with F. pulling my hairs.

– Come with me, my friend.

– What time is it, F.?

– It is the summer of 1964.

He wore a curious smile on his face which I had not seen before. I cannot explain it, but it made me shy, and I crossed my legs.

– Get up. We’re going for a walk.

– Turn around while I get dressed.

– No.

– Please.

He pulled the sheet from my body, still heavy with sleep and the dreams of a lost wife. He shook his head slowly.

– Why didn’t you listen to Charles Axis?

– Please, F.

– Why didn’t you listen to Charles Axis?

I squeezed my thighs tighter and laid the nightcap across my pubic hair. F. stared at me relentlessly.

– Confess. Why didn’t you listen to Charles Axis? Why didn’t you send away the coupon on that distant afternoon in the orphanage?

– Leave me alone.

– Just look at your body.

– Edith had no complaints about my body.

– Ha!

– Did she ever say anything to you about my body?

– Plenty.

– Such as?

– She said you have an arrogant body.

– What the hell is that supposed to mean?

– Confess, my friend. Confess about Charles Axis. Confess your sin of pride.

– I have nothing to confess. Now turn around and I’ll get dressed. It’s too early for your cheap koans.

With a lightning flash he twisted my arm in a half-nelson, twisted me off the nostalgic bed, and forced me to confront the full-length mirror in the bathroom. Miraculously the nightcap had adhered to the wiry growth of my pubic hair. I shut my eyes.

– Ouch!

– Look. Look and confess. Confess why you ignored Charles Axis.

– No.

He tightened his expert grip.

– Oh, oh, oh, please! Help!

– The truth! You disdained the coupon because of the sin of pride, didn’t you. Charles Axis wasn’t enough for you. In your greedy brain you cherished an unspeakable desire. You wanted to be Blue Beetle. You wanted to be Captain Marvel. You wanted to be Plastic Man. Robin wasn’t even good enough for you, you wanted to be Batman.

– You’re breaking my back!

– You wanted to be the Superman who was never Clark Kent. You wanted to live at the front of the comic. You wanted to be Ibis the Invincible who never lost his Ibistick. You wanted SOCK! POW! SLAM! UGG! OOF! YULP! written in the air between you and all the world. To become a New Man in just fifteen minutes a day meant absolutely nothing to you. Confess!

– The pain! The pain! Yes, yes, I confess. I wanted miracles! I didn’t want to climb to success on a ladder of coupons! I wanted to wake up suddenly with X-ray Vision! I confess!

– Good.

He turned the half-nelson into an embrace and drew me to him. My fingers were very skillful there in the porcelain gloom of my prison bathroom. As I undid the top clasp of his beltless Slim Jim slacks, I flicked away the nightcap. It fell between my toes and his shoes like an autumn figleaf in a utopia of nudists. The curious smile hadn’t left his luscious mouth.

– Ah, my friend, I have waited a long time for that confession.

Arm in arm, we walked through the narrow harbor streets of Montréal. We watched great showers of wheat fall into the holds of Chinese cargo boats. We saw the geometry of the gulls as they drifted in perfect circles over center points of garbage. We watched great liners shrink as they hooted down the widening St. Lawrence, shrink into shining birch-bark canoes, then into whitecaps, then into the mauve haze of distant hills.

– Why do you smile like that all the time? Doesn’t your face get sore?

– I’m smiling because I think I’ve taught you enough.

Arm in arm, we climbed the streets that led to the mountain, Mont Royal, which gives its name to our city. Never before had the shops of Ste. Catherine Street bloomed so brightly, or the noon crowds thronged so gaily. I seemed to see it for the first time, the colors wild as those first splashes of paint on the white skin of the reindeer.

– Let’s buy steamed hot dogs in Woolworth’s.

– Let’s eat them with our arms crossed, taking risks with mustard.

We walked along Sherbrooke Street, west, toward the English section of the city. We felt the tension immediately. At the corner of Pare Lafontaine Park we heard the shouted slogans of a demonstration.

– Québec Libre!

– Québec Oui, Ottawa Non!

– Merde à la reine d’angleterre!

– Elizabeth Go Home!

The newspapers had just announced the intention of Queen Elizabeth to visit Canada, a state visit planned for October.

– This is an ugly crowd, F. Let’s walk faster.

– No, it is a beautiful crowd.

– Why?

– Because they think they are. Negroes, and that is the best feeling a man can have in this century.

Arm in arm, F. pulled me to the scene of commotion. Many of the demonstrators wore sweatshirts inscribed with QUEBEC LIBRE. I noticed that everyone had a hard-on, including the women. From the base of a monument, a well-known young film maker addressed the cheering assembly. He wore the scholarly thin beard and violent leather jacket so commonly seen in the corridors of L’Office National du Film. His voice rang out clearly. F.’s judo pressure cautioned me to listen carefully.

– History! the young man called over our heads. What have we to do with History?

The question inflamed them.

– History! they shouted. Give us back our History! The English have stolen our History!

F. pressed deeper into the mass of bodies. They received us automatically, like quicksand swallowing up the laboratory monster. The echoes of the young man’s clear voice hung above us like skywriting.

– History! he continued. History decreed that in the battle for a continent the Indian should lose to the Frenchman. In 1760 History decreed that the Frenchman should lose to the Englishman!

– Booo! Hang the English!

I felt a pleasant sensation at the base of my spine and jiggled ever so slightly against the thin nylon dress of a

Вы читаете Beautiful Losers
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату