Listening for Jupiter

by Pierre-Luc Landry

  After the sandman

  This time they meet in xavier’s apartment. It’s the first time they’ve seen each other somewhere other than a hotel room. They’re both a little uncomfortable, like lovers sharing a piece of everyday life for the first time. They decide to take a walk. That’s also a first. They rarely move. They usually sit and talk for a while before disappearing.

  It was snowing when Xavier fell asleep, but in his dream there isn’t a cloud in the sky. The city is dark; the lights have all gone out. They walk with their faces turned to the sky, which is still streaked with light. They don’t want to miss such a beautiful display. The stars fall like rain.

  “Do you think it’s all real?”

  “The shooting stars?”

  “That too. But I mean our dreams. Are they dreams, or something else?”

  Xavier doesn’t reply right away. They stop in front of a bus shelter. Hollywood sits down before going on.

  “Back home, it’s summer. You’ll say that’s impossible in February. But it’s summer. In February. Here it’s cold, there’s snow… so it should be a dream. Usually my dreams are much more jumbled up and I can barely remember what they were about. But when I wake up in a few minutes, I’ll remember everything we did and everything we said.”

  “I know…”

  Xavier’s phone rings. They both jump.

  “It’s my boss; I have to take it.”

  Hollywood gets up and wanders off. The night is fading; the sky slowly turns from black to blue. The stars are disappearing. The streaks of light are dissolving, becoming less and less frequent. And yet there is still no light in the surrounding buildings. The power must be out.

  Xavier hangs up and motions Hollywood back.

  “I’ve got to go to New York the day after tomorrow. It’s an emergency: a company rep was in a pretty serious car accident. I’m the only one who can replace him.”

  Xavier

  I woke up a little before noon and immediately checked my phone to make sure that it was just a dream, that Pullman hadn’t called me in the middle of the night, that I wouldn’t have to pack up and leave for New York that afternoon. There was a message: an Amtrak train leaving the next morning from Union Station at 8:30, arriving that night in New York Penn Station at 9:35. Pullman wrote: “I couldn’t find a ride for this afternoon so you’re leaving tomorrow morning. I’ll have someone pick you up at Penn Station to bring you to the hotel. I sent you the literature about the drug by messenger this morning. You should get it soon. Sorry this is not air travel; I figured the train would be more reliable given the weather.” I hadn’t been dreaming. Well actually yes, I had been. I hopped into the shower and turned the cold water up, trying to get my head around it all. The doorbell rang. I turned off the water, wrapped a towel around my waist and went to answer.

  “Special delivery for Mr. Xavier Adam,” a man in a red and yellow uniform announced.

  I signed the electronic pad he held out to me. He turned and left, leaving me with a large binder: the literature on the drug I was to present in New York. I sat down at the kitchen table to flip through it: a gastrointestinal motility stimulant to treat constipation. Thrilling.

  I called Gia again before getting dressed. Still no answer, but the voicemail didn’t click on. Had she cancelled it without listening to my messages? I dialled again to make sure it wasn’t the wrong number. No answer, even after thirty rings. I gave up and went to put on some clothes.

  I walked to a nearby café and sat down with a goji berry green tea. I opened the binder and read a few pages, but the material was dull and I was much more interested in what was going on outside. I watched passersby battle their way through the snow. I was surprised that the downtown offices and stores were still open in this weather. I was bored as hell so I threw the binder into my bag, asked for a to-go cup for the tea and walked back home.

  I packed a few pairs of shoes, clothes, toiletries and the binder. I’d have more than enough time to look it over on the train or at the hotel before the pitch. Antony called just as I was closing my suitcase.

  “T’es libre?” he asked.

  “Yup. Nothing planned until tomorrow morning.”

  “OK. Meet me at the Pegasus on Church Street.”

  He hung up. I threw on a coat and called a cab. I didn’t feel like walking the hour or so it would take to get there.

