Greetings from the Vodka Sea Read online

  “How much will it cost?” He looked me in the eyes. His face was very asymmetrical, the one eye round and awake, the other almost closed. Squinted. His hand gripped my wrist. “How much?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to think. Thirty, hmm, maybe thirty- five.”

  “Thirty-five!”

  “That’s the going rate, sir. That’s how much it costs to bury something these days.”

  The man huffed and counted out deliberately, “Five. Ten. Fifteen. Twenty. Twenty-five. Thirty. Thirty-five,” as if each bill were his last breath.

  “That dog’s cost too much already,” said the man (I estimate him to be five-foot-eightish, one-hundred and sixty-four or -five pounds, a muscular build, Marlene would say “sinewy”). “That dog’s a hole in my pocket. Even dead. A hairy fucking hole in my pocket. Where are you fixing to bury it?”

  “Hmm?” I had heard but wanted to seem uninterested, for there was something in this fellow’s manner which didn’t sit well with me.

  “I said, where are you going to bury it?”

  “Don’t raise your voice at me, sir. No need to shout. I may be a retiree, but I am not deaf. And I am not your servant, either. When you address me I would appreciate it if you would keep a civil tone, sir. I expect I will bury this dog in the meadow by the gravel pit. However, this dog is not an easy one, not an easy dig at all. You’ve waited too long, sir, if you ask me. His body is stiff and all extended, all layered out, if you know what I mean. No, this one will not bury well at all.” I gave a look, that look, you know, the one everyone has, the one that says, damn you, we’re on my turf now. The man glared back at me. But it wasn’t his look. I mean, I know that he was thinking, stuff you, I’ll bury the dog myself, but in one tick I looked at his hands and he looked at his hands and we both knew that these weren’t hands for dead things. These were not the hands to lift and turn soil. These were not the hands to cradle dead flesh like a suckling, carry the flesh from car to hole. These were not the hands to snap a rigored joint so that it would fit into that fresh-dug hole. These were not the hands to clasp in momentary prayer, to ask for blessing and forgiveness in the passing of another of God’s humble things. These were hands for the opening of the wallet, for the counting by fives — five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five.

  The last time Marlene and I made love she talked about the rain. “The thunder is God’s wrath,” she said. “The rain is Jesus’ tears.” I could hear the heart moving in the body beside me. I could feel through her ribs a heart thump like a cricket in a child’s fist.

  “You know the splendid thing about man, the wonderful thing? He’s so incomplete. So full of absolute possibility. So dignified, so low.” Marlene sighed. “But I’m not saying much. I’m not saying anything that hasn’t been said . . .”

  “I know what you mean,” I said, my head laid neatly on her soft bosom, and I as snug as a trowel in a mound of fresh-dug earth. “I mean, there’s just so many of them. Men, I mean. The world is so . . . full of them. Yes. I don’t think you could count each and every person on this, God’s earth.”

  Marlene kissed me several times, but she was like a distant thing, like a distant radio station, maybe, that keeps drifting in and out of tune.

  Let me describe the gravel pit where I came to bury the greyhound. It is wedge-shaped, a parted-jaw-shaped pit on the edge of the forest. We call the forest “the forest” only by way of identification. It is in fact not a forest at all but a collection of yellowy shrubs and stunted birch trees. The forest is about two hectares long and one half-acre wide. The pit itself is perhaps three hundred yards long and only fifty-six feet wide, one league at its deepest point. The “meadow” is the grey field around the gravel pit, a field of mud, mostly, the colour of old writing paper. The meadow is cheerful the way rain is cheerful when you have nothing to do but sit around and watch it. I always bury my things here when I bury them. The ground is soft, once you crack the dry surface, and limey. Good for decomposition. That’s the problem with many burial sites; they are so full of dead things that the soil loses its energy to break them down. The earth is of two minds: it can preserve or lay waste.

