Asylum

by André Alexis

– How are you, Reinhart? he said

  and put out his hand.

  Reinhart, whose hands were dirty, put his elbow forward and said

  – Wonderful. Come in. How are you, Frank?

  And, walking away from the door:

  – Okay, Eddy, your saviour’s here.

  The studio was a thousand square feet of not much. The wooden floor was cracked and squeaky, its crevices black with dirt. The grimy panes of five tall windows took up most of one wall. The other walls were white. Against two of them: innumerable paintings, faces turned from view. Along the third: a small fridge, a sink, a door, a metal cabinet, a folding screen, folding chairs, a roll of canvas.

  In the middle of all this stood Reinhart, dressed in honey-coloured pants and a green-and-white smock. A few feet from him, Edward stood beside a high-backed, velvet-cushioned chair. He was in a royal blue gown, white leopard-skin shawl, and a blue-and-gold Venetian hat that rose to a soft peak at the back.

  – Franklin…, he said.

  – I hope I’m not interrupting your sitting, said Franklin.

  Reinhart said

  – Not at all. We had to finish sometime, I guess.

  – I’m getting out of these things then, okay? asked Edward.

  – Hmm…, answered Reinhart.

  Edward moved behind the folding screen to change his clothes. Franklin approached the canvas to look at Reinhart’s work. For some time now he had been fascinated by it. Something in the work touched the depths of him: bold lines, light colours, more drawing than painting, with the particular charm of a work in progress, direction without a clear terminus.

  – A lovely painting, said Franklin.

  Without turning to him, Reinhart mildly said

  – You know it’s still the underpainting.

  – Yes, I know, but I was going to say it looks like you’re working in the old way, from the underdrawing up, light colours first, dark colours last, so external light goes from the surface of the painting to the depth. It gives the painting something like internal illumination, doesn’t it?

  Reinhart turned to Franklin.

  – I’m sorry, Frank. I didn’t know you knew about all this.

  And despite his mistrust of people who talked about painting, Reinhart generously gave Franklin a short tour of the underpainting, pointing out how and where his own technique diverged from that of the Old Masters.

  The truth is, Franklin was not familiar with the techniques of painting. Rather, he’d been reading Meyer’s Handbook, inspired by his fascination with Reinhart’s work. The Artist’s Handbook was dry as dust, but every once in a while it illuminated some aspect of painting, illuminated both Reinhart and Pollaiuolo at once.

  What’s more, Franklin did not usually admire “modern art.” There were at least two aspects of it he found off-putting: the work itself (it meant nothing to him) and the people who produced it. The work was a simple matter. It seemed a morass of splatters or barber poles on canvas. That which wasn’t on canvas seemed, most of it, an excuse to repeat the same tired question: what is Art? In fact, there was for Franklin something like a line in history, a moment somewhere around 1400. Before 1400, Art had been an expression of Man, Nature, and God. After 1400, it was a remembering, and by 1900, it was all a forgetting. Really, a world that did not know what Art was could not be expected to produce it, and one might as well admit that, in our time, with few exceptions, Art expressed nothing. It was a make-work program for the sensitive, or a longing for itself. There were still artists, of course, and, in his way, Franklin pitied them: the good and the bad, the ones who knew they were lost and the ones who didn’t. He pitied them because he thought he understood their dilemma. They were worshippers of an eclipsed god, with nothing left but plain rituals and old rites.

  Reinhart and Reinhart’s work were different, however. You could see (or Franklin could see) Reinhart was one of those for whom Art was a communion with all that was best in the human psyche: God, the land, the minutiae of the day to day, which, on canvas, was not minutiae at all but the sacred in its day-to-day disguise. This “communal communion” is what touched him, and it was why Franklin occasionally opened Meyer’s Handbook in the hope he would some day understand the force of work like Reinhart’s.

  When Reinhart finished his short talk on underpainting, he wiped a stroke from his painting, as if he were wiping the mouth of a toddler.

  Franklin nodded wisely and, when Edward joined them, said

  – Reinhart, why don’t you join us for a drink? It’s on me.

