Barney's Version

by Mordecai Richler

  But flowers were for Miriam, and to send them to anybody else, Solange included, would amount to a betrayal. “I think not,” I said.

  “Chocolates?”

  “Kate, are you busy tomorrow?”

  “Not especially. Why?”

  “What if I flew in for the day and the two of us went out for a bang-up lunch.”

  “In the Prince Arthur Room?”

  Even after all these years, I choked up.

  “Daddy, are you there?”

  “Book us a table at Prego’s.”

  “May I bring Gavin?”

  Damn damn damn. “Sure,” I said, but early Sunday morning I cancelled out. “I’m not up to it today, darling. Maybe next week.”

  Monday morning, if only to demonstrate to my employees that I’m not yet totally dispensable, and can still do more than sign cheques, I went into the office, where Chantal immediately greeted me with bad news. Our latest, godawful expensive pilot was rich in meaningful, life-enhancing action: gay smooching, visible-minority nice guys, car chases ending in mayhem, rape, murder, a soupçon of S&M, and a dab of New Age idiocies. I had hoped it would fill CBC-TV’s nine p.m. Thursday slot. But we had lost out to an even more appalling series to be produced by The Amigos Three bunch in Toronto. It was the second time this year that goniff Bobby Tarlis, chief honcho of Amigos Three, had done us in. Worse news. Suddenly the once puissant McIver of the RCMP series was slipping in the ratings, and CBC was threatening to drop it. This prompted a visit to my office by my Trinity of Twits: Gabe Orlansky, story editor, accompanied by executive producer Marty Klein, and director Serge Lacroix. An apprehensive Chantal trailed after them, notebook in hand. The Trinity agreed we had to goose up the cast for openers. Case in point: Solange Renault, who had played the settlement nurse since the beginning of the series eight years earlier, was now far too old. “She could be killed off,” said Gabe.

  “Then what?” I asked, coming to the boil.

  “Do you ever take in Baywatch?”

  “You mean we’re going to have bimbos in handkerchief-size bikinis frolicking in the snow North of Sixty?”

  “I think we’ve got a consensus here, among your creative people, that we need a new nurse,” said Gabe. “So I want you to look at these.”

  “I hope you’re not screwing her, Gabe. Three months after a triple bypass. Shame on you.”

  “We’ve got to shake things up, Barney. Get rid of the deadwood. I had a focus group look at two new episodes and the character they found least simpatico was played by Solange.”

  “Speaking of deadwood, before Solange goes, all of you get the chop. Furthermore, I’m going to ask Solange to direct at least two episodes this season.”

  “What are her qualifications?” asked Serge.

  “She’s literate. And, unlike any of you here, suffers from good taste. So, arguably, she’s overqualified, but my mind’s made up. Now look here, our problem is not Solange, but hackneyed story lines. How about something unpredictable for a change? Say, an ignoble Eskimo. Or an ostensibly sage Indian medicine man who makes his predictions based on The Farmer’s Almanack? Hey, I’ve got it. Now that Sikh RCMP recruits are allowed to wear turbans, how about a new RCMP corporal, a Jew who wears a yarmulke, accepts bribes, and bargains at the Hudson’s Bay store? Now scoot, all of you, and I want to see some fresh scripts soon. Like yesterday.”

  Chantal lingered behind. “I’m afraid they’re right about Solange.”

  “Of course they’re right, but she’s your mother, for Christ’s sake, and she’ll drive us both crazy if she isn’t acting. That’s all she lives for. You know that.”

  “Are you really going to ask her to direct?”

  “Don’t try to anticipate me. Oh, and Chantal, I really can’t bring myself to read any of those scripts. You’re the one who’s going to have to do it for me. And would you please ask Gabe for those photographs,” I said, avoiding her gaze. “I think I’d better have another look.”

  Next I started on the in-tray of unsolicited mail that Chantal had left me.

  Dacca

  Sept. 21, 1995

  Sir,

  With great respect I beg to state I shall remain ever grateful if you yourself kindly read and respond to my following humble appeal. I am Khandakar Shahtyer Sultan, a Bangladeshi student. I lost my mother in her childhood and since then I had to strugle much. Despite much problem I have got graduation degree in English studies from Dacca University.

  I have been desirous and trying much for many years to go to Canada or such any country to study the art of television, which in you excel. But I am undone. I have none here to help me to go abroad.