  As I dug the hole for my canine client I started thinking, which, as I believe I said, is not my habit. But digging — manual labour — brings out the philosopher in a man, and if that be a sin, then let us hope it is not too great a one (more’s the sin to speak one’s mind in excess, I suspect). In any case, I was on my fifty-sixth or -seventh shovelful when I began, uncontrollably, to speculate on the density of man. Destiny, I should say. I’m not sure what brought on this particular topic, the destiny of man, although I suppose that burying the dead brings out that particular philosophical bent. So I began to speculate on the destiny of man, his purpose, if you will. I had a lot of digging ahead of me (circa fifteen thousand shovelfuls), for, as I explained, this dog was not to bury well. What tender rack of meat is man, I thought. What a globe, what a tedious globe, is man. He lives only to cause grief, for with every man who lives and dies, some, um, grief is caused. The only good is that a lot of bad soil gets good fertilizer. Alas, what trifling, righteous, tedious stuff is this planet man! Then I thought of an orange tabby I had once buried, on commission, in the back yard of a certain local alderman. Half-cut I was, for this was in my younger drinking days, and working quickly to capture the last rays of sun. When I returned the next morning to inspect my work I discovered a mound of fresh-turned earth and four stiff paws growing like cactus. The problem was quickly solved with hedge-clippers, but I remember thinking at that time, such is the fate of man, my puss, for what is man if not semi- decomposed, semi-interred, fifty percent this world, fifty percent the next? I can tell you with certainty that such thinking surprised myself, for in those days, my younger drinking days, I thought rarely, if at all.

  As I was placing the greyhound in his pit and thinking of nothing at all but a warm bowl of soup, I heard the slow approach of a car. Out of prudence, I moved to the cover of forest and watched. (Black. Four-door. Stops. Two men get out, remove something from the trunk. Light cigarettes. Laugh, etc., then depart.)

  I crept over. Here lay Marlene. Her body was naked. Over her head was a plastic bag, tied around her neck with a yellow nylon cord. Her blue face smudged against the plastic, and I could see that her lips were parted, as if she died mid- sentence. Hmm. She was dead. I did not stop to question why, for the answers were unthinkable, even for an aging man given perhaps to occasional rumination. Hmm. I really wasn’t surprised to see her. Really. Like I think I said, she was always thinking. Always expressing herself on this and that. I suppose I had loved her, but — hmm. These were the ones the men in black cars got first. The men in black cars were attracted to people like Marlene. People like Marlene were electric light bulbs to people like the moth-men in black cars. People like Marlene, who express themselves and whom you might have once loved. Meanwhile, people like me get left alone for the most part; we keep our thoughts to ourselves, buried under an acre of turf. Preserved.

  I took it upon myself to give her a decent end. After all, such things are expected of me. I have a reputation. It is my claim to fame. And as I started to say, I think, some time ago, Marlene was not to bury well. She had the posture all right, and the inclination. But I’m afraid I had to snap some things to get her to sit right in the earth. The ground, too, seemed harder, each shovel heavy. Perhaps I loved her once. Rain, I think, began to fall. The distant sound of thunder. It was, um, God’s wrath. The raindrops, not unlike tears I suppose, were my sorrow.

  The Shulman Manoeuvre

  Sarah had painted still lifes. Dripping sliced passion fruit, potted snapdragons, almonds and acorns, occasionally a coral or saffron feather teased from the tail of a cockatoo. Leave landscapes and sprawling portraits to the others. Sarah was interested in the things inside the things we see. She had often talked about doing a series: a porcelain bowl of walnuts and feathers set in the folds of a lace tablecloth. The series would consist
of one large still life and thirty or so smaller pieces, details of the larger work, explored at different angles and magnitudes while maintaining the qualities of light, shadow, colour and contrast. Shulman believed his wife’s paintings were beautiful, each a sensual meditation, medieval in its obsessiveness, almost erotic. She hadn’t sold any yet, but that would change. He’d spoken to a friend who ran a gallery. He liked Sarah’s work and would consider sponsoring a show. It would be a lot of effort, she’d have to start painting again, but it would be worth it. A show would bring her art to a larger audience, it would bring her the attention she deserved.

  The encounter group was Sarah’s idea. The young surgeon agreed to it because there was a certain strategic advantage. Yes, Shulman was curious, and yes, he loved his wife. And when she said it would help her scrape off the veneer of socialization and allow her to see the world in an entirely new light, he nodded as if he understood completely. There was, he noted, a hint of desperation in her voice which he assumed was related to the show. As yet, she hadn’t painted a thing, and in fact technically she hadn’t painted in seventeen months (there were a few false starts and a couple of phantom sketches, much discussed but never revealed). Shulman added up the evidence and came to the conclusion that the real reason for the encounter group was to help her in her work. She had, he assumed, the artist’s equivalent of writer’s block; she needed to find a way to get the creative juices flowing again. In chess, it would be called a Zwischenzug, an intermediate move, achieving little on its own but working toward an eventual improvement of position.