  They drank at the Metropolitan. It was more restaurant than bar. The ceiling was low. The interior was dark. The fare was expensive and you couldn’t see what you were eating, but it had a good reputation. A waiter approached, filled their glasses with ice water, and waited for their order.

  – Something to eat? Franklin asked Reinhart.

  – I’m not hungry, said Edward.

  – How is the couscous and merguez? asked Reinhart.

  – Ahh, said the waiter. Our chef, Mr. Sinna, is from el-Andalus.

  Reinhart looked the waiter over, smiled, and gently touched his forearm.

  – El-Andalus, eh? Then, I’ll have to have the merguez and a Pilsner Urquell.

  – Two Pilsners, said Franklin.

  – Three, said Edward.

  – Three in all, added Franklin.

  – Very good, said the waiter.

  The waiter was short, broad-shouldered, and handsome by candlelight. His hair was thick, black, recently combed, and Reinhart felt an almost irresistible desire to pull his head back by the hair.

  – What would it take to build the perfect city? asked Franklin.

  – What? said Reinhart. That’s a strange question.

  – Well, what would it take to build a cathedral, then? Theoretically.

  – Money, said Reinhart. Much money. But why are you asking me?

  – You’re an architect, aren’t you, Reinhart?

  – And you’re building a cathedral?

  – No, no, said Franklin. It’s just something that interests me: cities and buildings.

  – Interesting interest, Reinhart said. So, what’s the point of this cathedral?

  – It’s a place of worship, answered Franklin, but it should instill…what’s the word? Reverence. We live in such decrepit times.

  – And you want to improve them? That’s wonderful, but it’s not like there aren’t enough cathedrals in this city already, you know.

  Edward, who, to this point, had kept quiet, basking in the presence of his closest friends, happy to sit by as they exchanged ideas, said

  – A cathedral that could instill reverence would be pretty interesting, though, wouldn’t it?

  – Sure, said Reinhart

  though his mind was squarely on the waiter, the waiter who, when he’d brought their beer, had looked him in the eyes and smiled.

  – Sure, Reinhart repeated, but I’m not really an architect. I studied architecture and I work for Kessler and McAdams, a firm of architects, but my real love is painting.

  – You’re an artist, said Franklin.

  Reinhart squinted to look at the man: Franklin’s nose looked longer by candlelight, his eyes black, his lips dark. One of Franklin’s eyebrows was raised and there was something like mistrust to his posture, but his manner was polite and encouraging. He’s not a bureaucrat at all, thought Reinhart. He’s a politician. In Reinhart’s experience, politicians were the only beings who could say so many contradictory things without speaking.

  The waiter brought the couscous and merguez from the kitchen and put his hand on Reinhart’s shoulder.

  – Would you care for hot sauce? he asked. It’s our own.

  – Yes, please, answered Reinhart.

  The merguez was marvellous, but the red paste was hot. Reinhart felt as i
f it were tormenting him, but he couldn’t stop and he invited Franklin and Edward to share it with him. Franklin took a little of the paste with a mouthful of couscous.

  – It’s good, he said. (Without flinching.)

  – I don’t know how you can eat it, said Edward.

  The rest of the evening passed agreeably.

  They drank until they were just beyond comfortable, and Edward, though still thrilled at the company of two interesting men, allowed himself to speak about the state of the world, by which point Franklin suggested it was time to call it a night. It was only eleven, early by certain standards, but there was work the next day.

  The waiter brought Reinhart a plate of green and yellow peppers and a generous shot of raki.

  – I think I’ll stay a little longer, said Reinhart.

  – Oh, said Franklin. Okay. But listen…I honestly love your work.

  – Thanks, said Reinhart. I really appreciate it.

  They shook hands and Reinhart raised his eyebrows in farewell as Edward and Franklin left the Metropolitan, but Reinhart’s mind was on other things the moment they were out of sight: the warmth of the raki, the meaning of the word haunches, the way the waiter’s little finger was at an eccentric (and erotic) angle to his hand. He forgot Franklin, Edward, buildings, and cities as soon as the waiter brought him another drink.

