by Endre Farkas
He was about to lie but decided not to. “Yes.”
“Don’t get her in trouble,” his mother said.
“She’s a nice girl even if she isn’t Jewish,” Tommy said. He hugged her. “I’ll be back around ten or eleven, midnight the latest.”
Marianne and Naomi were finishing their coffees. Although Tommy was close to their age he always felt they were so much more grown up. Yes, he shaved and was having sex, but when he was with them, he felt like a kid. They were confident. Their actions had an adult feel. They had real jobs, paid rent, shopped, cooked and did their own laundry. Living on their own, they didn’t have parents setting rules. They were responsible for themselves. They seemed to have slipped into being grown up naturally, while he still lived at home and his mother still bought his underwear.
“Looks like a beautiful day for a trip,” Marianne said.
There she was again, so confident. “You sure about this?” he asked.
“Yeah, I am, but you don’t sound it.”
“Honestly, I’m not.”
“Then don’t,” Naomi said, lighting up a cigarette.
He wanted to and didn’t. He wanted to share her first trip. She wanted him along and that meant a lot to him. But he was still scared. “No, let’s do it.”
Marianne showed him half a purple pill on her fingertip. She stuck out the tip of her tongue, carefully placed the half tab on it and with a sip of coffee swallowed it. “Here is your half. Open.” She put the other half on his tongue and passed him her cup. He felt as if they had just taken vows but instead of exchanging rings, they were sharing LSD. Instead of going on a honeymoon they were going on an acid trip. His stomach churned but he smiled.
“Okay, let’s go,” Naomi said.
“I thought it took a while for it to start,” Tommy said, surprised and worried.
“It does but we thought it would be fun to do it on the mountain,” Marianne said.
“I thought we were going to stay here.”
“No, I told you I wanted to go on a trip with you.” Marianne grabbed his hand and pulled him out the door.
The walk up Guy Street, to the stairs leading to the mountain, took about half an hour. Halfway there, Naomi, who was a heavy smoker, was already breathing audibly. They started up the wooden steps that soon became a winding, meandering gravel path into thickets and among trees that formed a green roof over them. The city disappeared. Only the thrum of cars broke through to remind him where they were. As he listened, the sound of traffic melded with the buzzing of cicadas.
Shafts of light filtered in through the canopy of leaves and branches, giving the path a cathedral look. He remembered the majestic synagogue in Budapest in which they had found shelter when they were escaping. It had a similar kind of light shining through its stained glass dome. Suddenly the word yarmulke came to him. That’s what he, Gabi, Frog and Carrot called the dome of the synagogue in Hajdubékes that they used as target for their slingshot contests. Long ago. “A long, long, long time ago,” he whispered to himself.
On either side of the path, like children trying to get out of their mothers’ shadow, skinny elm, oak and maple treelets were reaching for the light. “I think I’m beginning to trip.” He wasn’t sure if he said it aloud or if he was just talking to himself.
He looked over his shoulder. Marianne was stroking the trees that she passed. She waved. Her waving blended in with the waving branches and leaves. He continued uphill. His feet felt funny. Funny feet, he thought to himself. Feet aren’t funny. When was the last time his feet told him a joke? That was funny. They had a lightness to them and every time he took a step, colours flew from his toes.
“Wait for me,” Marianne shouted. She caught up with him and grabbed his hand. His hand melted into hers and he felt a rush of warmth enter him.
“Wow!” he said. She was glowing. She was the light in the forest.
“There is a halo about you,” she said.
He felt safe with her. They stared at each other but didn’t speak. The chirps of birds, the crunch of gravel, deep breaths taken together and breath-bubbles that prismed the sun awed them into silence. Breath bubbles. Where did that come from? he wondered.
They came to a clearing. Naomi stopped. “Hey, look. There’s Beaver Lake,” she said, pointing to the little man-made pond.
“Is it in the shape of a beaver?” Marianne asked.
“You know, I’ve never seen a real live beaver,” Tommy said.
