The Memory Artists

by Jeffrey Moore

  25 April. After my husband died my relationship with men seemed to die as well -– apart from two or three unhappy skirmishes. The chemistry was never quite right. Or perhaps it was the past that got in the way. I’ve often thought about Shelley’s wife in this respect, his first wife, whose name escapes me. She drowned herself in the Serpentine, leaving her husband ‘a prey to the reproaches of memory’. For years this is what I felt, and it must have affected my interactions with men. I may be wrong. In any case, I had enough trouble making a living, bringing up a son –- romantic turmoil was all I needed! Teaching and Noel (in reverse order) –- those were my passions. But when Noel moved out, and seemed to be doing well, I started thinking about men again, about relationships. I was very fond of a colleague in the history department, who shall remain nameless, and he seemed to be fond of me. He asked me out several times over the years, but I always declined, for one reason or another. And then, just when I had changed my mind, just when I was about to ask him out, well, that’s when I began to lose my memory!

  Harriet Westbrook. (Thank you, Noel.)

  26 April. I scarcely know where to begin. I thought this sort of thing was over for me. Norval, this friend of my son’s ... modesty forbids me to finish the sentence. Suffice it to say that I was right -– Norval was attracted to me. Will wonders never cease! It was an ‘art project’ of some sort -– I have to admit I can’t remember all the details (an alcoholic mist, nothing more) and I couldn’t tell whether he was kidding or not -- but who cares? It was incredible. And shocking. Doubts, inhibitions, fears somehow disappeared, and for the first time I didn’t go back in time, into heaviness, I just stayed in the present, in lightness.

  I know this won’t happen again, and that’s perhaps for the best. Norval’s heart belongs to another, although he didn’t actually come out and say it –- but I could tell by the way he didn’t actually come out and say it.

  Probably not a good idea to tell Noel, we both agreed. At least for now.

  27 April. One last thing about yesterday. In the morning, as my head gradually cleared, I asked Norval why he chose me and not another S, someone younger, more beautiful ... like Samira, for instance. ‘It takes two to tango,’ he replied, with no shilly-shallying, no false compliments. ‘When I was interested she wasn’t, and when she was interested I wasn’t.’ ‘And why weren’t you ... interested?’ I asked. ‘None of your business,’ he answered, his words riding a stream of smoke. ‘With all due respect.’ I nodded, watching a wobbly ring dissolve, knowing the answer. Because of Noel.

  Sunday, 28 April 2002. I know what day it is today. And the year. All week long I’ve known. I’m not quite there, but almost. (ALZ well that ends well, as Norval says. Let’s hope he’s right.) On Monday I see a neuropharmacologist or neuropathologist (I’ve forgotten her name but I only heard it once!) who’s apparently working with AD compounds similar to the ones Noel is using with me or that target similar brain functions, I’m not sure which. I do hope all this leads somewhere, not only for me but for the whole world. Could this get me back to teaching? Could I go back to Scotland one more time! Assuming I survive the tests and treatments ...

  Norval came over this evening. With a bouquet of flowers, which he handed to me not sheepishly, not secretly, but matter-of-factly –- right in front of Noel! ‘Here. These are for you, Stella,’ he said.

  ‘How lovely!’ I exclaimed. ‘Yellow roses -– that means something, doesn’t it, Noel? Friendship?’

  Noel gazed at the petals, with a bit of a scowl. ‘Yellow symbolises jealousy,’ he replied. ‘Or it can mean guilt or treason or depraved passions ...’

  ‘It means,’ said Norval, ‘that they didn’t have any red ones.’

  1 May. Very clearheaded with fewer and fewer fuzzy areas -– a miracle? Is it possible that I never had AD? Noel, JJ assures me, is becoming a brilliant neuropharmacologist. Or is Émile behind all this? Noel’s last concoction, in any case, seems to have worked wonders. But it has side-effects, unbelievable side-effects! I felt like I was floating near the ceiling, looking down on my own body, like a soul freed of its earthly bonds! Or maybe I was near death and this was a dress rehearsal ...

  11 May. Noel is in love with Samira, and I hardly needed Norval to plant that seed in my mind. Although I should probably stay out of it, I’m going to try to bring them together, if I can.

