The Garneau Block Part 29

revolver Butch "Carlos" Ca.s.sidy leaned against the bar and yawned. Jonas, the Sundance Kid, waved at Butch from the dance floor and Butch made like he was shooting the Sundance Kid between the eyes.

For the eighth or ninth time, a manthis one dressed up like a CIA agenttried to pick up Carlos. Jonas could not read lips but he imagined Carlos saying, "No, no thank you. At the moment I'm marvellously in love."

For years, Jonas had questioned the motives of his friends who went to the Roost as a couple. A room filled with hundreds of inebriated and available men is designed to make attached people feel badly. You've either settled for an inferior partner or you're the inferior partner.

Somehow, Jonas felt neither inferior nor jealous. As he swayed to "Monster Mash," he tried to will Carlos onto the dance floor. Then he realized it was dumb to stand four metres away from Carlos and gesture at him. Jonas quit the dance floor.

"Is it always like this here?"

Jonas looked around. The drinking, the dancing, the smooching. "Apart from the Halloween costumes, yes."

"I never liked nightclubs. Even when I was a kid."

"How come?"

Carlos shrugged. "I prefer pubs. Or my house. Or just about anywhere, really."

"You're a senior citizen."

"My dad says that."

A surf rock tune started up and Jonas wanted to shake his tight blue jeans. But a strange thing was happening to him. He was beginning to understand his partner's discomfort. "You're sure it isn't a gay nightclub thing?"

"Well..."

"Would you like to leave?"

Carlos shrugged again.

"Be honest."

"I want to leave real bad, Jonas. Real bad."

Jonas crouched a little and performed his Paul Newman squint. "Kid, the next time I say, 'Let's go someplace like Bolivia,' let's go someplace like Bolivia."

"That's from the movie!"

"Good boy."

Carlos walked out of the Roost and into the blizzard.

A giant black truck emerged from the storm. Jonas grabbed the back of Carlos's shirt. "Butch has all the good lines but the Sundance Kid is better looking. Where should we go?"

At the Mustang, Carlos insisted Jonas sit in the car while he wiped off the snow and sc.r.a.ped the windows. Jonas reached over to start the engine and eject the Limp Bizkit CD. He found the case inside the glovebox and slipped the alb.u.m under his seat.

Carlos got in and cranked up the defrost. It remained almost impossible to see. Jonas wiped the condensation from his window. "Should we maybe just call a taxi?"

"If we do, it'll take two hours." Carlos put the Mustang in gear and proceeded slowly. South of Jasper Avenue, in complete whiteout, Carlos shook his head and turned into the Chateau Lacombe where he eased into the underground parking lot.

Carlos removed a black bag from the trunk and led Jonas to the hotel lobby and elevator. In La Ronde, the revolving restaurant, the host bowed to them and apologized. The room was nearly empty. Food service had been cut off but they were welcome to have a drink.

Jonas ordered an old-fashioned and Carlos asked for a coffee. They sat near the window and Carlos pulled a thin laptop computer out of his bag. "Are you checking e-mail? That's awful, Butch."

"Can you speak Spanish?" Carlos peeked around from his computer. His face shone white and faintly blue.

"Por supuesto," said Jonas.

"Yes or no?"

Jonas didn't want to lie or explain about the limitations of level-two Spanish so he pointed at the laptop. "The only thing more tactless than talking on a cellular phone on a date is opening up a computer."

"When do rehearsals for A Christmas Carol begin?"

"Why, Carlos?"

"Just when?"

"The twelfth of November." Jonas would be Bob Cratchit in this year's Citadel production. The role didn't bring out his best qualities but the money was good and he would be downtown, within walking distance of Chinatown restaurants, for almost two months.

The server arrived with their drinks and it struck Jonas that he was beginning to favour comfort over adventure. Here he was, sipping a quiet drink in a revolving hotel restaurant on one of the wildest nights of the year. Later on, at his place or in Leduc, he and Carlos would romance one another like a married couple. Instead of starring in an experimental show at the Roxy, he was choosing to play off Scrooge. And he was thinking seriously about auditioning for a three-month dinner-theatre gig in January.

"What's happening to me, Carlos?"

Carlos was lost behind the computer screen.

"I'm becoming everything I thought I'd never be: a fussy bourgeois without the regular paycheque. I might as well start wearing khakis and subscribing to Martha Stewart Living." Jonas rested his head in his arms. "At approximately 10:15 p.m., Halloween night, on the dance floor of the Roost, Jonas Pond became his father."

Carlos closed the computer with a click. "It's done."

"I know. But you should have seen me fifteen years ago, baby. I was a star."

"No, I mean it's done. Our trip is booked, but I left the hotels open. You can negotiate in Spanish so it'll be cheaper. We leave for La Paz at 6:41 in the morning, November second."

Jonas leaned across the table and kissed Carlos on the cheek.

"Don't!" Carlos shoved Jonas away. He scanned the room to make sure no one saw, just as he always did when Jonas attempted a public acknowledgement of their relationship. The snow had dissipated somewhat and, through the window, the eastern half of the city revealed itself. Carlos pressed his forehead against the window. "Hey, someone's trying to crawl up the slope of the valley."

The Sundance Kid took his old-fashioned standing up, in one gulp. Then, without alerting Butch Ca.s.sidy, he walked to the elevator and pressed the call b.u.t.ton.

71.

quietude In her favourite chair, surrounded by lit candles, Madison attempted to think. Not think while watching rap music videos or reading Les Miserables. Just think, in silence.

It was torture.

Does any woman, really, know herself well enough to enjoy the cacophony of her own thoughts? Piano teachers, maybe, and evangelical Christian housewives who volunteer a lot, but who else?

