The Garneau Block Part 31

"This is an admittedly crude model of a buffalo head, the future of 10 Garneau."

But for the French music and the gentle creaking of David's chair, as he rocked back and forth, the boardroom was silent.

Shirley raised her hand.

"Yes?"

"Raymond, are you saying you want to turn 10 Garneau into a...buffalo head?"

"That's precisely what I'm saying. We will do some renovations to the current house and cover it in a buffalo head sh.e.l.l."

"Rye whisky going once," said Jonas. "Rye whisky going twice."

"You see, the buffalo is the great martyred G.o.d of Edmonton. Sixty million of them wiped from the plains in ninety years, and for what? For the short-term"

David raised his hand. "Won't the hair rot?"

"A terrific question, David. I have taken the liberty of contacting the DuPont company in Wilmington, Delaware, and they have just the product. It can freeze in the winter and bake in the summer. Moisture runs right off."

Jonas raised his hand. "You're a k.n.o.b."

"I don't agree."

Despite the crudeness of the buffalo head model, Shirley didn't agree either. The tone of Raymond's voice reminded her of the student she had met thirty-five years ago. Back then, he was on his way to Yale and Oxford; he was going to be the leading philosopher of his generation. Marriage, fatherhood, lack of regular exercise, poor eating habits, and a long succession of career failures had erased all of that. Suddenly Raymond was back and she tilted her head at him. "What will go inside?"

"Another good question, and a difficult one. The new composer-in-residence of the Edmonton Symphony Orchestra was here this afternoon and we discussed that very thing. If we all agree that a buffalo head affords the highest possible degree of mythic powerand I think we canthe sights and smells and sounds inside that buffalo head are of supreme importance. I was thinking"

"Will the buffalo head house have a mouth, Raymond?" Abby approached the model. "Because this thing doesn't really have a mouth."

He sighed and raised his arms. "Maybe it would be better if I drew the model."

Across from Shirley, Rajinder grunted. "Are there any objections or alternate solutions?"

"I hate it," said Jonas. "I'm humiliated for us all."

David nodded. "Yes, it's quite ridiculous. And I must say, Rajinder, a considerable waste of resources."

"Thank you," said Rajinder, flatly. He sighed. "A show of hands, please. Who would like to proceed with the head-of-a-buffalo house on the site of 10 Garneau? If we agree, I will hire architects and Raymond will organize a publicity campaign to shame the university."

Slowly, all but Jonas and David raised their hands. Abby approached her husband and whispered in his ear until he smiled naughtily and raised his right arm.

"Jonas," said Shirley. "Raise your hand, you big t.i.t."

It took several minutes worth of sarcastic remarks, and Shirley's promise that she would indeed take a rye whisky with him after the meeting, but Jonas finally lifted a finger in support of the buffalo head.

75.

the crying men Shirley and Jonas took their rye whiskies at Earl's on Campus, where they also ordered a plate of calamari and some spinach-artichoke dip. For half an hour Jonas mocked the idea of a museum shaped like a buffalo head until, that particular engine of mockery running out of fuel, he concentrated on littering, politics, architecture, and weather.

"What are you really talking about, Jonas?"

He sprawled in his chair and finished his whisky. "I hope the university destroys the block with a bomb."

"Jonas."

"I'm feeling quite hateful, Shirley."

"Don't say that."

"I hate everything right now." Jonas looked out the window at the intersection, where a black sports car rumbled before a red light. "How much you want to bet that guy lets his car idle all the time? When it's cold and when it's hot. For hours. Hours! And then he complains about high oil prices, the stupid inbreeding gaybasher. I bet Carlos does that too. The barbarian coward son of a zealot."

"Jonas."

"I'm a fool for living here and so are you, Shirley Wong." Jonas turned around and addressed the drinkers and diners. "Only idiots live in Alberta! You're all redneck idiots and I hate you!"

A man in a camouflage jacket and a collection of rings in his lip and eyebrows waved. "I hate you too, buddy."