  So I have been writing to many great persons like you in different countries for some help. I’d like to study in your country if you can convince a University or some quarter for a scholarship and it would be best for me. If you like I shall stay with your family and serve you as possible.

  If you are not able to do so, yet kindly send me some donation ($50 or $100 or as is possible) for the collection of necessary money in order to go to Canada for education. Many have sent me some and thus I have collected much. I hope I will be able to collect necessary money soon and my dream will come true. So don’t forget to send some.

  If you send bank-note or draft cheque, make the envelope untransparent send it with guaranteed mail. Account No. 20784, Sonali Bank, Dilusha Branch, Dacca. Or INTERNATIONAL MONEY ORDER is the best way.

  I am awaiting your kind response. I beg your pardon for any wrong.

  Sincerely,

  KHANDAKAR SHAHTYER SULTAN

  Totally Unnecessary Productions Ltd.

  1300 Sherbrooke St. West

  Montreal, QUE H3G 1J4 Canada

  Oct. 5, 1995

  From the Desk of Barney Panofsky

  Dear Mr. Sultan,

  I have, as requested, sent an international money order for $200 in an untransparent envelope, to Account No. 20784, Sonali Bank, Dilusha Branch, Dacca.

  I have also discussed your case with the incomparably rich Professor Blair Hopper, Victoria College, University of Toronto, Toronto, Ont., Canada, and he is eager to hear from you.

  However, it would be best if you did not mention my name in your correspondence with the esteemed professor.

  Sincerely,

  BARNEY PANOFSKY

  P.S. The professor’s home phone number is 416 819 2427 and he won’t mind if you call collect at any hour of the day or night.

  There was also a letter from The Great Antonio. “LIVING LEGEND GREATEST OF THE GREAT HUMAN STRENGTH AT 510 LBS., 225 KILOS, STRONGEST MAN IN THE WORLD. PREHISTORIC MAN STRONG LIKE 10 HORSES. PULLING 4 BUSES TIED TOGETHER WITH A CHAIN, WEIGHT 70 TONS FOR 2200 FEET IN FRONT OF N.B.C. TELEVISION. OVER FIVE MILLION PEOPLE CAME TO SEE THE GREAT ANTONIO IN TOKYO.”

  The Great Antonio, a Montrealer, was considerate enough to enclose an idea for a feature film with his letter.

  BY THE GREAT ANTONIO MOTION PICTURE STORY — NO. 1

  The Great Antonio is very popular and impression the whole world.

  Antonio pulling 4 buses 70 tons — World Record.

  Hold with his hands 10 horses.

  Pull by his hair 400 people.

  One Championship Wrestling match.

  Also Love Story drama with an actress.

  Reconciliation.

  Finish with big parade in front of millions and millions of people. Downtown mainstreet of Tokyo, New York, also Rio de Janeiro, Paris, London, Rome, Montreal, and all major cities in the world.

  The Great Antonio arouses the curiosity of the whole world. The film will be big record success because all the people of the world like to see The Great Antonio. The film will cost one hundred million dollars, and will take two years to make. It will bring in between five and ten billion dollars. Everybody in the world wants to see The Great Antonio with his mysterious strength. The Great Antonio is invincible. The Great Antonio write the story and will direct The Great Antonio film.

  THE
GREAT ANTONIO REAL GOLDEN MINE.

  Totally Unnecessary Productions Ltd. 1300 Sherbrooke St. West Montreal, QUE H3G 1J4 Canada Oct. 5, 1995

  From the Desk of Barney Panofsky

  Dear Great Antonio,

  It is with deep sorrow that I must turn down your blockbuster idea, the most exciting I’ve seen in years, but ours is too modest a production company to do justice to it, and it would be selfish of us to hold you up. However, I have had a word with my good friend Bobby Tarlis, of The Amigos Three Company in Toronto, and I have never heard him so enthusiastic about a project before.

  In the fond hope that I can be a midwife to this amazing venture, I am enclosing a cheque for $600 to cover your return airfare to Toronto, and other incidental expenses. The Amigos Three address in Toronto is 33 Yonge St. Don’t bother to phone ahead. Bobby is expecting you. The sooner the better, he said. Oh, and I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Bobby is the former Hungarian amateur wrestling champion, and he has bet me a considerable sum that he can take you two falls out of three. I’m betting on you, Antonio, so don’t fail me. Immediately you enter his office, try him on a drop-kick. He’d love that. Good luck.

