Panegyric

by Logan Macnair

  58

  PARIAH

  TODAY I FINISHED the final chapter of M’s book, a feat which has left me in something of a conflicted state. The book is done, as is the job I was paid to do all summer. While there is still much work that needs to be done in the way of edits, organization, and minor rewrites, those tasks will be sent down the assembly line to other faceless factory workers. I have gifted this body with skeleton and guts and now some other peasant under Montblanc’s serfdom will drape it in skin and cloth. A trying writing session this final one was. I had to wrestle quite intensely with the words that floated by and those that the fingers followed through on. What I wanted to write was something resembling the following:

  The first light’s vicar was born and bred as Maximus Montblanc, his name meaning quite literally ‘The Greatest White Mountain’ depending on which interpretation you choose to subscribe to. And ‘choose’ was always the significant word in this regard for no morals spoon-fed or spelled carry with them the weight of their cryptic cousins. In decency of the recent events concerning the new, the unfound, and the relearning, we rest on this, the most silent of meditations. For those who would crack the spines, those who would use the hardcover to smite spiders and mites, and those who would bend the corners of the pages to save your place, there is nothing else you could have done and I applaud you for so elegantly Restoring Conviction. What is Canada to you, M? Canada is a black sail in the sunset and I intend to steer her righteous and true toward the brightest lights of tomorrow. What is righteous to you, M, and how can we seek the light when it remains so beyond our sight? Shut your mouth cretin I, by right of God and Democracy, have no obligation to provide response to any of your asinine quandaries. And he leaves on legs like trunks and there was our peace. A man is an island, or something to that effect, and mine sinks as the sea slowly swallows the sand. Master Montblanc, this man most deserved of your votes and veneration, from rooms apart reminds me that the stovetop remains naked and fix it and address it and do something useful for once in your miserable life. I prayed once to Jah, I once prayed to Cohen, one’s praise now makeshift and swollen. They make doors the height that they do so that men and women of normal verticality may pass through them without concern. But what of history’s giants with minds too valuable to be jostled by the tops of doorframes struck? You read them and you commit their names to the canon while the rest of us are mulched and minced into powder for those with additional ends. I had a thing for ladies in corsets but when she tried one on for me it all became too real. I wanted to shrivel up and die. Occasionally I still do. She teaches children now. People ask me what she does and I say I wouldn’t know. But I do know. She teaches children now. She wears flowing dresses and speaks softly to the children that she all knows by name. Maybe she still has the corset. Maybe some of the mommies and daddies fantasize about what it might look like on her when they meet at the parent-teacher conferences. My words are arranged by vapidity and project my ­accomplishments accurately. On a good day my hair is Morrissey. On an average day it’s the cup from that fast-food chain on the side of the road that you walk by on your way to work in the morning sea. I miss M when he leaves the room and you will all miss him soon enough. I, keenly trained to the nuance of cultural scripts, once thought this was all careening toward some semblance of closure or conclusion. I hinted that it might before, but now I am confident in affirming it plain. And thus ends the second Greatest Story Ever Told, that of Montblanc’s rise to power, emblematic as it is of our Canadian values. May you read it to your children at night as their imaginations solidify, may you chip away at it during your lunchbreaks between bites of refrigerated couscous, may you display it proudly on your bookshelf between similar signifiers of sophistication, may you misinterpret the ­message of the medium and apply it indiscriminately. To that which remains pure in this great nation of ours, I bid you goodnight.

  That’s how I wanted to end his book. How I really ended it was on some trite and hackneyed note along the lines of:

  What the great tree that is Canada has provided for me is that which I have in turn endeavored to provide for its saplings. Mine has been a journey of fortuitousness, perseverance, hardship, and blessing, and while the road has occasionally provided challenge, it is one that I would gladly walk again, for to live in and serve this country as I have, and by God’s grace will continue to do, is a privilege I am eternally thankful for.