Jonas and the man met halfway across the room, shook hands and introduced themselves. For a couple of minutes they complained about urban sprawl, gun control, herbicide use, and the sorry state of contemporary literature. While this went on, Shirley dipped the last few deep-fried squid in tzatziki and gave her credit card to the pa.s.sing server.

Jonas returned. "That man's nickname is The Goo. He introduces himself to strangers as The Goo."

"You see? Edmonton's not so bad. The Goo lives here."

"It'll take a lot more than The Goo to make me love this city again. I'm gonna need to win the lottery or something. Something drastic."

Shirley signed the bill and took her jacket from the nearby tree. Before it got too late she wanted to get back home to Steamer, who was probably reading that podiatry textbook she had bought for him. Jonas followed her out of the restaurant, laying some skin on The Goo as he pa.s.sed.

"Hate on, brother," said The Goo.

They crossed the avenue and pa.s.sed the university theatre, where men and women in suits and dresses sipped drinks and nodded at one another and laughed. Jonas stopped. Shirley thought he was going to make a spiteful remark about the student actors. Instead, his eyes filled with tears. "I'm forty-something and I'm lonely."

In September, Raymond had been fired. Then, a day ago, regretful about his roguish behaviour on Halloween night, Steamer had cried twice about breaking his parents' hearts and sinning himself straight to h.e.l.l. Now, Shirley comforted her third crying man the way she always comforted a crying man, by rubbing her hand down the back of his head and saying, "Shhh."

She walked Jonas to his door and waited in the kitchen while he completed his bedtime washing, flossing, and brushing regimen. It was stuffy in his house, a marriage of unwashed dishes, cologne, and marijuana smoke, so she opened a window. When Jonas was finished in the bathroom, she drew a gla.s.s of water and tucked him into bed.

"Am I going to be okay?" said Jonas, as Shirley walked out of his dark bedroom.

"Of course you are."

Walking home, Shirley studied her neighbours' houses. Madison's lights were dim. Upstairs at the Weisses, there was life in the kitchen and in the spare bedroom, where Raymond lived. Through his picture window she could see Rajinder reading a hardcover book on the white couch, his legs crossed daintily.

She entered her front door and a blast of wind sucked her in. This meant the back door was open, which was not an energy-effcient idea in November. She called out to Steamer, and Patch answered from downstairs, "He's taking his last load out!"

Downstairs, Patch was watching a show about swimsuit models.

"Taking a load out to where?"

"To the truck. I gotta drive him to the bus station."

"Why?"

"Search me. Says he's movin' out."

"But why?"

Patch ignored her, so Shirley climbed the stairs and went out the open door. On the parking pad in the alley, Steamer was arranging his bags and two boxes in the back of Patch's big red truck, a thin flashlight between his teeth.

Shirley watched him for a moment. He hopped into the truckbed and pretended not to see her, even when the flashlight stopped on her face. For several minutes, Steamer packed the truck in silence. Then he kicked a box and jumped down onto the concrete in front of Shirley. "This morning I woke up and decided it has to be one way or the other."

"It."

"Me and you." Steamer turned away and started back to the house. He opened the back door. "Let's go, Patch!"

The motion sensor attached to the back door splashed 200 watts of light on Shirley. "You're making too much of this. It was just some dancing and foot ma.s.sages."

"Ms. Wong, don't play-act here."

"Why does it have to be this way?" Shirley waited a moment, and then forced out: "Instead of..."

Steamer didn't answer. They stood together in the backyard light, until the sensor couldn't read them and it went dark again. When Patch appeared on the porch, with his hand inside two opened b.u.t.tons on his shirt, scratching his hairy chest, Shirley understood immediately what she had to do. "You might as well load up too, Patch."

"What? Why?"

Steamer's honesty had inspired her. "You're a yob and I don't want you in my house."

"A yob?" Patch turned to his teammate with his mouth opened. "But I'm Patch."

Steamer led Patch into 11 Garneau and down the stairs, to start packing.

76.

the press conference Raymond Terletsky spent a sunny November morning in the Garneau Theatre, thinking about dry ice. It had fascinated him as a child. Was it still awesome? Was it too late to get some? The architects, Mr. Bradley from Calgary and Ms. Florette from Edmonton, positioned themselves behind a long table on stage and tested their microphones. Two sweating pitchers of water sat before them. Lynn, a very expensive public relations consultant, inspected the cinema for garbage and chewed gum.

