The Elephants in My Backyard

by Rajiv Surendra

  Hope you get that horror movie part you auditioned for. Jeunet handed in a first draft; the studio liked it and now he’s doing some rewrites. I don’t know when they’ll be shooting. I can’t believe they’ll get it all together to do it this summer, but what do I know. One of these years we’ll be able to uncross our fingers.

  Alice and I went to a drive-in last night, Alice’s first time ever and mine in twenty years. Saw “She’s the Man” and “V for Vendetta.” There were two other movies on but we’d had enough. A fun thing, the drive-in. Oh, yeah, our battery died. But it was revived, in the spirit of Easter.

  Stay well,

  Yann

  10.

  THE CAR SWERVED SLIGHTLY onto the gravel shoulder and then jerked back onto the lonely country road headed north, flanked with snowbanks piled five feet high. Another car appeared in front of us and we slowed down, coasting well below the 60 km speed limit posted on the road. I was sitting in the passenger seat and Audrey, eighty years old, was driving. In the backseat was her family friend, Jenn, a schoolteacher—a pretty brunette in her late thirties, seated beside her huge golden retriever. We were all headed to Audrey’s winter vacationing spot up north.

  “Audrey—uh, you need to speed up a bit,” Jenn called from the back. Audrey ignored her and continued to recount a story from her past. The car in front of us began to disappear, when all of a sudden my back jolted away from the seat as we revved up to 80 km and were instantly tailgating the only other vehicle in sight.

  “It was at Lord Beaverbrook’s annual spring dance,” Audrey recounted, when she was again interrupted by Jenn, who was now hesitating as she leaned forward.

  “Uh, Audrey, you need to slow down; you, uh—”

  Audrey cut her off. “I was dancing with my beau at the time, Didd. Handsome. Tall. Gorgeous boy. Six foot three. I had a crick in my neck for a whole year from looking up at him.”

  As we swerved slightly off the road, Jenn piped up again, “Audrey, you, uh—”

  “Jenn,” Audrey yelled, her ivory-colored kidskin gloves gripping the wheel tightly as she glared into the rearview mirror, “shut up!” I stared straight ahead, relieved that I had followed my instincts and kept my driving commentary to myself. “Just shut up!”Audrey continued. “I am driving. And you are in the backseat. And when I am driving and you are in the backseat, you sit there and you shut up! You shut up and you let me drive!”

  Ladies and gentlemen, it is a pleasure, nay, an honor, to have the privilege of introducing you to my friend, Audrey.

  I had met Audrey through Kate and Eric. And Kate had met her while working at the village—Audrey’s husband, Bruce, a famed historical architect, was responsible for designing the Village way back in the fifties.

  I became friends with Audrey unintentionally, beginning with tea at her house with Kate and Eric and then housesitting for her while she vacationed three hours north of the city on Georgian Bay, in her huge 1880s wooden houseboat that Bruce had saved, restored, and moored to a private island—her wedding present from him. Then one winter, she invited me to join her and her kids to go up north to their “winter cottage,” Blagdon Hall, a stone cottage in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by acres of snow-covered hills where we would ski and snow-shoe during the day and roast marshmallows while one of us played the guitar at night in front of the fireplace.

  Being around Audrey always felt a little like hobnobbing with royalty. Audrey lunched with the elite in Toronto back when the grand mansions of the city had stables on their grounds. One of her old acquaintances was a Russian named Olga. “My mother-in-law would have me over for lunch in York Mills, and a few times Olga was there. We’d have watercress sandwiches and a boiled egg.” Audrey spoke of Olga like she was the girl next door, but it was only after some questioning on my part that I discovered who this “Olga” really was—oh, you know, just the royal Grand Duchess Olga Alexandrovna Romanov of Russia, who never did find her niece, the famous Anastasia, she searched for after the assassination of her brother, the czar, and his family.

  I’d stop in and visit Audrey every now and then, when I’d have Ma’s car for the day. I picked her up one afternoon from the eye doctor, when her pupils had been dilated, and Loretta Lynn was playing on the radio. Audrey cranked up the volume to full blast and was blindly dancing along in the passenger seat as people who passed us gave us looks of pure confusion, perhaps assuming this was a real-life Driving Miss Daisy situation. She was distracting me as I drove, but I laughed and laughed all the way back to her house.

