spiny and resilient exterior conceals a true and succulent form with a hint of tartness, but venture too far inward and be met again with a hardened core inedible to most and often discarded without second thought. Now what does that remind you of? Forgive me, a kitchen requires ordered instruction and quantifiability and is hardly the place to explore such metaphors, I’ll allow you to prepare the pineapple undisturbed and with due attention.
Finished then? Very nice, Lawrence, this will do splendidly. Next is the chicken, you will find it in the refrigerator. I hope you have fostered an appetite because we will be using all of it. It can be sliced with the very same knife. I am not deaf to the plights of the vegetarians and I’ll not do you the discourtesy of attempting to justify or exonerate myself from any of the utilitarian or existential perspectives available. Swift winds will carry what has not been fastened to the ground, but who in these circu
mstances would lay blame on the weather in lieu of their own lack of foresight? And if that is what you truly believe, then for what reason would I have to doubt that claim? And concerning the flesh sat currently under your fingertips? At times I perceive your cleverness as a crutch. What would you make of a person whose first response to any line of questioning or conversation is cleverness? Many of us have clever thoughts. So too do many of us have the capability to reserve voicing such thoughts at times when they have nothing to contribute. Now see to the chicken, sliced thin please.
Now the pineapple can go on top and we can cover the lot of it with the sauce. Care to do the honours? Yes, use it all, now is not the time for reticence, let not a naked mark remain. Into the oven with it. And then we wait. We will start the rice and the beans shortly, but we mustn’t rush. You of all people know the folly of making decisions too brashly I’m sure. I say it because the stock of your life’s accomplishments may be more readily counted than those of this very kitchen. Your silence betrays you. I have invited you to cook at my side as an equal but should you desire me to speak with a more rigid tongue I worry this arrangement may then be compromised. Do not misconstrue my purpose, dear Lawrence, I’ve no intentions of acting as a surrogate to any of the coaches, teachers, or parental figures of your past. I speak to you plain out of respect, you might consider gauging your reactions thusly. What’s that tired idiom? If you can’t handle the heat, get out of the kitchen. Seems particularly apt given the circumstances, no? The water is boiling, take care of those beans, would you?
Now the plating and presentation of the dish is as important as the preparation itself so we must ensure that we do this with the utmost of care. Yes, I am aware that only you and I are indulging. Are you suggesting the presentation becomes less important because of this? If you are unwilling to show pride in matters of isolation how can you expect to shine bright amid the world’s darkness? And now the chicken can be placed directly atop the rice. Yes, wonderful Lawrence, just as so. If you would be so kind as to bring those lovely dishes to the table, I will excuse myself for a moment to fetch an appropriate wine to accompany our dinner.
Thank you once again for your aid in preparing dinner. Is it to your liking? Glad to hear it.
For shared meals are not bound by the same rigidity, wouldn’t you say? Don’t answer that. Just keep eating. Ingest the proteins and nutrients and grow strong and large. You are too petite to be mistaken for my son. Mann. Your surname is of Germanic origin, no? I would have expected a better return based on your stock. They are a people predisposed to the clotting of their blood. I recall a man I met in Germany, he fancied himself an architect but what he truly wanted was to make a lasting mark on the world. Red-faced and full of tequila he told me he was going to build a fantastic bridge of concrete across the Atlantic Ocean. From New York to Quimper, a multinational arrangement, but built exclusively by Germans, he was very clear to that point. He insisted that he had financial and political support and that I would be driving across this bridge within a dozen years. I no longer recall that man’s name. In truth I never bothered to commit it to memory in the first place. A year after our meeting I had my people track him down, for I was curious to see what progress he had made on his life’s work. As it happens he was already dead. Complications resulting from a blood clot. Probably for the better, for his idea was ludicrous and not at all grounded in reality. I told him as much when he explained it to me but his resolve remained unshaken. The delusional fool sincerely believed his ridiculous bridge would be built and that it would bear his name and remain a testament to his skill and ambition long after he was gone. The financial and political support he claimed to have collected were just additional facets of this fantasy. That man died from clotted blood. His name remains unknown by all save for the unimportant few by necessity who now make dismal attempts at keeping it alive at dinner tables much like this one. But when they speak, the sound of his name does not reverberate and echo throughout their halls. It’s spoken as a faint whisper, growing softer like a flame circling wick’s end. Something you might consider, Mann. Now finish your plate, more food awaits you. Grow strong and grow large.
