Greetings from the Vodka Sea Read online

  “Cost, Starker. I’ll give it to you at cost, because you’re a friend. I want to move it, that’s all. I’m trying to make room for new inventory.”

  Starky stood up. No. Sorry.

  “Tuesday night, Sticks. Shoot some hoops, okay? You gonna be there, Sticks? You gonna shoot some hoops?”

  . . .

  Rudy liked Duke. They’d gone to a Duke game once, maybe five years ago, back when Murph was still clinging to the diminishing dream of his son one day playing pro hoops. Rudy had the time of his life. Murph took the kid to the locker room afterwards (he was friends with a friend of the trainer), and all the guys had come over and said hello and signed a hat for him. Rudy wore that Duke hat every day for two years, until it was finally nothing but a band of tattered cloth and plastic, stapled together.

  Maybe he’d get Rudy a Duke hat. Notre Dame was on sale. He asked for the sale price on the Duke hat. The store owner said no. He’d got a deal on the Notre Dame hats. The Duke hats were cost plus as it was. He couldn’t give Murph a break. He’d like to, but he couldn’t.

  Murph cut through the park on the way back to his car. He’d still wanted to get something for Rudy, something for Rudy to remember. They hadn’t had many memories lately. He thought of Baby’s First Book and all the things it missed and all the things he’d never know about his son. His first kiss. His first orgasm. His first screw. His first disappointment. His first betrayal. His first bad trip. His first crime. His first good love gone bad. Everything. It.

  Murph passed a couple of teenagers, lurking in the shadows by the monkey bars. He could tell one was holding, he knew the look, he’d worn the look himself; maybe he was wearing it now.

  “OH vam QaQ shit?” the one kid asked.

  The young dealer closed his eyes and nodded emphatically. “HIja’, ioD, vam shit ‘oH QaQ . . .”

  . . .

  The Klingon concept of Honour is tremendously complex. Unlike contemporary Western culture, which renders every complicated idea into an abstraction (honour, love, valour, truth, peace), Klingons leave nothing up to interpretation. Their Code of Honour, the paq vo’ quv, runs some twenty-five thousand pages and is constantly being expanded and reinterpreted by the Klingon High Council. In fact, like Earth’s Eskimos, who have some fifty words to cover every nuance and grade of the concept snow, Klingons have some eight hundred and sixty degrees (counting changes in inflection and dialect quirks) of honour. There is the honour of a warrior in his first battle (“quv lak”), which varies greatly from the honour of a warrior in his last battle (“quV LuZ”). There is the honour a Klingon woman shows her living mate (for example, “qUUv lOn,” although this can vary depending on the mate’s standing within in the community), which should not be confused with the honour she shows her deceased mate (which, again, varies greatly depending on the manner in which her mate died). Surprisingly too, for such a essentially conservative culture, there is the honour of a divorced woman, which ranges from the lowest order, “quvV tU,” for the woman who quietly acquiesces as her mate takes another lover, to “quv tulG,” reserved only for those great women who kill their mates in a highly choreographed and physically demanding divorce ritual. This honour code is a highly fluid system, with built-in safeguards that allow it to adapt to changing cultural demands. Only one kind of honour has remained consistent throughout the ages: “QuV SoS,” the honour of a child for its mother.

  The concept of duty is less entrenched in the Klingon system, having been introduced only at the end of the second millennium. Still, the pac vo’ kA includes more than four hundred entries, delineating what amounts to a state-sanctioned caste system. A careful reading of the pac vo’qua (High Counsellors specializing in this branch of Code must be logicians of the highest order) clearly delineates the duty any one individual within the Klingon Empire bears to any other individual. In fact, over time, as the Klingon culture has become more entrenched and therefore, by necessity, more hierarchical and more political, Duty, in practical, pragmatic terms, has risen to the level of, and in some senses supersedes, Honour. Honour still holds the greatest symbolic power for Klingons, but it is Duty that, as the counsellors like to say, gets the job done.

  This is the subtext of Kahless’s dilemma. It is a question less of choosing between two abstract and equal concepts (and all abstractions, like all men, are created equal) than of selecting the course for one’s life, or rather, the course for one’s legacy. To the left, Kahless faces quv, the sacred tradition of his peoples that gives meaning to ka. To the right lies ka, the profane system through which quv is sustained. One is eternal and decadent, the other perverse and sustaining. But Kahless, as the legends tell us, chose neither left nor right. He dove into the middle of the abyss. He is falling still and shall continue to fall without end. That is his legacy. In the shadow of his greatness, that is his tragedy.

