The Garneau Block (28 page)

 

81

drunk on risk

M
adison sat in the backseat of the Toyota Prius with Garith. The dog panted madly and paced from one tinted window to the other, hopping over Madison's lap and slamming into her expanding belly. On Whyte Avenue, they passed a dog walker with a golden retriever, two dachshunds, and a standard poodle. Garith hopped and howled, slamming his wet nose into the window.

“Are those the puppies?” David's voice rose to a squeak at the end of the sentence. “Where's the puppies, Garith?”

Madison and her parents were on their way back from
ATB
Financial, where David and Abby had applied for a $750,000 business loan. In their smart black and grey suits, they were so giddy, so touchy, so drunk on their own financial risk that Madison worried their recent personal and political transformations were the results of a shared psychological disorder. That, or a lot of cocaine. To her immense discomfort, Madison had even heard moans coming from their bedroom in recent days.

Why had her parents dragged her to the bank? Certainly not for aesthetic reasons, as she had grown rapidly in the last couple of weeks and didn't have any proper maternity clothes. All Madison could wear at the moment were Hawaiian-print muumuus from her mother's pre-aerobics period in the early 1980s, so she probably didn't do much to impress the commercial banking manager, a tiny-nosed man of her generation named Trent, to whom David, in the midst of an attack of inappropriateness, offered a meagre dowry if he'd “join the Weiss team.”

For this reason, and because they had ignored her earnest desire to stay out of the fitness business, Madison was not speaking to her parents.

“Come on, darling.” Abby turned and reached for Madison's hand. “Why so glum? You've got to take the world by the nuts. Embrace change, make it your own.”

“That Trent was a good-lookin' fella if you ask me,” said David.

In the alley, as David stopped to press the garage opener,
Madison escaped with the dog. Before she slammed the door closed, both her parents called out to her. But their spirits were unassailable. They exited the garage holding hands, talking to Madison and Garith as though they were both dogs.

Madison already had her key in the lock when she turned and spotted Carol the Courier. Carol dropped her bicycle on the sidewalk in front of her parents' house and approached the mailbox.

“Dad, the university courier is here again.”

David stopped kicking snow in Garith's face, one of the dog's favourite games, and hurried to the front of the house. Abby and Madison followed him.

“What is this?”

Carol the Courier shrugged.

The brown envelope from the university appeared thin. David shook the envelope before he ripped it. He peered inside and then suggested they go in the house, on account of the unpleasant wind.

Abby put some water on the stove to boil and they sat in the living room, Madison across from her parents. David pulled out two pages. “A media advisory.”

“We're not the media.” Abby took the pages and scanned them while David stuck his hand into the envelope looking for anything else. She scooched in close to her husband on the chesterfield. “Uh-oh.”

Madison shook her head. “What?”

“They're making an announcement tomorrow afternoon at the Faculty Club and we're invited.”

David took the pages back. “What are they announcing?”

“A decision on the Garneau Block.”

Madison looked across the street, at Rajinder's house. He would be downtown at this hour, 10:50 in the morning. The artists-in-residence would be arriving right about now with giant coffees, walking into their studios as though they were about to attend their own funerals. Raymond would be manic.

And Rajinder? Planning lunch with the gorgeous twenty-five-year-old daughter of a wealthy Edmonton family? Interviewing gorgeous twenty-five-year-old candidates for the next artist-in-residence cycle? Watching French movies starring gorgeous twenty-five-year-olds who could speak proper French?

Merde alors.

Behind her, David and Abby speculated on whether the announcement would be positive or negative.

“They wouldn't have a press conference on a Thursday if it was negative,” said David. “I mean, in politics that's a disaster. You always release bad news on Friday at 4:30 in the afternoon, even later.”

Abby stood up to tend to the boiling water in the kitchen. “Now we'll have two things to celebrate, the loan and the block.”

“And our grandchild.” David joined Madison at the window and rubbed her hair. “We can't celebrate that enough, can we, Maddy?”

“I guess not.”

David kissed his daughter on the cheek. “I'm sorry we won't be here for your ultrasound.”

“I'd rather be in London myself than have an ultrasound.”

“It's a
business
trip, remember? We're checking out a couple of spas that offer math and science tutoring. Very innovative.”
David seemed to grow tired of hearing himself talk. Madison felt her father staring at her left cheek, and eventually he poked her arm. “Sorry I embarrassed you with Trent.”

“Didn't you see his ring? Or my muumuu?”

David looked at his watch and put his jacket back on. “I better flee, Bruce Lee. A couple of federal Liberals want to meet me for coffee.”

“What are you talking to Liberals for?”

“Maybe they want to know how to have a somewhat less crappy political party.”

David hurried into the kitchen to kiss Abby, bent down to wrestle Garith for a minute, and opened the front door. “Can you believe your dear old dad's driving a Toyota Prius?”

Then he whispered so Abby wouldn't hear. “Inbred
SUV
salesman queered the deal by calling it girl names. Next thing you know I'll be eating tofu.” He shoved his index finger down his throat a couple of times, produced a convincing gag, and bounded out the door.