  . . .

  The encounter began at five-thirty precisely, in a rented suite at the Royal York Hotel. The suite was magnificent: two large living rooms separating three ornate boudoirs, each containing one of the largest beds Shulman and his wife had ever seen. They were connected by a short corridor to a conference room, in which succulent embroidered pillows and knitted rugs had been laid out for the occasion (Sarah made a note in the sketchbook David had given her; already, she’d had an idea), and a spa, which had been cleared of all its exercise equipment, leaving only the marble-tiled floors, mirrored walls, and there, purring in the middle of the room, the ceramic-tiled hot pool. At the sight of the hot pool, Sarah and David looked at each other just as the other couples who’d explored the suite before them had (and the couples yet to come would) with a certain mixture of anticipation and apprehension, a particular shade of titillation, and they wondered without speaking a word if they would actually have the nerve when the time came to take off all their clothes and enter the bubbling water with all those other couples. David panicked slightly: what if he got an erection when he wasn’t supposed to? Or what if he didn’t get one when he was supposed to, if, indeed, erections were at some point required? He deeply regretted ever agreeing to this. He would much rather be at home with his chess, developing his middle game. Sarah squeezed his hand. She was very happy to be here, the squeeze told him. And she was happy he was there with her. She kissed him lightly on the cheek and said that, no matter what happened, she would still love him.

  “This is about breaking down walls,” she said; he nodded vigorously, as if in agreement. “This will bring us closer together.”

  “They say these sorts of things only make your love stronger.”

  “It will, it will make our love stronger. Our love will be stronger, I’m almost certain of that.”

  Precisely at five-thirty was perhaps not the right term. The encounter started promptly at five-thirty, although people were still filtering in at quarter past six. And there was no formal opening ceremony; actually, one would hardly have known an encounter had begun. It seemed like any other cocktail party: waiters brought around trays of canapés and tiny sausages skewered with coloured toothpicks, while bartenders were kept busy in the main rooms serving wine and mixed drinks. People perhaps drank a little more than they normally would at this sort of affair, which Shulman figured was a function not only of their heightened state of anxiety, but also because each of them had shelled out $250 and wanted to make sure they got their money’s worth. Shulman had to admit that he was taken aback when he first saw alcohol, but he quickly saw the sense in it. This was a different kind of science from what he was used to, a different kind of medicine. In this context, a martini or whiskey sour was no different from ether. He was also momentarily taken aback when he saw Dr. Barrymore enjoying a large glass of red wine along with everyone else. A definite Fingerfehler, Shulman concluded, regardless of the circumstances. This was his encounter, after all: he was morally, therapeutically and, most important, legally responsible. He should have his wits about him.

  Sarah nudged him.

  “There’s Barrymore,” she said, rather more excitedly that Shulman would have expected. Shulman looked at the group leader again. Barrymore was in his late fifties, completely bald, with a corked beak that made him look, to Shulman’s mind, like a football coach or five-star general, the kind of man who, one would expect, would talk too loudly and laugh too often. The beige turtleneck was an attempt to soften his image, but the eyes gave him away. Little black holes, sucking in everything around them.

  “He looks younger than his picture.”

  “Really? I thought he looked much, much older.”

  Zwischenzug. It was her move now.

  . . .

  Sarah had many peculiarities when it came to her sexuality, which, strange as they were on the surface, only endeared her to her husband. That she would undress in the dark like a biblical virgin was one (how she would handle the hot pool was anybody’s guess). That she never opened her eyes during their moments of intimacy was another; she kept them shut, not in a fearful way, as if she was afraid to view what was going on, but in a dreamy way, the way of a woman who felt deliciously relaxed, concentrating fully on the pleasure she was receiving. More curious still was her habit of never directly referring to the act of love by anything but the most oblique of euphemisms. Like the patriarchs of old, who’d crafted cunning anagrams rather than utter the name of God, Sarah spoke of sex only in code. Expressions such as “making love” and “doing it” were far too graphic for her. She preferred the more rabbinical “congress” and “laying with” and even “applicated” — words which she managed to imbue with astonishing sensuality. It wasn’t that she was a prude, but that she’d co-opted the veneer of prudishness for her own erotic purposes. Shulman recognized these habits as sadomasochism in its subtlest form, a kind of Indian Defence, the slow development of play, at once toward and in defiance of the endgame.