  Either way, it’s done. I feel weightless and proud and now a little embarrassed for admitting that I feel weightless and proud. I hammer the mouse as I click the save icon on the document. I hammer it three more times. M should be home later this evening. That’s when I’ll tell him the good news. But for now, I think I’ll fix myself a drink of something expensive and unpronounceable from Montblanc’s stores.

  ***

  I hear Max open the door upstairs and I resist the urge to rush him as he does. I find resolve enough to wait until we are sitting down for dinner to tell him the good news. I think I’m beaming. I’m a child about to show his parent the giant ‘A’ scrawled across his spelling test. I have been anticipating his reaction all day, the praise he is sure to shower upon me the respect and admiration I must finally deserve. Ignite systems and go.

  “So tuh-tuh-today I finished the b-b-b-book.”

  “Very good, Lawrence. I suppose we should see about getting you home then.”

  59

  POLEMICISTS

  EACH JOURNALIST AND each reporter is a shell in the fusillade launched against the man at the podium. With elegant adroitness M2 dances the steps of this rigadoon with his Hydratic partner, even as they attempt to plunge their parazonium into his spine. They, steadfast in their orgulous mission to expose him. He, a modern miracle. And I, a scrivener who always believed that the subtext was more important to history than the words themselves. The following exchanges should be interpreted thusly.

  ***

  Mr. Montblanc! The anarchists! The socialists and the communists! They propagandize and corrupt the minds of our youth! For just last week I caught my beloved son, my darling beautiful boy, fellating a married man.

  There is no place for the state in the bedrooms of the nation. As for the reds, they will be safely quarantined and fettered within the walls of the universities where they cannot reach us. There they may corrode under the weight of their ideals. And Marx my words, friends, they shan’t be shown any pity from me. I will stamp them out and they will either lick my boot or suffocate underneath it.

  Mr. Montblanc! You francophone coward! Why must I see your language on the packaging of my foodstuffs? Why can’t my daughter get a job with the federal government without sullying herself and learning your dying tongue?

  Your daughter will be given a position in my cabinet. See that she can form a tight seal with her lips. See the heritage of your family tainted with the blood of the French kings. Thank me for the opportunity.

  Mr. Montblanc! The children of our nation grow fat and languid! How do you intend to keep our future stock robust enough to carry our legacies on their backs?

  I have the stamina to outrun men half my age. I will be a model for all, for I do not drink pop, cola, or soda.

  But are those not just three words for the same thing?

  The rule of three you maggot.

  Mr. Montblanc! Our enemies conspire against us! They come from foreign lands speaking languages that fall harsh and strange upon our ears! How do you propose to protect us?

  I will devour the hearts of my enemies. Close the borders and burn their shops. Next question.

  Mr. Montblanc! How do you cope with the libelous words written about you?

  I protect and cherish the right to produce calumny, even when directed at myself. But if elected I promise to draw and quarter anyone who is caught sanctimoniously slinging slander. Unemployment will drop throughout the land as capable young workers are hired en masse as regional executioners. T
hey are my appendages, they slice through necks like warm butter. Fear and love inspires us all. Your books will be burned while mine will be used for recitation rituals where young cubs may be rightly indoctrinated into the family. On this I will speak no more.

  Mr. Montblanc! What of your opponents? They have set to capturing the impressionable hearts and minds of the nation while you toil unseen in boardrooms and in bordellos. How will you ever catch up?

  My opponents are milksops and knaves. Pitted in combat against any or all of them I would remain the last man standing atop their pieces. Hearts and minds, is it? The nation does not vote on such abstractions. How can they? Their hearts lack courage and their minds lack any substance at all. They will vote for me because I am the biggest candidate. I am the most affluent candidate. The people of this nation are timid are easily frightened. They fear their neighbours, they fear each other, they fear the future, they fear themselves. I make them feel safe. And such is the grandest folly of democracy laid bare and my legacy all but guaranteed.

