Ghosted - A Novel Part 17

"Are you f.u.c.king kidding me?"

"G.o.d's probably laughing his head off."

He thought of her face, her green eyes. "Can I ask you what happened?"

"I'm not going to tell you."

He imagined how the two of them looked from above-staring at each other through a blue metal door.

"I'm going to smoke something," said w.i.l.l.y.

"You can smoke it out here."

"I'm going to smoke some heroin."

"Oh. Okay." He heard a lighter spark. He took out a cigarette and lit it. The two lines of smoke rose, mixing in the air above the door. "So what about this friend of yours?"

"f.u.c.k her," said w.i.l.l.y, then inhaled and exhaled slowly. "I shouldn't say that. She takes care of me-most of the time. Then there's other times-when I'm p.i.s.sing on strangers...." She inhaled and let it out again.

"You didn't p.i.s.s on me." He thought of her thighs, covered in soft downy gold.

"You got lucky is all."

They finished smoking.

"You all done?"

"Yeah, I am." The lock clicked. Mason pushed open the door and knelt before her. He put one hand between her knees, gripping the soft pink fabric of her underwear. With the other hand he cupped her backside, lifting it gently, sliding the panties up along her thighs. She reached out her right arm, hooking it around his neck, and pulled. She held herself like that, slightly off the seat, as he reached in with both hands, his fingers under the strings of her underwear, stretching the pink cloth up, around, then snug across her a.s.s.

"Oh."

"Okay?"

"Okay," said w.i.l.l.y.

25. The weather that describes me best is rain.

26. Love is not meant to hurt us.

Notes on the Novel in ProgressWriting is like a poker game. It takes patience, concentration, endurance, focus.No wonder your book is a mess.It also requires inventiveness and guts-flashes of bravery and risk.And ...The ability to read other people.Things to beware of:A novel full of people who only read themselves.Narrators consumed with the act of narration.The origin of characters.Mirrored walls.Rooms without belly dancers, windows or doork.n.o.bs.Open concepts.Caves within caves.To research:Bridges. Bats. Wheelchairs. Subway tunnels. Harm reduction. Love.Possible t.i.tle:The Book of Hangovers

36.

Mason had slept badly, his dreams full of people falling, and he'd woken a number of times into that slipping terror that he was falling, too.

Now here he sat with his second cup of coffee and the winning submission: "The Saving Grace."

It was the work of Dr. Anders Christoph of Trent University, and in many ways it was similar to Soon's-poetic, hyperbolic. Christoph wrote about the confluence of geological, mythological and historical forces, the ancient sh.o.r.eline of Lake Iroquois, existential emptiness and Michael Ondaatje's In the Skin of a Lion In the Skin of a Lion. He had gone so far as to compare his design to the character of Nicholas Temelcoff-the bridge-builder who swooped out of the fog to save a falling nun. The whole thing depressed Mason. His stomach grumbled, so he packed up the file and went to get a burger.

He'd planned to go to his local Harvey's but at the corner he kept on walking, all the way across downtown to the one known as Ho-vee's. He ordered a burger and a milkshake then sat down at a table against the wall to eat and read. Every time someone came through the door he looked up.

That's not her.

He looked back down. Ketchup dripped on the page.

Christoph's manifesto was full of musical imagery. He described the barrier itself as "A virtuous harp with steel strings, to be plucked by pa.s.sersby, strummed by the wind-a song of renewal carried through the valley."

Mason finished his burger. "Don't You Forget About Me" was playing on the radio. He scanned the restaurant one last time.

She's not going to come.

He left Ho-vee's and headed for the valley.

27. I prefer colourful paintings to dark ones.

28. Misery is indifferent to company.

The Bloor Street Viaduct spans ten lanes of highway, two sets of railroad tracks, the city's primary power lines, a cycling path and the shallow waters of the Don River. It is approximately a third of a mile across and 131 feet high. Standing atop it on a clear day, you could see the valley stretching north into hills or south all the way to the lake. From the southern walkway you could see the downtown skyline, the CN Tower rising. Or at least that's how it used to be.

