Circle of Stones (17 page)

“Of course. This was just an initial little experiment.” I smile and press the steam button on my iron for dramatic effect. “So, brunch Sunday?”

“Actually Lucy, I'm on a budget these days. Why don't I whip you up an omelette and a pot of coffee here? It'll be fun. Twice as relaxing, sixty percent less expensive, and a hundred percent less crowded.”

“Sounds lovely. Can I bring anything for you and Randall?”

George pauses. “It's just me now, hon.”

“Oh.” I peer at the level indicator on my iron. I never liked Randall. “I'm so sorry. Sounds like we have some catching up to do.”

“That's the understatement of the century.” I can tell George is faking chipper. His voice is half its usual booming volume. “I'll see ya over here at our usual time, okay? Just bring your lovely self.”

I hang up the phone, pick up my long-necked silver watering can, and add more water to my iron. I finish my dad's shirts and decide to stay up late ironing all my bedding.

I'm worried about George. And his niece.

I grab another pillowcase, sweep my iron across the wrinkles, and daydream of home.

My dad wouldn't let me stay in Winnipeg. We had an embarrassing — for both of us — showdown in my mom's kitchen, a week and a half after the funeral. He was already back to work. Five business days after my mom died he had excused himself from a small luncheon of crustless sandwiches thoughtfully prepared by my mom's lady friends and descended into the basement. Moments later I looked out the front window to see my dad throwing his big leather briefcases into the backseat of the Cadillac. He got into the driver's seat, reversed the car into the tree-lined street, and sped away without looking up at the house. I had my hand up, ready to wave like Mom always did. I put it down and sunk into the back of the good floral chesterfield and stayed there, becoming a bulbous orange flower, part of the house's pattern. I thought I was the only one who could keep our home tidy the way Mom liked it. I would make sure nobody took Mom's needlepoint pictures down from the living room walls. I would read her romance novels, keep the dust off her extensive library of family photos.

When Dad came home and saw me wiping down the kitchen table, he said, “You're too smart to be doing that, Lucy.”

Later that evening when he saw me reaching for a Kleenex, he said, “Snap out of it, Lucy.”

The next morning he sniffed at the bacon and perfectly timed over-easy eggs I'd spent almost an hour trying to figure out how to make and reached into the cupboard for a box of cereal.

I launched Mom's dog-eared copy of
The Joy of Cooking
at him. It bounced off his shoulder with less impact than I'd hoped.

“I want to help you!” I had forgotten my voice had volume. That I could yell. “What's wrong with you?”

“What's wrong with you?” My dad's shouts were dramatic, instinctive. Pure lawyer. “You're not your mother!”

I looked at my dad, at his narrow age-stooped shoulders and rounded belly. The red ceramic light fixture above the kitchen table swung gently back and forth, and when he sat down, the top of his bald head shone. I stared at him, realizing he could get all the support he needed from the Rotary Club, but that his good work shirt was wrinkled.

That night my dad and I ordered pizza — half pepperoni (for him) half vegetarian (for me) — and we sat down and talked about my career “on the Hill.”

“You have a future in Ottawa.” My dad gave me one of his serious lawyer looks. He was making a case. “You have a really good job.”

“But I don't really know anyone there.” I shrugged. “Except George.”

My dad sighed. I hate those steamroller sighs. I flew back to Ottawa, taking some of my mom's needlepoint and photos with me. And a bundle of my dad's shirts. He relented on that. I do a better job than the drycleaners. And it soothes me. It's the only thing I can do to smooth over absence. We've been sending packages back and forth ever since. In ten months not a single parcel has gone missing in the mail.

My freshly pressed purple pillowcases and patterned duvet cover are folded on the table. I'm working on the fitted sheet when the phone rings again.

“Hello?” I'm expecting a telemarketer. Or an Ipsos-Reid pollster.

“Hello, Lucy, It's Dad.”

I tip my silver can, spilling water on Simone. Dad rarely calls.

“Hi, Dad, how are you? Did you get that last package of shirts?”

“Yes, I did, thank you.” Dad pauses. I fidget with the steam setting on my iron.

“Lucy, I'm calling because I'm selling the house. It's too big for me. I'd like to move into a nice condo by the river.”

He doesn't say it, but he is also wriggling out from underneath our laundry business. I turn my iron off, sit down on the hardwood floor, and hug my legs. My jeans bunch uncomfortably under my knees and I let go.

“Lucy?”

“Okay.” I lie flat. Feel the solid hardwood floor support my spine. Barnie rubs his furry soft head under my chin. I listen to him purr.