  14 May. Hope I’m not being a drama queen or nag, but for the past couple of weeks I’ve been asking (pestering?) Noel about his health. He says he’s just lost a bit of weight, but he doesn’t look at all well to me. I’ve asked Norval to talk to him about it.

  15 May. Strange coincidence. A few days ago we talked about trying to get on this quiz show (which Noel hates) and this afternoon JJ and I watched an episode of The Honeymooners, the one where Ralph goes on a TV show called The $99,000 Answer. He chooses the category Popular Songs. We were laughing like lunatics, but I have to admit I find it painful to watch when Ralph, who knows the category backwards, can’t name the composer of ‘Swanee River’ in the very first question. I know it’s silly but I’m getting so nervous about Norval’s appearance. It’s in two days! Fingers crossed.

  Chapter 22

  The Arabian Nightmare

  (Noel’s Diary III)

  May 17. The applause sign flashed and a handful of people obeyed it, including a frenetic JJ on one side and the fumbling ghostwriter on the other, who was trying to balance a clipboard and a Memorex CD-R on his lap at the same time. My mother and Samira were smiling at each other as they clapped; I was frozen with nervousness but understood every word, or almost.

  “Welcome to CBC4’s Tip of Your Tongue! Brought to you by … Memorex! And now, please welcome your master of ceremonies, Jack Lafontaine!”

  From the entrance of the studio, Jack Lafontaine came trotting down the aisle, high-fiving people who weren’t high-fiving back, waving to a crowd that seemed unsure of who he was.

  “Cut!” said the director, a fuzzy-haired boy with a pre-pubescent voice. “We need more noise than that, people. When the applause sign flashes, please, everybody—”

  “We can juice it later,” offered the soundman, sniffing badly from a cold, or line of cocaine.

  “I don’t want to juice it up later. We’ve been criticised for that—how are we going to sell this show to the States if it sounds like a home video? And for the audience shot, can we get that dog out of the aisle? Yes, that dog. How many dogs are there in the studio? What are we doing, 101 Dalmatians? Let’s take it from the top, after the intro. Three, two, one …”

  Jack came running down the aisle again, with dyed black wind-resistant hair that seemed to have been glued on, and a tight tuxedo that made his movements slightly penguinish. He hopped up the stairs to the makeshift stage. The applause was only marginally louder.

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for that warm welcome. Glad to have you aboard for Tip of Your Tongue! Let me just catch my breath. All right, tonight’s theme is … poetry! This is show number seventy-seven and so far no one has gone all the way to the top. Let’s hope the double sevens will be lucky for someone tonight! So without further ado, let’s meet a new group of contestants in search of … fifty thousand dollars!”

  APPLAUSE sign.

  “Tonight’s questions have been prepared by Dr. Émile Vorta, the distinguished neurologist from the University of Quebec—and a poet in his own right!—who will also be acting as tonight’s referee. Thank you, Dr. Vorta, it’s an honour to have you here. All right contestants, are we ready to roll? It’s time to put on your thinking caps—because here comes the quick-digit query. Using the buttons in front of you, I want you to put the following poems in chronological order, according to year of publication:

  (1) In Memoriam—Lord Tennyson

  (2) Remember—Christina Rossetti

  (3) Much madness is divinest sense—Emily Dickinson

  (4) I Remember, I Remember—Thomas Hood

  (5) The Old Fools—Philip Larkin

&nbs
p; “Time’s up. The correct answer is 4, 2, 1, 3, 5. Let’s see who got it right. Sylvie Viau and Ronald Sheldrake. Sylvie’s time was 8.7 seconds and Ronald’s … 9.3! Good for you, Ronald, I mean Sylvie. Step up here, please! No, not you, Ronald.”

  Norval, his finger still resting on one of the buttons, looked stunned. JJ slumped in his chair. Samira and my mother exchanged glum looks. I was distracted by the odd colour form, but understood the question when I saw the screen, saw the numbers. Should I say something? I turned and whispered into Samira’s ear.

  “Are you sure?” she said. She then whispered into JJ’s ear; he leaned over to look at me and I nodded.

  “Congratulations, Sylvie—”

  “Hold on!” a voice came from the audience. JJ’s. “There’s been a mistake!”

