The Garneau Block (29 page)

 

84

surrounded by bizet

R
ajinder Chana's wild blueberry pie was better than
not abominable
, but not much better. A couple of the blueberries were still frozen, most were sour, and the crust was chewy. If Rajinder asked for her opinion, Madison vowed to be honest. But she doubted she would get the chance to speak.

Jonas was running his mouth about the university, same-sex marriage, the
PC
leadership race, Raymond Terletsky's assault charge, the overall smelliness of live buffalo, the healing powers of a nice glass of Scotch, and the inevitability of his career as a phone solicitor.

This went on for some time, and Jonas seemed prepared to talk all day long. He allowed comments but Madison didn't feel inspired or provoked by anything Jonas said. In Rajinder's house, in the earthy smell of Rajinder's house, all she really wanted to do was throw a couple of pillows around and bawl.

Rajinder didn't seem to have much to say either. Every few minutes, he would offer more Scotch for Jonas and more chamomile tea for Madison. The Garneau Block, once his chief passion, seemed lost to him. When Jonas asked about Jeanne Perlitz, how she took the news of the university's plan, Rajinder just shrugged.

“My mouth is getting dry, you assholes,” Jonas said, finally,
after a monologue about melting polar ice caps. “Please. Please say something.”

“Global warming is a concern of mine as well.” Rajinder looked into his tea.

Madison nodded. “Eco…systems.”

“Oh Jesus, you two.” Jonas approached the stereo. He inspected a Bizet jewel case, opened the slot, and put the disk inside. The music began far too loudly, so Jonas turned it down. “If you don't stop this I'm going to urinate on the coffee table.”

“Oh,” said Rajinder.

Madison wanted to clang both men over the head with the stone Krishna and Radha statue. Yes, she wanted to be with Rajinder. Of course she did. But not if he was the sort of man who threw temper tantrums simply because, for example, he discovered his girlfriend had been impregnated by a smelly Québécois hiker. Then again, in the past couple of weeks Madison had wondered whether it was Rajinder's reaction or her own shame that had kept her from answering the door when he arrived with flowers. Like him, she wished they could enjoy a traditional courtship, without a remnant of the past growing inside her. But her shame had diminished. Madison no longer wished the baby would go away. The little thing was all hers now. Jean-something became more and more remote every day. If Rajinder couldn't accept it, she didn't want him.

But she did want him.

Madison understood she was being stubborn, immature, and self-destructive. Yet there was comfort in allowing herself to be the cloistered victim.

Surrounded by the earthy smell and Georges Bizet, she decided not to clang anyone over the head with a statue.

“Can you leave us alone please?” said Madison.

Jonas pointed to himself and Rajinder. “Me or him?”

“You, Jonas.”

“I'm not done my Scotch. Why do I have to go? There aren't any secrets here.”

“Please.”

Rajinder nodded. “It would be simpatico.”

“This is a rip-off. I didn't mean you had to have a talk right
now
. Wait until tomorrow, when I'm out looking for a call centre job or maybe something in used mattress sales. At the moment I'm really digging this Scotch.”

Madison clapped her hands together in prayer. “Jonas?”

“Take the Scotch, my friend.”

“I don't drink alone. What do you take me for?” Jonas downed his Scotch, put on his jacket, and slipped into his shoes. “I'll be across the street. If you guys decide you need a mediator or just a friend, give me a ring.”

Rajinder met him at the door and shook his hand. “Thank you for your understanding. Madison and I really must–”

“I know, I know.” Jonas opened the door and left, his footsteps on the porch and down the stairs. His head bobbing in front of the picture window. Madison watched him, and used him as a reason to remain silent as long as she could.

Bizet was a veil over the room. Weeks ago, when they had been alone, conversations had been easy. They were a couple of chatty introverts, unfolding their lives. Now it felt as
though a
CBC
producer stood at the end of the hall, begging them to be authentic.

