And now back to the matter at hand.
After twenty-some years of successful avoidance, I am now standing above Praegrandis, the mighty white sturgeon more than three times my length. Still frozen in fear, I don’t bother to address how a creature native to Western Canada has found itself in a stream in Southern Ontario. That’s not important right now. Right now I’ve a trial ahead of me and I’ve not yet decided how to proceed. Praegrandis is thrashing and weeping, his colossal body wedged in the shallow water and rocks of a stream that is narrower than he is. Left alone he will die here. I can watch the entirety of this fate. I can witness my fears being erased as the omnipresent monster is finally removed from the veins of water I’ve been too afraid to feel. I will finally be able to baptize myself and be born anew from safe waters. I will finally be able to float for endless days in serenity and bliss.
But in this moment I can already feel the hollowness such a victory would bring.
I am looking at Praegrandis. I haven’t stopped looking since my eyes initially found him. This is not the agent of my nightmares that I’ve conditioned myself to fear—this is a creature that needs my help, a creature that will die without my intervention. Am I to become my own warden? Am I to lock myself tighter into the binds of horror by releasing the very demon I’ve made a lifelong attempt at escaping? My mettle is bending under the weight of this choice and I fear it’s about to snap entirely. What could I even do? Lift him free? He weighs as much as a buffalo. And even if I managed to free him, what’s to stop him from getting trapped again? Will I have to touch it? What if he really does swallow me? If only Mack were here, he would know what to do. His crying is getting louder still. I feel his wails ricochet inside my skull as my guilt mounts. What am I meant to do?
Goddammit fish, you’re over a century old, shouldn’t you have learned how to avoid getting stuck by now? This stream isn’t wide enough for you. What were you thinking? Why are you here in the first place? Where are you even going? These waters were calm before you showed up. Now you’re splashing all over the place, making me feel guilt that you haven’t earned. I don’t know how to save you. I don’t even know if I want to. Jesus Christ! I didn’t ask to be put in this position! I was fine avoiding you. We had a good thing going on. I hate you but I don’t want to watch you die like this, it’s not what you deserve. But maybe you don’t have to go out alone. Maybe that’s what I can offer you. Oh great Praegrandis, I will be joining you in your journey to the other side. If you’re stuck, then I will be too.
And then? My decision making skills were still blitzed by the torrent of stimuli I was exposed to. The sun melting my brain. The screams of this ancient creature assaulting my eardrums. My fears and phobias sewn on my sleeves. My honour under cross-examination. And then? I jumped into the stream, submitting myself to whatever happened next.
And then my eyes opened and I found myself still lying on the perfectly maintained grass. There was no noise beyond the running water and the singing birds. There was no dying beast in the stream. Of course there wasn’t. Why would there be? In my placidity I had fallen asleep and the sun must have perverted my thoughts, causing me to dream of myself in an absurd situation. I felt overheated and still had a bit of a headache. The blades of grass that earlier felt of velvet now felt sharp and itchy on my back.
There are occasional days when one must accept that nothing productive is going to get done. I call them nothing days. Today was meant to be one of those days. I think it still might be. Regardless, I think that’s enough sunshine for one day. Time to go in.
But first I find in myself the resolve to wash my face with the revitalizing waters of the gently moving stream.
53
PANOPTICISM
WITH LATE NIGHTS come fleeting moments of acute lucidity. My head is shuffled like the feet of pagans and everything I know about myself is pending confirmation. The impeccably tailored are standing at attention as the tarnished influence of Oedipus is hurled against the interior walls. I feel a guest in my own guise, a jester justifiably juxtaposed beside the trueborn heroes who would never just stop at just enough. The cherubs working the theatre tonight have been considerate enough to wake me for the intermission so that I might realign my sight toward the vacant stage. Red drapery conceals the walls and golden handrails guide the guests toward their seats. I never stop conjecting about what happens on the other side of the stage curtain. Just as I can find some reassurance in the present moment the windows close and the next act begins.
And such visions with their totalizing embrace!
I take the stage first as a comedian, and while the audience erupts as I enter, I notice each of them are wearing the same floral-pattern shirt as I am. As my act is expected to begin I realize that I have no material prepared. I point out that tonight’s crowd has a keen fashion sense. They laugh. I stall as I try to remember any decent jokes. They stop laughing. The room grows quiet. I ask them how they are doing tonight. I see people standing up to leave. Finally, I recall that joke about the elephant and the shoemaker, but it was already too late.
I take the stage a second time, this time as the band’s lead guitarist. Elation so loud as we take our positions that I can’t hear the drummer count us in. The song begins and I still don’t know how to play the guitar.
It’s the night of my ten-year high school reunion. I’ve decided to go and then not go about a dozen times. I think about what to expect. I think about Restoring Conviction, the British Columbia bestseller that I wouldn’t be able to talk about. I wouldn’t be able to talk about anything. I’m host to a moment of lamentation as I accept that I will not be able to tell Sophia Watt that I used to write her poems that I still have in a box under my bed.
