Going Down Slow

by John Metcalf

  “Well, just look at you!” he said.

  “Posh, eh?” said Susan. “For going out to dinner.”

  “That’s your ‘little basic black,’ is it?”

  “New. Do you like it?”

  David enfolded her.

  “Love it, love you.”

  They edged down the stairs holding on to the bannister because the lights on the third and second landings were burned out. Barefoot, a comforter pinned to his undershirt, diaper sagging, one of Monsieur Gagnon’s brood stood wide-eyed at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Piss off, you snotty horror,” said Jim.

  “Jim!” said Susan.

  “Once a Gagnon always a Gagnon.”

  “Tarred with the same brush,” said David.

  “Shall we breed up serpents in our bosom?” said Jim.

  “Extirpate the buggers root and branch,” said David.

  “You’re not funny,” said Susan, going over to Gagnon’s door. “Either of you. The poor little shit ought to be in bed. He hasn’t even got socks on.”

  She knocked again.

  Madame Gagnon opened the door about half an inch.

  “Your little boy must have wandered out,” said Susan.

  “Monsieur not here.”

  “Your little boy’s out here.”

  Madame Gagnon scooped him in and slammed the door.

  “Miserable bitch!” shouted Susan.

  In the back of the Volkswagen, holding Susan’s hand, David could feel the workings of the scotch. The flashing neon, the thick crowds along Ste. Catherine, the sudden wink of brake lights beyond the dim confines of the car were like a distant drive-in movie. David felt comfortable, the day receding.

  He began to realize his hunger. He’d had nothing since lunch – a chopped egg sandwich and a carton of milk ruined first by Follet rumbling over the word “shit” which had miraculously slipped by in the student newspaper.

  I expect they order things very differently

  in the Old Country, Mr. Appleby.

  Oh, indeed.

  Quite. Yes.

  Total lack of RESPECT.

  My word, yes.

  Follet had tiny feet. Follicles. Nasty twinkling shoes.

  And ruined second by Hubnichuk. Eating the second half and reading a novel when Hubnichuk, mens sana, had sat beside him on the couch. After a few moments of breathing Hubnichuk had said,Reading, eh?

  And not even a good sandwich to start with. Too much mayonnaise.

  He probably had to buy his follicles in the children’s department.

  Good.

  Susan squeezed his hand. He leaned over and kissed her.

  “Italian Straw Hat,” he said.

  He started to think about the next drink he would have. Most probably a martini – a double martini. Very dry. Ice. Lemon peel. Susan had said once, in a bar, in the Piccadilly Bar of the Sheraton Mount Royal,

  Gin tastes like Christmas trees smell.

  Jim turned off Ste. Catherine onto Stanley Street and swung into the entrance of Pigeon Hole Parking. Three cars were lined up in front of them. Jim got out to hand in the keys at the office window. David held the seat forward for Susan to clamber out.

  A voice said,I think it’s down to the left, dear.

  A voice that made David turn.

  McPHEE!

  The tableau seared his mind like a magnesium flare over No Man’s Land.

  Just turning away from the office-window, McPhee with two women. One, a big woman in a fur coat. A white glove. The other in a black coat, a black evening gown down to her feet. Glitter of black sequins. McPhee in a black overcoat, glinty glasses. A little green hat with a cord round it, a tiny cockade of peacock feather in the cord. Jaunty. Alpine.

  McPHEE!

  The big one in the fur coat was blocking McPhee’s view. David crouched, wrenched Volks door open, tipped front seat and scrabbled into the back, wedging himself onto the floor.

  The door on the other side opened, the car swayed under someone’s weight, the front seat bulged against his head. The motor started; the door slammed. The car moved forward. Sounds of metal gates folding back. The front wheels clattered over the rim of the elevator’s floor, the back wheels. Handbrake. Gates sliding across. A jerk. The car was rising.

  The handle of Jim’s snow shovel was sticking in his crotch. An inch from his face, the red nylon bristles of the windshield brushand-scraper.

  The light kept changing. Dark, a second or two of light, dark again. Rising through the floors.