Although it is not just his name that eludes me. I know it’s not becoming to admit, but I must confess that it makes me so angry, at times unbearably so. I feel a hole forming behind my skull and memories drip through it like a leaking faucet. It gets hot and I feel tight in my skin when I acknowledge what is lost and what is slipping. I was building to a point and now it has escaped me. Leave the table. Yes, leave your plate, leave the table, leave the room, just leave. Do not tempt my temper, Lawrence, dinner is over. Just pick yourself up and leave. You’ve had your fill and your plate is empty. Dinner is over. This is over. Never mind the dishes, I’ll look after them. Now for the last time vacate this room before I’m inclined to fall victim to the wiles of these crones whispering rage in my ears. We speak no more of this.
***
And then I left the room and returned to my bedroom in the basement. And so ends dinner with Maxime Montblanc, free of any interjections or commentary on my part. Well, was it more or less clarifying without my internal monologue? About half a minute after heading downstairs I hear a plate being smashed against the tiles of the kitchen floor. Maybe he dropped it by accident? Either way I suppose that’s not for me to say.
44
PROSAICNESS
WOULDN’T IT BE wild if it turned out that Montblanc was just a figment of my imagination the entire time?
45
PROSITS
I SLEPT IN late this morning. But I’m a good worker ant and I can pull my own weight several times over. I would blame pain or anger but you can’t explicitly state any of these things without instantly becoming a parody of them. No value in unsophisticated musings. Sometimes I stay quiet because I don’t want to struggle through words, but mostly I stay quiet because I can’t think of anything meaningful to say. Instead I’ll let Montblanc’s meticulously maintained muniments speak for themselves while I do my best to fill in the gaps between the hotel receipts, the cryptic notes scribbled onto branded notepaper, and the unsigned letters of unfamiliar penmanship.
***
The glassy month of December in the year 2000. Just shy of two weeks since Montblanc won his seat in the Canadian Parliament for the first time. The receipt from the Fairmont Hotel Vancouver specifies that he spent one night in room 1023. And while he was indeed within the hotel’s walls that night, the bed in room 1023 was never laid upon.
In the lobby a three-piece band played at a reserved volume while Montblanc spoke to the receptionist and arranged to have his suitcase brought to his room on the tenth floor. He didn’t ascend himself. He instead sat in trepidation in the lobby under the pretense of listening to the band. He might have considered running to the roof where the air was thin. He might have considered asking the band if he could sit in on the keys for a few songs. Neatly folded and stored in his back pocket was the unsigned letter containing the instructions for the meeting that was about to occur. It was written purple with the ambiguity he normally might have detested and he kept it on his person despite having memorized its contents. In the brief silence before the band started their next song Montblanc lifted himself heavily from the lobby furnishings, gave a nod of appreciation to the musicians, and entered the waiting elevator.
Montblanc walked the quiet halls of the eighth floor looking for the room with the slightly opened door as the letter instructed. It was early in the evening and none of the rooms he passed hinted at any signs of inhabitants. A part of him might have been hoping that he never found that door. But he did. He stood outside it for a moment before he slowly pushed it open with an untypical meekness, and as his view of the room’s interior expanded he saw her sitting at the table beside the window with curtains drawn.
“You weren’t waiting long, I hope.”
“No, I was just watching a history show on TV. I asked the rec
eptionist to call me when you arrived so I could get into position at the table here. Not bad, huh?”
“Very thespian indeed. Much in line with the convoluted method with which you brought me here.”
“You’re not complaining are you, Maxime?”
“Never. This history program, what was it about?”
“The War of 1812. The role of Tecumseh specifically. He was quite the leader, you know. Seems you both have that in common.”
“Thank you. But I’m afraid I don’t see the comparison.”
“Still, congratulations either way. I suspect this new job will be keeping you quite busy?”
“No more than usual, though it will be different to be sure.”
“Well, I’m proud of you, Max. But then, we aren’t here to talk about that, are we?”
“We are not.”
“I’d prefer if we didn’t need to talk about anything.”
“Might be best to just say it plain. If this is indeed to be our last night together I’d rather we not linger any longer than we need to on this unpleasantness.”
“Unpleasantness. That’s a word for it, I suppose.”
“So, it’s the uterus then?”
“The endometrium more specifically.”
“And?”
Panegyric Page 13