The Greatest Lover of Last Tuesday

by Neil McKinnon

  One such prospector was Belinda Breastwallow — the lady in the gold dress — a beautiful and statuesque redhead prone to spontaneous vivaciousness, but only at appropriate times. Belinda frequently attended these events to explore various shafts in search of outcroppings that she might be able to trace to the main vein. She became excited by her findings when she assayed Midas. Here was gold … and possibly a fool, but there was definitely no sign of fool’s gold.

  Midas was unaware that he was vulnerable. His new aura of wealth rendered him more approachable than had his previous aura. Belinda, for her part, recognized a bonanza. There would be no long days of panning for little gain. His nuggets were exposed for the picking. She could barely resist reaching out to fondle them.

  The courtship was swift. Midas never even felt the pick. He fell like a ten pound ingot. In no time at all, Belinda had gathered his nuggets, sluiced his dust, and swallowed his mother lode — all the while fending off any number of claim jumpers. He was soon stripped of every asset and Belinda left to pursue her secret dream, which was to wildcat for oil in the petroleum clubs of Houston, Denver, and Calgary. Midas — broke, broken, and bewildered — moved to the streets. It wasn’t long until he fell off the wagon and resumed his gaseous ways. While the prognosis is that he will spend the rest of his days eating in soup kitchens and roaming the alleys of large cities, there is one bright spot. It matters not in what doorway he chooses to sleep, there is zero probability that he will have to share it.

  Adriana sighed as I finished. “Very well, metallic mud-brain, but what about housewives? I thought you were going to talk about them.”

  “Don’t you get it, my gilded grump? She and Belinda are sisters. The housewife just operates on a smaller scale and mines at a slower pace. Many can extract ore from the same source for an entire lifetime.”

  Adriana looked at me as if I had crawled from under the sidewalk. “If I agreed with you we’d both be wrong,” she said. “Not all housewives are like that.”

  “Of course,” I agreed. “There are three that are different and they all live southwest of Bucharest.”

  Our city is home to a host of holidays and fiestas as well as to people who joyfully celebrate every one, so it should be no surprise that church bells tolled and fireworks distracted us as we turned up the dirt path toward the mountains. We climbed far enough so that, when we looked down, we saw red tiled roofs framing egg-shaped cupolas with tiny windows — an appropriate foreground to the green expanse of lirio bobbing on a ruffled lake. The city’s houses are multi-hued so that a kaleidoscope of changing shapes and colours massaged our eyes as we climbed. We stopped to catch our breath. “Go on,” Adriana said. “What about your next group? I believe you said architects.”

  “Right you are.”

  Architects are the second group that men should be aware of, although they are harder to spot than prospectors. Rarely does a woman display her architectural credentials until she is married, although long before marriage she will form a mental blueprint of her finished project. They are the least religious of all women as they do not trust God. No matter which of Adam’s offspring they set eyes on, all they see are flaws — flaws which they are so sure they can correct that many surreptitiously begin their handiwork on the first date. Most are skilled builders as well as designers. Anticipating a lifetime of work, they begin their reclamation from the ground up or, alternatively, from the outside in.

  Altering a male to match one’s blueprint is a demanding business. Many architects approach the enterprise as a covert operation. Quietly, they employ a variety of stratagems that are designed to encourage proper behaviour — stratagems that have been termed ‘doggy biscuits’ as they resemble the reward system used to encourage Fido to roll over or play dead. For example, when training an unenthusiastic man to perform household chores, two of the doggy biscuits that are commonly promised, provided, or withheld are sex and cold beer.

  There is no aspect of a male that is beyond an architect’s ability to reconstruct: the clothes he wears, the food he eats, his taste in drink, the way he combs his hair. One gentleman of my acquaintance was even spied upon in the bathroom to ensure that he was brushing his teeth in the correct manner. Another, a husband, was corrected by his wife when he mentioned how something he ate had tasted.

  Seven times on that short walk someone smiled and wished us good morning. The unkempt goatherd who lives by the path flashed smile number eight and whispered a soft, “buen dia.” I wished him well and we continued to climb.

  For an example of the mangled edifice that may result from an architect’s ambition, we need look no further than my old school chum Mario L., a simple and ordinary man except for one aspect — he was a brilliant, if somewhat erratic, archaeologist.

  Mario was a chain smoker and prodigious beer drinker who considered himself contented and happy, secure in his pursuit of the artefacts that prehistoric cultures had left behind. He spent entire seasons in little frequented areas of the world, gathering ancient evidence before returning to his laboratory where he solved the riddles of past lifeways. So intent was he on his pursuits that he had allowed some aspects of grooming to wander from his daily itinerary. For example, most of his clothes had holes and he rarely combed his hair or brushed his teeth. He had never entered into an intimate relationship with anyone of either the male or female persuasion and felt no need for the company of either sex. His unencumbered existence suited him fine. That is, it suited him fine until his department head assigned him a graduate student named Delia Alterbody.

  Delia really belonged in a different faculty. First and foremost, she was an architect, a project manager, a builder, a changer, and a repairer. Her interest in archaeology was secondary. The moment she saw Mario, she dusted off her mental blueprint and went to work.