  His knee was soaked from the melted ice on the floor. The blade of the shovel was cutting into his ankle.

  A jerk. Sounds of gates again. Rattle and bump over the rim. He braced himself, fingers splayed on the rubber mat, as the driver accelerated. Suddenly the brakes were jammed on, thudding him against the front seat. The engine roared and cut out. Door open, slammed. Footsteps.

  David waited, feeling queasy and sobered.

  He knelt and looked out of the window. Empty. He climbed out, brushing the dirt from his sleeves and trousers. He was in an echoing concrete cavern. Sodium lights. The air was thick with the stench of exhaust fumes. His footsteps sounded. He came out from between the cars and looked round for a door.

  “What you doing here?”

  David turned. Hand to brow, suggestive of pain and bewilderment, he said, “Where am I?”

  “You supposed to get out downstairs,” said the man.

  David walked over towards him. He was holding a green plastic hosepipe, wearing blue overalls with the company’s insignia on the bib. A pigeon looking out of a box. Curving underneath the pigeon were the words –Service and Courtesy

  The Friendly Pigeon

  “You supposed to get out downstairs,” repeated the man.

  “I must have passed out,” said David.

  “Not for public here.”

  “I sometimes pass out. Faint.”

  The man looked blank.

  “Unconscious,” said David.

  “For public is downstairs.”

  “I suffer from a disease,” said David. “An illness.”

  The man stared.

  “Maucomia,” said David.

  “Is door,” said the man, pointing.

  David came out through the No Entry and stood in the shadows looking round. He walked out onto the pavement and looked up and down the street. Susan waved to him from the doorway of a sporting-goods store across the road.

  “Did he see me?”

  “I don’t think so. He wasn’t really looking that way.”

  “Jesus Christ!” said David, shaking his head.

  “Where have you been?” said Susan.

  “Upstairs. Did he see you?”

  “I turned my back and grabbed Jim. He went right past.”

  “Where is Jim?”

  “Went off to a movie.”

  “You’re sure he didn’t see me?”

  “He couldn’t have.”

  “Jesus, that was close!” said David. “I had a very nasty time up there with a man with a green hosepipe.”

  Susan was shivering. She put her arms around him.

  “It’s O.K.,” he said.

  “It’s not that. My bum’s freezing.”

  “Let’s go and eat then,” said David.

  Le Poisson D’or, a family-run restaurant with a small menu, was one of their favourite eating places. Most of the customers were regulars, men and women who worked nearby at Radio Canada, men who sat over their coffee reading Le Devoir, families. There were about twenty tables.

  “Go in first and look round,” said David. “I’ve had enough excitement and danger for one bloody evening.”

  “No, you.”

  “Put your shades on.”

  “No, you go.”

  After glancing round the end of the coat rack, David pulled back the window curtain and beckoned Susan in. They sat at the rear of the restaurant near the swing doors into the kitchen, a position David favoured as he could watch the t
o and fro of the waitresses.

  He sipped the martini and read the menu. The ghastly Edith Piaf ended – all shouting and accordions – and something orchestral began. Light gleamed on copper kettles and saucepans which decorated the walls. He moved the vase of flowers to the side of the table. Susan’s hair was piled up on top of her head but the word “bun” wasn’t right; it suggested severity. He drained the martini and chewed the piece of lemon peel. He smiled at her.

  “What if he’d seen you,” she said, “and opened the cardoor . . .”

  “And I was grovelling on the floor . . .”

  “Good-evening, Mr. Appleby!”

  “Oh, Mr. ! Good-evening. I’m . . . ah . . . just . . .”

  The waitress brought him another drink. She was wearing a plastic slide on her blouse with MARIE printed on it – a nasty practice and something new for Le Poisson D ’or. It probably meant that they were going to have to find a new place. Soon, middle-aged men in suits would be talking in loud voices.

  Ah, thank you, Marie.

  Gourmets claimed that strong drink deadened the palate. Well, balls to them. He polished off the sardines marinés a la niçoise.

