by Grant Buday
Soon they moved on to Novak’s bottle of red. Paul asked what Novak did in the war and Novak gave his shrug and frown and said he was a mouse. “I lived in walls, in basements, in closets, sometimes in the sewer, though mostly in attics. The Russians—and their pals the Ukrainians and Romanians—they didn’t like going up stairs. Too lazy. And you never know what is waiting for you. We came down after dark for the midnight buffet of frozen horse. Mwa!” He kissed his fingers. “And if the dogs or rats beat us to it we broke the teeth from the horses and ground them in a mortar and pestle and drank the powder in melted snow. Very high in calcium.”
“Ukraine had no choice.”
“Au contraire, madame,” said Novak, “we all had plenty of choice. The choice to be shot by the Germans or shot by the Russians or to shoot ourselves. And since so few of us had the grace for the latter, most of us obeyed.”
Cyril, aware that his father had participated in the Siege of Budapest, watched the faces of his mother and Paul.
“Not that there wasn’t a certain dark joy on the part of everyone seeing Hungary carved like this roast and served out to Romanians,” said Novak. “Romanians.” He pushed his plate away as if nauseated. “People who don’t even know which end of the goat to fuck.”
Cyril’s mother threw down her napkin; Della’s eyes were wide and fearful; Paul was happy, as though the real entertainment was finally beginning.
“Ukraine got nothing.”
“My Lady, other than to be left alone Ukraine deserved nothing.” Novak finished his wine, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, stood and bowed to her. “An excellent dinner and a most enchanting evening.” He turned. “You should really consider modeling,” he said to Della. “And you young sir.” He extended his hand to Paul who, not knowing what else to do, shook it. “Interesting to meet you.” To Cyril he said, “Wednesday.” And showed himself out.
No one spoke for a full minute. Then, with bitterness and bewilderment, Cyril’s mother asked, “You couldn’t do better than him?”
The next class Cyril expected some sardonic remark from Novak but there was nothing, instead he announced that it was time for a show. Everyone assumed he meant they should gather around to look at his latest work, or some comic pantomime that he’d cooked up, but he meant theirs. “The time has come, my babies. The time has come.”
Fear rocked the class like a quake followed by aftershocks of delight and confusion. Cyril clung to his easel riding out the tremor.
“I have reserved the school gallery,” said Novak, standing on the models’ dais. “For one week you will have your fifteen minutes.” Novak gazed at each of them, the solemnity of his look like a hand pressed on their shoulders in a final reassurance before sending them up and out of the trench and into the battle. Did Novak’s gaze rest a little longer on Cyril? They’d never spoken of it, but Cyril believed he was Novak’s favourite, the one with the potential, the one of whom he expected the most, the real artist among the amateurs, and the show would prove it. Admittedly, the competition was not intense. At least one student a semester took the class only because it fit their schedule, or because Tagalog or feng shui or flower arranging were full, a fact Novak accepted with impressive serenity, as if such humiliation were his due.
The show was titled The Figure in Fact and Fancy. Novak spoke an adventurous English, and was pleased with the alliteration. He had considered calling it Ass and Tits, yet Cyril and the others advised caution. The class did a poster that showed a crowd of human figures resembling tall grass sprouting from the back of a grinning toad. Cyril drew the toad; Novak was delighted with the poster. An ad ran in the college newsletter, in The Georgia Straight, and the arts page of The Sun. The opening took place on a Thursday evening in April. All were welcome.
Helen was not enthused about being in the same room as Novak again but Paul looked forward to being in the same room as a lot of naked women, even if they were only on the walls.
Cyril turned his drawings upside down and on their sides, examining his work from every angle. Did he dare call it “his work?” Certainly it involved his labour, but “his work” carried connotations implying a dizzying level of confidence and commitment. He avoided the issue by sticking to the word “drawings” instead.