 

82

higher education

R
aymond strode into the Faculty Club a conquering hero. They had fired him, yes, but he had risen from darkness to smite them all. His dismissal had inspired the most creative
period of his professional career, and as he walked through the doors, in one of his new suits, with his chest puffed out the way his father had taught him, Raymond smelled roast beef, mashed potatoes, horseradish, fresh bread, and victory.

Hands to shake? Eyes to meet with stern defiance? Bruschetta to devour? He scanned the room, but he discovered no one from the Arts Faculty. Where was Dean Kesterman, the wimp? After the announcement that the Garneau Block would live forever, and a few modest comments to the media, two bruschetta, and perhaps a devilled egg, Raymond planned to knee Dean Kesterman in the testicles. In fact, any of his former colleagues would do. His knee, covered in black Italian wool, was itching to knee some wimp's testicles. Whose would it be?

Most of his neighbours were already seated in the front row, with nametag stickers on their chests. The woman at the door, whom he recognized from the public affairs department, smiled and attempted to give him a nametag. But he would not have it. If you do not know Dr. Raymond Terletsky now, you will. Oh yes.
When The Great Spirit is unleashed, you shall know me.

Raymond took a seat behind Shirley and greeted his neighbours. He winked at Rajinder. “We did it, pal. We did it.”

“I hope so, Raymond.”

The smell of his wife's perfume briefly inflamed him. He leaned forward. “Shirley Wong,” he said, in her ear, “you are one of the world's great beauties. I was a fool to forget it. A damn fool. Let's go to Machu Picchu.”

Shirley Wong reached back and pushed his head away. “Shush it.”

At the front of the room, with large windows behind him, the chair of the university's board of governors tapped the microphone. Behind the man, wind moved the boughs of tall spruce trees on Saskatchewan Drive. It was a romantic scene. Perhaps there would be a tall spruce tree in the direct middle of The Great Spirit, Raymond thought, and pulled his African cave art notepad from his jacket pocket.

Spruce tree. Fake wind. Romance.

The man introduced the university president, stuttering slightly and fumbling words. He said “um” several times, and Raymond shook his head. Who writes these speeches? Why is rhetoric a lost art? “I'm already bored,” he wanted to say, out loud.

The new president, a woman from Seattle, acknowledged the dignitaries and spoke in detail about Edmonton and Alberta being vigorous and diverse and powerful and progressive, not just a rich oil region but a centre of academic excellence with real tentacles out into the local community, the country, and the world.

“We've heard this one before, Madame President,” said Raymond, into Shirley's ear.

The president looked down at her notes. A camera flashed. “Cultural excellence is just as important as scientific, mathematic, and critical excellence. And we recognize the Garneau Block Foundation's splendidly creative efforts to build a…bison head on property under the university's control.”

There was a sudden pain in Raymond's abdomen. This boring speech was not so boring anymore. He wanted the president to pause, to change her tone. He wanted her to start over, give it another try.

“However, since the plan is still in its initial stages, and since we are not convinced the geographical location of the museum–is it a museum?–is essential to its success, the University of Alberta, in concert with the City of Edmonton, has decided not to grant cultural status to the property on 10 Garneau.”

Raymond had to get to the microphone, deliver a counterargument. Without excusing himself he started out from the seats, crashing into his neighbours' legs and stepping on their feet. Raymond careened out from the audience while the president continued.

“For several years, the university has been planning to build its own museum. And, as you all know, we received a generous donation of ancient and exotic textiles from Asia this spring. Therefore, we extend a hand to the Garneau Block Foundation even as we move forward in our plans to build a centre for veterinary research on the land. We…”

Raymond tripped on the small pile of black cords handling the public address system. In the process of falling, he didn't just tackle the president of the University of Alberta, he also knocked the podium to the floor with his forehead, which sent a piercing squeal through the room. On top of the president, who writhed and shrieked on the floor of the Faculty Club, Raymond couldn't recall what he had intended to say. His head hurt. It wasn't crucial, as the president didn't seem prepared to debate at the moment.

“Madman! Madman!”

Several men pulled him off the president and pinned him to the floor. As they did, Raymond found himself looking
around for a madman. How did a madman get past the public affairs representative? And really, what
is
a madman? One woman's madman is another woman's husband or father.

The new black suit was in danger of sustaining a rip in the underarm, so Raymond stopped squirming. The president righted herself and throughout the room people exclaimed, moaned, laughed. The laughter sounded as though it belonged to Jonas Pond.

“Jonas,” he said, “where are you?”

“We're with you, professor! You crazy son of a bitch!”

The president stood over Raymond and fixed her dress. She turned to one of her assistants. “Who is this Frankenstein's monster?”

Raymond clenched his teeth and closed his eyes.

 

83

the documentary

J
onas found the balance between talking too little and talking too much, being too jokey and too serious, supergay and super-straight. He enunciated, but not so much that he sounded like Cary Grant.

In short, he was perfect.