  . . .

  Moonie was still talking about food. At first Murph had thought the talking was cathartic. But now it seemed the opposite, whatever that was.

  “The drivers themselves should be chefs, that’s part of the key, I think. Who wants to see some pimple-face snot delivering a wet bag of food? That’s what most of those other fast places do, have pimple-faced snots deliver the food. It’s always cold. The bag is always wet.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “But our drivers will be professionals. They’ll be professional drivers and professional chefs. We’ll even get those chefs’ costumes and little white hats. In fact, maybe we can save ourselves a bundle and just buy the outfits. That way, we don’t have to pay real chefs. We can just hire drivers who look like chefs. But professional drivers. And no snotty-faced kids. I hate that, when they come to the door with cold food.”

  “And the bag all wet?”

  “Exactly. I hate that.”

  Murph had picked up Moonie on the way back from the mall. Quite frankly, Moonie had been getting on his nerves lately. But also, quite frankly, Murph didn’t want to be alone. In the back of his mind he half thought that he could unload some of the product on Moonie. But who was he kidding? Even if Moonie took it he’d have to take it on credit, and in that case, he might as well just give it away.

  “Maybe we could hire girls. Seventeen, eighteen. That’d be even cheaper. And instead of chef suits, they could wear those little French maid outfits.”

  “French maids?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And not chefs?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Isn’t that somewhat incongruous?”

  “Yeah. Exactly. It’s funny.”

  A moment of silence. Murph figured Moonie was mentally undressing one of his French maids.

  “You ever made a stupid decision, Moonie, fucked up real bad? You know, gotten yourself into something that looked simple enough on the outside, but once you’re inside, you found yourself . . .”

  Moonie waited for him to finish.

  “Found myself?”

  “Stuck.”

  “Stuck?”

  “Stuck.”

  Moonie tuned the radio on. Coltrane checked in from 1956.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Murph shook his head.

  “Jesus, man. You need a holiday. You and Rudy, go someplace nice. Get yourselves a plane ticket, and go someplace nice.”

  . . .

  Baseball. Crackers. Pearl. Lady. Bush. Candy. Da Bomba knew every word. Hotcakes. Raw. Scotty. Scramble. He even had his own words, he’d teach them to his bitches. Glo. Like “glow” but no “w.” Glo was candy. Or jizz. That was rock. Glamour Pussy, that was a girl who’d go down on you for some jizz, not to be confused with a smoker, a chick who’d suck you off for some jizz. He called a pipe a bracket, no one knew why, that’s just the word he used and he liked it. He called customers gooks, he called suppliers fairies, he called his posse his bitches. They didn’t like it, but what could they do? Da Bomba had a word for everything. He told his bitches how he’d fixed that gook with his dildo, the gook what o
wed him the grass (which is what Da Bomba called money), and how the gook had shit himself and cried like a baby, and his bitches laughed until they almost shit themselves. Da Bomba, he was one crazy mother-fucker. He was all fucked up. He was only sixteen, and already the police were afraid of him. Shit, his own momma was scared of that crazy red-haired motherfucker Da Bomba. And that night when Da Bomba got home, he cried. He cried and he cried and he cried. His momma came into his room and held him in her big warm arms. She just held while he cried and cried and cried. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to die and go to hell. She was the only one who knew how scared he was. Da Bomba, that crazy motherfucker, he was scared shitless.

  . . .

  Murph knew the drill. He’d seen the cherries flashing a quarter mile back. He almost crapped himself. He nudged the wrinkled Barnes and Noble bag closer to Moonie, not entirely sure that, if push came to shove, he wouldn’t let Moonie take the fall. He checked his speed, but he was in the limit. It crossed his mind that maybe Dr. No had ratted him out. Maybe the whole thing had been a setup. Maybe Starky was wearing a wire and recorded their conversation. It’s possible he was already in deep with the cops and rolled over to protect his own ass. He was just that kind of self-centred son-of-a-bitch.