Madison had only been this uncomfortable once before, on the night of her sixteenth birthday. She returned from a roller-coaster party at West Edmonton Mall to encounter her parents at the dining room table with a small paperback called
Talk Sex
by Dr. Sue Johanson. David and Abby wouldn't accept Madison's assurances that she already knew everything from health class and movies, and they proceeded to deliver a speech–based on handwritten notes–about masturbation, heavy petting, oral sex, and…
it
.

“Jonas is a comical man,” said Rajinder.

“He is.”

“You have known him a long time.”

“Ten years or so. He's a good guy.”

“Yes. Yes.”

“And a complete ass, too.”

“It is difficult to be funny. One is born with it, I think. Like eye colour.”

“I'm not funny.”

“Yes, you are funny at times.” Rajinder coughed and shook his head. “But I am not. When I try to be funny, I merely confuse people.”

“Some books are funny. There's this one book–”

“I am beyond sorry,” said Rajinder. “I behaved poorly.”

Madison had wanted to be tough, but her tear glands did not co-operate. “No, no it was all my fault. I was scared to tell you because I thought you wouldn't like me any more, and then when I did tell you I–”

“Like you?” Rajinder hurried over to her chair and lifted her out. “I love you.”

“You do not.”

“No, I really actually do.”

Madison sobbed violently. Snot gushed out of her nose and on to Rajinder's father's favourite suit. It took fifteen minutes for her to say she loved him too.

 

85

the edmonton remand centre

D
ue to the ferocity of his attack on the university president, the special testimony of Claudia Santino, and his own snooty behaviour the following morning at the bail hearing, Raymond spent a few days in jail. When Shirley Wong refused to pay for his release, and forbade his friends to do it, Raymond spent two more.

On the fifth day, Shirley asked Abby to look after the Rabbit Warren and she took the
LRT
downtown. Since Raymond wasn't a risk to the Crown, the police allowed them to meet in a small conference room in the Remand Centre.

In the conference room, his beard patchy and uneven, Raymond cradled his left arm in his right hand. Before Shirley had a chance to ask him what had happened, he showed her his
new tattoo. The word
BEEYATCH
spanned three inches just below his elbow.

“You want to know how they made my tattoo?”

Shirley was horrified. It was a bloody mess.

“They cut me with a sewing needle and used the ink from a Bic pen. A Bic pen! And guess what would have happened if I had complained or cried out?”

Raymond lifted his hand to stop her before she could speak.

“
Other
forms of initiation.”

When she had endeavoured to teach Raymond a lesson, this was not what she had imagined. Shirley had assumed prison was sort of like
M.A.S.H.
, without the doctoring, and not in Korea.

“I hope these past weeks have been gratifying to you.” Raymond slouched in his chair. “With your little hockey players.”

“On the contrary.”

“You hate me.”

“I don't hate you.”

“Well, it's some lunatic sicko kind of love, letting me spend a week with a collection of addicts and mental defectives. My bunkmate, a charming drug dealer and chronic masturbator from Saskatoon, gave me a nickname. You want to know what it is?”

Shirley pursed her lips. She wanted to wait a few minutes before telling Raymond he was free.

“The pink lady.”

“The pink lady?”

“They call me the pink lady.”

“Why?”

Raymond pounded the table and slouched again. “I'm not telling.”

“The kids are coming home for Christmas.”

“Both of them?” Raymond's tone changed, and he smiled. He shook his head. “I can't believe it. How long has it been?”

“Six years.”

“Am I allowed to come? I mean, at least to dinner?”

Shirley held out her hand. After a moment of confusion, Raymond took it and followed her out of the interview room.

“Did you bail me out?”

“I did.”

Raymond's favourite guard, Yolande, a squat women with thick glasses and a Portuguese accent, dished him a thumbs-up. “It's been great having you, Dr. Terletsky.”

“Thank you for everything, Yolande. For your protection and the chocolate-chip cookie yesterday. It was a hint of civilization.”

Raymond gathered his clothes and completed all of the sign-out procedures, and they started out of the building southwest toward Winston Churchill Square. It was a cloudy day and almost dark even though it was not yet four in the afternoon. Light snow fell. Shirley did not speak until they reached the art gallery.

“If you agree to a couple of rules, I'll let you move back in.”