  “What are you giggling about?” he said.

  “It’d have been a real jaarustna.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s Arabic for ‘making a spectacle of yourself’.”

  “It’d have been a bloody sight more than that.”

  “A making of shame.”

  “It isn’t funny,” said David.

  “Un Grand Spectacle,” said Susan.

  “Tous les Soirs,” said David, smiling.

  He’d always enjoyed the “Grand Spectacle” signs outside the clubs and bars because underneath the flickering arrows it always saidBEER AND WINE DANCING

  Like “Amateur Hour.”

  And now –

  fresh from a triumphal tour of the Gaspé –

  that famed beer-and-wine-dancer . . . your favourite

  alcoholic terpsichorean . . . pissed as a newt . . .

  “Oh, and a bottle of Moulin à Vent, please.”

  “You’re getting stoned,” said Susan. “Why don’t we have half a bottle?”

  “No, I’m not. Just relaxed, that’s all.”

  “Your eyes have gone funny.”

  “Nonsense! Nothing wrong with my eyes. Good enough for the Hong Kong Police Force.”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t know that, did you? I passed a medical. At least five foot eight in stocking feet, thingummy vision without glasses. Nearly went there.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, really. Something to do. Answered an ad in the New Statesman or Educational Supplement. Answered one to go teaching Dyaks in Borneo, as well. But you had to go firking around in the jungle for that one.”

  “A policeman!”

  “Oh, I don’t know! You wear those shorts and knee-socks and you have a swagger-stick for poking the natives. Rather enjoyable, really.”

  “Don’t be disgusting.”

  “Defending the far-flung bounds, lesser breeds and all that. Just round this lot up, Ah Sing.”

  “Shss!”

  “What do you mean ‘Shss’? There’s nothing wrong with the Hong Kong Police Force. A much maligned body of men.”

  “David. Shut up! People can hear you.”

  “I was offered one in Australia as well but there are limits. That ungodly bloody accent for one thing and they call you ‘cobber’ all the time.”

  “Well you call people ‘mate’,” said Susan.

  “Not the same thing at all – oh, I’m sorry. For the lady.”

  “Thank you,” said Susan.

  “Perhaps if I move this . . .” said David.

  “Merci, monsieur.”

  “I’m not a racist, but do you know what Australians eat for breakfast?” asked David, leaning forward. “They eat steaks! With fried eggs on top. Isn’t that disgusting!”

  “Your sleeve’s in the mashed potato.”

  “I’d rather Borneo.”

  “Good salad,” said Susan.

  “Which one do you think was McPhee’s wife?” said David.

  “The small one.”

  “Bet it was the big one.”

  “What if neither of them was?” said Susan.

  “Hey, that’s it. He hires them. He dresses up like a schoolboy and they give him the strap. And they make him write out lines and essays. And he has to say, ‘Please, Miss. Can I touch it?’ And they – no, the big one – says, ‘What a dirty little boy! What a grubby little boy! A little boy who hasn’t washed his hands.’ And the small one doesn’t wear knickers and he sits on the floor and looks up her skirt while she reads out loud from The Mill on the Floss.”

  “Doesn’t he ever do it?”

  “Of course not! They just beat him up.”

  “Poor McPhee.”

  “There’s no point feeling sorry for him. He likes it.”

  “Did I tell you about Brunhoff’s photographs?” said Susan. “I had to go and see him again this afternoon – talking of sex maniacs.”

  “What for this time?”

  “Goofing off on Tuesday and Wednesday.”

  “‘Goofing off’,” said David.

  “So?”

  “Ugh. I didn’t know you’d ‘goofed’ anyway.”

  “Yes, I told you – sure I did. I went to the Elysée on Tuesday to see the Bergman – remember? And Wednesday, Frances and I went down to the museum to see the African exhibition. The masks.”

  “And they copped you.”

  “They phoned my mother to ask if she’d written the note.”

  “Is nothing sacred?”

  “Wild Strawberries is on again next week – we’re going, eh?”