Novak had encouraged them to put prices on their pictures. Cyril suspected that his mother’s reaction, as well as Paul and Gilbert’s, would depend entirely on sales, for sales equalled success while no sales equalled flop. Yet he couldn’t price them so low as to be virtually giving them away. A hundred dollars each? Would he pay a hundred for one of his own drawings? Would he pay fifty? He compromised at seventy-five. Then there was the issue of frames and glass, which meant jacking the prices back up to one hundred. A hundred was a nice round solid number suggesting concrete self-assurance on the part of the artist—though was he an artist or only some guy who drew?
Things got off to a bad start when the previous exhibition—A History of Wax—was not cleared from the gallery until just two hours before the opening. While Novak shouted at the balding candle-maker with the ponytail, Cyril and the others raced to hang their work, their pictures, amid the lingering scent of beeswax.
The show opened at 7:00 PM and by 8:00 there were only twenty-three people, eleven of them the artists themselves, twelve if you included Novak. It peaked at 9:00 with forty, forty-one if you included the janitor who had stepped in leaving his mop and bucket in the corridor. When Novak saw Cyril’s mother he insisted on taking her arm and touring her through the gallery, expansively acknowledging the virtues of every piece on the walls. She looked at Novak as if he was a talking cat, simultaneously intrigued and appalled. When it came to Cyril’s pictures he was especially effusive. His mother sucked her teeth and regarded the line drawings of fat naked men and skinny naked women. Her experience of art had been the blunt brutalities of Russian Formalism: smoke stacks, hammers and anvils, the fists and forearms of burly men, the sweaty breasts of bullock-shaped women. She began to weep. Novak opened his arms wide and embraced her and for a moment the two of them sobbed together while Cyril and Paul and Della and Gilbert stared. Then their mother shoved Novak away, sniffed once, elevated her chin and resumed her tour of the gallery alone, a solitary ship at sea.
Only half the students showed up for the next class. Cyril presumed they were home sobbing in their rooms or hiding under their beds, or plotting revenge for the review that had appeared.
While the work cannot be criticized for being what it is, that is to say amateurish, it can be criticized for being displayed. All the more so for being displayed in a gallery subsidized by taxpayer dollars.
“Jesus Christ,” said Gilbert, reading the review aloud to Cyril in case he’d missed it.
Cyril, scalded, feigned indifference.
“We should find this bastard,” said Gilbert, whose tone of sincere concern could not mask a hint of sheer delight.
Cyril understood. He hated him but he understood.
“What did what’s his nuts say?” asked Gilbert, meaning Novak.
“Fail better next time.”
PART TWO — 1972
In Which the Match Burns Twice
ONE
SITTING IN THE BEER parlour of the Europe Hotel before his drawing session one evening, Cyril paged through The Province. It had been a lively spring. Howard Hughes was holed up in the Bayshore Inn, George Chuvalo had gone twelve rounds with Muhammad Ali right here at the Coliseum, and Novak’s buddy Elek Imredy had unveiled his statue Girl in a Wetsuit on a rock off Stanley Park. Cyril was intrigued by the hermit billionaire, admired the indomitable Chuvalo, and wondered if the statue shouldn’t have been holding an umbrella given its perpetual smear of seagull droppings.
Cyril had discovered that two beers went down well before class. He grew relaxed yet not sloppy, adventurous yet not irreverent. He reached the Entertainment Section and spotted an ad for a live theatre version of The World of Suzie Wong. The West Bay Theatre Troupe of San Francisco was touring and Co
nnie Chow had the starring role.
“You want front row?” The clerk showed him a laminated card depicting the seating plan.
Cyril didn’t want front row, he wanted to hide as far back in the shadows as possible, yet be close enough to see everything. He pointed to the last row in the Lower Orchestra. “How about here?”
He arrived early and drank two beers in the carpeted lobby. It was an older crowd, well-dressed, lots of jewelry and perfume, the conversations murmured and polite. He was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and black jeans. He’d filled out, having grown broad across the chest and shoulders due to his carpentry work. He had thick dark sideburns as well as a blackened thumbnail where he’d been whacked by a board. The last time he’d been to the theatre was in high school when Connie was in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. That audience had smelled of B.O. and bubblegum; this one smelled of dry cleaning and cigarettes. He was twenty-seven, ten years had passed since he’d seen her. These numbers stuck like poisoned darts and a bewildered confusion seeped through him: confusion at how quickly the years had passed and bewilderment that he’d let it happen while accomplishing so little. Each time he took up a pencil—never as often as he should—it seemed his fingers had thickened and he had a new blood blister. And there was the fact that Connie had not called, and he’d learned about the performance by accident.