  My lane swim sessions were improving as my third year at U of T wound down. I returned to the village again, but I had a thrilling new setup for the summer—I temporarily moved away from home and was housesitting for Audrey while she was away up north. I was to water the grass and feed the birds. For the first time in my life, I felt independent, like an adult, doing my own grocery shopping and coming and going as I pleased, answering to no one. I didn’t have to bicker with my sisters about who left their dirty plate in the sink or whose pubic hairs were strewn across the toilet seat. Having a place of my own for the summer was more than enough compensation for the light work I’d be doing to take care of the house. I’d go to work in the morning and head back to Audrey’s after a day of toiling away by the open hearth. Sometimes Laura or Kate would visit me and talk the evening away as the sun went down.

  The phone rang one afternoon. It was Audrey. “It’s gone. The houseboat burned down.” I laughed awkwardly, certain I was missing the joke. “No, dear. I’m serious. There was a fire and the houseboat burned down. There’s nothing left.”

  Audrey was on her way back to the city. It would be a few hours before she arrived, so I pulled her huge old single-speed bike out of the garage and rode to the corner store to pick up a basket of local Ontario peaches—in their prime for only a couple of weeks in July and August. Back in her kitchen, I cut up the fruit, mixed in some sugar and cinnamon, and left it on the counter. And as my fingers crumbled the lard into the flour in another bowl, I thought of what I might say to Audrey when she came home. Then I added an egg and some vinegar, as I had done countless times before. What was I going to say? My mind drew a blank. What do you say to someone whose house just burned to the ground? “At least you’re alive?” No . . . so generic. “I’m sorry?” Well, obviously. Damn. What do I say? I rolled out the pastry and lined the tin. I drained off the liquid from the peaches, boiled it down to a syrup, and then added it back to the fruit—then I emptied the bowl of filling into the bottom crust. I figured I’d just say what I needed to say when I knew exactly what to say. I wet my index finger in a bowl of cold water and ran it around the edge of the bottom crust before adding the top crust, then I crimped the edges together with my fingers and the pie went into the oven. Audrey loved my peach pies . . . maybe I wouldn’t need to say anything, perhaps the pie would say enough.

  Two hours later, the entire place smelled like baking day as the pie rested on the counter, cooling down (the windowsill wasn’t wide enough). Audrey walked in, with Lexi Looloobell’s carrier. She let the tiny tabby cat out into the living room and then flopped on the sofa. I slowly sat down beside her.

  “You know, I’ve been through a lot of shit in my life.” Her voice was hoarse and she continued to stare ahead. “The third of July, 1957. I’m walking out of the drugstore, pregnant with Barbara, and holding the other two by the hands; Peter was four and Ian was two. Husband Jim was away overseeing a logging operation up north—”

  “I thought his name was Bruce—” I interrupted.

  “First husband, dear,” Audrey clarified, her eyes blankly looking out of the window in front of us. “Jim. A forestry engineer. Beautiful man. I was walking out of the drugstore and a neighbor comes running down to find me in town. Jim’s lifejacket and boat were found in the water. Jim was gone. Drowned in an accident. I don’t know how I did it, but I picked up the pieces and moved on. Then I met Bruce . . . God, I loved that man. Nick was born—he was crazy about
his father—they were best friends, Nick and his father. Bruce was often away on business, saving some old building from being torn down or giving talks about heritage architecture. He hated to fly. Hated it. His palms would get all sweaty, and I’d take his hand in mine and nudge him forward onto the plane. Life was good—busy, though. I never had the time to sit in a bath in the middle of the day, but there I was one afternoon—Bruce had left that morning, headed out east and the house was unusually quiet. And there I was at a quarter to twelve, in the bath listening to Gordon Sinclair on the radio. Everyone tuned in to Gordon Sinclair at a quarter to twelve. ‘There’s a Beechcraft down, off the coast of Newfoundland,’ he said, ‘they haven’t found the plane, they think it’s in the ocean.’ Somehow, I just knew it. Bruce was dead.”

