Greetings from the Vodka Sea Page 17

  “I just wanted to tell you how very, very sorry I am,” he said finally, chewing on emotion.

  “For what?”

  “For . . . for going away.”

  “Going away?”

  “For leaving .”

  “Leaving? You didn’t leave. You just haven’t come home yet.”

  Two hours later, they were naked on his mattress, on the floor by the fireplace near the window. She was heavier and jaded; he was bonier, with hair where once there’d been muscle. They gnawed into each other’s soul and promised never to come out.

  . . .

  The dinner was not sold out. Almost half the tables sat empty. Dutton made a valiant effort to convince the guests to move to the tables near the front, in hopes, perhaps, that then the hall wouldn’t seem so empty. Most people were content to stay in their places. Humphries had arrived early and sat at a table in the back, frantically marking his book; it wasn’t clear whether he was identifying the parts he would read or the parts he wouldn’t. Wonnacott leaned against the back wall and smiled, silently composing.

  Most of the things I hate about this country can be summed up in two words: Stephen Leacock . . .

  It would be, quite literally, the speech to end all speeches; they’d never ask him back. With luck, no one would. Leacock was Orillia’s favourite son, a writer who, for a brief time after the First World War, could lay claim to being the most famous humorist in the world, although by the 1970s, he was largely forgotten outside of Canada and, inside it, remembered mostly by middle-aged schoolmasters with toast-crumbed beards and bad breath. But he was routinely presented — and this was the irritating part — as a paragon of literary excellence, a shadowing of our primordial, collective summer, when the world decided we weren’t so bad after all. Wonnacott resented Leacock, true, but not for his success. Rather for his legacy of diminished expectations. The Eternal Present.

  Wonnacott checked his watch. Just enough time for a quick phone call to his wife and a pre-victory shower.

  . . .

  This time, Luellen hadn’t even bothered to remove her coat.

  “That’s it,” Wonnacott declared. “This time I’m calling the manager.”

  “Just one minute, please. Just give me one minute.” Luellen shifted her weight, barely making a ripple on the hard mattress. She sat silently, almost hypnotized by her own breathing.

  “Well?”

  “Shh.”

  The leather bra and panties bound her flesh in all the wrong places.

  “I’m waiting.”

  Then there was a knock on the door.

  “Luellen,” a voice called from the other side. “I know you’re in there. Come out here this instant.”

  The woman held her finger to her lips and smiled at Wonnacott. He smiled and fell into the chair.

  “Luellen.” The man was desperate now. “Open this door right now, or I’ll break it down.” There was a pause, then a loud crash as Luellen’s husband fell upon the door.

  Wonnacott sighed, enlightened. “Have you ever thought of counselling?”

  Luellen shrugged.

  “You have to forgive my husband. He’s not very worldly, you understand. He’s at that age; he’s afraid that life has passed him by.”

  Her husband threw himself against the door one more time and then slipped to the floor. He was whimpering now and muttering her name with each breath. Luellen stood up and pulled her coat close to her shoulders. She thanked Wonnacott and left, walking headlong, Wonnacott realized, into an Orillia summer of her own.

  . . .

  Somewhere the sun was rising. Somewhere young lovers were lying together in the net of summer, licking the dry salt off each other’s tanned and perfect skin. Somewhere, maybe, a bird was singing, although, to be truthful, who listens to birds any more? They were irritants, mostly. Perhaps even somewhere in that fine little township of Orillia, a man and a woman were now coming together, holding onto one another in defence of history, in defiance of time. For all he could tell, Luellen and her husband were screwing right now in the front seat of their car, parked down by the lakeshore, basking in the conspiratorial shade of Champlain Monument. Wonnacott could not know and did not care. He sat on the bed, naked except for his t-shirt, the receiver still to his ear, the dial tone still buzzing like a crowing bee, his finger still holding down the switch, stuck between hanging up and putting down. His face was probably quite comical, halfway between a smile and a frown. A fmile. A srown. That was it. A bemused srown.

  . . .

  The encounter had begun like this.

  Wonnacott sitting on the bed, soup on the boil. “Did I wake you, love?”