  Shulman met her during his first year of med school. She was working in the day care at the Jewish Cultural Centre, where he frequently came to eat and socialize. Not that he was Jewish, although, because of his last name and his chosen profession . . . well, everyone assumed as much. At first, Schulman paid no attention to the misperception. He was essentially a polite young man and felt no need to put people in an awkward spot by correcting them. For example, when the woman in the registrar’s office asked if he had any special dietary requirements, he shrugged and said, “Just the usual.” And when the practicum advisor took him aside and asked in a hushed voice if Schulman needed to keep his Saturdays open for “religious observations,” the young man replied with equal earnestness, “If it’s not too much trouble.” After a while, Shulman settled into the role, seeing its advantages. Toronto in those days was still a rigidly stratified Anglo-Saxon community: people liked their porters black and their doctors Jewish. Being one of God’s chosen might not be such a bad career move for David Shulman. So he began to feed into the confusion in small ways. He’d say “mazel tov” when everyone else said “cheers,” for example; he started to take his lunch at the kosher deli on Queen Street. Over time he developed a great affinity for Jewish culture and history, reading commentaries on the Torah and studying the meaning of Jewish ritual; he was something of an expert on the Holocaust. He identified with the Jewish sense of isolation and purpose. He wondered what it
would be like to be circumcised.

  What drew him first to the cultural centre was a group of Jewish students who’d formed something they called the Manhattan North Chess Collective. Followers of Nimzovich, Grünfeld and Breyer — the hypermodernists — the collective set about to revolutionize the Toronto chess scene, to free it from the strictures of centralization. They dreamt of turning the chess world on its big, brainy head, experimenting wildly (starting with brown square bottom right; random configurations of pawns and pieces), mapping solutions for intensely esoteric chess problems (which often included, interestingly enough considering the state of their collective sex lives, highly improbable queen captures) and playing, playing, playing. They even developed an opening gambit that received some attention in serious chess circles. Called the Toronto Defence, it involved the early sacrifice of pawns and bishops in an attempt to draw a positional advantage on the queen’s flank. Unorthodox to be sure, but that was the climate of the collective.

  Fittingly, it was her art that first brought Sarah to his attention. He’d noticed a half-finished mural on the day care centre wall, cartoon animals, large renderings of the Hebrew alphabet. From his seat in the card room, during a blitz marathon with the Hassidic core of the collective, Shulman watched the young woman working on her murals. Because of their relative positions, her back was almost always toward him; in the course of the two weeks it took Sarah to finish, he probably saw her face only half a dozen times. But her back, her back was enough. She wore white overalls (judging by the paint marks, the same white overalls) every day, loose enough to give her body a kind of amorphous sexlessness, an ambiguity which only heightened her mysterious attractiveness; Shulman began to appreciate the lure of the burka in Islamic cultures. She wore a short t-shirt under the overalls, and when she reached up, the overalls pulling against her buttocks to reveal, for only moments at a time, its strong contours, the shirt would slide up her back and her arms. Before he ever even knew her name, Shulman was in love with the row of muscles and eye of olive skin that surrounded the thin section of spine in the middle of Sarah’s back. He’d always thought he’d marry an artist. He used to dream about it the way other adolescent boys would dream about playing in the NHL or going off to war. He already knew he’d be a doctor — his parents had prepped him since birth — and in his mind he could picture them, him and his wife, sitting in the study on Sundays, him, perhaps with a pipe, reading the latest issue of Deutsche Schachzeitung or perhaps The Lancet, she, in the corner by the window where the light was best, working on her latest piece. Sarah became the woman by the window. Within a month he’d asked her out (the beginning of the end of the collective); within the year he had proposed; and within another year, they were married in an orthodox service which only mildly surprised Shulman’s family and childhood friends.