Today, as Mason walked onto the bridge, all he saw were lines. These were the strings of the virtuous harp. They'd started at both ends of the viaduct, working towards the middle. About a quarter had been done so far and over the summer the rest would be filled in, too-until everyone was safe. Saved from themselves and the pull of gravity. Saved by the Saving Grace.

The lines were strung vertically, from large metal crosses. If you tried to look through them while moving, the nausea was instantaneous. It was like looking at the world through an oscillating fan-not a good thing to do with a hangover.

He stepped up and put his head against the thick metal cables, so that now he could see the view: cars backed up on the parkway-never-ending lines in both directions-beside them the river, shallow and murky brown, its banks lined with spa.r.s.e trees and bushes. There was a haze over the lake in the distance. The CN Tower looked flimsy in the bright sun. He stepped back, grabbed onto one of the taut steel strings, and tried to give it a pluck. Paul Bunyan couldn't have budged it. The whistling wind was like a failed transmission signal.

He kept his eyes on the pavement and walked towards the centre of the bridge. As he came to the end of the lines his queasiness pa.s.sed, the world opened up and suddenly he could breathe again. Mason looked out. It felt like he was standing in the middle of the air. He thought of a pa.s.sage from Soon's journals.

It's not the Golden Gate, but there is something: enough poetry, music and active volcano; mix it with despair, the concrete and shrubs below, and you've got a deadly sort of beauty. Standing on the viaduct I began to see them-my neighbours, students, the people of my city, stepping towards the railing....

And now Mason saw them too-some hesitant, some manic, making a last cellphone call, blinded by tears-dozens then hundreds of them, pushing forward, pouring over the edge, into the grip of gravity, then down. Their bodies exploding at the bottom.

He felt nothing but anger-at the Saving Grace (four million dollars to make him nauseous, chicken wire would have done just fine) at Soon (his bulls.h.i.t artistic envy), at himself. Poor Circe, how right she'd been: we're all just a bunch of King Kongs-stupid, lonely, stumbling around trying to make harps out of bridges, dying for beauty.

The whole walk home Mason thought of one sentence, written by Soon on lined yellow paper.

Sixty-eight survivor accounts and only one consistency: "When I started to fall, I changed my mind."

37.

"I'm not going to do it." They were back in This Place. Mason pushed the cheque across the table towards Soon.

"What is that?"

"It's your money. I'm not taking the job."

"I paid you in cash."

"Either way ... I'm not collaborating with you."

"Why not?"

Mason looked around the bar then leaned in. "After all that research-all that thought and energy trying to stop people from killing themselves ... a couple of failures and all of a sudden you you want to kill yourself?" want to kill yourself?"

Soon sat back and looked at Mason. He seemed to be sussing something out. "All of a sudden "All of a sudden ... I wouldn't exactly say ... I wouldn't exactly say that." that."

"What would you say?"

"How about 'not at all'?"

"What does that mean?"

"He wanted to kill himself not at all wanted to kill himself not at all-I know the syntax is weird, but ..."

"What are you talking about?"

"Please sit down."

Mason did.

"I'm not saying I didn't think about it," said Soon. "When they announced the winner I fell apart. The Saving Grace ..." Saving Grace ..." He spat it out like there was something green and fuzzy growing on the words. "I was perfect for that project. My idea was better." He stared at the full beer in front of him. Then, for the first time in Mason's presence, he took a sip. He spat it out like there was something green and fuzzy growing on the words. "I was perfect for that project. My idea was better." He stared at the full beer in front of him. Then, for the first time in Mason's presence, he took a sip.

Mason said nothing.

Soon wiped his mouth. "It wasn't my first one."

"Your first idea?"

"My first breakdown." He looked at Mason. His eyes had a spark in them. "Isn't that a great image? Like we're cars that overheat and the gears just jam and suddenly there's smoke and coolant everywhere. You lose your cool. That's what happens in a breakdown." He took another, longer sip of beer.

They drank in silence.

Then finally Mason spoke. "Okay," he said. "So what happened the first time?"

Soon put his gla.s.s down. "The novel happened."

"Excuse me?"