“Where do you want us to go?” Madison stood in the middle of the Garneau Block. They were already rolling and she
had already been warned not to address the camera directly. But that's exactly what Madison did, again.

So Jonas sighed, took her arm, and led the way. “In Edmonton, you can either live downtown or in Old Strathcona. A lot of people say downtown is the way to go but there just aren't quite enough restaurants yet. Oh, and by the way, why can't the university build its veterinary thing somewhere else? Huh? Like in
Leduc
.”

“Um,” said Madison.

The producer, a tall woman from Toronto in a tiny jean jacket and scarf that weren't nearly warm enough, asked the cameraman to stop rolling. Jonas had delivered several clever lines, and he worried they would be lost. “Focus, Maddy, focus.”

“Just be natural, you guys,” said the producer. “Please, no speeches. Just talk to each other, not to the camera, the way you normally would while strolling through your neighbourhood. Pretend we aren't here.”

“I'm not good at pretending.” Madison pointed at Jonas. “And he isn't being himself.”

“There is no self in acting.”

The producer drooped slightly. “Remember, this isn't acting.”

“Sweetheart,
everything
is acting.”

“So act like you're not acting. Act like you're Jonas, the guy who's getting kicked out of his neighbourhood. The guy who needs to find a new apartment.”

Jonas engaged in some mouth exercises, as it was around zero and his lips could freeze up at any time. Drooling on
The National
was not ideal. “Map of Indonesia. Look, looters. In
Paris, people portent pantaloons.” He shadow-boxed for a few seconds. “All right, I'm ready.”

“Action,” said the producer.

Jonas led Madison toward the eastern edge of the block. “You have to be a few blocks north of Whyte, or the kids'll get drunk on the weekends and throw up on your peonies.”

Madison smiled and shook her head. “I'm not so worried about that.”

“I am, because stupid people irk me.”

“Jonas.”

“All right, compromising irks me. The Garneau Block is
perfect
, which is why all this is so tragic. You're close to the university, close to Whyte, close to downtown, yet far from vomit.”

“That isn't true, Jonas. In September, at the frat houses? When it's hot out, all you can smell is puke.”

“Either way, I don't want to move away.”

Madison paused and looked around. “It won't be home.”

“Home, which is something we have for another…” Jonas looked at his watch. “Twenty-nine days.”

“They said we could take an extra week in January, on account of the holidays.”

Jonas broke the rule and addressed the camera. “If only every university were as compassionate as ours.”

The producer allowed a moment to pass and clapped her hands. “Now, please, if you guys could just back up to the corner again and do the same walk.”

“You said you wanted natural,” said Madison.

“No talking this time. We just want to shoot you from behind. Then you're done.”

The cameraman set up and Jonas and Madison walked, gesturing with their hands while they imitated themselves talking. After two takes, the producer released them and walked deeper into Garneau to find B-roll.

Alone with Madison, Jonas had trouble easing out of character. In front of 10 Garneau, he remembered what he had meant to ask her. “Why does David want to take me out for a drink?”

“I don't know.”

“Maybe he's confused after that hug in Manulife Place when we were drunk.”

“My dad's not really the confused type.”

Jonas had to agree. David Weiss seemed rather staunch about his heterosexuality. “I've been taking St. John's Wort, for the career-related depression. So far it hasn't done sweet jack nuts. There's an ad in the paper every day for call centre jobs, with benefits and holidays, and I dream about the ad. The ad is an emotional prison.”

“Emotional prison.”

“You're getting fat, hey?”

“I can't fit into anything. My top button is always undone.” Madison looked down. “Maybe it's the hormones, but I really, really don't want to move. Where's my baby supposed to–”

“Can you not? The St. John's Wort hasn't really kicked in.”

Rajinder Chana came out his front door, wearing an old brown business suit and work gloves. He waved and addressed himself to a pile of sunflower carcasses. Madison began to veer home so Jonas took her hand and dragged her toward 13 Garneau.

“Hello, Indian neighbour!”

Rajinder turned and smiled. “Hello. You two.”

Madison had stopped squirming so Jonas released her. “Damn. That is a fine outfit, Raj.”

“I understand it is ridiculous.” Rajinder looked down at himself. The brown suit seemed two sizes too big. “It was my father's favourite and I could not throw it away. So it is my work suit.”

“And the shirt and tie?”

Rajinder pulled at his blue silk tie and concentrated on it for a few moments.

An airplane passed overhead, and all three of them looked up to watch it pass. Jonas wanted to be on it, wherever it was going. When Rajinder stopped looking at the sky, his eyes went directly to Madison's swollen belly. Her swallow was audible.

“I am tired of this.” Rajinder pulled his gloves off and dropped his shovel. “I waited too long and now the ground is frozen. It was only a cure for boredom. Can I invite you in for a piece of wild blueberry pie? Last night I made the pie to cure insomnia. All these cures. It is not an abominable pie.”

Before she could bolt, Jonas took a handful of Madison's jacket. “We'd be delighted,” he said.