  “What’s the matter, officer? Was I going too fast?” Murph unconsciously wiped his shirt as he spoke. The officer didn’t respond. He asked Murph for his driver’s license and registration. The cop took the papers back to the hog and called them in. Murph slid the bag forward and tried to kick it under the seat. He was careful. Cops were always on the lookout for suspicious movement. For a moment, Murph thought of flooring it. He could easily put a quarter mile between the cop and himself, then ditch the book out the window. It was a question of the lesser of two evils.

  The cop returned to the car. Murph thought he looked funny in his little costume, his puffy motorcycle pants and high boots, the white plastic ovum that covered his head, the empty shades meant to convey dispassion, to strike fear into the heart. This was make believe for children. It was not how police should dress in this day and age.

  The cop handed Murph his papers.

  “Thank you, Mr. Murphy. You have a nice day, y’hear.”

  . . .

  Peter Murphy returned home. Peter Murphy parked the car. Peter Murphy did not know what to do next. Dr. Starky had knocked the wind out of Peter Murphy’s sails. The cop had taken the wind out of Peter Murphy’s sails. Rudolph Murphy stood on the steps waiting for Peter Murphy to come up to the house.

  “Hello, Father,” Rudolph Murphy said. His tone was unusually expressive.

  “Finished your opera, then?” Peter Murphy asked, shifting the Barnes and Noble bag from one hand to the other.

  “No, Father. In fact, I scrapped the opera altogether. The libretto was forced, the overture likewise. Parts of the first movement are salvageable, I think. But the rest is gack.”

  “Perhaps you’re being too hard on yourself, son,” Peter Murphy said. He thought that maybe he could have been more supportive. Peter Murphy patted his son on the head, then entered his house. Peter Murphy was tired. Frank Montgomery had said as much when Peter Murphy dropped him off minutes earlier.

  Rudolph Murphy smiled. It wasn’t enough to write about Klingons, he thought. The highest good, the greatest glory lay in becoming Klingon. Right now his father would be passing through the kitchen. He’d notice the counters were cleaned and uncluttered. Jars and boxes had been put away in the pantry like his father had asked he didn’t know how many times. Those crumbs that seemed to breed like Tribbles by the toaster. Eradicated. Swept into the sink abyss. Rudolph Murphy was enlightened. He felt, for the first time, that he understood the nature of the Kahless dilemma.

  Now, his father, Peter Murphy, would be ascending the stairs. Towels and clean shirts were removed carefully, properly folded and hung. Next he’d come to the bedroom. Rudolph Murphy had deliberately left the door open. It was a sign of welcome, a sign of submission, not the dispirited surrender of the broken, but the humble submission of the strong. An exercise in Duty. Rudolph’s bed was neatly made, his father would see that now, and the sea of dirty clothes was packed away in the proper receptacle. Books and CDs neatly stacked, arranged alphabetically by genre; carpet, precisely vacuumed. One could eat off that floor. He wondered if his father would understand. All this time, Rudolph had tried to approach things from the outside. A dispassionate observer, shielding his weakness through the pretence of art. But now he understood.

  It had come to him as he laboured over the ending. He wanted to understand Kahless the Unforgettable, he wanted to uncover the wisdom where others found only folly. And that’s when it struck like a blow from Gowran’s ’etlh: Duty and Honour were not exclusive. Kahless had chosen to merge the two, had chosen to accept the uncertainty of the void over the certainty, and servitude, of Essential Truth. At that point, Rudolph Murphy understood: he must jump too. He must pitch himself into the darkness, openly, happily, joyously. That was the essence of Klingon — quv’ka, united as one.

  Quv lIj vav — honour thy father, that was it. Honour and Duty, perfectly expressed.

  By now his father would have moved through his own bedroom and found it respectfully cleaned, bed made, shoes lined up neatly, clothes hung neatly, respectfully. The floor vacuumed spotless. It was funny; Rudolph Murphy had discovered an unexpected joy in carrying out these menial duties, slipping seamlessly from life as object (someone who is done for) to life as subject (someone who does) — quv’ka instantly internalized. He felt strong.

  And now his father would be moving into the den, plants watered, magazines unscattered and alphabetically arranged, videos likewise, tile floor carefully swept and scrubbed (his father, Peter Murphy, seemed to be growing more careless these days). It was spotless now, one could eat off that floor.