I’m back home in my hovel on Saint Helena Island, sleeping soundly in the proximity of Napoleon’s original grave. I’ve come to this, one of the most remote locations on the planet, to work in isolation on the novel that will define my career. The coffee is incredible and the locals are respectful of my space.
I’m on my deathbed. The doctor must have noticed my lack of visitors as he is spending a disproportionate amount of time with me. He stays with me even after his shift has ended. My social link with him is the last I will form before dying in obscurity.
The metallurgists are working with the alloys provided. I trust them as I trust the pharmacist. I know that when I wake from these visions the efforts of their labour will carry me through another day. If I lead a march, I’d still get lost along the way. If I wrote a speech, I’d still forget what to say. They once gave me a small cube of pure silver to suck on. ‘Can you taste the difference?’ But taste the difference I could not! My palate is not so refined as to ignore the sour and acidic notes assaulting my mouth each night. I explained this to Dr. Freud with candor and sincerity as he nodded his head and chomped on his cigar. You provoke me good doctor! Can you explain how the human body is able to contort in such ways and why such contortions are not replicable under honest light?
I’ve been practicing silent meditation recently. What’s your professional opinion on this? See, I read a book written by this Eastern fellow, and he said that in times of sadness or anxiety that I should recite a small mantra to myself. ‘Smile in the present moment, for it is a beautiful moment.’ And so, I tried smiling and repeating those words to myself in times of trouble. The irony of course is that I only repeated these words in times of anxiety and now I’ve been conditioned to feel anxious whenever I think of them. I don’t want you to consult with Dr. Pavlov, I only want to keep my focus unbroken when the Gestapo start pounding on my door.
These moving pictures are provided without the context and baggage of inciting incidents, sufficient conflict, or believable characters. Strain your neck upwards and you will see, standing high above any of the aforementioned fears, piercing the clouds and tickling the heavens, the archon of futility whose stoic hand guides both the waking and dormant doubt I dwell on
. I’ve been doing this wrong my entire life, but still, I’ve been doing it my entire life. My aim is not to satiate your need for resolution—I happily leave that to hands more capable than my own. But if there is a brazier within you that cannot be lit by conventional arrangements, then may I be so bold as to request the formation of our perfect union. I need you. If you only knew how badly I need you. I’m losing balance. I presented the keyholder with a feast of rare and foreign ingredients and he ate only the bread. He told me to throw everything else out. Don’t you get it? There would be nothing left. The collection plate would remain perennially empty. I am speaking directly to you now. Hidden on this page and in this paragraph the remnants of my scattered plea take form. Don’t let them take me away. Without you there will be nothing to stop them. I know you see things as I do. You wouldn’t be here elsewise. To avoid suspicion I will now make a subtle transition back to a cohesive narrative that should serve to placate the circling vultures overhead.
***
I awake with sweaty palms and a strange erection to the sound of a loud crash upstairs. Sweaty because I had been overwhelmed by advancing enemy forces and strange because I had not previously learned how to connect lust with escape attempts. There’s something about the air in Oshawa that causes the cilia in my lungs to work double quick.
Still in my sleepwear I head upstairs and find the source of the crash—Montblanc had collapsed at the base of the steps leading to his bedroom. He wasn’t getting up.
54
PENETRALIA
I OFFER M a hand up that he doesn’t accept, opting instead to pull himself up proper with the help of the nearby bannister. I ask him if he’s okay. He says he’s fine and thank you. I tell him that I’ll get him a glass of water. I do. He’s sitting on the chesterfield in the living room when I return from the kitchen. I place the water on the coffee table in front of him and take the empty seat on the other side of it. He thanks me again. He assures me that he’s fine and that I should go back to bed now. He says it’s late and there’s much to do tomorrow and I should just go back to bed.
And I want to do exactly that. But I don’t.
I look into his eyes. It’s around midnight and I can hear a light rain tapping the ground outside. I’m still looking at him. I’m wearing a sleeveless undershirt and I feel my arms beginning to shake—a little cold, mostly nervous. I’m still looking at him. I can’t give a single inch. Anticipation and defiance and a silent war. He knows what’s happening. He’s never lost a battle in his life. His eyes sharpen but mine remain unmoved. I was not born to fight. He leans in slightly. He rests his elbows atop his knees and his chin atop his hands. And he speaks. Each word over-enunciated and too loud for the silent room.
“To bed now, Lawrence.”
Adhering to this demand would be the smart thing to do. But I don’t. I hold my ground. My arms are still shaking. I run the words through my head over and over again paying close attention to every syllable. I take a deep breath and relax my diaphragm.
“What’s wruh-wrong with you?”
“It’s late and you are tired, and as such I can overlook your boldness. I regret that you found me in such a state, but there is much to be done tomorrow so at this point I must insist that you return down those stairs and back to bed.”
I’ve taken steps to avoid confrontation my entire life but I’m at the breach now and I’ve come too far to turn around. I’m staring at the gift horse’s mouth. I’m biting the feeding hand. I’m thinking only in idioms.
“Max, what’s wrrrrong with you?”