  I waited downstairs in the lobby for over twenty minutes before the car showed up. I ducked into the backseat and gave the driver the directions.

  Antony was already two drinks deep when I arrived.

  “So. You’re off to New York City tomorrow?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m not especially pleased, but Pullman didn’t give me a choice.”

  “Oui, il m’a dit. But you’ll be happy when you get your bonus.”

  A pool table opened up, so we got up and started a game.

  “When do you leave?” I asked.

  “Tonight at eight, with a connection in Charlotte. Landing tomorrow morning in hot, sunny Aruba! No more snow for me!”

  We played a few rounds, had a few drinks, talked a bit. I was jealous that Antony got to escape this never-ending blizzard. Usually the snow didn’t bother me; it hadn’t bothered me too much in London or Bilbao. But the short let-up just before I’d come back to Toronto had poisoned my thoughts, so to speak, and I couldn’t stop thinking about white sand beaches and crystal blue water. I hoped March would bring some sun and that it would finally stop snowing.

  Around 5 p.m. Antony took a taxi to the airport. I was tired and hungry. I left the bar and walked across the street to Baskin Robbins, where I bought a fudge crunch cake to take home. I walked over to the university campus and went into the first building that seemed inviting. I sat down on a bench and ate nearly half of the cake. I gave the rest to a passing student, who probably threw it in the nearest garbage can. I didn’t give a shit. I left. It was colder now; the wind had picked up. I pulled the collar of my coat up over my ears and walked to the subway. I collapsed onto one of the seats and fell asleep even before the train reached the next station.

  I woke up at the end of the line, far from home. It was almost 8 p.m. I went up to street level and walked down Yonge for a few minutes, then went into a Korean restaurant. I ordered sushi and a soup. I picked at the food, but wasn’t really hungry. I called a cab. Again.

  Two hours later I was home. I turned on the TV, lay down on the couch and fell asleep.

  ∷

  The train left on schedule, despite the snow, the wind and the blizzard. Though it was warm in the cars, I kept both my coat and scarf on; they came round with a glass of port on the house, courtesy of Amtrak, to thank you all for your business. I sank back into the seat and connected to the Wi-Fi network on my cellphone. I found videos of the Mariinsky Ballet dancing The Nutcracker. The windows were covered in frost so it was impossible to see the landscape racing by, but I felt good, like it was Christmas again. It was like a scene from an indie flick, the kind that takes place in New York (where else?) just a few days before Christmas. All I needed was the dysfunctional family and I would have myself a near-perfect holiday feature film. I watched the Waltz of the Flowers with my mind completely blank. Life was good.

  A driver was waiting for me at Penn Station holding a large white card with my name printed in big black letters. Until that moment nothing like that had ever happened to me; I thought that kind of thing was only for characters in romantic comedies. My mundane life was suddenly looking more and more like a scene from a movie. The driver took me to the Hilton Garden Inn Chelsea, about a two-minute trip. I checked in at the reception desk and was given a key as well as information on the comforts my stay included. I went right up to the room; it was late, and I was tired. I’d barely had time to drop my bags on the bed when the phone rang. I answered, thinking it was the front desk calling because I’d l
eft something on the counter.

  “Xavier?”

  “Yes. That’s me.”

  “Xavier? It’s me.”

  I recognized the accent immediately.

  “Gia?”

  “Xavier, I don’t have much time. I’m in rehearsal. Do you have something to write with?”

  “Yeah, sure. But hang on, wait—how do you know I’m here? I just got in…”

  “Can you meet me tomorrow night? I’ll be at the Soho Repertory Theatre, 46 Walker Street, between Church and Broadway, south of Canal. Ask the concierge how to get there. The dress rehearsal ends at 9:30. You can come for around 10:15, that will give me enough time to change and get cleaned up.”