“It's fine, Dad, I've been expecting this.”

“Obviously I'll have to get rid of some of our things. This is a large house. It's too big for one person. Is there anything you need, that you would like me to send to Ottawa for you?”

“Can you send me Mom's ironing board?” I run my hand over and over the top of Barnie's head, imagining the basement, the living room, the kitchen, the bedrooms of our house. In my mind I walk down the hallways and up the stairs, opening and closing doors, fighting to remember every detail, to archive our home in my memory. Between Dad, Tim, and myself, only I will remember the place under the stairs where we used to keep the fake Christmas tree, what Mom's rocking chair looked like, the exact number of steps from the sunken living room to the kitchen. The house is a museum of my Mom and the museum is closing.

I wonder how many times I've walked this same route to work. It's cold this morning, but I'm in no hurry. My mom would have said I'm delaying the inevitable. I stop for a coffee and the barista grabs a large cup for me, writes “double non-fat latte” on it as soon as she sees me. I'm guilty of always ordering the same thing. I wait in line to pay. Expressionless faces. Suits and overcoats. Clicking BlackBerry smartphones. I turn to see the tall, thin kid by the door, shivering, counting small change. Lhia's friend. He checks each of his pockets — the kangaroo of his hoodie, the stuffed ones in his leather jacket, the torn and patched ones of his army pants. Then he checks again.

“I'll pay for his coffee, too,” I say to the barista at the cash register. I nod in the kid's direction. He's so busy counting he doesn't look up. I hand the barista a twenty-dollar bill. “And a sandwich. Whatever he wants.” When my latte is ready I slip out the side door. I've never done anything like this before. Best to remain anonymous. Stay hidden. Make it clandestine. Still, I'm happy the rest of the way to work. Then I step into my cubicle and the grim walls begin to close in.

It's a week later and well after 9:00 p.m. by the time I leave the office. At some point during the day we'd had the season's first dusting of snow. November snow is usually exciting. I hadn't even looked out the window to see it. I shuffle through the sidewalk slush, aware of every crunching step. The streets of downtown Ottawa are so deserted I expect a giant lizard to spring from the top of the Quickie Mart. Or a doorfront gargoyle to begin melting ice with hot exhalations at the foot of a crumbling apartment. I am four mugs of coffee and a twelve-hour workday beyond the threshold of surprise. Even staring intently at the glittering snow feels hallucinogenic. A taxi glides by, slows past me then speeds up, fishtailing. I don't need a ride. And I have nothing left to iron. I walk faster, resolving to find something. Then I stop. There was Dad's part of the agreement. Then there was mine.

My fingers are almost too raw with cold to flick my lighter. I huddle over a large grate in the empty parking lot behind the CIBC. From my briefcase I pull the final version of the press release I wrote then revised twenty-three times over the course of the day and set it alight. For every level of hierarchy it advanced there were new changes that had to be approved and reworded by communications specialists at the P.M.O. By the time it was finished, not a single word of the original I wrote remained. Now, buttressed by multidirectional winds, the curled black remnants of it float in a spiral of centrifugal force before falling down and through grate gaps into permanent darkness.

It's the perfect final edit. But I'm not ready to go home yet. I kneel down on top of the grate and shiver. Then something moves in the shadows behind a parked truck. I think of who might be out at this time of night, in this type of weather. Only someone who had to be.

“I know you're there,” I say into the wind.

I see a face in the dim. A tall figure emerges from the shadows. It's that kid. He's carrying an old duffel bag. Probably everything he owns. Even in the cold air he smells of cheap alcohol and dirty laundry.

“Who are you?” He eyes me warily, as though he's never seen me before. I must look like everyone else. Like any other suit.

“I'm Lucy,” I say.

“What were you burning?” He peers down into the grate.

“My work.” I stare at the empty black space below the grate and think of our house in Winnipeg. My mom. I'm still homesick and grieving. But I have George. And ironing. “It didn't mean anything. I want to do something real.”

The kid starts to walk away. I wonder if he's homesick, too. I stand up, brush myself off. He circles back.

“How did you figure that out?” He's standing a little closer this time, studying me.

“Experience,” I say.

“Give me the lighter.” He holds out his hand for it.

I clutch the lighter in my pocket. “Why?”

“I need to burn down an old idea.”

There's certainty in his voice. I hand the kid the lighter.

“Wait — what are you going to do?” I try to say it without seeming too parental. Or authoritative. I want to put my hand on his shoulder, give him a hug. Instead I pat him on the arm. He looks down at his arm and then gives me a strange look, as though the touch is unexpected. And strange to him.