  “Cut!” said the fuzzy-haired boy.

  Dr. Vorta, in an agitated state, lifted his beard from a reference book. “Yes, I fear there has been an error. The 1 and 2 should be reversed.”

  “You sure, Doc?” said the fuzzy-haired boy. “Positive? OK, Pierre, can you change the graphic? Jack, we’ll start again at ‘The correct order is …’ Ready? 3-2-1 …”

  “And the correct order is 4, 1, 2, 3, 5. Let’s see who had the right answer … Two people again. I mean two people. And the one with the fastest time is … Norval Blaquière! Norval, come on up here please!”

  This time the ovation was thunderous, mostly because JJ was rabid, out of control. With his patented smirk Norval walked casually onto the stage, and sat down with his arms folded across his chest.

  “Well done, sir. So how does it feel, Norval, to be in the hot seat?”

  “It’s cold plastic, Jack.”

  “Good one! I see we’ve got a livewire tonight! A lit disturber! All right. So, my friend, it says here you’re a writer and a teacher. Where do you teach?”

  “I see no reason to embarrass the school, Jack—I’m about to be sacked for unethical conduct.”

  “Shall we get started? You know the rules—you’ll be asked a series of questions of increasing difficulty. Let me remind you: you may stop at any point and take the money and run. Otherwise, if you answer incorrectly, you will leave with zero. Take a deep breath. Ready?”

  Norval rolled his eyes.

  “Let’s play … Tip of Your Tongue! These sealed envelopes I’m holding in my hand are secured each week in a bank vault at the Laurentian Bank headquarters until just before show time. Which reminds me—check out their new mortgage rates! Shall we get started? First question, for a hundred dollars: What is an abecadarius? Is it (a) an acrostic, the initial letters of whose successive lines form the alphabet; (b) a verse arranged in such a way as to spell names or phrases; (c) a notebook which lists the rudiments of a subject; or (d) a lover’s diary in which conquests are listed alphabetically?”

  “A.”

  “Just won a hundred bucks! A two-parter coming up. Which type of poem is the following, and what is the metre? Check it out on the monitor …”

  A lesbian bride and her groom

  Asked a gay man up to their room.

  They spent the whole night

  In a hell of a fight

  Over who should do what, and to whom.

  “Is this (a) a sonnet; (b) a villanelle, (c) a—”

  “Limerick.”

  “Uh … right you are. Second part. Is the meter (a) iambic; (b) ionic; (c) trochaic; or (d) anapaestic?”

  “Anapaestic.”

  “Ultimate, untakebackable answer? You sure? Glad to hear it, because

  you’ve just won five hundred bucks! Let’s give it up for Norval Blaquière!” APPLAUSE sign.

  “So, Norval, it says on your résumé that you’ve worked as a film actor …”

  “That was a fabrication I used to get on the show.”

  Jack burst out laughing. “Don’t tell anyone, but that’s how I got on the show too! OK, third hurdle for a thousand dollars. Have I got the right question? Here we go. Another two-parter. A certain lover of Lord Byron’s, who in a fit of jealousy bit through her glass at dinner when she saw the poet leaning towards another woman, later sent him a lock of her hair, asking for his in return. For one thousand dollars, who was this lover and what was the poet’s response?”

  “Caroline Lamb. Byron sent her another woman’s hair—the Countess of Oxford’s pubic hair.”

  Jack paused before looking up from his card. “Could someone get me a fire extinguisher? Because Norval’s brain is on fire! All right baby! Three in a row! Are you loving this, audience?”

  APPLAUSE sign.

  “Have you thought about what you’ll do with your money, Norval?”

  “Yes Jack, I have. It’ll go towards providing a university education for my twelve foster children in Africa.”

  “All right baby! Maybe we’ll see one of them on the show one day! OK, it’s time for the five-question lightning round. You must get at least three of five correct to move on. Are you ready? You’ve got twenty seconds to tell me the author of these lines on the monitor.”

  (1) He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia,

  They have stolen his wits away.

  (2) Ah tell me not that memory

  Sheds gladness o’er the past;

  What is recalled by faded flowers

  Save that they did not last?

  (3) Forgetfulness has made its country your red

  Mouth, and the flowing of Lethe is in your kiss.