  She hung up. I listened to the ring tone for a few seconds before resigning myself to do the same. I’d jotted down the information she’d given me on a piece of paper stamped with the hotel letterhead. I threw myself onto the bed, staring at the words I’d scribbled.

  Xavier

  Journal entry XXXVI

  I find the silence of hotel rooms unnerving, but turning on the TV helps relieve the stress of not being at home. And at home it’s the same thing. I only find solace in the TV droning on and on. A movie I don’t even watch. A silly program that’s on while I’m trying to go about my life. To help me forget that there’s no great misfortune to blame, nothing to explain my beautifully blasé attitude. An expression I heard in a dream, I think, which seems accurate, fitting and absolutely true.

  I’m no one and nothing—just beautifully blasé. And I don’t belong anywhere.

  If words sometimes fail to express my discomfort, I think an image might do it justice. A simple pencil drawing, in shades of grey. A #2 pencil like the ones we were told to buy in elementary school. With a bit of practice, I might be able to come up with a picture that would say it all: in the background, brick buildings with their windows illuminated. The deserted street lit by a series of street lamps casting a round glow on the sidewalk, like the spotlights used on stage to illuminate a particular actor. And then me, seen from the back; I’d be standing under the only lamp that didn’t work, in the shadows.

  But I’m hopeless with perspective.

  Hollywood

  I woke up one morning, and she was gone. I mean: all her things had disappeared, her room was tidy, her bed had been made. She was gone. I looked inside the fridge, where she usually leaves a note if she needs to tell me something: nothing but a sad-looking leek. I thought she’d left without me because she was done waiting, period.

  I fished a big suitcase out of my parents’ closet. I threw in all my clothes, a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste, a towel, a few pencils, a large notebook, the poems I’d written, Joni Mitchell’s biography (which I still hadn’t finished), a Leonard Cohen novel, my iPod and earbuds, a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of Gardenal. I got dressed and left the house. Twenty-eight degrees on the first of March. Birds were chirping in the yellow wheat. Chickadees and house sparrows.

  I walked over to Chokichi’s new digs at Rajani and Arnaud’s. On the way, I realized I’d forgotten to leave my parents a note. I’d call them once I got there, I told myself, but only if it was absolutely necessary. There was no need to worry about my job: my ‘clients’ were all dead and buried; they wouldn’t miss me too much. And the beans would go on growing without me, unless the graveyard hired someone who preferred neat lawns to pulses.

  I knocked a few times before Chokichi came to the door: stripped to the waist, his hair dishevelled, still half asleep.

  “Did I wake you?”

  He let me in without saying a word. I followed him into the kitchen. There was some coffee left in the percolator. He poured himself a cup and asked if I wanted one.

  “No thanks.”

  He sunk into a chair.

  “I spent the night writing an essay for a class I’m taking. I handed it in this morning around eight. So I went to bed… two hours ago,” he said, turning to look at the clock behind him.

  “I came to say… goodbye to you, my trusted friend.”

  “Just like in the song!”

  He giggled.

  “Yeah, like the song! ‘We had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the sun…’”

  “But seriously, you came to say goodbye? Are you going somewhere?”

  I pointed to my suitcase.

  “San Francisco.”

  “Right now?”

  “Well… I think so. I’m not sure anymore.”

  “Not sure about what? I’m still half asleep here. You’re gonna have to spell it out for me.”

  “Yeah, sorry.”

  I told him Saké had left during the night, and I’d decided to skip town too.

  “But why are you saying you’re not sure? Are you going or not?”

  “I am. When I realized Saké had already split, I knew I had to leave too, as soon as possible. If I keep waiting, I’ll never do it. But I’m not sure I should be going to San Francisco anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because. If Saké left me behind, maybe she wanted to go alone.”

  “Makes sense. If not, she would’ve waited for you, or left you a note.”

  He jumped up.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  He ran over to his bedroom. I got up and paced the kitchen.

  “Rajani and Arnaud aren’t here?” I shouted.

