The Garneau Block (19 page)

 

54

fear and wonder

B
y mid-October, the winds gather chill air over the Rockies and carry the fallen yellow and red leaves into gutters and corners. Filtered through vegetation and soil whipped up by those winds, the moon rises fat and deep orange. Looking out his east-facing window on the thirty-eighth floor of Manulife Place one clear evening, Professor Raymond Terletsky determined the colour was end-of-the-world.

Though he was thrilled to be working full-time for the Save the Garneau Block Foundation, for the equivalent of his professor's salary, Raymond had not spoken to Shirley in three
weeks. He longed for the sound of her voice and the warmth of her legs in bed, her night exhalations.

He had missed their autumn rituals. Not once did he cover the tomato plants on frost nights. He didn't help carry the summer clothes and sandals downstairs to the storage room, and he didn't gather the fall and winter outerwear. When he tried to phone his children in Calgary and Seattle, they didn't pick up. He left messages to no avail.

A knock on the office door interrupted his thoughts. It was Rajinder, his employer and saviour. “I'm leaving now, Raymond.”

“See you in the morning.”

“How are the plans coming?”

Raymond waved Rajinder to the desk, covered in library books and printed Web pages about small museums. “This is the Studio Ghibli Museum, just outside Tokyo.” Raymond gathered a few pages of black-and-white photographs, with Japanese characters on the left. “The director, Hayao Miyazaki, opened it to showcase anime and the limitlessness of imagination.”

Rajinder held up a photograph of the robot on the roof. “What is this?”

“This is a house of sorts filled with robots, fat cartoon birds, a cat bus, a tiny spiral staircase. It's a distillation of recent Japanese culture and mass delusion. Fantastic and upsetting preoccupations. Fear and wonder.”

“I see.”

“That's what 10 Garneau should be. If I may be so bold.” Raymond walked to the window again, and looked out into the city lights. “Our own anti-museum. I'm talking history, the boomtown culture, gangs and suburbs, oil and immigration,
the great river, art and violence, the disturbing nexus of far left and far right politics. Underground energies. Secrets and nightmares and visions. Fear and wonder, Raj. Tomorrow morning I'm having breakfast with a Jungian scholar who's going to teach me all about the collective unconscious of urban Alberta.”

One of Rajinder's newest artists-in-residence, a performance poet, began clucking like a chicken in the adjacent office. The clucking increased and soon the poet was jumping and flapping her wings in the hall. “Eat me don't! / Don't eat me! / Me don't eat!”

The poet stopped to make notes and return to her studio, and Rajinder placed the photographs for the Ghibli museum on the desk. “Please speak to this Jungian and write up an initial proposal, one or two pages. We shall organize another meeting to discuss the museum idea.”

For dinner, Raymond took his notepad with the African cave art and walked to his favourite restaurant, Hoang Long in Chinatown, where he sat in a tall bamboo chair next to the window and ordered a half-litre of red wine and a small pot of tea.

Raymond listened to conversations around him, in English and French and what he took to be Vietnamese, and he jotted some notes about the Taoists, whose views on death were consistent with their analysis of every unsolvable riddle. Do not worry, Edmonton. Accept death and incorporate it into your life, like autumn winds and shrivelled leaves, the icy hint of winter. Without our winter, we would not long for summer. Without our deaths, we would not appreciate green papaya salad and prawns in coconut curry sauce.

For Tibetans, the transition from life to death allows a
distillation of self, a liberation, a rebirth of soul and personality. At the moment of his death, the authentic Raymond Terletsky would be born. This,
this
was what 10 Garneau had to be: a distillation of Edmonton. An authentic representation of the city, including buffalo and hummingbirds and perhaps green papaya salad.

“Does this mean we have to kill Edmonton before we understand what it truly is?” said Raymond.

Cecilia Hoang, the co-owner of the restaurant, set down his wine and tea. “My son is doing really well in school, and we just opened a new location in the mall. Don't kill Edmonton.”

Raymond realized he had been talking aloud. “Do you think there's another way?”

“Some things don't need to be understood, professor.”

Raymond crossed out his initial drawing of the museum: the current house turned upside down and reinforced so a second floor window became the front door.

The site of Edmonton's distilled mythic power had to be more, and less, spectacular. After a sip of wine and a sip of tea, the professor ventured to think without understanding.

 

55

almost guilt

A
bby Weiss stood outside Starbucks and tapped her right foot on the Whyte Avenue sidewalk. David was inside buying
their mochaccinos. He watched his wife through the window; bursting with defeat, her ideals compromised by taste buds.

On his leash, Garith looked up at Abby and wagged his tail. But Abby would not look down, would not gather him up for a cuddle.

It was cold outside, cold enough to snow, yet Abby had only worn a sweater for their morning walk and refused to come inside. At what point would she give in to the power of Starbucks and the elegance of global capitalism?