He’d responded to her first letter in truthful if enigmatic blandness: Hey Connie, good to hear form you. Glad you’re doing so well. I love I Spy! I wish you all the best and hope to see you sometime. (No, not stealing any art but I am doing a lot of drawing.) She’d sent him three postcards since, including one of a famous hot dog stand in the shape of a hot dog, the Eiffel Tower from a European tour, and the Statue of Liberty from her time in New York in an off-Broadway show. He’d responded to each. A postcard of Lumberman’s Arch, one of Lions Gate Bridge all lit up at night, and one of the fat neon figure of The Smilin’ Buddha. The word us did not appear in any of her cards, though one did mention her and someone called Guillermo going to Mexico City. Cyril felt compelled to mention how he and Jaclyn had been to Seattle and gone up the Space Needle. It wasn’t much but it was the best he could do. Jaclyn was a sweet and attractive and sensual girl. They might have lasted longer than one summer—she liked to dance naked while wearing his carpenter’s belt—but she’d been obsessed with the word get. She’d wanted Cyril to get serious and get his shit together, and get his own business going so they could get married and get a house and get on with having a family. His mother thought she was a good influence.
A discrete bell ushered them to their seats. Cyril followed the crowd into the Lower Orchestra and discovered he had the row to himself. Would she spot him? Again he felt stung at not having heard from her now of all times. The bell tinged once more and the patrons settled themselves. Cyril couldn’t have been more anxious if he was going on stage himself. As the lights went down he slid lower in his seat and held his breath. Bar music. The clamour of drunks. Then red lights went up and there she was, jiving with a sailor in a hazy Hong Kong tavern. To one side, Robert Lomax, the aspiring painter, sips a beer and admires her as she dances. He wears a suit, smokes a cigarette, and has hair as slick and shiny as an oiled LP. Suzie wears a high-collared knee-length dress of tight white silk, her hair long and loose. Watching in envy and admiration, Cyril tasted orange on his lips and vowed right there in the theatre to work harder at his drawing, but it wasn’t just that, it was trickier than mere labour, it was taking himself and his drawing—his art, his work—more seriously. Isn’t that what Connie had done? Is that not why she was on stage and he was in the audience?
During intermission he stepped outside into the cool clear night and listened to the city racket around him. There’d been a moment when he was sure she’d recognized him. She was alone on stage addressing the audience, her gaze travelling from side-to-side as if appealing to each individual about her fate. When her gaze crossed Cyril it seemed to stagger and made her speech stutter. Or had he imagined it? He went back in and had another beer and asked the bartender for a pen and wrote his name and number on a napkin. Approaching the Manager’s door he hesitated then knocked. It opened instantly upon a cozy group that ceased talking and stared. A goateed man in a gold bow tie and owlish glasses waited for him to state his business.
“Could I leave this for Connie Chow?”
The man considered the folded napkin. He appeared amused and disdainful and considerate all at the same time. In a tone both reassuring and condescending he said, “I’ll see that she gets it.”
Back in his seat he reminded himself that she was probably busy, that there were only two performances and then they were off to Winnipeg. He wondered about her leading man. How could they go through this night after night, travelling together, staying in the same hotels, with nothing developing between them? He regretted leaving a lousy napkin, it should have been a card, something better, something sophisticated. Connie looked good; she looked great, and no longer needed oranges in her brassiere.