  Lexi jumped onto Audrey’s lap and nestled in. I began, almost mumbling, hoping that the right thing would eventually just find its way out of my mouth as she finally turned to face me. She lowered her voice to almost a whisper. “I have a baseball bat in the closet, dear.”

  “Huh?”

  “And in my will, it states clearly that I am to be buried with that bat,” she continued in her whisper. “It’s to get those two on the other side, for leaving me the way they did.” She stuck her middle finger up above her head and made a funny face. I laughed quietly, but I didn’t say anything. The mood was still somber. She turned back to stare blankly ahead. It was enough to just sit here and simply keep her company.

  There was an old black-and-white photo in a pine frame hanging on the wall beside me. I had seen it so many times before, but we had never talked about it. Four cute little kids, about ten, eight, six, and two. The little girl had a black silk dress on with a big lace collar, and the fat toddler was grinning so widely his eyes were teeny, tiny slivers.

  “I’ve learned a few things in my lifetime. My boobies may be down to my waist, but I’ve realized that no one wants to be around an old broad who complains all the time. Nobody,” she sighed. “So, you put on a smile . . . even if it isn’t real. Sometimes, you have to tell your mind to just shut the fuck up. And you put on a smile. And eventually,” she turned to me, “it becomes real.” She jumped up off of the couch with a bounce. “Now! I’m pouring us a drink!”

  “Gin or vodka?” she asked as she headed to the kitchen.

  “Oh, I don’t drink, Audrey,” I said. I was never pushed to explain why, but I had my personal reasons. My dad was one of them—I never, ever wanted to slide down his path, even in the slightest way. The other was that I was doing everything I could to maintain the naive and youthful mind-set of a sixteen-year-old . . . Pi definitely was a virgin in more ways than one. As Audrey continued to make her way over to the kitchen cupboard where she kept the booze, I called to her, “I’ll just have some orange juice or something.” She turned on her heels to face me, pointing her index finger at my chest. “Sit back down! There’s no way I’m drinking alone. Gin and tonic, I think . . .” She bent down and was rummaging through the liquor cupboard.

  I wanted to say no again, I was going to stand my ground and refuse the drink, but because it was Audrey, I pushed myself to not be such a hard-ass and at least consider the offer. Would there ever be a more suitable occasion than this to have my very first drink? I didn’t think so.

  Audrey was grinning widely, comically, as she pulled a large bottle out of the cupboard before noticing the pie cooling. “Well, look at this! Aren’t you something, you’ve gone and made me a pie . . .” And as she rambled on, she poured, mixed, then handed me the drink, fizzing away with a wedge of lime floating at the top. She continued to go on about the pie as she raised her glass to mine, but I wasn’t really listening. I was having my own conversation in my head. Jesus, Mary-humping, motherfucking Christ, I thought, this is what it’s all about.

  I brought the drink to my mouth and tipped the glass. I knew that I would never become my father. It burned a little as it went down and felt a little chemically. My very first taste of gin was not the illicit imbibing of some kind of poison associated with shouting, picking fights, and wallowing in self-pity, but an affirmation that I belonged to another kind of clan. I was lucky to be surrounded by exemplars of fortitude, courage, and perseverance, the epitome of which was now standing before me.

  I named the voice in my head. That annoying little voice that would pipe up as I slipped into the swimming pool. While submerging my face under the water and splaying out my arms and legs, that voice began by saying, slowly, “Uh-oh . . .” I’d try my hardest to just ignore it, not responding as I started my kick and stretched one arm out, pulling the water underneath me while rotating my torso and lifting the other arm out and over. And as I’d start to see the floor of the pool descending deeper . . . oh, so much water going even deeper . . . the voice would gurgle, “No . . . you can’t do it . . .” and my chest would begin to tighten, succumbing to the loudening voice, “ . . . see? I told you. You can’t do it, you can’t relax . . . it’s all water and you don’t know what you’re doing, danger, danger, you are going to drown . . .”

  I named that voice in my head, and when I could ignore it no longer, when I was so fed up with hearing its constant, annoying, doubting whine from the peanut gallery, the frustration in me boiled to the brim of impatience and I yelled back, “JENN! SHUT UP!” As I turned my head and took a breath, putting my face back into the water and pulling another stroke, I continued, “I am driving, and you are in the backseat!” One stroke, two stroke, breathe, dammit. And although the voice was now quiet, I got louder, “. . . and when I am driving and you are in the backseat, you sit there and you shut up. Do you hear me, Jenn?! You SHUT THE FUCK UP and you let me drive.”