  {7}

  IN WHICH: RUNDSTEDT

  It wasn’t Franklin alone who took the coming of Brian Mulroney for a bright portent. The Progressive Conservatives, led by the Right Honourable Brian, were all of them full of hope for the future. It’s true, conservatism’s future is usually a version of the past, and Mulroney’s conservatism was no exception. It took its cues from the recently successful, backward-leaning Grand Old Party (U.S.A.), which was as it should be, because it is a conservative’s moral duty to hold to a time in which the world was good, to hold to the past, in other words. So, the last half of 1983 was an exciting time, a time of ideas, expectations, and hope. Mulroney was a godsend: a man from Quebec who would keep the French in line, soothe the West, and bring prosperity to all, a prosperity Canada had not seen since days long gone.

  Of course, Franklin was well placed to share in the prevailing optimism. Though he’d sworn off campaigning, he had not abandoned the party. Yes, there was lingering suspicion that a man who could so easily leave a career in law was, to put it kindly, unstable. But, in the new Conservative mood, anything might be forgiven. Besides, Franklin had worked with Stanfield and toiled for Clark and, before the leadership convention that brought Mulroney to power, he’d let anyone who’d listen know of his deep respect for his compatriot, Brian Mulroney. What’s more, Franklin was now a secretary to the Right Honourable Pierre Boudreau, of Rouyn-Noranda, and Pierre Boudreau was a close friend of the Right Honourable Brian.

  If there was a cloud on Franklin’s horizon, it was his continued devotion to (and fondness for) Diefenbaker. How quickly the Chief had changed from a respected leader to an embittered and poisonous relic, a blind but vicious mastiff in a corner of the house. In 1976, Diefenbaker had attacked the young Brian, whom he thought a treacherous pup, and helped sink his first leadership campaign. By that time Diefenbaker thought everyone treacherous, the universe in a conspiracy against him, but young Brian had taken his rebuff personally and, in 1983, the newly honourable Brian was not fond of Dief’s partisans. And, yes, there were still Dief partisans on the Hill. They reminisced about the old man, about the old Conservative Party, about the funeral of 1979 when John’s corpse was paraded before the public, like an owl in a box, before being shipped to Saskatchewan.

  Franklin himself did not reminisce often, but his admiration for Diefenbaker was no secret. If pressed, he would admit that he had not known the man in his best days, that he’d been saddened by Dief’s bitter pontifications (“towards the end…”), and he would add that, it seemed to him, Mulroney was all that the young Diefenbaker had been and, perhaps, more. Franklin was proud of his association with Dief and, naturally, he had the respect of those who still had affection for the old curmudgeon, but he easily sided with Mulroney and the bright, new Progressive Conservative Party.

  Boudreau’s offices were in the Centre Block. He had two suites, 642S and 641S, one on either side of the hallway, both modest. Boudreau’s own (642) had space for two desks, several filing cabinets, and four bookcases. He shared this one with Mary Stanley, his secretary. The other (641) was for Franklin, his research assistant. It was small and windowless, with room for a desk, a bookcase, and little else.

  There was something paperish about Franklin’s office. The bookshelves were congested with bound Hansards, full binders, and office supplies, but that wasn’t it. The office wasn’t so much desiccated as desiccating. The room itself was like yellowing paper. Franklin was happiest in the library or the cafeteria or even the offices of other assistants and other Members, but when he had time to socialize, Franklin’s favourite refuge was the office of Albert Rundstedt (644S), the Member from Calgary West. The office was as uninteresting as any in Centre Block, but Rundstedt’s company was diverting. To put it plainly: Rundstedt was the kind of man who would not have believed you if you told him he was not universally admired. He would have put his arm around your shoulders and offered solace for your delusional state. He wasn’t simply a “good guy” from out west. He was a true believer in his own irresistibility, and, though he could be annoying, the heat of his self-confidence was, more often than not, like an invitation to bask and unwind, agreeable.