“I'm going to burn some old work, too, some old paintings,” he says. “Of Jennifer. I've been carrying them around for so long. But they don't mean anything if she doesn't love me back.”

The kid slumps a bit. I'm worried he's going to fall over. “It's like this weight,” he says. “Canvases weigh three hundred grams each. But these feel like boulders. Massive rocks. I can't bring them with me.”

I have no idea what he's talking about. But I do remember being brokenhearted at that age. The confusion. The sense of being forgotten, unseen. The heavy drag and intensity of that emotion.

“Hey,” I say, trying to catch his eye. “I see you. Lots of people do.”

The kid shakes his head. He pockets the lighter and nods at me. I wish I could do more for him, but somehow my small gesture, this simple gift, is enough. It has meaning. I'm relieved to see him walk away with steps that seem purposeful. I don't know where he's planning to go, or what's going to happen to him, but he seems to have a goal.

L
ate
night Berlin. Another long, shouty debate around the low glass table at the neigbourhood local. My friends agree with me on the moribund state of the market economy, but not how to dissect it. Not on what should be done upon its death, nor what governments should do with the results of its autopsy. So I assert my objection to all objects of consumerist culture, the words tumbling out with beery brilliance. Andreas finally leans forward and thumps me vigorously on the back.

“Canada, you are an idealist!”

My pint sloshes over, spilling onto the black floor, shoes, jeans. Andreas makes a show of throwing me a towelette and keeps talking in his fourth language, his rapid hand gestures animating shadows on the stark, bare walls of the dimly lit corner.

“The reality is consumer economy is fail. Service economy is fail. But we continue in stasis of fail. You don't understand what is the bureaucracy of the EU. Especially Italy. My country. Iz complicated.”

“Well, we get things done in our Houses of Parliament.” I wave my hand to quiet boos from Andreas and Micheline. “No matter which political embarrassment is in power, no matter what the state of the economy, our governments always succeed — in either raising or lowering taxes!”

“Ha ha. Taxation fail. Can't top that Canadar.” Will, the British teabag, rolls his eyes and shrugs. His accent is the one we all mock the most. “Anyone for a game of chess, then?”

Andreas shrugs. “Daaarrr. Ask Canadarrrrr. Pirate of the north. He slaughters pawns like baby seals.”

I want to beg off. Will always wants to play when he's had too much to drink and has nothing left to say. Then Masha, the six-foot Buddhist Berliner, unfolds herself from her commanding perch on a tall black leather chair and stands to leave. In the dim light, I think I see the corners of her mouth twitch before shifting back into her customary half-glare. I watch her glide toward the darkened exit, aware of my missed opportunity. I could have walked out with her, even though I'm older. And shorter. There will be more misses, I'm sure. There have been so many already.

I watch Masha leave, enticed by her severity, her rigid asymmetrical haircut, and her sturdy black boots. At thirty-five I've learned one or two things about dignity. And being shot down. I'm not going to act. Not yet. One day, though.

Masha extends a long, perfect arm to tug the metal club door. But she's as strong as a comic-book heroine. Masha doesn't need my help. Or anybody's. She doesn't look back. I feel a sharp elbow in the ribs from Will's direction.

“Oy! Masha killed me with her eyes. I'm bloody traumatized.”

Micheline sighs and crosses her arms. Andreas, who'd made the gallant, masculine (and unnoticed) effort to stand when Masha rose, fiddles with something in his pocket, turns his glossy plastic chair around, and slinks back down. His tanned, muscular arms jut from the top of the backrest.

“No chess.” Andreas lights four Gauloises one by one and ceremoniously passes them around. “Let's dance tonight.” He smiles at Micheline and rubs a palm through his thick, dark, greasy hair, giving it a slight flick. I hate it when he does that. Mostly because of the effect it has.

“Aaaah,
oui
!” Micheline says, jumping up. Andreas wraps reptilian arms around her and escorts her out the door. Leaving me with Will. And Chess. Again. I crush my half-smoked Gauloises out on the edge of the table. Drop the butt into an empty glass. See the perfect lipstick imprint of Masha's mouth on it. I stare at the cluttered mess of bottles and pints left behind.

“Conspicuous consumption's not so bad if you can piss it out again, yeah, Tim?” Will leans and pokes me in the gut. “Drinking beer is recycling. Come on. I call black.”

Will has already claimed the antique chess set from the bar and begun arranging the pieces on a nearby table. I know I'll lose. It's only a matter of how fast. I only need to handicap my gangly opponent enough to make it interesting.