  Mr. Montblanc! Regale us with a tale of your childhood!

  Was that a question or a demand? I am the king, you are the worm, do not think me so prone to your puppetry. My childhood was spent exhuming the bodies of those I’ve beaten. I walked beaches. The styles have changed but the reactions have not—your wives and your daughters foam and in heat throw themselves at my altar, doing things to me that they have never done to you.

  Mr. Montblanc, how will you cope with the illness that—

  This arrangement is over. Scamper away now, cockroaches.

  60

  PANACEA

  JUST OVER TWO days ago I wrote the last word of M’s book and now tomorrow morning I will be flying back home. M booked me a seat on the plane. He paid for it. He even insisted that he drive me to the airport personally in the morning. Buying plane tickets on short notice is something I have never had to do. I doubt I ever will. But M knew how. M knew exactly what to do. He always does. My suitcase is packed. One more night on this cushy guestroom bed and then by this time tomorrow I’ll be back on the sunken mattress in the corner of my room. I’ve spent the last two days making some minor edits on the book. I had to convince M to let me do this. What else was I supposed to do. I have trouble readjusting. I have trouble accepting finality. Don’t we all. Spending most of my summer in the proximity of one of the most powerful men in the country has sundered some of my expectations it would seem. I have my understanding of the man. I have written into the world another. They are not in harmony. I don’t want this to end because I alone knows what comes next.

  The flight is early but I’m having trouble falling asleep. I don’t think I want to. What if I had to stay in this bed forever. What if I had to stay in this bed forever, and a French horn section blows the dirge of my dynasty’s first dance. What if Montblanc, even after securing the highest of elected offices, still brings my breakfast down to me each day. What if I could stay here and read up on Chinese history and memorize every book in M’s study. What if I never had to be seen or heard by anyone but the Lord of the Manor. And what if I could stay here forever in this bed instead of flying west to the unfound life waiting for me in that decrepit hovel I call home. And what if he stayed here forever too in the good health that my presence might provide. What if I didn’t have to wipe the dust off my makeshift bookshelf and my dictionaries, my stuttering therapy books, my Bible. What if I didn’t have to keep my head down in my hometown for fear that someone connected to it all might see me. What if I could stay in this bed forever, digressed and lessened, yes, but dry, feet turned straight away from too-high diving boards and the tenebrous water beneath. What if—

  You know what? I just hope they serve breakfast on the plane. Some coffee at the very least would be nice. Black as it comes if you would.

  61

  PROTANOPIA

  M, CERTAIN COURTESIES internalized, opens the trunk of his car and places my suitcase inside for me. He takes his seat behind the wheel appearing comically oversized as he does. It’s an hour’s drive to Pearson International wherein I will board a direct flight to Vancouver. And around the same time that I return to the mattress in the corner of my bedroom and the indistinct life that surrounds it, M will officially be beginning his campaign for Prime Minister.

  It’s early and our drive is mostly quiet. I sneak a glance over at M but I can’t tell if he’s reflecting on me the way I am on him. I’m hoping for him to deliver some sense of closure, but at this point I know him well enough to realize that it likely won’t be coming. I suppose I could ask him how he feels but I can already anticipate his response. ‘I’ve paid you to do a job, Larry, and now that job is done, so let’s not dawdle on circumstance.’ I’m just another business transaction to the Mighty Montblanc. Another means to an end. Truthfully, it doesn’t feel particularly great, but I don’t know what else I could have expected. It’s not like him and I were going to become best pals. Should I ask him to keep in touch? To drop by for a visit next time he’s on the West Coast? He’s not going to have time for that. It was only a few days ago I was writing the last words of his memoirs, and now he’s driving me out of his life for good. I think I’m justified in feeling a bit used. Well, I suppose the money is meant to account for that.