  “This is interesting,” Adriana said. “Do explain.”

  “All right,” I said. “It’s not a long story and like all of these projects, it proceeds in three phases: the External, the Domiciliary, and the Internal. First I will discuss the External Phase.”

  At their very first meeting in Mario’s office, Delia wrinkled her nose and asked, “Has someone been eating garlic in here?”

  “Why yes,” said Mario who had been enjoying a breakfast of strong coffee and garlic sausage in his office for over fifteen years. “Does it bother you?”

  “Well, now that you mention it,” said Delia. “I do have an allergy to garlic and I prefer tea in the morning.” What she neglected to say was that she was allergic to anything she didn’t approve of … and what Mario soon discovered was that the list of things Delia didn’t approve of, although not quite endless, was certainly downwind from infinite.

  The thin edge of the wedge proved rather thick, and while it took time for Mario to wean himself from his morning repast, he never again ate it in his office. Less than three weeks and four nose-wrinklings later, a colleague noticed that Mario had also stopped smoking and drinking beer.

  A short time later, Delia started on grooming. “You should get the holes mended in the clothes you wear to faculty meetings,” she told Mario one day in the graduate students’ lounge as he nibbled at the spinach and broccoli quiche she had ordered for his lunch. Mario, while slow in these matters, was not dense. The very next day he appeared in the department wearing a brand new suit. Delia again wrinkled her nose. “Have you been shopping at the Salvation Army store? I know a good tailor and I’d be happy to take you the next time you want to buy clothes. I’m free on Saturday.”

  Once Delia had completed remaking Mario’s physical appearance by having his teeth fixed, by getting his hair cut and showing him how she liked it combed, by insisting he shave every day, by purchasing a new wardrobe and discarding his old one, by having him regularly shine his shoes, and by showing him how to knot the ties she purchased, it was time for the second phase, the Domiciliary.

  The seduction was easy. Mario never knew what hit him. He was bedded and wedded before the semester was o
ut. Once Delia moved into his comfortable home, the story sped inevitably toward the foregone conclusion that was to ensure her an exalted place in the annals of female architects everywhere.

  Her first order of business was to rearrange the house. This was easy as Mario paid little attention to his surroundings. He spent hours scanning the earth looking for evidence that early people had once trod where he now walked. He hadn’t observed anything above ground level for years.

  Delia hired an interior decorator who quickly threw out Mario’s collection of primitive art and other cultural material. The decorator said it didn’t go with the period look she was trying to achieve — early Doukhobour set off by a contemporary Hutterite motif. She also created wall hangings that depicted cartoon characters reciting verses from the Bible. These were hung in Delia’s meditation room which had previously functioned as Mario’s office. Mario carried his papers to an uncluttered corner of the basement where he was able to work until he was again required to move, this time to the garage as Delia needed the basement space to store the exercise equipment that she had purchased on sale and which she knew they would use someday.

  When the house was finished, Delia focused her attention outside. She hired a man to dig up the fruit trees that Mario had nurtured in the backyard, and then she contracted with a firm to construct a swimming pool which she surrounded with marble statues of small, grinning naked boys. The contractor installed a timer and pump so that once every hour the boys, in unison, peed into the pool. She ordered dozens of plastic birds and ceramic dwarfs which she placed strategically, so they were always visible to guests.

  Once Delia had completed her home revision she again set to work on Mario. This was the Internal Phase. If they ever intended to start a family he would have to stop all extended absences. The idea of family appealed to Delia and she began to accumulate baby items — a crib, a highchair, and a changing table, which she stored in a corner of the garage. This forced Mario to set up a card table on the sidewalk in order to write his academic papers, although he had limited time to concentrate on research as it took four hours on a bus each day to commute between his home and the university. Delia needed his car to drive the two blocks to her daily exercise class.

  Mario’s story would be ongoing had it not been for an unfortunate accident. Not being able to do fieldwork severely curtailed his publication of scientific papers and participation in academic conferences. Inevitably, he was passed over in his bid to secure tenure and denied promotion to associate professor. Late one evening, while Delia was asleep, Mario, heartbroken and filled with despair, felt a small knot of rebellion form in his stomach. He fed it a mixture of beer and resentment. Eventually it expanded and rose to the surface of his sagging nature. It bobbed there while he drank more beer. Then he ate a plate of garlic sausage, tore a hole in his new suit, and went outside to smoke a cigarette, leaving the toilet seat up. Clouds covered the moon making it difficult to see. He stumbled into a pink flamingo, took three steps sideways, tripped over a scowling dwarf, and fell into water.

  Flailing helplessly and weighted down by twenty pounds of wet, tailor-made wool suit, Mario perished in his own swimming pool. The last faint image he saw before gasping a final breath and sinking to the bottom was that of a grinning boy urinating on him.

  Adriana spoke as we approached her house. “It’s a sad tale you spin, but I’m curious as to what became of Delia. Did she suffer remorse? Did she join a convent?”