“Well, if you haven’t seen a real live beaver, then you can’t be a real Canadian,” Naomi said, lighting up a cigarette. “There are millions in Canada, all kinds, including Spanish beaver. You sure you haven’t seen one?”
“I didn’t know there were such things as Spanish beavers,” Tommy said.
Tommy noticed a wicked smile spread across Naomi’s face. “You’re such a perv, Noni.” Marianne blushed.
He laughed. The laughter became a kite floating against the clear blue sky, tugging at him, pulling him forward.
They reached the lookout. It felt like it had taken forever, it felt like it had taken an instant. The lookout was a huge terrace of a huge chalet that overlooked the huge city. At the edge of it was a semicircular waist-high granite fence. Beyond it, a steep drop.
“Let’s go to the chalet,” Marianne said. “I’ve never been inside.”
“Granite steps led to a stone hall with massive windows and doors. Tommy felt he was entering another time. Its smooth marble floor had the sheen of an ice rink, big enough for the Habs to play on. He took a couple of hockey strides and pretended to stop in front of the net creating a spray of ice. The spray became light motes rising to the ceiling. He followed them up to the arched wooden rafters from which hung finely wrought iron chandeliers. A medieval hall, Tommy thought to himself—or said aloud.
“I am Sir Wolf, Knight of the Cohens!” Tommy raised his arms.
“And who are the Cohens?” Naomi asked.
“Wench! Hast thou not heard of the great tribe of the Cohens?”
“The only Cohen I know is Leonard Cohen,” she laughed.
“He is our Bard. The Cohens are the priests and bold knights of the square matzo. We seek the holy bagel. And that beautiful damsel”—Tommy pointed to Marianne—“in her glorious tie-dyed chemise, is my fair lady. And you, Naomi of the cigarette, are her lady-in-waiting.”
“Yes, Sir Wolf.” Naomi smiled and curtsied.
The ghosts and the history of the city were painted on the walls. A delicate, goateed white man, wearing a beret, powder-blue cape, lace collar and cuffs, puffy short pants, tights and ballet slippers, one foot delicately extended, stood on a mountaintop, pointing past the lush forest toward a distant river. His thin, sheathed rapier stuck out like a tail. Stoic, half-naked Indians with feathers sticking out of their heads looked on.
He might have been standing right here where I am. Imagine being the first people here, he thought to himself. You are imagining it, a voice answered. He turned to see who said it. Marianne and Naomi were standing beside him, but they were facing away looking at something else. “Oh. It’s me talking to me again,” he mumbled to himself.
He wandered by other murals of times past, of flags planted, of crosses erected, canoes being loaded with furs, of priests lifting chalices to the trees and the heavens and blessing kneeling people. The last one, of Europeans and Indians at each other’s throats, arrows flying, gunpowder bursting and the fort on fire, stopped him. On poles above the smashed gate, staring up to the heavens, were two Indian heads.
“Out of this, mighty Montreal rises,” he heard a voice say. It was Naomi.
Marianne was laughing and pointing up at the rafters. “Look. Between the rafters, squirrel gargoyles. Now those’ll scare the nuts off invaders.”
“Let’s get some ice cream,” Naomi said. “What kind would Sir Wolf and Lady Marianne lik
e?”
“I want ice cream that doesn’t scream,” Marianne giggled. She kept her gaze on the squirrels.
“I want… Oh look!” said Tommy, getting distracted by his fingers. “They’re dancing!” He watched them wiggle.
“Okay, two vanillas,” Naomi decided. She made off for the counter at the far end of the chalet. “Don’t you guys move. I mean it.”
“Who’s dancing?” Marianne asked Tommy.
“What?”
“Who’s dancing?”
“I don’t know. Who’s dancing?”
“I asked you first,” she said.
“I don’t know. Why don’t you?” He leaned over and kissed her. His lips tingled in colours.
Standing still, she slowly lifted and stretched out her arms and spiralled away from him in slow motion. “A lyrical and sensual hurricane,” he said to himself. “No, a slowercane,” he corrected himself. She was embracing all. All embracing. And all wanted to be embraced by her. He did. Everything was reaching out to her. Standing still, following her spiral and contrail, he felt swept up in her movement. When she reached the far wall, she pushed away from it and spiralled backward, ending up in his arms.
