by WD Clarke
Huh, whatever. He picked up the gift bag, to throw it in the garbage, and noticed that it was not quite empty: at the bottom of the bag, torn into 8 pink and white pieces, was another greeting card. He pulled one of the torn pieces out of the bag, scratched his noggin over the word ‘Expect’, and threw the bag away. He then turned to the refrigerator, and opened its door, to put the can of coffee away. What was the devil was with that, anyway? he wondered. Decaf? Why would anyone drink Decaf? There was just no point to it, he chuckled.
This reminded him to fill the coffee machine and reset its timer for an hour earlier than usual: he had a lot to catch up on tomorrow, and, it being a Saturday, the clinic would thankfully be deserted. He filled the reservoir with water and retrieved the canister of his usual coffee from the fridge. It felt light, soon to be in need of replenishment with those little El Salvadoran cellopacks.
After he put the first scoop of coffee in the machine’s funnelshaped permanent filter, he felt something strange, something hard in the canister. It was then that he remembered, for some reason, the last name of the therapist that Dora used to see: Anna, Anna Fraser. And then, digging down just a little, into the coffee canister for a second and then a third scoop of the good stuff, he retrieved it: an open plastic prescription bottle. It was empty.
LOVE'S
ALCHEMY
Ça, mon âme, il faut partir
—René Descartes, d. 11 February 1650
1
Horticulture: 1977, Duxbury, Massachusetts
She Has Her Back turned to them, and he, he alone (he thinks) remains attentive while she writes on the board. Only he, it seems, sees where she is coming from, where the poet is coming from, where she is trying to take them all:
Where, like a pillow on a bed,
A pregnant bank swelled up, to rest
The violet’s reclining head,
Sat we two, one another’s best;
Gerald always sits nearest to her desk, at the front of the row beside the window, next to her plants.
The bell rings, and she pretends not to notice that he lingers while everyone else clears out for early dismissal. There is a pep rally in the gym for the upcoming, annual Thanksgiving game against Cohasset, but most of his buddies would be heading elsewhere, to hang out in front of Duxbury Pizza perhaps. One of these, Victor Turnbull, looks him in the eye on his way out of the classroom, clenches his fist and gives it a nearly invisible little pump, something Gerald imagines a real Soldier of Fortune might do—a secret signal exchanged between blood-brothers in the Laotian jungle before setting out to put a sniper’s bullet between the eyes of some high-level gooks for the arms-length chicken shits at the Pentagon—all as if just to say, hey, yeah, like, go for it man!
—Did you wish to speak with me, Gerald? she asks, after a rather discomfiting thirty seconds’ silence. Turning her back to him, she grabs one of those long, flexible foam chalk brushes. She is purposefully methodical with it, but after several passes the day’s lesson is still clearly visible on the board. They were to have analysed a poem by John Donne; God knows how many of them, apart from Gerald here, had even bothered to read it.
Our hands were firmly cemented
With a fast balm, which thence did spring,
Our eye-beams twisted, and did thread
Our eyes, upon one double string;
He had ‘read’ it (semi-conscious on his bed, on his back, the paperback Anthology man-handled, spine-broken and held aloft towards the shadows of a Scrooge McDuck N-R-G Sav-R light bulb), but hadn’t understood any of the poem until she had led them through it, her sturdy peasant hands circling and underlining words and phrases, confidently, unflaggingly leading them, leading him, to the heart of the matter, to Truth with a capital-T, to….
—Er, yes, Miss Stone. I uh….
—Could you wait here just a minute, dear? I have to run to the rest room.
He stares after her as she whisks herself down the hall. When she is at last out of sight, he notices that his mind suddenly clears, and turns its attention to the other half of the equation: she has divided his loyalties. No, she has tried to divide. Because he is sensitive as well as unduly receptive, and although he has tried (for obvious reasons) to hide this, she has nevertheless exploited it. Furthermore, he knows that she likes him. Moreover, she sure is mean to everyone else, and the fact that she always wears pants made of what he and his friends call ‘Pleather’ (plastic + leather—they imagine that they have invented the word)—this is the therefore in the equation here, the kiss of death. As his math teacher always says: ‘q.e.d.’
All that other stuff, plus she wears Pleather!? Therefore, she must pay—q.e.d..
He gets Victor’s dad’s test tubes out of his brown vinyl Adidas bag, thankful they haven’t leaked, and makes towards the window. What could he invent needing to talk to her about?
So to intergraft our hands, as yet
Was all our means to make us one,
And pictures in our eyes to get
Was all our propagation.
Oh yeah, the poem. Yeah.
2
The Story: 1997, Toronto
Could You please pass the vinaigrette?
—Of course. Do you like it?
—It’s really, really nice. What kind of balsamic do you use?
—Oh I don’t know much about these things. It came in a nice blue bottle, shaped like a Bosc pear, from Spain somewhere, I think.
Amē, the hostess, is wearing her favourite velvet dress, which the men at the table notice as she leans over towards Andrea, who had just signalled that she was going to say something discreet:
—I think he likes you! Andrea whispers.
—Who?
—The Entrepreneur!