  Thérèse yawned, then lowered her voice. “I was waiting for your call . . .”

  It had ended like this.

  The sound of a man coughing. Then the sound of a man trying to suppress a cough. Then the sound of a man, comically no doubt, stumbling to the floor as he fell out of bed trying to suppress his cough as another man, on the other end of a phone, tried not to listen to the sound of the man stumbling to the floor as he fell out of bed trying to suppress his cough. Then a man hanging up the phone abruptly, pushing the switch down with his finger and lifting it again. Then the sound of the dial tone, buzzing like a crowing bee. Go big or stay home.

  . . .

  The Mariposa Belle was on fire before Wonnacott had even been booed off the podium. It had started, the Fire Marshall would later conclude, on an unauthorized hotplate in a guest room. But Wonnacott had already left the hotel by the time the alarms went off. He had liberated Leacock’s bust and gown and mortarboard and Indian gun from the display case, employed a little ruse to borrow one of the volunteer drivers’ cars, and used another little ruse (and, okay, a threat) to gain entrance to the Park House.

  From below, Wonnacott hears the chief of police hail him on the loudspeaker. He wants to know Wonnacott’s demands. Let’s not do nothing foolish, he says.

  Wonnacott laughs. A double negative. Perfect. Come and get me, copper.

  Wonnacott stands up quickly and pulls off the Robes of State. But the mortarboard stays. A nice touch.

  He gropes for the switch to the overhead light and turns it off.

  The lamp beside the bed illuminates the room, casting monster shadows on the walls.

  Wonnacott lies back on the mattress again. In the distance he hears a siren wail like a heard of crowing bees. A fire truck for the Belle? Or maybe more cops, cops from as far away as Bracebridge, Barrie, Collingwood, Wasaga Beach . . .

  Outside he hears muffled voices and the shuffling of troops. The Turners are still at it, agitating the neighbours. Telling tales out of class. Who knows what this man might do? He is, after all a writer, and capable of anything.

  Wonnacott reaches up and shuts off the lamp. The room goes dark. From this vantage he can see the flames rising from the Mariposa Belle.

  He closes his eyes.

  In the distance, he hears a faint sound, beyond the gossip and organized silence. It might have been a child coughing, or the soft scratch scratching as, a very long way off, all the rats of the world are joining together to burrow into the maw of a perfect, sinking summer. He sighs and gets to his feet, and lifting the Indian gun he moves to the window to take aim and give the nearest police sharpshooter a lesson in history.

  The Man with a Thousand Wives

  Dimitri noticed his wife deliberately not looking at the man in the booth. He pretended to flip through the book she had given him to celebrate her promotion: an antique Grimms’ fairy tales in mint condition. The pages, although yellow along the edge, were still white, and many were not cut.

  “Nobody likes a fat accountant.” Dimitri rubbed his thin belly, carefully watching his wife’s eyes to see if they would betray her. “You always let me eat too much.”

  “Sorry, dear.” She talked through her nose, imitating the whiny wife of his imagination.

  Outside the Funky Chicken Dimitri pretended to blow his nose in a twenty doll
ar bill. “I saw you looking at him.”

  “At who?”

  “‘At who?’” Dimitri exaggerated her innocence. “Don’t give me that. At Dumbo in the booth across from us.”

  “Now I forget, which one was Dumbo?”

  “Dumbo, the one with the ears in the booth across from us.”

  Dimitri’s wife shook her head slowly. “No, you’ll have to be more specific. Which one of my secret lovers was it?” She was very good at this.

  “I said, it was Dumbo. The one with the ears. Wearing a grey jacket. Smoking a cigarette with just two fingers, you know, waving his cigarette like a magician, holding it between two little fingers and flicking it with his little thumb. In the booth across from us.”

  “What booth? The one by the ceramic mule?”

  “What booth? You know the one I’m talking about. Right by the bathroom door.”

  “Ah yes, where my lovers always sit, in case they have to beat a hasty retreat or retire to pluck some offending hair from their nostrils. Remind me again, what did he look like?”