"The Ghosts of Gauguin." He tipped the gla.s.s slightly and stared down into it. "It was a great premise-about this group of struggling artists who fake their own suicides then sell each other's work on eBay for millions. They escape to a remote island in the South Pacific-rich and famous and supposedly dead." He gulped at his beer. "Then of course they end up killing each other. It was He tipped the gla.s.s slightly and stared down into it. "It was a great premise-about this group of struggling artists who fake their own suicides then sell each other's work on eBay for millions. They escape to a remote island in the South Pacific-rich and famous and supposedly dead." He gulped at his beer. "Then of course they end up killing each other. It was The Da Vinci Code The Da Vinci Code meets meets Lord of the Flies." Lord of the Flies."

"Huh."

"Yeah. Huh. I'd been working on it for years. Everything I'd learned about art and the drama of life was going into that book." He looked Mason in the eye. "It would have been a bestseller."

"So what happened?"

Soon drained the last of his beer, then swallowed down a belch. He thumped himself in the chest. "This movie came out: Posthumous Island Posthumous Island. You ever see it?"

"I don't think so."

"Yeah, it wasn't very good. But it was my book-exactly!" He waved at the bartender, who poured them another gla.s.s.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing."

The bartender put the beers on the table. Soon took a sip. When he spoke again his voice was a little louder, his words slightly slurred. "What the h.e.l.l could could I do? I couldn't prove they stole it. And maybe they didn't even know they had." He took another gulp. "You know how one year there's like four movies about people switching bodies? Or dogs playing sports ...? You know what I mean?" I do? I couldn't prove they stole it. And maybe they didn't even know they had." He took another gulp. "You know how one year there's like four movies about people switching bodies? Or dogs playing sports ...? You know what I mean?"

Mason nodded.

"But this was more than that!" He thumped the table, his beer sloshing over his hand. "It was so specific!" specific!" Soon took another sip. "Think of it! How long have people been writing books? Hundreds of years, right?" He stared at Mason. Soon took another sip. "Think of it! How long have people been writing books? Hundreds of years, right?" He stared at Mason.

"Right ..."

"Right! So for hundreds of years n.o.body thought of this premise. Then suddenly-wham!" He slammed his hand onto the table and both their gla.s.ses jumped. The beer was beginning to pool. "Two people think of the exact exact same story in the same story in the exact exact same year! Or same year! Or close close to the same year?" to the same year?"

"Uh ... no?"

"No way!" Another sip. "Or maybe yes!" A bit of beer sprayed from his mouth. "Maybe that's how it works! Like there's these ghosts of ideas roaming the earth, diving in and out of heads." He mimed this happening, as if the ghosts were attached to his fingertips, and dripping with beer. "Maybe that's what happened to me. Five years of my life, sanity, everything-sacrificed for what? Can you imagine what that's like?"

The bartender had brought over a stack of napkins and now Mason was wiping the table. "So what did you do?"

"Oh, I did a lot of things ... a lot lot of things! I yelled at G.o.d. I got addicted to sleeping pills. I even started drinking." He took another glug. "I'd never really drank before that." Some beer trickled out the side of his mouth. "I don't always react that well to alcohol." of things! I yelled at G.o.d. I got addicted to sleeping pills. I even started drinking." He took another glug. "I'd never really drank before that." Some beer trickled out the side of his mouth. "I don't always react that well to alcohol."

Mason nodded, piling up the napkins.

"And then, of course, there was 'Pee-Wee's Big Mistake.'" He laughed and shook his head. "That," he said, "was my real masterpiece! The original t.i.tle was 'If Pee-Wee Ran Things.' It was a smart, kind of cheeky thing about civic duty and infrastructure and things like that and I got a big grant for it. But then then-between the conception and the realization-I had a breakdown ... Isn't that a great word?"

"Yeah. Like a car," said Mason. "So what happened to Pee-Wee?"

"Things got confusing ..." He looked down at the table. "I set up these big speakers right outside the courthouse that blasted 'Right on for the Darkness' over and over-you know, Curtis Mayfield?"

Mason nodded.

"I had these floodlights that strobed in time with the music and a bunch of homeless people wrapping city hall in cellophane. And I can't really remember why now, but I painted a bunch of stop signs blue. It was a messy night. There was like three million dollars in accident claims." He sipped his beer. "Eleven injuries."

"Whoa."