  Respectfully,

  BARNEY PANOFSKY

  At five p.m. I looked in at Dink’s and lingered too long at the bar, moving on with Hughes-McNoughton and Zack Keeler, the Gazette columnist, to Jumbo’s and, in the early-morning hours, to a blind pig that Zack knew. Sean O’Hearne once told me, “In the old days, when we wanted to know where the illegal booze boxes were, we used to sit in our unmarked car waiting for Zack to stumble out of Jumbo’s, and then we’d follow him to wherever he was heading. Bastard always had a nice bit of stuff with him. How does he do it, eh?”

  “He does it,” I said, “by being an uncommonly attractive man. Astute. Witty. Things beyond your grasp.”

  But that evening Zack, just back from a quick trip to Toronto, a gig on CBC-TV, got on my nerves. He had run into Miriam and Blair at a party. “You’d have us believe Blair’s an unredeemed bore. Okay, levity is not his problem. But I liked him. If he was such a nerd, what would a woman like Miriam be doing with him?”

  “How was she?”

  “In terrific form. You know, very funny in that understated way of hers. But she isn’t wild about Saul’s new girlfriend. ‘He’s drinking out of a used cup,’ she said. And she even worries about you. Your children say you’re drinking too much. Shame on you.”

  It must have been four a.m. when I got home, two hands required to fit my apartment key in the lock, but I woke up early all the same, adjudging Tuesday a write-off. So I decided to show the Daddy flag, devoting my day to doing a round-up of the Panofsky progeny. I started with Mike. His secretary said the family had gone to Normandy for the weekend. The weekend? It was only Tuesday. A long weekend, she said. A British weekend. Next I rang Saul.

  “Oh, my God, it’s not even noon yet. I knew it had to be you. Call back later, please, Daddy.”

  “I recognize that gruff smoker’s voice. You’ve been out late drinking again, haven’t you?”

  “Coming from you —”

  “Now look here, I’m no prude. I have never objected to drinking, but in moderation.”

  “I was up late last night reading the autobiography of Geronimo. Hey, the Apaches may be one of the lost tribes. Geronimo never ate bacon or pork. A tribal taboo. When his father died, the Apaches slew his horse and gave away all his other property. The Apaches never keep any of the riches of a dead relative. Their unwritten tribal law forbids it, because they fear that otherwise the children of a wealthy man might be glad when their father died. Give away the whole kit and caboodle, Daddy. It would drive Caroline crazy.”

  “Saul, I hate to be a nag, but have you spoken to Kate recently?”

  “So that she could subtly suggest what a failure I am, living as I do?”

  “She adores you.”

  “Yeah, sure. Incidentally, I’m not sending Mike any more of my articles. Months go by and he still hasn’t got round to reading them. He pretends to be a vegetarian, if only to please Her Ladyship, but when he was in New York last week, and went out to dinner, it had to be the Palm, where he could dig into a huge steak. And he went out of his way to bait Aviva.”

  “Aviva?”

  “She’s an Israeli. Writes for the Jerusalem Post now that it’s no longer an apologist for Arafat. So naturally he went on compulsively about how much he contributes to Peace Now, and the plight of the Palestinians. Never mind that her brother had been killed in a terrorist attack.”

  “Is that who you’re living with these days?”

  “I was listening to Glenn Gould’s recording of The Goldberg Variations yesterday and she started filing her nails. She’d get up early and clip things she needed out of my copy of the Times, and when I finally got to the breakfast table, there were all these windows in the paper. So I had to kick her out. Say, when are you coming down here to spend a few days with me again?”

  “Hey, last time we really had fun, didn’t we?”

  “Come clean. You adore Mike but consider me inadequate, and the subtext of your always asking me who I’m living with —”

  “You drink out of too many used cups, kid.”

  “— is that I’m not capable of a mature relationship.”

  “Would you really like me to visit again?”

  “Yeah. And I did speak to Kate last week. We quarrelled. I just happen to know Mom had them to dinner the night before and Kate was gratuitously rude to Blair.”