He sent her mind messages:
Come into the café. It is warm in the café. Miles Davis is playing the trumpet in that slow and thoughtful way he had before he went screwy. Give in to Starbucks. Give in to Starbucks, so we can sit down.

When it was clear Abby would not submit to Starbucks, David took the caramel mochaccinos and joined her on the sidewalk. Abby grabbed her cup out of his hand and took a sip in anger. Of course, it was still too hot.

“It burned my tongue.”

“Oh, sweetie.” David bent down and loved up Garith for a moment while they waited for the light to change.

“Now I won't be able to taste anything all day. Sandpaper tongue!”

Crossing Calgary Trail, David scanned the avenue for Barry Strongman. Since he had kicked Barry out of the riding association meeting, David hadn't seen him selling street magazines.

All Abby knew was that Barry wasn't around these days. David had never confessed what he'd done. Abby saw him looking around and rubbed his back. “Have you looked into it? I mean, you could go to the shelters and ask about him.”

“Barry's a resourceful guy.”

“Don't you miss arguing with him? You used to love that.”

“If I really wanted to argue about politics, I could argue with you.”

“You could, David, but I would crush you.”

As they continued west toward the Rabbit Warren, David wondered if he had killed Barry Strongman. There was a good chance he had broken the homeless man's heart. It happened in the movies often enough, though it was usually in a romantic context. Yet David had always understood he was special; people developed strong attachments to him, on account of his rugged handsomeness, his charisma, and his political eloquence. These attachments could be perilous.

Abby walked ahead of David. She knocked on the door and Shirley, with a shabby baseball cap on, let her in. David and Garith followed, and sat on the wicker bench where they always sat during their visits. Abby hurried behind the counter beside Shirley, and put her hands over a heating vent.

“Before I forget,” said Shirley, “here are my keys.”

Abby took the keys and jingled them. “Instead of letting the appraiser in, we should stab her with these babies. Right in the neck.”

It was the day they had been dreading, the day of evaluation. A real-estate expert retained by the university would visit all five houses in the Garneau Block to prepare a detailed market-value assessment. David and Abby and Madison had been up until two in the morning cleaning and rearranging in order to create the highest charm factor. By the look of Shirley Wong, she had gone to bed even later.

“Raymond called me last night and I answered. It was from a pay phone, so I didn't know to avoid it.”

Abby turned and rubbed Shirley's arm.

“He said we don't have to worry about the appraisal. He said we're going to get the cultural designation because he has this plan. I hung up on him before he could explain.”

David sipped his caramel mochaccino, which had cooled to a perfect temperature. He stared out the window at Barry Strongman's vacant corner. “Putting a bunch of teepees and bearskin rugs in 10 Garneau is a waste of time. He's going to humiliate us all with this stupidity.”

Shirley shook her head. “Raymond Terletsky is a lot of things but he isn't stupid.”

The heater powered off and the store went quiet. David unhooked Garith's leash so he could explore a bit. “How are your boarders?”

Shirley shook her head again and Abby rubbed her arm some more. In the past, Shirley had been so happy and positive that David suspected she was faking. Now he was certain. Her upbeat exterior was no stronger than the crust of a crème brûlée.

“Can't you just kick them out?” he said.

“No. I can't.”

“Did you sign a contract?”

“I can't because I can't.”

“Is it still the big guy?”

Shirley nodded. “Patch. He was up all night with some other juvenile delinquents, partying in the living room.”

“Patch,” said Abby, with a sneer.

“I have to say Steamer, the Mormon boy, is growing on me. I speak to him more than I ever spoke to my own kids. He's so…Mormony. But Patch, I don't know. If he's the future of hockey, it's in bigger trouble than I ever thought.”

“I oughta march right on over there and punch his lights out.” Abby attacked the air in front of her with a right and a left.

“Sweetie, how many times have I told you to keep your thumbs
outside
the fist?”

“Maybe I'll punch the appraiser too, and the mayor.”

“That's my elementary schoolteacher, my gentle pacifist.”

“Whoever said I was a pacifist? People are trying to take my house. Sometimes, in a revolution, blood must be shed.”

“Oh boy.” David patted his jeans to summon Garith. “Listen, you girls catch up. I'm off to run some errands.”

Abby threw the keys to David. “The appraiser's coming to our place at 12:30 and then she's doing Shirley's. I'm going to stay here.”

“Are you sure?” said Shirley.

“Absolutely.” Abby put her arm around her. “You can help me think up names for my grandchild.”

David walked out of the Rabbit Warren with Garith bounding into the cool air. On the corner, Barry Strongman's corner, David looked around and shook his head. Heartbreak was a terrible way to die.