  “How should I know? He’s your lover. I could only see him from the back. That little bald triangle at the point of his tiny head, those big, galumphing ears that flap when you kiss them. Tell me, what’s it like to kiss a man with a trunk?”

  “Jealous?”

  “Ah-ha!”

  “Ah-ha what, Dick Tracy?”

  “You can always tell when a woman is cornered. She attacks your masculinity, it’s a sure sign. Come, tell me, where did you meet him? At the health spa, jiggling around in his little circus tights? At Safeway, pinching tomatoes and stealing peanuts?”

  “How much did you drink tonight, anyway? I think you’re sufferings from the DTs.”

  “Don’t try to change the subject. I want to know, for reference. Where did you meet him? Was it one of those ads: ‘Horny chimpanzee with large ears, etcetera, seeks well-endowed companion to service. Discretion assured and expected.’”

  “How did you know? Did you read it in the paper?”

  “I didn’t have to. It’s written all over your face.”

  “Still? I thought I washed it off last night.”

  “Make jokes if you want to. She who jokes confesses.”

  “That’s deep, Confucius. Now give me the keys. You’re not driving anywhere.”

  Dimitri held the keys up to the streetlight. “Look,” he rattled them. “The Star of Bethlehem.” His wife grabbed the keys and unlocked the passenger door. Dimitri fumbled in his coat pocket. “And don’t think I haven’t forgotten your lover. Don’t think you’re fooling anyone, I know the likes of you, young — have you seen my keys? — young lady. You’re not the first wife I’ve had, you’re only one of many. Hundreds. Thousands.” Dimitri tried to open the car door with his left hand. “I’ve studied the feminine psyche. I know how it works. Ah . . . you have them. A clever ploy.”

  Dimitri’s wife started the car in silence. She craned her neck to check for traffic coming up from behind before she slipped onto the road. Her grey and black hair was pulled into a bun; she looked old and severe. Dimitri tapped the bun. “I love it when you look nasty.” His wife smiled. Dimitri closed his eyes and tried not to think of his stomach, too full and upset with alcohol. “Just tell me one thing.” Dimitri realized he was slurring. “What did you find so attractive about this lover of yours? He looked like a pineapple with ears and sideburns.” His wife smiled again and did not speak. Dimitri wondered how she could still love him.

  Waiting for them at home was a large bouquet of red and white roses. “Ah-ha!” Dimitri pointed to the flowers, then wagged his finger at his wife. “An elephantine gesture if ever there was one. Let’s decipher . . .” He opened the card buried at the bottom of the bouquet.

  “Congratulations, Winnie, on your promotion. Yours, Frank.”

  Dimitri thought for a moment, scraping the card across his thin beard, the kind of beard that some men grow to hide their bad skin but Dimitri wore in a vain effort to look debonair.

  “Hmm. Obviously it’s in code. What do you think it means, honey?”

  His wife said, “It beats me,” and Dimitri thought, she’s humouring me now.

  “That’s one thing about your lovers: they’re so . . . sensitive.” Dimitri got the bottle of scotch from the shelf above the fridge. He filled two mismatched tumblers with ice and poured. “I propose a toast.” He handed one tumbler to his wife and held his glass aloft. “To your new job: Vice President, Employee Relations.”

  “And congratulations to you. You got the title right for once.”

  “Thank you.” He took a gulp, then put his tumbler on the coffee table. “I just need to know one thing. Does that mean you have relations with every employee, or just some?”

  “That all depends on what day of the week it is.”

  Dimitri sat down on the couch and tried to undo his shoes. The laces kept slipping from his fingers as he swayed from side to side. Finally he gave up. He sat up straight and tried to cross his legs, succeeding instead in kicking the coffee table and knocking over his scotch. “It’s official.” He held one arm up in victory. “I’m pissed.” Dimitri bent forward and wiped the spill with his jacket sleeve.

  “Frank, Frank, Frank,” he said. “Do we know a Frank? It’s not our old friend Frank Furter of Frankfort, is it? He’s a diabolical dog. I can’t believe you’d sleep with him.”

  “I believe, unless I’m mistaken, that Frank is that brother you’ve had for forty-one years.”