  “Why, that’s terrible. I won’t have any of you taking sides. Blair may be a bit young for your mother, but he makes her happy and that ought to be good enough for the rest of us. He also happens to be a man devoted to many good causes. Like Greenpeace.”

  “Come off it, Daddy. You hate his guts. What did you think of my latest piece in the American Spectator?”

  “I thought it was misinformed and bigoted, but, hey, you sure can put a spin on words.”

  “That’s my old man. Sorry. Got to run now. Natasha is taking me to lunch at the Union Square Café.”

  “Natasha?”

  “Why don’t you marry Solange?”

  “I’m too fond of her to do that. Besides, you know what the American courts have ordained? Two strikes and you’re out.29 Would you really like me to come to New York again soon?”

  “Yes. Oh, something I forgot to mention. The Washington Times has sent me Of Time and Fevers for review.”

  “You mean somebody is actually going to publish McIver’s crap in New York?”

  “Easy now.”

  “Don’t misunderstand. I wouldn’t stoop to trying to influence you. Go ahead and review it. Praise it to the skies. It’s your reputation, not mine. Goodbye now.”

  My first-born son thinks nothing of giving away a box of Cohibas I brought him and now Saul is willing to betray me for maybe $250. Some family I nourished. After I had calmed down with a couple of fingers of Cardhu, I lit a Montecristo and phoned Kate. “Am I calling at the wrong time?” I asked.

  “Daddy, I was just about to phone you.”

  “Kate, it has been reported to me that your mother had you and Gavin to dinner recently and you went out of your way to be rude to Blair.”

  “Oh, he’s always touching her at the table. It makes me want to puke.”

  “Darling, I know how you feel, but you mustn’t do anything to hurt your mother. Besides, Blair has always been good to you and the boys. Obviously he was incapable of having children of his own, which could have something to do with it. Touching her where at the table?”

  “Oh, you know. Holding her hand. Stroking her arm. Kissing her cheek when he gets up to refill her wine glass. Icky stuff like that.”

  “Now I’m going to tell you something, but you must never repeat it. Poor Blair is one of those men who has always felt insecure about his masculinity, and that’s why he feels obliged to make public displays of his affection for your mother.”

  “I sup
pose Mom complained to Saul, who was always her pet —”

  “I think he reminds her of me, when I was still young enough for her.”

  “— and he blabbed to you. Oh, I’m so angry with Saul. We had words.”

  “Saul adores you. He insists I come to New York again soon. How about that?”

  “You come to see us first. Please, Daddy. Gavin will take you to a hockey game.”

  “The Maple Leafs?”

  “You ought to hire him to handle your taxes, he’s such a whiz, and he wouldn’t charge you. What will you do if the separatists win the referendum?”

  “They won’t. So there’s no need for you to worry.”

  “Oh, you can be so condescending. When we were kids you could talk politics with the boys for hours, but never with me.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “ ‘There’s no need for you to worry.’ I’m not stupid, you know.”

  “Of course you’re not. All I meant is that you’ve probably got enough problems of your own to cope with.”

  Kate taught Eng. lit. at a school for gifted children, and one night a week she helped immigrants with their English in a church basement. She was constantly badgering me to finance a film about the mother of all Canadian suffragettes, the admirable Nellie McClung.

  “Soon it will be Christmas and we’ll be expected for dinner at Mom’s. A tree and a menorah lamp. Mike and Caroline will fly over with the kids, and Saul will be there, and he and Mike will start shoving it to each other the minute they come through the door. Last year I couldn’t stop crying. I love you, Daddy.”

  “I love you too, Kate.”

  “We used to be some family. I can’t forgive Mom for leaving you.”

  “But it’s my fault that I lost her.”

  “I’m going to hang up now. Before I start to blubber.”

  The tension between Miriam and Kate had almost always been there, smouldering. I couldn’t understand it. After all, it was Miriam, not me, who had read stories to Kate every night, taught her how to read, and took her to all those museums and on theatrical binges in New York. My parental role had largely been confined to providing a good life, teasing the kids at the table, leaving Miriam to settle disputes, and, oh yes, putting together those libraries after I had consulted Miriam. “When a child is born,” I once explained to the kids, “some dads lay down bottles of wine for them that will mature when they grow up into ungrateful adults. Instead, what you’re going to get from me, as each of you turns sixteen, is a library of the one hundred books that gave me the most pleasure when I was a know-nothing adolescent.”