After the final curtain the actors came out for an ovation, Connie and her leading man taking centre stage, holding hands and bowing deeply. She smiled and blew kisses and the applause swelled and there were whistles, Cyril standing along with everyone else and clapping. Finally the celebration ebbed and people began moving to the aisles. Should he wait in the lobby? Wait until she called? And if she didn’t call? The tidal current of the audience carried him outside leaving him beached on a sidewalk by a maple in a concrete tub. He looked back to where a few people lingered; he looked ahead to where taxis were pulling away. Had she groaned when she saw the note? Did the other actors roll their eyes in commiseration? He shoved his hands in his pockets and started across the street.
“What, you’re just gonna leave?”
He turned and saw her walking toward him as if emerging from some tunnel utterly different and utterly the same as the last time he’d seen her. “I thought you’d be signing autographs,” he said.
“I was. How the hell are you, man? Come on, get in here.” She opened her arms and they hugged. She was wearing a black leather jacket with studs and chains, a black toque, and Daytons. The leather was fragrant. Or was that her? They stood apart, holding hands, appraising each other. She looked solid and confident and had silver rings on all her fingers including her thumbs.
“You ride?”
“Five hundred Kawi,” she said.
“Got time for a drink?”
“Well, duh.”
They walked to the Alcazar and found a table near the fountain. Her hair was tied in a thick braid and her black T-shirt said Fart, parodying the Ford logo.
“I don’t see a ring,” she said, indicating his bare finger.
“What about you?” he asked.
She splayed her fingers, admiring all the silver, then told him about Guillermo, a metals speculator from Bolivia who liked to play around and did most of his apologizing to her in silver jewelry. “When I finally ran out of fingers I figured it was time to leave him.”
He asked her about children and she said she didn’t think she was the mothering type.
“You’re doing what you always wanted,” he said.
She looked at her beer and shrugged, all bravado momentarily lapsing. Then she brightened. “Met Nancy Kwan. She came to the premiere. Did a few Hawaii Five-Os. The Mod Squad. Green Hornet. Had a part this big in The Happening with Faye Dunaway and Anthony Quinn.” She held her thumb and forefinger a quarter an inch apart. “Lots of small bits. Crumbs.”
“And I Spy,” he said.
“Yeah, that was cool.”
“So you’re surviving.”
“Just.”
He was impressed and he was envious and he was resentful and he could, with only the slightest encouragement, fall right back in love with her.
“You drawing?”
“Sure. Some. Never enough.” He mentioned Sandor Novak and the drawing classes though omitted the disastrous art show.
“Sandor, now that’s a great name,” she said. “If I had a cat I’d name it Sandor.”
He felt compelled in the interest of honesty to mention the framing crew.
“That’s cool. It’s solid. Real. I like that.” Her excess enthusiasm was awkwardly obvious to them both. “Hey, anything I ever said before, you know, about what you are or will be, I mean what the fuck do I know, I can barely make my rent. You hungry?”
For a moment he thought she was referring to his level of ambition.
They headed to Pender Street for wonton, passing the Marco Polo where a man out front was doing tricks with a yo-yo for a small but appreciative crowd, and entered a restaurant featuring shiny red ducks dangling from hooks. They found a booth and took in the genial chaos of clattering bowls and chopsticks while fluorescent tubes crackled on the ceiling and dragons glared from the walls. For almost a full minute they said nothing and Cyril endured a stab of panic thinking that if he didn’t come up with something good she’d get bored and find an excuse to escape, reducing him to just some guy she used to know who didn’t have the talent or drive to escape the drizzly backwater of Vancouver. He plucked a menu from the metal rack and took refuge in the choices: Crispy Skin Duck, Five Spiced Duck, Fried Smoked Duck.
“How about Pork Stomach and Pork Blood with Chives?” Connie suggested.
“Great.”
“Cyril.” She stuck her finger down her throat.
“You’re cruel and unusual.”
She batted her eyelashes. “So sweet of you to say.”
A waitress scuffed over and flipped open her order pad like an angry cop ready to write a ticket. Her custard-coloured uniform was grease stained and her name tag said Grace. “Ready order?”
“How’s about we go for the plain old Szechuan Duck, some rice, a plate of bok choy, and a couple of deep-fried bad-for-your-cholesterol egg rolls. You got beer?”