The Incomparable Atuk (9 page)

Laughter came from the hall too. The giggling of girls.

‘Oh, that’s rich! What fun! The miss—’

Everyone but Ignak scattered when Atuk opened the door.

‘Assimilationist!’

Atuk pushed him aside.

‘But you will be getting what you deserve very
soon,’ Ignak called after him, ‘or haven’t you seen today’s headlines?’

Atuk poured himself a stiff drink. Afterwards he didn’t bathe, even though it was the tenth day of the month and he had promised himself, as a matter of personal discipline, to bathe at least once a month. She will have to take me as I am, he thought. An Eskimo. No more missionary position.

Bette was trying to do something about this week’s accumulation of fan mail. There were the usual requests. A librarian from Moncton, NB, had sent a stick of Wrigley’s gum for her to chew and return (a self-addressed envelope was enclosed). There were at least thirty photographs to sign. A member of the British Columbia legislature asked Bette if she would be good enough to wear high button shoes on her next television appearance and a persistent fan from Montreal asked once more for her soiled nylons. Bette, making a note to return the man’s cheque again, shook her head, and wondered whether the fool didn’t know he could buy nylons,
new
nylons, for less money. Her self-elected aunt, in Moose Jaw, Sask., had written a sweet letter and Mr O’Toole, absolutely Bette’s favourite, had sent a cigarette box he had made himself. There were still more requests for photographs.

Bette gave up.

She knew Atuk’s show had been taped days in advance and Atuk had promised, he had given his word, that he would come to watch it with her. He had promised to be there promptly at six and here it was eight o’clock and he still hadn’t arrived.

Bette simply couldn’t sit still. She tried the parallel bars, but that didn’t work. Neither did the bicycle machine or the punching bag. She seemed to be driven by a surfeit of energy, an edginess she just couldn’t work off. Bette couldn’t understand it. Even swimming hardly pleased her any more. Nothing, in fact, satisfied like giving help. I guess, she thought, reaching for the gin bottle again, it’s like I’m a nun. Sort of. If only Atuk needed help more often, she thought, like in the old days. The good old days.

Was it possible, just possible, that Goldie was giving him help now?
No
.

Bette lit a cigarette, put it out quickly, and reached for the gin and carrot juice. She phoned Atuk once more. No answer. ‘Goddam him,’ she said aloud.

Well, time for the show. Bette sat down before the television set, filing her nails, and switched to
Crossed Swords
with Seymour Bone.

The massive redhead faded in with a bucolic smile. ‘The programme,’ he said, ‘is
Crossed Swords
and the rules are very simple. Viewers send in a controversial quotation and our panel of experts
tries to identify the quotation and then discusses it. Our guests tonight, ladies and gentlemen, are Rabbi Glenn Seigal, Harry Snipes, Canada’s Angriest Young Editor, Rory Peel, advertising executive and Atuk, the poet. Gentlemen, our first quotation.’

A card flashed before the camera.

BLESSED ARE THE MEEK: FOR THEY SHALL INHERIT THE EARTH

The panel looked pensive.

‘He was born in humble circumstances,’ Bone said. ‘His father practised one of the graphic arts.’

‘Hemingway,’ Snipes said. ‘I recognize the style.’

‘Not a bad guess. You might say he influenced Hemingway.’ Bone turned to the viewers with a twinkle in his eye. ‘And many others too. An underprivileged child, you might say he developed into an excitable, malajusted adolescent.’

‘Not one of the Angry Young Men,’ Rabbi Seigal said.

‘Well, of his time perhaps.’ Bone couldn’t resist a chuckle. ‘To go back even earlier, the conditions of his birth, well, this is the CBC and it’s not our policy to take sides on matters like these but, ah, I might venture, I think I might safely venture that the conditions of his birth were allegedly unique. He was purported to have magical gifts. He, ah, performed a world-famous feat with fish.’

Obviously, they were still stumped.

‘Atuk. Haven’t
you
any ideas?’

‘No.’

‘One more hint, then. He was a religious leader … a widely-quoted author … 
still
a best-seller …’

‘Herman Wouk!’

‘Sorry, no.’

Rabbi Seigal looked embarrassed. ‘I try to read all the important books as they come out, but, well, it’s impossible to keep up with everything. Hardly any time to read for pleasure any more …’

‘All right.
Another hint
. He died at an early age under unnatural, even cruel conditions. Well, Atuk?’

Atuk shrugged.

‘Gentlemen?’

‘I’ve got it,’ Snipes said. ‘
Chessman. Carl Chessman.’

‘Nope.’

‘What’s that Russian,’ Rory Peel demanded, excited, ‘he wrote the property that won the Nobel Prize. He’s got a name like black bread.’

‘Pumpernickel?’

‘Pasternak!’

‘Nope. Gentlemen,’ Bone said, ‘enough. Now let’s turn to the merit of the thought itself. “Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.” Mr Peel?’

‘Well, Seymour, I’d like to see some statistics before I commit myself, but speaking off the top of my head, well, no.’

‘Atuk? Haven’t you
anything
to say?’

‘The thought is inspiring, much inspiring, but where has it got my people?’

‘Mr Snipes?’

‘That’s just the kind of namby-pamby talk that leads to welfare statism and’ – he turned menacingly towards Rabbi Seigal – ‘and pacifism. Or to put a true label on it, selling your country down the river. It—’

‘—it’s not the sort of sentiment that built this great country out of a wilderness,’ Rory Peel said.

‘And,’ Rabbi Seigal said,
‘and
perpetuated needless cruelties against the original Canadians: the Eskimo.’

Atuk blew his nose.

‘You don’t
stand
anywhere on nuclear disarmament, Rabbi,’ Snipes said. ‘You’re on your knees.’

‘Look here, I—’

‘Order,’ Bone said. ‘Order. Rabbi?’

‘When you take the thought inherent in the quotation under discussion and analyse it purely as a religious slogan, well, it lacks the impact of – The Family That Prays Together Stays Together. The quotation, I believe, runs, Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth. Well, speaking professionally, this lacks appeal. Nobody today wants to be thought of as weak, a shmo, if you’ll pardon me. We like to think of ourselves as lions.’

The doorbell rang. At last, Bette thought, and she started to unzip her skirt with one hand and undo
her blouse buttons with the other. But it wasn’t Atuk.

‘Doc Burt!’

‘Himself. Back from the hills at last.’

‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I only had time to slip into these things when the bell rang.’

‘Your young feller here?’

‘No.’

He didn’t seem at all surprised.

‘But he promised he was coming. I have no idea what’s keeping him.’

‘Sure, sure. Well I wanted to have a private little pow-wow with you anyway.’

Bette turned down the sound on the set and tottered over to the table and fixed two gin and carrot juices.

‘It’s about the sort of help you’re giving the Eskimo.’

At the very mention of the subject Bette felt parched, edgy again. Like she had to scratch herself everywhere.

‘You don’t approve?’

‘On the contrary. I think it’s wonderful of you. I’m proud.’

‘Oh, Doc,’ she said, sitting down beside him on the sofa, ‘I knew you’d understand.’

‘Why, I’ve known you since you were this high,’ he said, pressing his hairy hand against her thigh. ‘Never was a purer, cleaner-minded girl born in the province.’

Bette blushed.

‘Come closer, child. Let ole Doc Burt help you with your buttons.’

Until he mentioned it, Bette hadn’t realized that two buttons had still been left undone. Head thrust back, she leaned forward tenderly. Dr Parks caressed her throat with one hand and, with the other, fumbled and fussed with the buttons. ‘How I admire your lung-power,’ he said.

He was not, to Bette’s astonishment, all that fatherly about it. In fact, it seemed to Bette that he was squeezing her breasts.

‘You have the most lovely pectorals too.’

The room began to spin.

‘Remember how you used to sit on my lap?’

‘Mm-hm.’

‘Would you do it again, for a sentimental ole fool?’

Bette climbed gracefully on to his lap and the edginess that had bothered her before seemed all-consuming now. Doc Burt told her about his troubles. ‘We had to disband the troupe in Moose Jaw.’ Brotherly love, Doc Burt discovered, had gone too far between Best Developed Biceps of Sunnyside Beach and Lake Ontario Jr. The boys were arrested on a morality charge. ‘It was terrible,’ Doc Burt said, ‘just terrible.’ Bette felt a hand start under her skirt. ‘But I managed to get the boys paroled under my custody and things have taken a turn for the better since.’ Doc Burt told her that he had been
made manager of this year’s Miss Canada contest. With his free hand, he reached into his inside jacket pocket and showed Bette photographs of some of the more promising competitors. One of them was a striking, unusually tall blonde. Jane Something. ‘And do you know what,’ Doc Burt continued, ‘Jean-Paul McEwen has agreed to be one of the judges.’

Bette squirmed as the Doc’s hand ventured higher. She drew his head compulsively to her bosom.

‘Bette, a word from the wise. The thing about giving help is that once you start there’s simply no end to it.’

‘Uh-huh,’ she said, ‘uh-huh,’ vaguely conscious of her stockings being rolled down so slowly she had to suppress a cry.

‘It’s just give, give, give.’

Her eyes shut, Bette nodded.

‘Not that your Eskimo fellow would care. He’s getting help elsewhere these days.’

That did it. Bette leaped up. ‘Is he? Honestly? Why, isn’t that just wonderful!’

‘You mean you’re not jealous?’

‘But, Doc. You don’t understand. It’s like I was Sister Kenny and my first patient had just learned to walk.’

‘You mean to say there are, um, other patients?’

‘Now, now. Mustn’t pry.’ As Bette turned to do up her stockings she was startled to see Seymour
Bone watching her. ‘Could you at least turn off the set, Doc.’

Dr Parks turned up the sound in error. Bone’s image was cut off in mid-sentence. ‘We interrupt this programme to bring you a special bulletin. The RCMP, working in close co-operation with the FBI, has uncovered an important clue in the search for the missing Colonel Swiggert of the US Air Force. The Colonel’s—’

Bette switched off the set herself. Atuk’s heading for trouble, she thought. Bad trouble. He’s going to need a powerful friend. Bette picked up the phone and dialled Twentyman’s unlisted number.

Atuk, nobody’s fool, had already purchased two aeroplane tickets to London under the pseudonyms Mr and Mrs Chong. Laden down with parcels, he pounded on the door to his house. ‘Hey!’ It was Ti-Lucy, to his surprise, who undid the locks one by one and lifted the bar for him.

‘Where’s the Old One?’ Atuk asked, immediately suspicious.

‘All is not well, brother. You’d better come down to the basement.’

‘Let’s see today’s figures,’ Atuk asked quickly.

Ti-Lucy handed him her clip-board with the production figures. ‘But that’s not bad,’ Atuk said.

‘You’d better come down to the basement.’

Atuk had a look at the day’s output. Every painting was representative. Literal. The statues were perfectly shaped. All crudeness and innocence gone. ‘For Christ’s sake,’ Atuk said, ripping a painting in two, ‘if I want Norman Rockwell quality goods I can hire Rockwell.’

Brothers, sisters, cousins, aunts and uncles, all tried to conceal themselves behind the thrusting, bellicose figure of Ignak.

‘I should have guessed you were behind this. Well, speak up.’

‘Why is it,’ Ignak asked, ‘you always want us to paint and sculpt badly?’

‘That’s what they want, not me.’

‘We refuse to be condescended to,’ Ignak said.

The others nodded in agreement.

‘Gratitude. There’s gratitude for you.’ Atuk picked up a statue. ‘Even if I had Souvenir of Niagara Falls stamped on the back of this it would only bring in two-three cents apiece.’ He heaved the statue against the wall, breaking it. ‘They make this crap better in Japan.’

‘What’s wrong with our brothers, the Japanese?’ Ignak demanded.

Atuk groaned.

‘We wish,’ Ignak said, ‘you would remember Baffin Bay and how the white scum rule our land.’

‘How long will you hold a grudge? Another thousand years?’

‘The Japanese believe in Asia for the Asians. We believe in America for the Americans,’ Ignak said.

Atuk sighed. ‘Better get me a Scotch, Ti-Lucy. With lotsa ice.’

‘Right away.’

‘O?,’ Atuk continued, ‘we’ll treat this as a bad joke. Ill-advised. Throw today’s junk into the garbage and get back to work. Make me some stuff I can sell.’

But nobody moved.

‘We want an equal share in the profits,’ Ignak said.

‘The what? Who feeds and protects you? Profits? You’re crazy, man.’

‘They know about the many boxes with the coloured papers in them,’ Ti-Lucy said. ‘You know, the ones with the Queen’s pictures and the numbers on them.’

‘Ah ha.’

‘You have lied to us about many things,’ Mush-Mush said resentfully.

‘It is a falsehood about the magic box.’

Only then did Atuk notice that the television set had been taken apart.

‘It is not filled with little spirits waiting for your command.’

‘Too bad about the magic box,’ Atuk said, accepting another drink. ‘There was a blockbuster movie on tonight. The Bogart.’

‘Oh!’

‘Gee whiz!’

‘Tell you what,’ Atuk said, ‘you ask Mr Big here. He’ll make the magic box work for you again.’

All eyes were turned on Ignak.

‘Don’t let him sway you. Remember—’

‘But the Bogart, Ignak.’

‘All these boxes you see here,’ Atuk said, ‘are filled with gifts. I risked my life on the outside this morning so that I could bring my loyal, hardworking family surprises. A doll for Big Annie. A giant-size bottle of Parker’s Ink for Loo-Loo, an electric train for Mush-Mush and for Moose, the new
Playboy
calendar …’