  (4) A dream before the ledger flitted,

  A dream before the brain;

  Ah, yet the toil is unremitted,

  The journeying is vain!

  The train the city never quitted,

  ‘Twas but a phantom train!

  5) The Clock! Sinister, demonic god that makes us tremble,

  With threatening finger tells us: “Remember!”

  In no apparent hurry, Norval scanned the audience with impervious calm. Was he looking at me? No, at Samira. “One. Walter de la Mare. Two. Letitia Elizabeth Landon. Three. Baudelaire. Four. May Kendall. Five. Baudelaire.”

  Jack bit his lip, slowly nodded his head. “Amazing. Absolutely freaking AMAZING! All five correct for five thousand dollars! Let’s hear it for our resident genius, Norval Blaquière—who may be going where no other contestant has gone before!”

  APPLAUSE sign.

  Following JJ’s lead, Samira jumped to her feet, clapping wildly. Would she ever do that for me? I wondered, as I clapped along. Of course not. Why would she?

  “All right, let’s pause here to catch our breath. When we return, Norval will be going for … ten thousand dollars!”

  APPLAUSE sign.

  “Back in the early seventies the image of Ella Fitzgerald’s recorded voice shattering a wine glass was seen and remembered by millions. And the accompanying theme line, ‘Is it live or is it Memorex?’ was quickly adopted around the world. To continue this tradition of excellence, we are now introducing our Pocket Memory CD-R. At three inches, Pocket Memory goes where no recorder has ever gone before …”

  “All right, we’ve got Norval Blaquière on the hot seat. Or should I say, cold seat? So far Norval has won … five thousand dollars! Do you have any kids, my pal?”

  “No.”

  “For ten thousand dollars, another two-parter. First part: what does Liebestod signify? L-i-e-b-e-s-t-o-d. A German word, isn’t that right, Dr. Vorta? Is it (a) death as a result of unhappy love; (b) mutual love in which both lovers prefer union in death to separation in life; (c) a utopian state in which marriage does not exist; (d) a poem by Dorothy Parker?”

  “B. And D.”

  “Right you are! But you’re not out of the woods yet. Second part: in which of the following Elizabethan poems—”

  “Hero and Leander. Christopher Marlowe.”

  “Uh … sure you don’t want me to finish? No? Glad to hear it, my man, because you’ve just won ten thousand clams!”

  APPLAUSE sign.

  “I’m jazzed, and I know our audience is too!
Are you jazzed, audience? Are you amped? I can’t hear you! All right, we’re now approaching the game’s final stage. It’s time to narrow your field. Which language is it going to be: (a) French, (b) German, (c) Spanish, (d) Italian or (e) Arabic?”

  “E.”

  “Really? Are you serious? Excellent stuff. Now, you know things are going to get trickier—no more multiple choice! Are you ready to rumble?”

  “No, I’d like to use one of my lifelines at this point. I’d like my friend Noel Burun to trade places with me. Because my memory has suddenly gone blank.”

  The studio went silent. “But … we don’t have lifelines on this show,” Jack said, with a puzzled expression. “What’s that, Dr. Vorta? We can bend the rules? We put it to the audience? OK, what do you say, audience? It’s in your hands. Should we go with the flow?”

  APPLAUSE sign.

  Jack shielded his eyes with his hand, surveyed the crowd, counted raised hands. “No question about it—the audience has spoken. Is Noel Burun in the audience? OK, when we come back, we’ll meet Norval’s tag-team partner for the final round! We’re what? We’re out of time? All right, ladies and gentlemen, I’m afraid you’ll have to tune in next week to see what happens on … Tip of Your Tongue!”

  APPLAUSE sign.

  “Fifteen-minute break,” said the fuzzy-haired boy. “Then we’ll wrap this up.”

  The fuzzy-haired boy stood in front of me, smiling, waiting for an answer. He reeked of stale sweat and his voice had almost no colour, no inflection.

  My mouth was dry, a sandbox. “I can’t do it,” I croaked, petrified at the thought of going on TV. “I have … problems. Stage fright.”

  “Can’t you try, Noel?” Samira asked. Her voice was velvety, haloed. “For your mom? And me?”