“That’s very good, Breavman. Good night.”
“The last superiority of the refuge is a sleeping sense of the insomniac world.”
“Oh, excellent.”
“The refuge world of the superiority is a last sense of the sleeping insomniac.”
“Umm. Yes.”
There was a creaking of springs and Krantz blinked out of the window.
“Hello, Breavman.”
“You can go back to sleep now, Krantz. I just wanted to wake you up.”
“Well, you might as well rouse the camp. Rouse the camp, Breavman! It’s the night.”
“For what?”
“A Children’s Crusade. We’ll march on Montreal.”
“So there’s a reason for all this discipline. Forgive me, Krantz, I should have known.”
They planned the assault on Montreal and the ensuing martyrdom with sinister enthusiasm. After four minutes of talk Breavman broke into the fantasy.
“Is this for my benefit, Krantz? Some sort of charitable therapy?”
“God damn you, Breavman!”
The bed creaked again and in a few seconds Krantz was outside, wearing a bathrobe and a towel around his neck.
“Let’s walk, Breavman.”
“You were humouring me, Krantz.”
“I don’t know how you can be so perceptive in one instant and so miserably blind in another. I admit it. I was asleep and I felt like telling you to fuck off. Besides, Anne was in bed with me.”
“I’m sorry, I –”
“No, I want to talk to you, now. I’ve been trying to get to talk to you for weeks.”
“What?”
“You’ve made yourself completely unavailable, Breavman. To me, to everyone….”
They stood beside the canoe racks, talking, listening to the water. The sand was damp and it was really too cold to be there but neither wished to cripple the communication that had begun, and which both knew was fragile.
The mist along the shore began to weave itself thick out of snaky wisps, and the edge of the sky brightened into a royal blue.
They told each other about their girls, a little solemnly, carefully omitting any sexual information.
13
He watched Martin clean his nose, his great Caesarian nose that should have sponsored historic campaigns but only counted grass and pine needles.
Every morning Martin got up half an hour early to fulfil the ritual.
Toothpicks, cotton-wool, vaseline, mirrors.
Breavman asked him why.
“I like to have a clean nose.”
Martin asked Breavman to mail a letter to his brother. Mrs. Stark had given instructions that they be intercepted and destroyed. Breavman read them and they brought him closer to the boy’s anguish.
Dear Bully fat Bully you dirty
I got your last thirty-four letters and saw in a second the millions of lies. I hope you starve and your boner breaks in half with lots of screams and lets the beetles out after what you told her about me. Why don’t you fill your mouth with towels and razor-blades. Mummy is not a stupid skull she sneaked a look in the flashlight and read the poison shit you wrote me under the blankets.
love your brother,
MARTIN STARK
14
Day off. Despite the hot drive in the bus he was exhilarated to be back in Montreal. But who were the bastards responsible for tearing down the best parts of the city?
He visited his mother, was unable to make her understand he’d been away. Same horror as always.
He walked along Sherbrooke Street. The women of Montreal were beautiful. Launched from tiny ankles, their legs shot up like guided missiles into atmospheres of private height.
He formed wild theories out of pleats and creases.
Wrists, white and fast as falling stars, plunged him into arm-holes. Tonight they would have to comb his eyeballs out of all their hair.
He planted hundreds of hands in bosoms, like hidden money. Therefore he called on Tamara.
“Come in, old chappie, old.”
Smell of turpentine. Another batch of agonized self-portraits. “Tamara, you’re the only woman I can talk to. For the past two weeks I’ve gone to sleep with your mouth in my hand.”
“How’s camp? How’s Krantz?”
“Flourishing. But he’ll never make a Compassionate P.”
“You smell delicious. And you’re so brown. Yummy.”
“Let’s be immoderate.”
“Good idea in any given situation.”
“Let’s praise each other’s genitalia. Don’t you hate that word?”
“For women. It’s good for men. Sounds loopy – things hanging. Makes me think of chandelier.”
“You’re great, Tamara. God, I like being with you. I can be anything.”
“So can I.”
And Shell with her open gift, it struck him, forced him into a kind of nobility.
“Let’s resort to everything.”
They left the room at five in the morning to eat a huge meal at the China Gardens. Laughing like maniacs, they fed each other with chopsticks and decided they were in love. The waiters stared. They hadn’t bothered to remove the paint.
Walking back, they talked about Shell, how beautiful she was. He asked Tamara if she would mind his phoning New York.
“Of course not. She’s something else.”
Shell was sleepy but glad to hear from him. She spoke in a little girl’s voice. He told her he loved her.
He took the early morning bus back to camp. Immortal Tamara, she walked with him to the terminal. After one hour’s sleep he called that real affection.
15
Now we must take a closer look at Breavman’s journal:
Friday night. Sabbath. Ritual music on the PA. Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of Hosts. The earth is full of your glory. If I could only end my hate. If I could believe what they wrote and wrapped in silk and crowned with gold. I want to write the word.
All our bodies are brown. All the children are dressed in white. Make us able to worship.
Take me home again. Build up my house again. Make me a dweller in thee. Take my pain. I can’t use it any longer. It makes nothing beautiful. It makes the leaves into cinders. It makes the water foul. It makes your body into a stone. Holy life. Let me lead it. I don’t want to hate. Let me flourish. Let the dream of you flourish in me.
Brother, give me your new car. I want to ride to my love. In return I offer you this wheelchair. Brother, give me all your money. I want to buy everything my love wants. In return I offer you