—Him? Amē asks, pretending she hasn’t much noticed.
—Him.
The Entrepreneur, in a black turtleneck and sports coat, is in a heated debate with another young man, a brushcut-but-not-sporty type who is way underdressed and who does not really belong here. Andrea can’t tell what the debate is exactly about, but she can surmise that it is political, and she knows that she wants to get the Entrepreneur—David, someone she’s known, since oh, like forever!—talking to Amē, and about anything but politics.
And don’t listen to Andrea’s kill-joy nemesis, Jill, who bet her a bottle of Chardonnay because David supposedly kind of has a thing about not dating women so much taller than him (and she’s ab-solutely certain about this, the bitch)—no, and somehow Andrea just knows, they’ll click!
As ’twixt two equal armies,
Fate suspends uncertain victory,
Our souls, (which to advance their state,
Were gone out), hung ‘twixt her, and me.
—David, are you inciting controversy again?
She pronounces that word the way the cbc language coach taught all the Corporation’s journalists to (which was, generally speaking, approximately equivalent to the Queen’s English) and which in this particular case places emphasis on the middle syllable.
—No, well, no. I mean, not exactly. Bill here is educating me on the increasing problem of homelessness, aren’t you Bill?
—You mean you haven’t noticed how much the situation has deteriorated in the last ten years? Bill continues, with volume enough to signal to the group that he means to include them all in this: You can’t deny that more people are on the streets now than ten years ago!
—Well I’m not so aware of the battle against homelessness, Andrea intervenes. But I do know that Amē here has a great story about the battle between Mars and Venus, so I think we might all profit from a slight, shall we say, metamor-pho-sis? In topic?
Amē blushes.
—Andrea! she says, in a stage whisper, her face tightening in embarrassment.
Bill, unwilling to let go, raises his voice still further. —This is all precisely about profit—and loss. About having and not having, about the ignorance in here of the widening disparity out there, he says, gest
uring out the east-facing window.
—You’re pointing towards Rosedale, where Andrea, Serena and I grew up, David says, anticipating him and smiling. To the others he offers: But of course, we wanted for nothing, it’s true, maybe Bill’s right, maybe we don’t—or can’t—understand.
He trails off, looks almost wistfully into the imaginary distance, as if he can see with Clarke Kent x-ray vision through the well-crafted plaster and double-brick structure of this Annex-area century home to the increasingly (or so it seems) mean streets beyond. He gives a not-unsympathetic but weary little wave towards the south. Perhaps, he says, perhaps we just cannot understand … the Other.
—Maybe we have an interest in not understanding, Bill says.
—Maybe you’re full of it, both of you, Serena says. It is Serena’s birthday party; this was supposed to be about her, and her voice betrays an increasing level of annoyance.
—Anyhow, Andrea says, surprised that Serena has taken Bill’s bait and is, yes, helping to slightly derail Andrea’s matchmaking project by furthering this banter. Anyway, everyone knows that the average family income in Canada is what? Fifty thousand?
—Forty thousand, David says.
—What? Bill says.
And whilst our souls negotiate there,
We like sepulchral statues lay;
All day, the same our postures were,
And we said nothing, all the day.
—Anyone who can’t get by on fifty thousand is buying far too many pairs of shoes, I’d say, Andrea adds, knowledgeably.
Sam, a blonde, Afro-ed, wire-rimmed-glasses-wearing Mathematics PhD student says, perfunctorily and almost inaudibly:
—Median income? Standard deviation? Jesus.
—I’d like to hear Amē’s story now, Serena says.
—I don’t have any story!
—Andrea promised us a story, David says, looking first straight-ahead at Amē’s chest, then up to try to make eye contact.
—Go on, Amē, Andrea says.
Silence.
—Please? Serena says. For my birthday?
—For her birthday? Andrea says. Please?
Silence.
—Well if you won’t tell it, Amē, I will. You guys know Amē used to live in Japan?
—When did you live there, Amē? David says.
—It’s sooooo crowded, why would anyone want to live there? Serena says.
—I’m not sure why Amē moved there, though I have my suspicions. But it was back in ’89, wasn’t it Amē?
—Andrea!
—Amē, this story is going to be told, whether you tell it or not. David wants to hear it.
If any, so by love refined,
That he soul’s language understood,
And by good love were grown all mind,
Within convenient distance stood
—Amē had the hots for this guy, she continues.
—I like the story already, David says.
—I did not!
—Or he had the hots for her, whatever, it doesn’t matter. She was hiding out in Tokyo with yet another of her stop-gap boyfriends. She’d spent some time there as a kid; it was a kind of return to a more innocent time, a brief….
—‘Interregnum?’ Amē interrupts. ‘Whilst the soul pauses, taking time to adjust itself to its forthcoming, ineluctable compromises?’ Come on, Andrea, spare me the biographical gloss. At least until I’ve achieved something?
Andrea and Amē have been down this very path before, with other, similar audiences. Some details are added or subtracted, other aspects emphasised or minimised, but the pattern remains. Andrea pretends to affront, and Amē pretends to be affronted. It’s a kind of mutual preening, all part and parcel of the perennial renegotiation of their friendship.