 

56

the m-bomb

B
usiness was light at Sparkle Vacations, so Madison put on a fleece jacket and sat outside with a cup of herbal tea. Morning traffic down Whyte Avenue had slowed enough that exhaust fumes were scarce. Students in their scarves and early-season toques with sardonic logos–I Love the World Bank–passed with name-brand coffee cups in one hand and cellular phones in the other.

The air of prosperity in Alberta seemed thickened with each penny added to the price of oil. Madison noticed it in designer jeans and shoes and jackets, and in the trucks the students drove to school. Of course, few young Albertans owned energy stock. They had just absorbed a sense of entitlement from their leaders. It was a conceit, a feeling that the future had migrated west from Upper and Lower Canada to the eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains. Students were confident that a foothill of cash waited for them on the other side of that degree so they were saying yes, yes, and yes to the credit card offers that arrived in the mail.

She didn't make a commission, so Madison hadn't enjoyed a cent of Alberta's largesse. When she graduated, the country had been coming out of a recession. She had spent what should have been the best years of her life under fluorescent lights in a travel agency with bad ventilation.

The cool morning air, heavy with the scent of decomposing
leaves, couldn't chill her. Though she and Rajinder had not yet kissed or re-booked their first date, they had spent hours of informal time together. Two rollerblades through the river valley, a bike ride up and down the Mill Creek Ravine, and an impromptu luncheon at Roots Organic around the corner from Sparkle Vacations.

And there he was, right on time, crossing the street from Corbett Hall in a deep-brown suit and tan overcoat. This morning, he had attended a meeting with the university's board of governors, hoping for a reprieve. Madison got up and rolled her chair back into the agency.

She knew it was ludicrous but each time she saw Rajinder she had to suppress an urge to say, “I love you.” It was not possible to love someone after a non-date, two rollerblades, a bike ride, and an impromptu luncheon, so Madison knew she was misinterpreting hormonal outbursts for something else. When a woman declares her love too early, a fist of fear hits a man's major muscle groups. When a woman declares her love too early and announces, shortly thereafter, she also happens to be pregnant by a man who
may
be called Jean-something, the fist threatens to squeeze the blood from his heart.

The door opened, Rajinder appeared, and Madison pressed the word
love
down into her duodenum. “How did it go?”

Rajinder looked down at his polished brown Oxfords. “I failed.”

“No, you didn't fail. You knew they'd say no.”

Rajinder walked across the room, pulled Tammy “Sparkle” Davidson's chair out from behind her desk and sat. “I was hoping we would not have to rely on plan B.”

“How do you mean?”

“I cannot fault Raymond for his enthusiasm. He is working twelve hours a day on the project, conducting interviews and phoning museum experts around the world for their advice. Consulting elders. But–”

“He wants to build a museum?”

“I was hoping to organize another community meeting tonight. Raymond can present his plan to the residents of the block. And yes. He wants to transform 10 Garneau into a museum.”

“What sort of museum?”

“We shall learn tonight, I hope.”

Madison looked at her watch. “What time is the appraiser coming to your house?”

“Later this afternoon.” Rajinder got up to leave. “I suppose I should get home and tidy up, leave messages for everyone about tonight. It has been peculiar, the change from no contact with my neighbours to near constant contact with them.”

Though she risked showing off her belly, Madison walked with Rajinder to the door. She had a strong desire to lick his neck, but, along with the urge to declare her love, Madison buried it. At the door, Rajinder put his hand on her shoulder and managed to smile. “I shall see you later.”

“The black under your eyes is almost gone.”

“At my meeting this morning, the university administrators asked if I had started kickboxing. I told them yes, daily lessons. I had hoped to physically intimidate them into placing a five-year moratorium on development. But even in this I failed.”

“Next time just haul off and plow one of them in the stomach.”

“Next time.” Rajinder started out the door.

Madison waited alone in Sparkle Vacations for a moment. The fluorescent lights buzzed. She opened the door. “Hey!”

Rajinder turned around.

“Are you busy tomorrow night?”

“I do not think so.”

“You still want to have a first date?”

“Very much.” He took a step forward. “I was waiting until my face healed.”

“Well this time it's a surprise. I'm going to take
you
on a date.”

“Truly?”

“Yep.”

“So you are asking me out on a date.”

“Yep.”

Rajinder took another step forward. “I should not say this, Madison, but I have been thinking: if my parents were still alive, they would disapprove.”

“They wanted you to marry an Indian girl?”

“Absolutely.”

“Not that we're getting married.”

Rajinder opened his mouth to speak but did not speak. Madison's face went hot and she considered putting her head through the pane of glass on her immediate left.

“Nang,” she said, through her teeth.

“I am looking forward to it, Madison. To our first date.”

She waved and closed the door to Sparkle Vacations, slapping herself on the forehead for dropping the M-bomb, an even more destructive piece of ordinance than the L-cluster. When the phone rang and a man with a smoker's voice asked about honeymoon cruises in February, Madison pined for the desolation of February.