“Dionne’s.”
“What’s your favourite parking lot?”
“Dionne’s Parking Lot.”
When the ritual was finished Breavman packed up, lifted him into the canoe, and shoved off for camp. He didn’t want to think about what would have happened if Martin hadn’t been able to find him. That cheek needed iodine. And it seemed that some of the bites were infected.
It was beautiful paddling back, reeds scraping the bottom of the canoe and turning it into a big fragile drum. Martin was an Indian chief squatting beside him, bundled in the sleeping bag. The sky displayed continents of fire.
“When I’m back home,” Martin said loudly, “rats eat me.”
“I’m sorry, Martin.”
“Hundreds and hundreds of them.”
When Breavman saw the lights of the camp he had a wild urge to pass them, to keep paddling up the lake with the boy, make a site somewhere up the shore among the naked birch trees.
“Keep it down, Martin. They’ll kill us if they hear us.”
“That would be all right.”
22
Green? Beige? Riding in the bus he tried to remember the colour of his mother’s room. In this way he avoided thinking about her lying there. Some careful shade determined at a medical conference.
In this room she spends her time. It has a good view of the southern slopes of Mount Royal. In the spring you get the smell of lilacs. You want to throw the window open to get more of the perfume, but you can’t. The window slides up only so far. They don’t want any suicides littering the lawn.
“We haven’t seen you for a while, Mr. Breavman,” said the head nurse.
“Haven’t we?”
His mother was staring at the ceiling. He looked up there himself. Maybe something was going on that nobody knew about.
The walls were clever grey.
“Are you feeling better, Mother?” He gave the cue.
“Am I feeling better? better for what? that I should go outside and see what he’s doing with his life? thank you, for that I don’t have to go outside, for that I can lie here, in this room, beside the crazy people, your mother in an insane asylum.…”
“You know it isn’t that, Mother. Just somewhere you can rest —”
“Rest! How can I rest with what I know? traitor for a son, don’t you think I know where I am? with their needles and their polite manner, a mother like this and he’s away swimming —”
“But, Mother, nobody’s trying to hurt —”
What was he doing, trying to argue with her? She flung out one arm and groped for something on the night table, but everything had been taken away.
“Don’t interrupt your mother, haven’t I suffered enough? a sick man for fifteen years, don’t I know? don’t I know, don’t I know …?”
“Mother, please, don’t scream —”
“Oh! he’s ashamed of his mother, his mother will wake up the neighbours, his mother will frighten away his goyish girlfriends, traitor! what all of you have done to me! a mother has to be quiet, I was beautiful, I came from Russia a beauty, people looked at me —”
“Let me speak to you —”
“People spoke to me, does my child speak to me? the world knows I lie here like a stone, a beauty, they called me a Russian beauty, but what I gave to my child, to treat a mother, I can’t stand to think of it, you should have it from your own child, like today is Tuesday over the whole world you should have it from your child what I had, rat in my house, I can’t believe my life, that this should happen to me, I was so good to my parents, my mother had cancer, the doctor held her stomach in his hand, does anyone try to help me? does my son lift a finger? Cancer! cancer! I had to see everything, I had to give my life away to sick people, this isn’t my life, to see these things, your father would kill you, my face is old, I don’t know who I am in the mirror, wrinkles where I was beautiful.…”
He sat back, didn’t try to break in again. If she let him speak she wouldn’t hear. He really didn’t know what he would have been able to say had he known she was listening.
He attempted to let his mind wander, but he hung on every wild detail, waiting for the hour to be up.
He knocked on Tamara’s door at about ten o’clock. There were a few whispers exchanged inside. She called out, “Who is it?”
“Breavman from the north. But you’re busy.”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Night.”
“Night.”
Good night, Tamara. It’s all right to share your mouth. It belongs to everyone, like a park.
He wrote two letters to Shell and then phoned her so he could get to sleep.
23
Ed’s bunk was expected to win the baseball game.
The foul-lines were marked with Israeli flags.
What right did he have to resent their using the symbol? It wasn’t engraved on his shield.
A child brandished a Pepsi, cheering for his side.
Breavman passed out hot dogs. He was glad he’d learned to suspect his Gentile neighbours of uncleanliness, not to believe in flags. Now he could apply that training to his own tribe.
A home run.
Send your children to the academies in Alexandria. Don’t be surprised if they come back Alexandrians.
Three cheers. Mazel tov.
Hello Canada, you big Canada, you dull, beautiful resources. Everybody is Canadian. The Jew’s disguise won’t work.
When it was Ed’s turn to umpire, Breavman walked across the field to the marsh and watched Martin kill mosquitoes. The tractor man knew him well because he often came to see Martin fulfil his mission.
The boy had killed over six thousand mosquitoes.
“I’ll kill some for you, Martin.”
“That won’t help my score.”
“Then I’ll start my own score.”
“I’ll beat you.”
Martin’s feet were wet. Some of the bites were definitely infected. He should send him back to the bunk, but he seemed to be enjoying himself so thoroughly. All his days were 99 per cent.
“I dare you to start your own score.”
As they accompanied their groups back to the