  For Franklin, who liked the man, Rundstedt was, in many ways, the opposite of the usual politician. He was less restricted intellectually, more attentive to his constituents than to systematic (that is, Conservative) thought. He was also slightly peculiar. He was “peculiar” in the usual ways, of course: his friendliness was (perhaps) a mask, he was (often, almost certainly) devious, and he was not unwilling to blame his own failures on his hirelings. These particular failings were common and only mildly disturbing to Franklin, who had come to accept that there is no political achievement without self-regard or ruthlessness, or self-regard and ruthlessness or, for that matter, ruthless self-regard.

  However, Rundstedt was peculiar in his own way as well. He seemed, at times, possessed by the idea of incarceration. Now, Conservatives of every stripe had faith in prisons the way Liberals had faith in “tolerance,” but Rundstedt had actually read a few things about prisons and prisoners: articles and such, mostly. He had paid attention to the lectures on deviance when he’d taken first-year sociology, so he recognized the names of Sade and Solzhenitsyn, Villon and Verlaine, without being certain who they were or what they had done. He’d even thought about studying games theory in order to fathom the Prisoner’s Dilemma but had been mystified by the calculation involved.

  For all that, Rundstedt was not an intellectual. He believed prison was the best resource of a careful society, and that proposition was the full extent of his “philosophy,” a philosophy that certainly didn’t alienate him from Franklin, though Franklin was sometimes dismayed by the manner in which the subject overtook Rundstedt, from time to time. One moment they’d be speaking of something banal and unprovocative (the weather, say) and the next Rundstedt would be off on one of his tangents: Why, oh why, don’t people understand that prison is a golden resource for all concerned, for society, for lawmakers, for the prisoners themselves? What is it that keeps the citizen from his own good?

  Perhaps because he was unaccustomed to voicing ideas that might be thought controversial, Rundstedt’s face would turn a light pink and his voice would rise. Staring at Franklin’s forehead, he would speak at him or through him, and Franklin would feel himself disappear. Rundstedt’s thoughts never took long to express and, as if embarrassed at having voiced an opinion, he would return, mildly, to the subject at hand – the weather, say.

  Though Franklin was unsettled by these sudden shifts in conversation, he admired Run
dstedt’s passion, its stimulating chaos. More than that, he felt kinship with a man who shared his fascination with prisons and the process of punishment, a fascination that had been, until he met Rundstedt, long unexpressed. And once Mulroney came to power, Franklin even began to encourage Rundstedt’s diatribes, encouraging Rundstedt to take his own convictions seriously. The two of them would spend hours fancifully considering unusual details: the layout of the Bastille, the sense (or not) of Scandinavian blood guilt, the idea of “justice,” its relative value…

  Franklin had no political power to speak of and, before the election, Rundstedt had not much more. But Rundstedt had two things going for him, where influence was concerned. First, he was acquainted with Mulroney. Second, and more importantly, there were some mucky-mucks who found his passion for “law and order” appealing. A correctional institute, whatever its raison d’être, provided employment for a host of constituents, from architects and contractors to guards and administrators. In practical terms, an institute of correction was as useful as a museum, a gallery, or a church. In practical terms, there was little difference among them. So when Rundstedt began to make serious, pre-electoral noise about a new federal prison, though it was a noise he (and any number of others) habitually made before every election, he had the attention of his peers.

  {8}

  A PROPOSITION AND A LETTER

  Mary Stanley was on her way to the restaurant when she heard a Member of Parliament say

  – I speak what appears to me the general opinion, and where an opinion is general it is usually correct.

  And she thought, How pompous the men from small towns can be. They came from towns of “youse,” “boughten,” and “pogey,” but it was rare to hear them speak their own dialects. They stepped into Ottawa as if they’d stepped from Westminster Abbey. The man who’d spoken was from Moosonee. He’d raised his voice to give his opinion on opinions, but it was as if he were not from Canada at all.

  Perhaps he was rehearsing for the election.