Madison wanted to pick up the phone and call someone, anyone, in Montreal. She wanted to go upstairs and steal Garith for an hour, or browse the Web for strollers from Italy. Since finger-chewing was the only distractive indulgence she allowed herself, the skin around her nails was pink and peeled. Ravaged.

A spot at the back of her skull grew hot. She reached back and touched the spot, and realized the silence was ruining her psychological equilibrium. By this time tomorrow she would be on antidepressants with the rest of her generation.

Yet this aversion to quietude was not her fault. Since self-awareness had first crept in at twelve or thirteen, she had been bombarded by a socially sanctioned media blitz. Shutting it off, all at once, was like trying to kick a lifelong amphetamine habit.

Twice in the past week Rajinder had knocked on her door, flowers in hand. And twice she had huddled in her favourite chair, unwilling to speak to him.

The candles flickered as warm air blew through the ceiling vent, and Madison leaned forward. Would one of the candles go out? No. There would be no drama for her tonight. She rose, intending to walk across the street in her pajamas, knock on Rajinder's door, and tackle him with kisses. Then she sat down again, picked up Les Miserables, and tossed it behind her chair.

Madison blew out the candles and watched the afterglow. When it was gone, and darkness was complete, she regretted blowing out the candles. Now what?

She was about to give up on thinking in silence, since it only inspired thinking in silence about thinking in silence, when there was a knock on her door. She hopped up out of her favourite chair, tripped on the ottoman, and fell into a wood-panelled wall. The light switch was easy to find, as she had rammed her cheek into it.

"Maddy, let me in."

She sighed. It was Jonas, not Rajinder. "Coming."

At the top of the stairs, his cowboy poncho covered in wet snow, Jonas hugged her. "I'm so glad to see you."

"Where's Carlos?"

Jonas pulled back and leaned against the door. "Don't ask. Just don't ask about Carlos tonight, please."

"All right."

Jonas started downstairs. "The stupid hick. How dare he?"

"Can I get you a drink?"

"An old-fashioned, no ice."

"Beer, white wine, or vodka with some cranberry juice?"

"Wine, then. Wine!" Jonas pulled off his poncho and tossed it in the corner. "You know, we were having such a nice night. I was worried about turning into white-picket-fence boy and then, then, he books us a trip to Bolivia. Wonderful, right? Wrong. He still thinks he's straight."

As usual, Madison broke the cork while trying to extract it. So she pushed it into the bottle and strained the wine into Jonas's gla.s.s through a J-cloth. "You're sleeping together. Who cares if he..."

"Hey. Hey, Madison. Didn't I say no talking about Carlos?"

"Actually, you said"

"Stop. And get dressed. We're going back to the Roost."

Madison brought the wine and a gla.s.s of cranberry juice, and sat in the adjacent chair. "I'm not going to the Roost."

"I need you, Maddy. I'm distraught."

"So I go with you to the Roost."

Jonas took a sip and leaned across the arm of the chair toward her. "Yes, yes."

"And you blow me off instantly, and run on to the dance floor."

"Sure, yep."

"Ten minutes later, you're gone with some moustache."

Jonas crossed his fingers and closed his eyes tightly, clicked his heels together.

"So why do you need me there?"

"If I'm alone it looks like I'm just there to cruise. What kind of pathetic local celebrity do you take me for?"

Madison swiped the remote control from the coffee table between the two chairs and turned on the music videos. Jonas began making sarcastic remarks about them and Madison realizedwith another pulse of heat in the back of her headshe had been here before. In her silk pajama bottoms, velour housecoat, and bunny slippers. Jonas blabbing about male pattern baldness and the genetic errors who controlled the film industry.

The heat intensified, itched, throbbed. Madison had been here before, so many times she could not remember specific instances. And she would be here again, eternally.

If she didn't do something now, on the cusp of her thirtieth birthday, Madison Weiss would leave this room but she would never leave this room.

72.

a vision in the blizzard Raymond Terletsky reached out to Death. Death huffed and mist eased down out of his nose. His head was the head of a buffalo. It looked like Death wore blue jeans, a bandana, and cowboy boots, but Raymond couldn't be sure. The snow had stopped falling but it was dark.

Though Death did not speak, Raymond understood.

If the professor stood up straight, he would fall back. If he tried to crawl forward he would slip again. His only hope was the hand of Death, a hand whiter than snow. "I guess you don't have much in the way of blood. Do you, Death?"

As he reached, and Death reached, Raymond received a vision of 10 Garneau. All of the architects and consultants had been wrong. He knew what the house would look and sound like. It was so simple, so obvious, so clear. He laughed and thanked Death, even though it was too late; like learning lottery numbers after the draw.

Death's hand was warm and calloused and strong. Climbing up the slope, a layer of wet snow over icy gra.s.s, Raymond slipped twice. But Death did not let him go. Death dragged him up. When he reached the sidewalk, on his hands and knees, Raymond said, "Thank you."

"I saw you from up there, Dr. Terletsky."

Raymond looked up at Death, but it wasn't Death. The young man from Jonas's backyard was pointing to the top of the Chateau Lacombe. "We better get you to a hospital."

Carlos led Raymond into the hotel, and the parking elevator. The heat made his ears and fingers and nose burn and itch, and he called out in the elevator and laughed some more. In all his years at the university, when it might have been handy to meet Death, nothing. What an interview subject. What a guest lecturer. What a contact.

"I never imagined he'd have a buffalo head." Raymond sat in the low pa.s.senger seat of the Mustang. Melting snow clung to the tweed of his overcoat. He shrugged as Carlos backed out of his parking spot. "I never thought he was a he. Or an it, even. What's your name again?"