They entered the square. Raymond did not respond. A group of boys sat and silently smoked at the cenotaph in front of the giant glass pyramid of City Hall. To Shirley, they didn't look older than ten or eleven. But an air of adult failure and desperation surrounded them already. Considering the boys, in their puffy parkas and obnoxious logos, Shirley was satisfied
that despite all of her regrets and Raymond's lapses in sanity the family had never sunk so low.

At the southwest corner of the square, Raymond paused. “When?”

“Today. Tonight, after the game. I know you don't like hockey games but you're coming. What do you have at Abby and David's, apart from clothes?”

“Books. A mini-stereo and my
Magic Flute
CD
.”

Shirley started ahead but Raymond remained.

“You won't regret this. I'm going to be a good husband again, a good friend. A good man, really, and I'll follow all of your rules.”

Raymond tried to kiss Shirley's hand but she pulled it away. “The first rule is no touching until at least Christmas. Now let's go. You'll need a shower and shave before the game.”

By the end of the first period, the Oilers were leading the Boston Bruins 4–1. Merriment filled Rexall Place. The wave had passed three times and Shirley and Raymond had joined several refrains of “Here we go, Oilers, here we go.” A group of twentysomethings in the nosebleeds had even sang the
na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye
song.

In the opening minutes of the second period, Boston tied the game. The blues overtook the middle blue seats in Rexall Place. According to his custom, Raymond detached himself from the action at the most crucial point and began reading the program for the third time. He went for hot dogs and pop, and by the time he returned, Boston was ahead 5–4.

“Prison food is for real criminals,” he said, two bites into his dog. “So what's the plan? It feels like we should get the
neighbourhood together for one last effort. Physical attacks are out, I promise, but there's got to be something.”

Shirley watched Ethan Moreau cross the Boston blue line and skate right into a giant Bruin defenceman. “Keep your head up, Ethan!” she said, and turned to Raymond. “We're going to do nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Raymond, that's the second rule. We do nothing.”

“So we're just going to let the heartless university bulldoze the Garneau Block and–”

“Yes.”

“You can't be serious, Shirley.”

“Those are my rules. My only rules. I mean, aside from the trawling for prostitutes business, which goes without saying.”

Raymond clenched and released his fists. The Oilers iced the puck. A whistle blew. A commercial for snowmobiles exploded on the Jumbotron. “Should we stay in Old Strathcona? Or try Oliver?”

 

86

the political life

A
bowl of popcorn with coarse black pepper sat on the small table between David Weiss and Jonas Pond. Though it was fluffy enough, and glistening with oil in the candlelight, neither
man had taken a piece. A bottle of red wine also sat between them, so far unpoured.

While David related what he had read in the
Farmers' Almanac
about the weather this coming winter, Jonas considered escape routes. The scenario felt like either a prank or a trap. Though Jonas couldn't remember doing anything illegal in the past few months, his memory wasn't as elastic and reliable as it once was. Maybe David was working for the police, eager to have him arrested for…what? Looking at men in diapers on the Internet?

“It was a rainy summer, sure, but it isn't nearly as cold as it used to be around here. Not that I'm looking to blame anyone. Industry or whatever. It is what it is.”

Jonas poured the wine. “I know what you mean.”

“What? What do I mean?”

Since he hadn't been paying attention, Jonas just said, “The weather.”

“Right, yes.” David cracked his knuckles. “For all we know, Madison's child could be living in a desert in fifty years. If the oil peaks soon, maybe we'll all have to live closer to the equator. Unless, of course, the earth twists on its axis and we all die instantly. Making all of this moot.” David lifted his glass and touched Jonas's glass. “Moot or not, we got the hybrid now. We're doing our part. Right? In a world of declining oil supplies, that's all a guy can do, right?”

“Moot.” Jonas started to sip his wine and, instead, finished it in a couple of gulps. “David?”

“Yeah.”

“What are we doing here?”

David placed an elbow on the table and squeezed his bottom lip between two fingers. He looked around the Sugarbowl. “I've become a Liberal.”

“No.”

“Yes, my homosexual comrade. A Liberal.”

“How did it happen?”