  “Sure. Hey. I was meaning to ask you about that. About Brunhoff, I mean. The latest thing on your Kardex cards says ‘Suspected of drug addiction.’ What the hell did you tell him that for? They keep all that shit and use it against you, you know.”

  “I didn’t tell him. Mr. Cherton found me filling up an ink cartridge with a hypodermic we stole from biology. I guess he told him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, instead of throwing it away you can refill it. You put the needle through the end and when you pull it out the plastic closes up again.”

  “I’d better whip that card out,” said David.

  “Anyway,” said Susan, “we had to go together this afternoon and he gave us one of his talks and then Fran said she was tired in school and her work was suffering because she didn’t sleep nights – and he asked her why – and do you know what she said? She looks right at him and she never blushes or anything and she said she couldn’t sleep because she had burning sensations between her legs.”

  “The poor bugger! What does he do?”

  “He keeps polishing his glasses with little lavender papers from a package and he says, ‘I see. Yes, I see.’ And his eyes are all sort of naked looking – oyster-eyes. She goes every gym class and most of algebra now and he says she’s deeply disturbed and she can go whenever she feels the need to talk.”

  “He lusts after her. Desire inflames him. She rages like a hectic in his blood.”

  “He’s sort of dirty horny,” said Susan.

  “He’s gripped by carnal thingies,” said David. “He who desires but acts not breeds pestilence. Never trust a man who hangs a copy of ‘The Light of the World’ in his office. Student Christian Movement! Brunhoff and the Spotties will now lead us in ‘Guide Me, O Thou Great Redeemer.’ Guide Me, 0 Thou Guidance Counselor, Pilgrim in This Barren Land. Have you ever considered why student Christians are predominantly spotty?”

  “Listen,” said Susan. “Shut up.”

  “Have you noticed that? They’re very spotty.”

  “I want to tell you about the photographs.”

  “When they asked him if he’d be prepared to go on strike,” said David, “he said he wouldn’t because he served two m
asters, the Board and Our Lord.”

  “He’s got these photographs on his desk. He’s got one of his wife, and his kid, and his house, and his car and this afternoon he’d got a new one of a lot of candles.”

  “What do you mean ‘candles’?”

  “Coloured candles standing on a table. Hundreds of them.”

  “Lighted candles?”

  “No. Just rows of them. So we asked him what it was and he said it’s his hobby. He goes home every night and makes candles. Isn’t that sad?”

  “He lights them in the darkness,” said David, “and the tiny flames, individually weak, combined, drive away, dispel the night of sin and ignorance whose sombre pall enshrouds . . .”

  “He’s creepy,” said Susan. “If you don’t want it, can I have your asparagus?”

  “When you’ve eaten every last ort and scrap, would you like dessert? Coffee? Brandy?”

  “Just coffee. We’re not going to be late, are we? I want to see both sets.”

  “Bags of time. Masses of time.”

  David put his nose down into the snifter and breathed in the fumes of the Armagnac; not a “bouquet”; definitely fumes. Gold and amber light swam in the glass. Light gleamed on the oil in the wooden salad bowl. Green, white, a piece of lettuce leaf. He warmed the glass in his hands. Somewhere in the distant noise of crockery and conversation someone was smoking a French cigarette. Susan’s hair had loosened, in the light from behind a mist of hair like a halo.

  The Armagnac tasted thick. Unliquid. Light lurched. Afterimages. He realized that he was massively, comfortably, splendidly, luxuriously and soporifically drunk. He breathed heavily into the glass. The rim, he discovered, was hurting his nose.

  “Something dreadful must be wrong,” he said, having been brooding about it, “if they’re willing to pay your fare.”

  “Wrong with what?”

  “Australia.”

  In Liebermann’s window, a clutter of objects below the bechained brass lamps, the Tiffany nonsense. Trays of rings and necklaces. Porcelain. A tall, flashy chess set, the black men red. A horse-pistol. A glass case with a stuffed brown bird in it. An eighteenth-centuryish painting of a man in a wig looking at some dog-like sheep. Silver.

  “Look at these jade things,” said Susan.