  Dimitri covered his ears. “My own brother. Is nothing sacred?”

  The black cat, Adolph, paraded into the room. He stopped by the coffee table, spread his paws and stretched to the end of his tail. “Precious,” Dimitri sang, smacking his lips to call the cat. “Hi, kitty. Hi, precious.” His wife, too, saw the cat. She knelt down near the kitchen door and scratched the carpet, smacking her lips. The cat rolled towards her and rubbed his head on her thigh. She picked him up and hugged him.

  “You know, he likes me better.” Dimitri picked up Grimms’ from the coffee table and opened to the title page. Grimms’ Tales, from “Kinder und Hausmarchen.” Thomas Lloyd McKenzie & Son, Publisher, 1883. “He only pretends to like you because you feed him. In the army, we used to call people like him brown- nosers.”

  “You were never in the army.”

  “Is that so? Oh, of course, I’m married. I always get the two mixed up.”

  Dimitri ran his finger down the table of contents. “You know, I’ve always wanted a book. Really, ever since I was a young man. A book like this is a good investment, look after you in your old age. When your cat is dead and buried and the rest of the world has left you to rot, a book will remain by your side. True blue. Dependable.” Dimitri flipped the pages. “I’m looking for a story called ‘The Man with a Thousands Wives.’ Do you know it? It’s about an accountant who has a harem of women at his disposal. He changes women like other men change ties, depending on weather, social occasion and mood.” Dimitri put the book back on the coffee table. “It’s based, I think, on a true story.” He looked up. Adolph sat on the floor near the kitchen doorway, staring at him. His wife was nowhere to be seen. The cat jumped onto the coffee table, then into Dimitri’s lap. Dimitri stroked the length of his back. “You’re lucky,” he said. “A cat has only nine wives. A man has a thousand, each more deceitful and troublesome than the next.”

  Adolph looked up and mewed. Dimitri was certain the cat understood.

  He was falling asleep when he wife came into the room and declared, “Well.” On its own that single word suggested more to follow, which always meant bad news to Dimitri. Coming from his wife, it was even more alarming. She always spoke in complete thoughts. Simple noun-verb-noun sentences, like they teach in a foreign language class.

  “Well, what?”

  “That was your brother.”

  “Well, what did he say?”

  “He’s just been to the hospital.”

  (Noun-verb-noun). “Agai
n?”

  “Again.”

  “Is he coming over?”

  “No. He just wanted to talk.”

  Dimitri looked at his watch. Ten-thirty. “It’s getting late.”

  Dimitri’s brother had the unbelievable number of seven children, which included two sets of twins. He did not live in a shoe, as Dimitri often expected, but in a very nice house on the edge of the woods that circled the university. Frank, a lawyer, made more money than even a man with seven children could use. Once, three years ago, Frank’s wife was supposed to do the laundry. Instead, she decided to drink what was left of a bottle of bleach. Now his oldest daughter was in and out of hospital all the time. She was, the doctor said, schizophrenic. She heard voices, voices that suggested she kill herself.

  “Frank has just been to the hospital, ergo we can conclude that Kitty’s hearing voices?” Dimitri said to no one.

  “Do you want another?” Dimitri’s wife shook the scotch bottle, a mute bell.

  “Well, I really shouldn’t. It’s getting late. Just half a cup.” Dimitri took a sip, then shivered. “That’ll warm me up. You know, you never told me about the man in the restaurant. Who is he?”

  “Dumbo? He’s been my lover for six years now. I met him while you were at a linguists’ conference in Montreal. Don’t let his big ears and pointy head fool you. He’s very hot in bed.”

  “Well, you know what they say about men with big ears.”

  “No. What?”

  “I don’t know, I thought you knew.” Dimitri’s wife sat on the piano bench, her body on the edge of a corner, barely touching it seemed. She held the tumbler of scotch in her lap with both hands, her head bowed, her eyes lightly closed. Was she meditating or fighting back a migraine? Her red lipstick smeared at one corner of her lips, and she looked like a cartoon drunk, although Dimitri believed she was very likely sober. She looked old and tired. “You know, you remind me so much of my first wife.”

  “Really?”