“Far out. Far in,” he said kissing her.
“Here is a quiet ice cream for my lady and a dancing fingers ice cream for you, Sir Wolf.”
“Thank you,” they said, like children thanking their parents.
“Fuck off,” Naomi said. “Let’s go to the lookout.”
Marianne glanced up at the squirrels again. “You guys can’t have any of my quiet ice cream.” She wagged a finger at them. Holding hands, giggling, they followed Naomi. She pushed open one of the large doors and held it for them. They floated out.
The daylight blinded him. He closed his eyes. Their closing sounded like doors slamming. “Ooh.” He winced. He squinted and then opened them wide. Colours were vibrating before him. He focused on the swirl of white. “Mmmm,” he sighed and took a slow lick.
“Did you know that ice cream is the Mighty Mother Cow’s gift to us?” Marianne said.
“Amen,” said Naomi.
“Amoo,” said Marianne as they walked to the edge of the lookout.
The city spread out below. His city. He gazed down upon it as a ruler might over his dominion from his parapet.
“Look at those beautiful houses!” He pointed to four-storey greystones, standing on the highest part of the slope. “They are the mansions of lords and ladies.”
“And those ugly factories there,” Naomi said, pointing to the east of the city, “are the factories of those lords and ladies, ugly monuments to themselves built on stolen land, with the cheap labour of the poor.”
“You’re sounding more like a communist than a lady-in-waiting.” Tommy snapped to attention and saluted. She smiled and gave him the finger.
In the distance, the shimmering St. Lawrence River wound its way. “Look at the beautiful green centipedes tiptoeing across the St. Lawrence,” Marianne said, pointing to the bridges.
Ocean-bound tankers floated silently by. He watched one. He was moving it with his eyes. “I forgot that Montreal is an island,” he said.
“Montreal is not an island but a mountain,” Marianne said, raising her arms as if blessing it.
“Montreal is a mountland,” Naomi said.
“No man is an island entire of itself,” Tommy said.
“Deep,” Naomi said.
“It is,” Marianne agreed.
He leaned over. Suddenly he panicked. His knees went weak, his calves felt like water. His heartbeat quickened. He was short of breath. He felt like he was going to jump. He grabbed the railing with one hand.
“Are you okay?” Naomi asked. “Breathe deep and slow.” She stroked his arm. He closed his eyes and inhaled. He followed his breath down his throat, to his lungs, large flesh pods hungry, eager, waiting like baby birds, mouths open. A bright pulsating light shone from behind them.
He opened his eyes and slowly moved his head left and right. Everything was brilliant again. “Where is Marianne?” he asked, letting go of the rail.
Naomi looked around. Children were running and shouting. Tourists milled about, admiring the view, taking pictures of the city, of each other, but there was no Marianne.
“Come on.” She tugged at his sleeve and as she did, his ice cream flew out of his hand. He watched it arc in slow motion over the edge.
“Oh shit,” he said, and a wave of sadness hit him. It reminded him of something but couldn’t remember what. “Have a nice cream landing,” he called after it.
“Fuck! Come on,” she repeated and tugged harder. Her voice had the colour of panic. He felt it. Naomi checked over the ledge as she hurried. She stopped and headed back the other way, dragging Tommy along. “Marianne!” she shouted. “Marianne! Marianne!”
“Marianne!” Tommy chimed in. “What a beautiful name.” It moved like a butterfly. “Merry Ann, Marry Ann,” he sang.
“This is fucking serious,” Naomi shouted at him. When they got to the end of the wall, they spotted her. She was lying on the grass, her arms and legs moving up and down.
“Are you okay?” Naomi shouted.
Tommy knelt on one knee beside her. “Marianne. What are you doing?”
She smiled up at him. “You know,” she said, “The universe is our creation. We dream ourselves. And we are all connected. We are reflections of our mind that is creating the universe.”