"We're clean," said Lynn, from the final row. "I'm going to open the doors."

Instead of looking through the Yellow Pages for a dry ice manufacturer, Raymond approached his boss. Rajinder sat in one of the first-row seats, rocking back and forth and lazily chewing a tuna sandwich. In his other hand, Rajinder held a small Styrofoam plate of strawberries plucked from the caterer's table.

"Are you ready?"

Rajinder lifted his tuna salad sandwich in triumph. Then he said, "No. I really do not know, professor. It is difficult to focus and summon energy, and for that I apologize."

Voices and laughter echoed into the auditorium as Raymond sat next to Rajinder. Since he himself had been feeling this low or lower just a couple of months previous, Raymond understood. "Is there anything I can do? I know a couple of Ukrainian jokes."

With a sigh, Rajinder shook his head and pulled the lint off a strawberry.

"Why don't you just call her up?"

"She does not answer the phone. I visited several times and she refused to come to the door. I bought flowers, sent candy-grams, hired circus children to do backflips before her as she walked home from the travel agency."

"And nothing?"

"I admit, certainly, that I had imagined Madison to be without child when we began dating. I cannot deny I would have preferred to see my child in her belly than...the child of whomsoever. Yet..."

Rajinder allowed the yet to float there, a helium balloon with a slow leak.

"Figure out what you want and grab it, Raj." Raymond mimed s.n.a.t.c.hing something from an invisible shrubbery. "Take it!"

A few chews of his tuna salad sandwich later, Rajinder sang, "Les feuilles mortes se rama.s.sent a la pelle, les souvenirs et les regrets aussi..." and then bit into a strawberry.

"I'm sorry to have to say this, Raj, because I really admire you. But you gotta learn to fight past this. Maybe she's gone and, sure, that's sad. But you're a millionaire."

Rajinder helped Raymond up. "Very wise a.n.a.lysis, professor. Shall we attend to the lobby, shake some hands?"

Lynn, the public relations consultant, was worth her fee. Among the milling people, several officials from the university stood near the food tables. Two television cameramen had arrived, and the theatre manager was leading them into the auditorium. Abby and David Weiss walked in, hand in hand. A few minutes later, Jonas walked through the door in jeans and a blazer. The mayor, a personal friend of Lynn's, and his a.s.sistant followed Jonas inside.

The mayor put his arm around Jonas and complimented him on the one-man show he had performed at the Roxy last March. "I'm just a business guy so I don't always know art. But sometimes I know art and that was art."

"Thanks, Your Worship."

"What's next for you?"

"I was thinking of selling Saabs."

The mayor laughed. "Come on, I mean it."

"Your Worship, I've been acting professionally twenty-five years and I can't even get a decent credit card."

As Jonas walked up the stairs, a look of genuine disappointment pa.s.sed over the mayor's face. Before the mayor or his a.s.sistant could chase Jonas, Raymond moved in.

"Mr. Mayor, hi. Sporting of you to come." Raymond put his hands on the mayor's shoulders. "Listen, you can't let this happen. You can't. If we lose the Garneau Block, the city loses everything. Everything. It's the first brick in a collapsing building, really, the sign of cultural decay, a strike at the heart of"

"I look forward to hearing the presentation," said the mayor, and his a.s.sistant led him to the food table, abandoning Raymond on the carpeted entrance steps of the theatre. He told himself to calm down, to control his enthusiasm before he "hara.s.sed" a politician or attractive television reporter.

Raymond scanned the lobby, where the guests sipped wine and munched on spicy beef samosas. Almost everyone from the block was here now, save Rajinder, who had apparently returned to his seat in the auditorium, and Madison.

Alone next to the popcorn machine, Raymond wondered if somehow everyone knew about his drives up and down 95th Street, his trouble with the ma.s.seuse, his lurid fantasies. Was he on an Internet watch list of Alberta perverts and hara.s.sers?