  I learned how to swim. It took five years, but I learned how to swim. Front crawl, back crawl, and eventually butterfly. I had put Jenn in her place, and I finally learned how to swim.

  From: yann_martel1963@yahoo.com

  To: rajivsca@yahoo.ca

  Subject: Happy New Year

  Date: Sun, 7 Jan 2007 23:11:47

  Hello, Rajiv.

  Happy new year to you too.

  News about Pi. Let’s see. It’s still happening, though still no green light yet. That should be coming very soon. I’ve read the screenplay, which is very good, albeit still a little too long, I suspect. I should warn you that Jeunet cast Pi as a twelve-year-old, which strikes me as much too young, and I told him so. Not only because finding a good actor that young is unlikely, but also because of the story: twelve is just too young for a character as mature as Pi. I think he should go for a young actor who can make himself look even younger. But that’s in his hands. He’s the god of this project. What else? Will be shot in India for 21 to 28 days, then in Louisiana (!) for five months (seems they have a basin and swamps there), then the rest in LA in studio.

  That’s all I know so far. Jeunet was having a conference with the big cheeses at Fox between Xmas and New Year. Things may be proceeding as we speak.

  Stay well. Good luck with pilot season in LA.

  Yann

  From: yann_martel1963@yahoo.com

  To: rajivsca@yahoo.ca

  Subject: RE: Summertime

  Date: Fri, 13 Jul 2007 21:39:30

  Hello, Rajiv.

  Yes, very busy. Trying to finish my next book before mid-August.

  Illustrated Pi is coming out this late fall. As for movie Pi, I believe the studio should be agreeing on the budget very, very soon. So, fingers crossed, a green light before the end of the month.

  That’s my news.

  Hope you’re well.

  Yann

  11.

  MEAN GIRLS WAS NOW A bigger deal than it was when it was first released in theaters. Over the course of a few years, it had become a cult classic. I found myself in the strange situation of being interrupted while spinning wool at work only to be asked whether I was “the rapping mathlete, Kevin G.”

  I was still in the acting game, going out for auditions whenever they came up. My role in Mean Girls had g
iven me just enough clout to be considered for any major “brown” dude, but I never did approach my career with the notion that one job would lead to another, and after playing Kevin G., I was adamant about not going back to auditioning for the monthly terrorist or IT guys in the many TV shows that were shooting in Toronto. I told my agent Gerry that I’d be willing and happy to read for anything he thought I might enjoy being a part of, although those roles came up only a few times a year. I stressed to Gerry that Pi came before anything else.

  The school year was coming to a close, when Gerry called with an audition for a TV pilot called Aliens in America. I loved the script and the character I’d be trying out for—an Indian, immigrant, Muslim kid named Raja who participates in a student exchange program with a family in Wisconsin. There were elements of playing the stereotype in this show, but the whole premise was about breaking misconceptions, so I was okay with putting on an Indian accent and bobbling my head. Another perk was that the father figure in the show was already cast—an actor that I only knew about because of my sisters’ obsession with Gilmore Girls. When I told my sisters that I was up for a part that would entail being in scenes with Luke Danes, they lost it.

  A couple of weeks after submitting my taped audition, Gerry called and said that they wanted to see me in LA for a studio test. I was ecstatic.

  My screen test dates could not have been timed more horribly—they wanted me there for two days, the same days that I had both a final art history exam at school and a mandatory yearly staff orientation at Black Creek. Wendy made her sour face when I told her I couldn’t make it to the orientation, and I was ready to quit my job if she put up a fuss, but she conceded and let me take the day off. School proved to be the unexpected pain in the ass—the professor refused to grant me permission to miss the exam and told me I’d have to fill in paperwork after missing the exam, appealing to rewrite it. Some sort of board would either approve or deny my appeal, and if they denied it, I’d fail the course. Whatever, I thought, fuck art history and fuck school. It wasn’t a difficult decision.