“Enough now! Do not speak to me familiar as if you were a friend! You are here to do a specific job and that alone. Do you think yourself the only person with any shred of literary puissance? Do you not know the rapidity with which you could be replaced? This conversation is over. You best leave right now and thank the grace of God that I am willing to forget it ever happened. Press the issue any further and I swear to the highest heaven that by tomorrow you’ll find yourself on a plane headed back to the insignificant corner of the world whence you came.”
His right arm has started moving at the elbow as if he were turning an invisible crank. I’ve noticed him make those type of movements before but I never thought much of it. While I continue to look at him I think about my apartment back home and the mattress in the corner of my room. I think about how adept I’ve become at living frugally the discipline I’ve developed to spend my limited income only on things I really need. I think about all the ways in which M’s paycheque could change my life. But then none of that seemed to matter.
“Max. Wuh-what’s wrong with you?”
And as I brace myself for his response snippets of memories begin to form as a cohesive collage. I remember the scattered words I saw written in the book at the bottom of his bedside table. I remember what he told me about ‘the blackness inside his father.’ I remember all his talk of parasites and of legacy. I remember that he has made a conscious decision to father no children. I remember all his strange behaviours that I had previously attributed to his eccentric personality. And suddenly I am a drowning man finally coming up for air. In that moment he was no longer Maxime Montblanc the Magnificent sitting across from me. He wasn’t the unstoppable business magnate nor was he the undefeatable parliamentarian. He wasn’t the future Prime Minister and he wasn’t the pinnacle of perfection I had grown accustom to. He was a man. He was a man, and he wasn’t well.
He stood up, but before he could deliver the fervorous and thunderous verbal assault I knew was coming I let slip my question on instinct and with all the fumbling tact of a curious child.
“You’re s-s-suh-sick, aren’t you?”
And there stood speechless the man of infinite words. Maybe it was hearing those words spoken out loud by someone else, but his demeanor had radically shifted from one of aggression to one of vulnerability. In brazen silence he sat back down across from me. He runs his hands through his hair and exhales, his shoulders shrinking as he does.
“Let no one ever doubt the shrewdness of your mind, but your company in any of this was never my intention. Do you truly wish to pursue these credentials, as bare as I warn you they are?”
I tell him that I do and he nods slightly and slowly. He turns his head toward the window and stares at the trees in his backyard partially veiled now by a thin curtain of rain. Seconds crawl tensely by and I know that he won’t start speaking until he knows exactly what to say. That it’s taken him this long to collect his words suggests that this is something he hasn’t often spoken about.
“I feel myself breathing as I never once needed to. I feel the limitations of my body knelt and sore. I feel the burdens of age and in this I am not unique. Yet I do not feel everything. My flesh and mind betray my intentions and act increasingly of their own volition, satisfying the agenda of some devilish invader. Even in death my father’s shadow remains cast large, enveloping all of me. He would drag me into the Earth alongside him. There’s a sun setting within me and it is not one that shall ever rise again. Everything I hope to accomplish is a race against this fading light and challenged by a mind and body that grow more unreliable by the day. And how intensely have I raged against this fate. My onset delayed, my condition hidden, my momentum maintained, all through sheer force of will. But still, there is no ceasing what comes for me.”
“Wuhh-what comes for you?”
“That which comes for all of us in due time. There is no tragedy in this. Rather, mine is defined by my unwillingness to gamble with the Devil’s deck, even when promised dead equal odds.”
“Muh-Mmmmax, puh-please, t-t-t-tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh-talk normal.”
“Talk normal . . . Is this advice you offer me, Larry? Is it a mirroring of what you have wished for yourself your entire life? I know you will not believe it but your bravery continues to astound me. Very well then. You fight boldly through the frustration and chagrin of your eviscerated word
s and I should be rightly expected to do the same. The truth of it then.”
Max stops speaking to watch the rain. While I wait for him to arrange his words I think once again about my apartment back home and my empty mattress in the corner of my bedroom. There once was a proper bedframe but it broke and I’ve never bothered to replace it. Some time before it broke I sat on that bed with her, she who might still be sitting on it today under different circumstances. The last time we sat together on that bed I was looking out the window, just as Max is now, thinking on all the things I might say. She wanted to hear anything, but I gave her nothing. I resented her expectation. After she had gone and it became clear that she wouldn’t ever have reason to come back, I wrote about the encounter with borrowed words. I wonder how many years I have left before the memory of her face disappears entirely.
“The doctors called it Huntington’s disease, but in truth I knew my father’s mind was bent from the beginning. His descent was not one of lesions or holes that might be so easily bandaged and covered. Before the shaking and the wheelchair and the official diagnosis there was the changing of his words. He began to speak of incidents that never occurred and of family members that never existed. He was always an inwardly pious man, if he ever felt the touch of God this was not something he would have ever cared to share. That too changed. He claimed eschatological visions and soon began screaming late at night about fallen angels and the end of days. And soon it was that my father, a simple man who placed great value on the importance of hard work and other such traditional notions, became unwilling to leave his bed. Some time later my mother forced him to the sages in white who would diagnose him. I left home shortly after to begin my career but before I could make my first million he was dead. But not before bestowing upon me his parting gift.”
Panegyric Page 17