“Peak oil, various treacheries that aren't your concern. Your concern is the upcoming federal election, and our common need for a credible candidate in this riding. The current nominee is polling badly and she's poised to drop out. In her place, we need someone with name recognition, a way with words, no criminal record, and a passion for public service.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Someone like you, Jonas.”

Jonas finished laughing and filled his glass again. He imagined himself in the House of Commons, wearing a blue pinstriped suit. The so-cons would
love
a gay, quasi-trilingual man from a riding in Alberta. A quiver of warmth went through him. “Before I say anything, David, are we on camera?”

“No.”

Jonas took a piece of popcorn and listened to the people around them, having their own insane conversations. His constituents.

“Listen, I know I haven't always been good to you, Jonas, but I grew up in a different era, when people like yourself were–”

“Stop talking. What would I have to do?”

“Come to our meeting tomorrow and get yourself nominated. You'll need twenty-five signatures, which shouldn't be too difficult.”

The trouble with being a Liberal in Alberta, thought Jonas, is everyone hates Liberals. Jonas saw himself knocking on a door and smiling artificially, like a figure skater on his way down to the ice, while a woman tossed a cup of hot chocolate into his face. “
Thief! Boondoggler! Pedophile!
”

Besides, the Liberals didn't exactly throw a parade of unanimity over the same-sex marriage bill. “I don't know, David. Maybe I'm more of a New Democrat kind of guy.”

David made a fist. “In federal politics, in Alberta, if you're anywhere left of the Conservative Party you have to be a Liberal. It doesn't matter if you're a Marxist-Leninist, a Green, or a member of the Marijuana Party. On paper, you have to be a Liberal. No matter how much it might hurt.”

“What's a federal politician's salary? Ballpark?”

“With the tax advantages, we're talking six-figures. Any Liberal from Alberta who isn't a pinhead will also end up with a cabinet position. There's a lot more money in that, and travel.”

“I'm not a pinhead.”

“No, you aren't, Jonas. But you do get into the sauce a bit too often.” David gestured at the wine glass. “It's something to think about.”

“I still get hangovers so I'm not an alcoholic.”

David leaned over the table. “If you decide to run, you'll have to be more discreet.”

“Discreet. I can be discreet.” Jonas finished his glass of wine and gestured at David to do the same. He slipped the server two twenty-dollar bills. “Let's get some air.”

Jonas led David on his long way home, down Saskatchewan Drive and through campus. At a break in the trees, they
spotted a couple in the valley playing golf in the snow with headlamps on.

As they walked, Jonas learned a thing or two about Liberal policy and the strict ethical guidelines that would govern politicians of his generation. With each crunchy step, Jonas felt more comfortable with the idea. It was better money than he would make as a hot tub salesman or a telephone solicitor, and he would still be performing. There might even be billboards!

It sounded lovely. Jonas wondered why he hadn't considered it before. “Why don't you run?”

“For most of my adult life I was a Liberal-hater, so they could nail me as a flip-flopper. Plus, certain political enemies of mine could make a pretty good case that I have racist views toward Aboriginals.”

“Do you?”

“Absolutely not. But I did a bad thing to a homeless man.”

Jonas put his arm around David. “Do you think I'll get to hang out with any Trudeaus?”

“Almost assuredly.”

“Which ones? They're all so adorable.”

“I can't say at this time, Jonas.”

“I think I'd make a top-shelf Minister of Fisheries and Oceans. Don't you?”

David stopped at 110th Street and held out his hand for Jonas to shake. “Let's just get you elected.”

Together they walked through the Garneau Block. There was a new feeling of loss and resignation around the five houses. Chimneys and skylights and address numbers and strips of crown moulding would be smashed and carted off to
the landfill. The old trees would be firewood by spring. Jonas and David stopped in front of 12 Garneau for another handshake and Jonas pulled him in for a hug.

“Easy, fella.” David extracted himself from the hug. “I'm sober.”

Jonas put his hands on his hips. “What'll we do without this place?”

David Weiss sighed and shrugged and walked up his front steps. He pulled out his keys but didn't need them. The door was unlocked.