  Dear Lord, the money! Is it bad that I feel much better whenever I remember the money? Max provided me detailed instructions on how to receive my payment. I had originally hoped for a briefcase full of organized bills like you see in the movies, but he reminded me that I wouldn’t make it on the plane with that. Then I asked if he would be writing me a cheque. ‘No’, he says. It would bump me up several tax brackets and I would lose a lot of it that way. Instead he says that one of his ‘associates’ will arrange to deliver my payment directly to me when I’m back home. If it were anyone else this arrangement would seem pretty damn fishy, but I trust him. After every heinous thing I’ve learned about the man, I do trust him. You heard it here, people, first thing I’m going to buy is a new damn bed.

  ***

  Ten minutes pass with no words between us and just as I am starting to nod off to sleep, M starts speaking, his eyes focused on the road ahead the entire time.

  “There is a dream that comes to me frequently now— though I do not believe it to be one of prophecy or veiled warning delivered by some force extraneous or internal. In this dream I am not a grand architect or mainstage player, I am but a silent observer incapable of wandering from the road before me. It is a road that can be seen with open eyes. A road from that place I used to call home, still there and still dusty as it always was. It is an industrial road on the outskirts of town and situated alongside it you will find an oversized carwash meant for cleaning semi-trucks. There is a graveyard of automobiles, their stripped ­skeletons on display, and next to this a gas station with two seldom used pumps. There is an automobile repair shop. Parallel to this road are the train tracks and an abandoned train station. Mountains painted thick with pine trees block the horizon on either side. There is a storage facility with several orange doors in a row, the doors noticeably brighter and distinct from the ­dominant dusty grey palette. Chain link fences and wooden powerlines sag slowly toward the ground. There is a faded yellow school bus in one of the many dirt lots with its wheels removed and rust on its underside. This bus has always been there. It still is as far as I know. I have not driven this dusty road in a very long time, and while I can still see it plainly in my mind, in truth I have no idea whether it resembles what I have stored in memory. I suppose that doesn’t matter. In this dream I am on that road and none of the surreal or nonsensical logic commonly found in dreams is present. All is as it should be—save but one thing. In the alleyway between two buildings there is a stairway that leads to another building nestled out of sight behind them. This building is not really there. In my dream it is nighttime and I find myself walking on the side of this dusty road. There are no signs of other people around and yet I
still feel uneasy, as if I am about to be accosted or assaulted at any moment. I feel a strong desire to run home, yet I continue walking in the opposite direction down this road until I come to the alleyway between these two buildings. And there I see the staircase. It is a metal staircase, inelegant and designed only with the purpose of utility in mind, a staircase you might see in a sawmill or derelict factory. At the top is an inconspicuous door. I ascend the steps, they sway slightly under my weight, and open the door. And inside is the restaurant, its red interior a stark contrast to the grey now me. From the immediate entrance area my vision of the restaurant’s interior is limited, blocked by the placement of the dark oak walls. I can see two or three round tables by the windows. They are covered by red tablecloths and have empty wine glasses resting atop them. I can see the corner of the bar, it’s solid marble. I hear people inside, but I am unable to see any of them, save for the maître d’ standing at the podium in front of me. Everything outside feels even more dangerous to me now, but I am at ease inside the restaurant. I am safe. Every night I approach the maître d’ with the intention of entering and every night he politely, yet firmly, reminds me that I have no reservation and that I will have to leave. At this point I have but a few seconds with which to see as much of the interior as I am able before I am ushered back to the grey night outside. And although this dream follows the same script without variation, every time I am able to see just a little bit more of this restaurant. I see the details of the ornate artistry on the glasses hanging above the bar, the collection of coats hanging in the closet behind the maître d’, the red plush of the empty seats. And while I am never able to see anyone else on the inside, I know that just around the corner they are there and they are waiting for me, and I know that I want to be with them. But every night I am instructed outside and once again overcome with the urgent fear of an imminent threat. The dream ends the same way every time—with me running vigorously as I can back to a home that no longer exists.”