—Anyhow, Andrea continues, as if Amē hasn’t spoken. He was a Tory speech writer, and he was accompanying some Minister of Something-or-Such-and-Such on a far-east trade junket, and he’d arranged a stopover in Tokyo….
—My kind of fellow, David says, glancing back to Bill before refixing his gaze on Amē. Arranging stopovers….
—Un vrai homme du monde, Serena says.
—Un homme d’affaires, David counters.
—Who means business, Bill adds.
—Listen, Amē says. If this story is going to be told, I’ll do the telling, K-O?
—Do tell! David says.
—That way I don’t get … misrepresented, by a journalist’s sensationalising … interpolations. For starters, I got there in ’86; I was gone by ’89.
—What was his name? Serena asks.
He (though he knew not which soul spake
Because both meant, both spake the same)
Might thence a new concoction take,
And part far purer than he came.
—They called him The Kid, The Shawinigan Kid, Andrea says. His name was Roger. Roger Scruton.
3
The Interregnum: 1988, Tokyo
But You Can call me Kid.
—Well, it’s nice to meet you, Kid.
—I know what you’re thinking, Vic. You’re thinking who’d want to be called Kid? Isn’t it kind of boyish, a little immature, maybe?
—Well, um.
—But you’re wrong. ‘Kid’ gives you an instant advantage. People feel good around you, you’re instantly approachable, and before you even open your mouth you’ve earned a mountain of goodwill.
—I don’t quite see your point, uh, Kid.
—You see, it’s a bit like telling people you’re colour-blind….
—Are you?
—You bet. Lots of guys are. But telling people you’re colour-blind earns you some instant empathy, and it lets others relax around you because you’re sending them the message: Hey, I’m fallible, I’m limited. I’m not a threat. That kind of thing.
—I’m just a regular guy.
—Correct! How ‘bout you? Vic, short for Victor, right, is what nationality?
—Polish, my mom’s side. Turnbull’s my last name, and that’s, I dunno, cos of my dad maybe, just w.a.s.p. American I guess. Anyhow, what’s your business in Tokyo?
—Not business. Pleasure. I was over for work last month, to Osaka and Kyoto, but this is my first time to Tokyo.
—How long you here for?
—Well, I have to meet my boss in Singapore in 72 hours, so I guess I’ll have to squeeze a helluva lot of fun into the meantime. It’ll be short, but hopefully sweet, if you catch my drift. But I’m certainly looking forward to it.
—Sounds great. I wish I could say the same.
—Why? What are you doing here?
—I’m with the State Department. I used to work as an agronomist at NexChem, but now I manage things.
—You look kinda young for that. What kind of things?
—Hey, I’m twenty-five. The higher-ups sent me here to manage a previously botched attempt to prevent a trade war. Basically, I’m here to sell the Japs on American rice.
—Good luck! That’s like—
—Yeah I know. Coals to Newcastle.
—Ice to the Eskimos.
—Carrying water to the river. Porter de l’eau à la rivière.
—You speak French!
—Some, yes. You?
—Not a bit. I’m from Quebec, though.
—You’re Canadian?
—Yeah, Shawinigan is in Quebec.
—I’ve never been to Quebec.
—Nice. Lotsa nature. Trees, minerals, water….
—Hydro dams. We get our power from you.
—You live where?
—DC. But I’m from south of Boston. Duxbury. Plymouth Plantation country.
—It’s nice of you to buy our electricity.
—Nice of you to make it. But I guess you’ve got rivers to spare!
—You bet. The Indians and the tree-huggers kick up a fuss every time we get a project going, but we’ve got water up the wazoo.
—Are you afraid of the Separatists?
—It’ll
never happen.
—How can you be sure?
—You know how it goes: this land is your land, this land is my land, blahblahblah, etc.
—I’m not sure I….
—The frogs could never afford it, see? Money talks, bull-shit walks.
—But how do you….
—Listen, I’m with the government too. The Progressive Conservative Party, actually.
—Wasn’t there just an election up there?
—Mais oui. That’s why I get this mini-break: we just defeated the Liberals, and this is my reward. We sold our voters on Free Trade, so perhaps you’ve got a shot with the Japanese.
—Perhaps. Now, Progressive Conservative, that’s kind of like our Republicans?
—Kind of, but better. It’s all in the name: we progress, we conserve, it sounds like magic but we can actually do both at the same time, we have a foot in both camps, the future, the past, it’s pretty nifty, actually.
—It is! But I still don’t see how you keep the French from leaving the … union, is it?
—Confederation. Listen, I accompanied the Interminable Shadow Minister of Intergovernmental Affairs, when we were still in opposition. I trudged along on all of his ribbon-cutting, glad-handing, pork-barrel-promise-tours and I’ve seen each-and-every-last shithole town in Quebec, believe me. They talk the big nationalist, sovereignty talk, sure, but like our translator says, underneath it all they just want jobs. Jobs, jobs, jobs. So that’s what I write for the Man: jobs, jobs, jobs. They liked what I did so much, that now we’re actually in power I’ve been promoted to External Affairs, but that’s still what I write: jobs, jobs, jobs.