  “Nope. Arnaud’s at work and Rajani has a class,” Chokichi shouted back.

  I opened the fridge and made a sandwich with what I could find. I’d forgotten to have breakfast. I made one for Chokichi too. He came back a few minutes later, dressed and shaved with his hair brushed and a sports bag over his shoulder. He took the sandwich I held out, and smiled at me.

  “Come on, we’re leaving.”

  He pushed me out the door. I waited until we were outside to ask where we were off to.

  “I don’t know. We’ll figure it out when we get to the bus station.”

  Hollywood

  Underground poem #18

  the wind is warm

  —as always—

  when we leave the bus at last

  I am an ominous dream

  After the sandman

  They are torn from the places we find them: one, the dormitory of a Chicago hostel; the other, the room of a New York hotel.

  “I’ve got a feeling something’s brewing. Don’t you?”

  “Brewing? Maybe not,” says Xavier. “But something’s definitely happening right now.”

  They are quiet for a few minutes.

  “Where are we?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Part two

  Montauk

  “I didn’t see anyone on the beach or on the street. No one in the grocery store either. All the stores and restaurants are closed. We’re in Montauk; I saw it on a street sign.”

  “Montauk? Montauk in the Hamptons?” asks Xavier.

  “That’s the one.”

  “How’d we get here?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Hollywood drops the supplies on the table: garlic, tomatoes, spaghetti, cheese, a bottle of red wine, a loaf of bread, chocolate. The essentials.

  “The grocery store wasn’t locked. I took what we needed for tonight. I’ll go back tomorrow, maybe someone will be there so I can explain and pay. It’s not that cold, it was a nice walk. The village is only thirty minutes away on foot.”

  “I couldn’t get the scooter to start. Maybe we can buy gas tomorrow and fill it up.”

  “You think that’s the problem?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know the first thing about mechanics.”

  Xavier rummages through the kitchen drawers, comes up with a corkscrew and opens the bottle of wine. Hollywood takes two big glasses from the cabinet and Xavier fills them up. He takes a sip before tel
ling Hollywood what he did while he was gone.

  “I explored the place: it’s a beach house that’s closed for the winter. The gas is on, and I found some wood in the shed out back to light a fire. It was pretty easy to turn on the power: the electrical box is under the porch, you just have to use the big red lever. The closets are full of clothes, but only summer clothes. I found polos and pants to wear while we do laundry. There are two bathrooms, one in each bedroom. The piano in the living room is tuned. Or at least it doesn’t sound too bad to my inexperienced ear. No phone or TV.”

  “So we won’t freeze to death. Or starve, if we figure out how to make some money.”

  “That’s the best part: I found this in the main bedroom.”

  Xavier slaps a large envelope onto the kitchen island.

  “Wow! Did you count it?”

  Hollywood thumbs through the banknotes in his hands.

  “Yeah. Close to ten thousand.”

  “Enough to get the hell out of here!” Hollywood announces.

  “That’s what I was thinking, too.”

  “Want to eat outside tonight? We could light a few candles, if we find some. I’ve never eaten in front of the ocean.”

  “I bet I can scrounge up a few candles. We can grab the little table from the shed. I’ll do it. You want to take care of dinner?”

  “Sure. I got stuff to make pasta with tomato sauce. I don’t have a lot of imagination in the kitchen. There are a few restaurants in town. If they’re open next time, we could eat out in the square or in one of the places on the main street. Especially if you manage to get the scooter going.”

  Xavier puts on a coat and boots.

  “I should go out before it gets too dark.”

  ∷

  It’s pretty normal for March, if it really is March. Around five degrees Celsius. Still a little snow on the ground. The sand and rocks are bare, licked clean by the sea. Although snow covers the dunes, tall grass pokes up through the white carpet. The stars blink on and off, like tiny lights. Xavier and Hollywood don’t speak much; they don’t know what to make of it all yet.