“Let's recycle, then. If it's that easy being green we'll have another round,” I say as I thief Will's wallet from his back pocket. I grab a tidy stack of euros and signal the bartender. “And a couple of shots. On me.”

“Fock,” Will says, grabbing his wallet back. “Next time you pay for real, boyo, and don't tell me you're skint again.”

After ceding defeat by buying Will a packet of crisps — with my own money this time — I idle at the bar, watching clips from Europe's endless soccer game. There's no formal last call to signal I should leave. Once I start yawning, I finally follow Masha out the door — three hours too late. Outside, the black Berlin sky has already softened into the sea-blue shades of dawn. As I walk back to the boutique hotel where I'm staying, I think of Masha's solid, unstoppable legs. I smile. Masha embodies so many of my pet theories. She is so much bigger than what she wears or what she owns. She is what everyone in the Western world wants to be and tries to buy. Obviously what she has cannot be purchased.

I struggle with the hotel's heavy front doors. I've been running on cigs, crisps, coffee, and beer for too long. Once inside, I breathe in the plastic and eucalyptus smell of the austere lobby. I avoid my own pallid reflection in the gleam of the elevator and press the button for the eighth floor. I imagine sliding my hand behind the small of Masha's back, pulling her toward me as the elevator doors click closed. Kissing Masha would be epic. Like swallowing the universe.

In my room I kick off my shoes and shrug off a simple black sweater. I pick up my laptop, run a finger along the smooth, cool metal of it, reminding myself it's merely a tool. Necessary for work. I flip it open. There are the usual dozen work-related emails from editors and a couple of documentary premiere invites. I consider emailing Masha, but can't think of the right clever, pithy thing to say. I stick a pillow between my back and the uncomfortable red laminate headboard and open a message from Canada.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Rock THIS Casbah!

To: Undisclosed recipients

Dear friends and family,

This just in — we bought a house!!! AND we got possession right away, so we've already moved in!! It's a 3 bdrm, open concept plan with all the shiny appliances (and then some!) on a quiet street in a decent subdivision and it's so new that it still smells like paint and fresh broadloom. We're going to have to do a lot of landscaping, because our front yard is currently nothing more than a pile of dirt, but Glenn's new toy is a brand-new pickup truck, so that won't be a problem. Now you've got to come for a visit!!! (Just not all at once.)

xo Sharon and Glenn.

p.s. The house is on Waldorf Lane — very British sounding. Glenn is working on his accent already. We must remember to stock up on some proper tea!

I rub my hands through my hair three times. I set my laptop down and start pacing. I'm in some kind of state of shock. Back when I first met them, Sharon and Glenn were resolute about murdering the market economy. They were all dreadlocks and spiked hair, anarchist patches, and fearlessness. Older than me, and decisive. Well-read. But messy. And free. I liked them instantly. So I travelled with them, lived in the squats they claimed. Wherever they went, Sharon and Glenn were always the loudest, drunkest, most politically active, and sexually liberal punks at the party: always talking up the next protest, always dreaming up newer and more extreme theories, frequently having sex on communal kitchen tables. I feel my chest tighten. Holy hell. I rifle through papers on the desk, then through my bag, for my asthma inhaler. I wheeze twice. Without Sharon and Glenn, I wouldn't have switched majors to poli-sci and English and ventured to Europe. I wouldn't have become a freelance journalist with a point of view. I'd still be in Toronto, working somewhere in an office, writing advertisements, or whatever it is philosophy graduates do.

I cough, look under both pillows, pull back the bed covers, sheets. The European squats were incredible: an illegal community with unlimited, albeit stolen, resources. Running water. Electricity. Food liberated from greengrocers and local gardens. Now I'm dizzy. I drop onto all fours to look under the mattress, under the table. My nose drips and my eyes tear up. I pound my chest with my goddamn fist, trying to get air. I remember deciding to stay in Berlin and saying goodbye to Sharon and Glenn, my ad hoc family. They were going to return to Toronto to start up a series of Euro-style squats for anarchists. I had always planned to visit.

Now I'm gasping. I swing my arm, sending papers and books off the nightstand. My inhaler appears from under an old, dog-eared collection of essays from
The Baffler.
Jesus H. I grasp the blue plastic mercy, suck in its vapours. I lie down on the bed, shaky, sweating. Spent in all the wrong ways.