  “No, my marble-faced matriarch. Fate had other plans for her. As she was near completion of her Ph.D., the university held Mario’s job open for her and she eventually went on to have a distinguished career, publishing numerous papers based on work that he had done in field seasons prior to their marriage. She was hailed far and wide as a great scholar and quickly filled Mario’s well-shined shoes. During her career she married and then redesigned no less than four other members of the department’s professorial staff.”

  Adriana turned into her house and I followed. I noticed that she had a reddened complexion and was breathing faster than she normally does, even when basking in the proximity of my sensuous personality. It was still early but we had walked briskly and a small brandy while sitting in the shade on her patio would serve to slow both of our thumping hearts.

  She went inside and returned with a bottle and two glasses. “You mentioned a third type of woman, a warden.”

  “Yes, I did. Your memory is infallible. Perhaps you have noticed that my three types of women are analogous to the steps taken in the career of any successful tyrant. For example, a dictator acquires all the wealth of his country, builds palaces and monuments to his legacy, and then decides that the way to prevent revolts from the peasantry is to crush them and keep them crushed. It is not unusual for one woman to pass through all three stages in her life. Many, however, are content with typecasting and fill the same role with a succession of partners.”

  I swallowed my brandy and held out my glass. “The warden is the last of my groupings. She is always in a long-term relationship and has been known by a variety of names through the ages: shrew, nag, fishwife, ogress, harpy, hellcat, and crone are but a few. Just as the architect succeeds the prospector, so the warden succeeds the architect. Barring accidents she will accompany her partner into old age. The warden oversees a jail with one prisoner. Although the crimes vary from marriage to marriage, the punishment is always the same — a life-sentence of hard labour with zero chance of parole. Wardens choose only men whose lack of brains, good looks, or some other important characteristic makes them easy to dismantle and pin down. Their primary objective is control.”

  Adriana lifted her eyebrows. “Go on … given your self-proclaimed wide experience you must have encountered many wardens. Tell me how they affect a man’s life.”

  At this point in my narrative, dear reader, please allow me to speak in a confidential manner. It is my impression that Adriana displays the characteristics of a warden. In the interest of keeping my relationship with her as pleasant as possible, I will construct an example from my imagination. I believe that this will in no way detract from the beneficial nature of my exposition and it will serve to keep Adriana from acquiring the ambition that could make my life a living hell. Bear with me and if she should ask, please vouch for the veracity of my tale. Thank you for your indulgence. With that caveat out of the way, I will now invent a warden who, though she ruins her lover’s life, is not successful in her own.

  “So you want an example, my crass cupcake. The one that immediately enters my memory is the horrific tale of an artist friend of mine, Pablo T., who had the misfortune to meet and wed a young warden named Graciella just as he was completing art school and about to embark on what should have been a great career.”

  By the time he graduated, Pablo was already respected in the art community and was on the cusp of becoming known to the world. He was a versatile young man, equally at home in all media. He was also happy, gaining much enjoyment from the time he spent with just his palette for company, and also from helping his fellow students with their projects. There was no question that he had been dealt aces in the game of life.

  Graciella met Pablo by chance when she accidentally entered an art gallery that happened to be located next door to the cock fight that she was planning to attend. Pablo was hosting the opening reception for a show of his own work which he had entitled Angels in a Dull Light, a series of paintings he had done to illustrate the erotic possibilities of locating the nude female form in bleak landscapes.

  He welcomed her at the door. “Come in. Come in. I’m pleased that you could make it. Let me get you a glass of white wine.”

  “Wine,” Graciella said, somewhat bewildered. “I thought the beverage of choice at these events was warm beer. But bring it anyway — white is one of my two favourite kinds.”

  Pablo returned with the wine and Graciella said, “I’m confused. Where are the cocks?”

  “There are no cocks,” Pablo replied. “I’ve pai
nted only women.”

  They struck up a conversation and Graciella quickly realized her mistake. Pablo fell like a rock in a landslide. In a trance, he abandoned his show and followed Graciella next door. She spent the evening explaining the finer points of the fighting cock and Pablo spent the evening fighting to keep his finer point under control.

  They were lovers by morning and were wed within the month. One evening, watching Graciella slide a dress off her rounded body, Pablo observed how the light created and then teased the shadows in all of her nooks and crannies. My God, he thought. She’d make a fantastic model. I have to paint her.

  That night he popped the question, and the next morning Graciella fidgeted, nude on a wooden bench while, across the room, Pablo slapped paint on a large canvas. He worked as if she were the last dream of the night and he only had seconds before waking. In his obsession all previous inspiration meant nothing, no more significant than flowers on wallpaper.

  Graciella had never been accused of having an abundance of patience. Sitting for long periods was beyond her capability. She began to take frequent breaks, during which she stood beside Pablo and stared critically at his work. After awhile she commented, “I think my eyes are a deeper shade of blue and my lips are redder than you show them.”

  When Pablo failed to respond, comment became suggestion. “You should make my cheek bones stand out. Put more colour in them,” and “I think you should change the shape of my lips. They’re more like petals.”

  Eventually her mask slipped a bit and suggestion became demand. “You have painted a flaw in my complexion. Take it out now,” and “My breasts are fuller than you’ve shown. I want them redone.”