“Yes,” Naomi said, sounding relieved. “But what are you doing?”
“Making grass angels.”
The walk back was easy. He leaned back. He spread his hands. He was an acrobat walking across a high wire above the world. No vertigo. People passing him on their way up appeared strange. Their faces were distorted, pained, as if they were carrying a huge weight. He felt light. He floated.
The city came back at him with a vengeance. The noise, the hard sidewalks. And though he was in a familiar place, he felt lost. The climb up the stairs to Naomi’s seemed longer than the walk to the mountain. He stood in the doorway, reluctant to go in. Naomi took his hand and pulled. He resisted. Marianne grabbed his other hand and pulled. “It’s okay,” she said. Her voice sounded far away. It took forever to reach him. The living room was large, but he felt confined. He sat on the couch and felt himself sinking into an underground maze.
People are strange when you’re a stranger. The words emanated from the corners of the room. He was being chased. He zigzagged but the voice kept chasing him. The maze became a crowded train with people pushing and shoving. His father was carrying him in his arms, trying to get them away from the crowd. Men in leather coats were after them. His mother was falling behind. He reached for her. Marianne was screaming for him to let go of her hair.
Naomi caressed Tommy’s fists. They opened and Marianne’s hair became a river. The water kept rising. A man with two suitcases was following them. He slipped and fell into the river and drowned. They were standing at the edge of a steep embankment. They sat down and slid. A train was coming. They scrambled to climb up the other side. He was on his father’s back flattened against the embankment by the thundering train. They climbed up. A soldier was aiming his rifle at them. He fired.
Tommy’s head jerked. An animal leapt. He felt a burning flash streak across his temple. He screamed and grabbed his head. He was sobbing.
Marianne held him and rocked him. She was stroking his hair. He looked at her. She was crying too.
They lay in bed staring at each other. He watched her dissolve into molecules, dancing across the universe. It was cosmic. Scary and beautiful. He reached out to touch her face. It rippled the way a clear still pond ripples at the touch. She reached to touch him; her fingers became mermaids swimming toward him. They changed into spiders. He jumped up and batted them away. She smiled at him sadly and slowly faded away. “Don’t go,
” he said. His voice sounded hoarse, like it was the first time he had spoken in a century. “Don’t.”
She reached back and their fingers interlaced. He closed his eyes. They drifted, intertwined. He didn’t know who was who. One breath, one body, one trip.
Tommy opened his eyes, “Oh God.” He took some deep breaths and looked around. It was dark. A light from the street lamp cast shadows of tree branches on the ceiling. He watched them sway. He glanced at Marianne, who was lying beside him.
Slowly, he sat up. “I think I’m down.” She slipped over and laid her head in his lap.
He stroked her hair and felt happy and relieved.
“How are you?”
“I’m still buzzed a bit.”
He wanted it to be like this forever.
Naomi was lying on the couch when they came out of the bedroom. “I’m exhausted,” she said. “You guys back on planet earth yet?”
“Yeah. I wish I could stay but I have to go. I’m already late. They’re going to kill me. Again. Can I see you during the week?”
“No. I’m going to sleep at my parents this week. I promised. Speedy is going to have a bunch of adios suppers with family.” She grabbed his face and kissed him hard. “See you soon. Have a good trip.” She smiled.
The city was vibrating. The darkness glowed. A bus tiptoed by. Everybody was beautiful and melting. Everything had meaning.
His mother opened the door before he could insert the key. “You’re late.”
She’s gotten smaller, he thought. A worried look crossed her face. He wanted to reach out and caress her brow. “Shit. I’m still tripping.” He tried to answer in Hungarian but the words weren’t there. “We went up to the mountain.”
“What? You’re Moses now?” his father said.
Tommy started to laugh. “Yes. I got the eleventh commandment.”
“Don’t be a smart pants,” his father said. “Your mother was worried. It’s almost midnight.”
“I’m nineteen, isn’t it time to stop worrying about me?”
“A child, to a parent, is a child no matter how old he is,” his father said.