I tuck a pillow under my head and wonder what the fuck happened. Sharon and Glenn were always so committed to action, to activism. I was, too, of course. I never had enough money to visit them when I was chasing investigative political stories. That stuff didn't pay. I looked like hell, needed a haircut. I was never going to get laid looking — smelling — like that. I had to start covering other stuff. Pop culture and travel, selling my work to glossy publications that paid more than ten cents a word. I lost my finicky distaste for junkets and comps, taking freebies as a matter of course.

I take a longer, steadier puff from my inhaler. I try to think of the last time I wrote a story that didn't feel like I was grinding it out. At least I still have film. That's experimental, satisfying. I turn to look at my video equipment. All the gear I've collected. I just need to raise more capital, or earn a grant, to begin my first major production. With a real crew. In the meantime I've been filming my own shorts, editing clips with professional (albeit pirated) software, and writing scripts for the films I wish I could make. I lean back. The thought of Sharon and Glenn living in a house fills me with a revived sense of disdain and injustice
. Sharon and Glenn
, goddamn it. No. I'm not going to let them succumb to suburbia. Smothered hope. The central syphilis of consumer culture, derangement, death. I stare into the glow of my laptop and type the URL for my favourite travel website.

I sleep later than I'd intended, then indulge in a long, hot shower. I pack up a small bag and choose a video camera. One of my older ones. It's reliable. And lucky. I pack the rest of my gear into sturdy hard-sided cases and boxes and stack them by the door. Then I walk around the block to my usual café, where everyone hangs out during the day, before moving to the pub. Micheline and Andreas are sympathetic — onside as soon as I mention the noxious threat of North American–style suburbia. Will, the only one among us besides me who works (albeit under the table) is camped behind the espresso machine, scowling. He has the same measure of entitlement as everyone else, but with none of the family money.

“Mon dieu, c'est une tragédie.”
Micheline's latte cup clatters in its saucer.

“What can you do about it?” Andreas passes Tim a Gauloises. “Perhaps they need to get drunk? A night of wine, some liqueur, good sex.” Andreas shrugs. “They change their minds.”

Masha stares out the window. I glance at my watch.

“Well, I've got to go stash my extra gear in an airport locker and catch a plane. See you in a couple of weeks.” I stand, slip my hands into my pockets and finger the worn, familiar cardboard of my passport. I feel a large, strong hand on my forearm. Masha.

“Airport lockers are not secure. I will store the gear in my attic. Leave it with me.”

My heart thuds a bass line. I conceal a grin by stroking the stubble on my face thoughtfully, though it's not something I have to consider for more than a millisecond. I accept her offer like a man.

On the plane, I set my special leather-bound notebook and favourite Mont Blanc pen on the tray in front of me to plot the intervention. I can justify ownership of these mass-manufactured objects because like my laptop and my camera equipment, they are tools. (And both were gifts from my father.) I make notes of the arguments and vital deprogramming steps required for my campaign. I'm prepared to be patient. I also have ample time to rough out a documentary outline. Of course I'll be filming it. Eventually I close my eyes to daydream about Masha.

I hate landings. I pop a Gravol just before landing at Pearson International Airport at 6:00 a.m. local time. I'm drowsy and dry-mouthed through customs, but my Canadian passport gets me through relatively quickly. I stand alone at the baggage carousel watching black bags whirl around until I spot my own. I'm desperate for a coffee and a Gauloises. But none of the airport wickets are open. I pat my jacket pockets. No cigarettes, either. I wander through the bright fluorescent corridors looking for a place where I can smoke indoors. Then I peer out the window, uncertain whether people outside are smoking, or merely exhaling early-morning cold. The frigid December wind is a shock when I finally exit through the automatic doors onto the sidewalk. I'd almost forgotten what Canadian winters were like — more rugged, less refined than in Europe. Like just about everything. Living in Toronto already feels like a distant era to me. Winnipeg is a whole other lifetime.

I ride into the city on an airport mini-bus, watching the glowing CN Tower grow bigger and bigger. Even in the dull murk of early-morning light, everything seems dingy and disorganized. Rush hour has already begun on the Queensway. The streets are a mess of bumps and potholes. And all the cars are overlarge — inelegant in comparison to the zippy Minis and Vespas I'm used to seeing. At least my hotel choice, a former flophouse in the downtown's west end, still has a bit of soul. A rare property not ruined by renovation. I choose the hotel's Blue Line Room, hoping it will remind me of Europe. I walk up buffed wooden stairs lured by the promise of ultra-sexy contemporary design. But once inside, I fall onto the ultrasoft Chroma-Key blue spread as though it were a lake and float off to a sleep so deep it feels like drowning.