  Rudolph Murphy wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but Peter Murphy’s reaction was a complete and unanticipated delight. It started low, so low that Rudolph Murphy wasn’t sure it was a sound at all. It could have been the earth shifting or the sound of the sun as it inched across the sky. But then it grew louder, a bass, constricted howl that rose now like a powerful wind. It was his father calling to him in the language of a warrior, an unspoken and unspeakable recognition. The sound wrapped around Rudolph Murphy, it lifted him up and held him, comforting him. The sound was so beautiful it was almost harrowing. Rudolph Murphy could imagine the tears of joy raining down his father’s, Peter Murphy’s, face, standing in his room, cleansed, as it were, the floor, swept clean, even the walls scrubbed. Rudolph Murphy thought of the tears, the powerful tears, and imagined that if those tears could speak they’d say: Today my son is a man. No, better than a man. Today, my son is Klingon.

  Secret Friends

  Talk to him, the doctor had said. Act like nothing is wrong. She kissed her son on the forehead. Dougie did not stir. She thought of his green, green eyes, the most beautiful shade of green, almost emerald, like no other child, no other person.

  “Tomorrow I’ll take you shopping, grocery shopping, we need some things, and how about some shoes? I think it’s high time you got a new pair, your old ones look like they’re ready to walk away on their own.”

  Diane could fit both of Dougie’s hands in her fist, but she was positive that the night before, when she had put her son to bed, his hands were as big as or bigger than hers. Diane decided to keep a journal, to record the length of particular limbs, his height and body weight.

  Diane tugged on Little Doug’s shoulder. “Wake up,” she said. “Wake up, Dougie. Wake up, please.” Her voice stern. “Dougie, wake up now, it’s time to wake up.” What were the magic words? When they first brought Dougie into the hospital six months ago, the doctor believed the boy suffered a delayed concussion or perhaps a stroke. The EEG revealed nothing. His brain patterns were as regular and erratic as those of any twelve-year-old. Dr. Sidhu handed Diane a scroll of computer paper marked with rows of jagged lines, like nervous
hand-writing. “These are alpha lines.” Dr. Sidhu pointed with his pencil. Diane noticed that the doctor always held a pencil in his hand. He left a small grey shadow on everything he touched. “When the lines are very concentrated in this way, they show your boy is in a profound sleep. He sleeps deeply, in what we call the REM sleep.” The doctor stroked his thin moustache with the pencil. “Have faith, we’ll get to the bottom of this, although it is a very unusual thing to see a boy sleeping so.”

  The yellow house where Diane and her husband lived was an hour’s drive from St. Joseph’s hospital, along roads which grew progressively rougher: the highway to the lake turnoff, the twisting country road through the Indian reserve, the dirt logging trail that circled the lip of the reservoir, then finally down the steep gravel driveway to the yellow house.

  Her days were the same: off to the hospital in the morning, then four hours at Barkley’s Pharma-Centre, and back to the hospital until visiting hours ended at nine o’clock. Usually the nurses let her stay with Dougie an extra half hour or so. Then the long drive home. She couldn’t wait for her moment of peace at the end of the day. She’d put on her flowered housecoat, careful not to wake her husband — it was easier if she let him be — then stand at the kitchen sink rinsing her face with cold water. Diane sipped a cup of tea as she stared out the kitchen window to the saltwater inlet below. Seagulls circled outside her window, always lots of seagulls, bumping into one another as they flew, Diane could almost see the surprise on their faces. They scuttled across her balcony, fat, armless businessmen hurrying to catch a bus. Most evenings she could not sleep. She never liked the TV. She would sit at the kitchen window and watch the world of seagulls and silence.

  Thursday night, Diane’s mother-in-law called just as the kettle boiled. Mrs. Flannigan had to tell Diane her dream.

  “Jesus appeared before me in a yellow robe, his arms out-stretched, light radiating from his eyes and from all about his body. He spoke not, but smiled, and I remember in my dream feeling calmed and at peace. When I awoke I turned immediately to the scriptures, reading verses at random. The Holy Spirit directed me to Psalm 121, A Song of Degrees. ‘Behold,’ the scripture says, ‘He that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep.’ Jesus Christ is speaking to me, Diane, he is speaking to me now. He is offering his hand. Won’t you pray with me? Let’s pray together now.”