A History of Forgetting (4 page)

‘Oh, no,' she said. ‘This is not me at all! I don't like it! Where's my tam?'

The entire morning went like that. They told him in shrill, querulous voices as he worked, ‘This isn't what Faye does!' Though he managed to get each of them to budge a little, each one despaired of the results. It was not going to work out.

Faye's greeting the next morning was the same. ‘Here he is, the answer to my prayers. The phone has been ringing off the hook.'

‘Ah,' he said, crestfallen. ‘Complaints.'

‘They gushed all over Mrs. Parker at the seniors' centre. She said she hasn't received a compliment in years. She said to tell you that she feels every inch a member of the aristocracy.'

That was what brought them back: objective praise for what had seemed to them too radical and strange. And Malcolm's chairside manner, of course, which was impeccable.

Within the month Malcolm was as worried about Faye's feelings as she had been worried about his. They all wanted him now. ‘You don't seem to understand,' Faye reassured him. ‘I'm tired.'

He came to truly enjoy them, his doting ‘girls' clucking
their pains over a mug of Taster's Choice. As their hairdresser, he couldn't help but consider them ‘his'. Particularly now that friends were far away and things were so difficult at home, a passionate fondness for them filled him. He had his favourites, a few he cared about especially. Mrs. Parker, the first to be won over, was one of them, and Mrs. Soloff, dignity personified, her white hair floating in a nimbus around her head. Of course, he adored Faye.

He came in one day and, after hearing that he was the
answer to Faye's prayers, swept over on a whim and asked permission to do something he had wanted to do since he'd met her. He reached out and touched the white plastic frames of her glasses with their pink lenses, so outrageous.

‘May I?'

‘Try them on? Of course.'

Gently, he lifted them off her face and slipped them on his own. Turning to the mirror, he let out a cry of mock astonishment, though some of his astonishment was real. Everything
did
look better through rose-coloured glasses. Faye glowed youthfully. The vat of Barbicide blinded him with its blueness. In the mirror, he saw a pimp, but a healthy one, who might pimp another fifty years.

‘Faye, this explains a lot about you,' he said, handing the glasses back. ‘I thought you were on Prozac.'

‘Oh, no! I look on the bright side, Malcolm.'

He put a finger on
Monday
in the appointment book. Mrs. Soloff's name was at the top—crossed out. ‘Did Mrs. Soloff cancel?'

‘Yes. Her niece called.'

‘She's not ill, is she?'

‘No. Mr. Soloff passed away.'

‘Oh, no,' said Malcolm. ‘This is terrible.'

They agreed right then that Malcolm would go next door to the delicatessen, have a gift basket made up and take it over. When his next client came in, if Malcolm wasn't back, she'd just have to make do with Faye like she used to.

 

The neighbourhood had a lot of trees. The streets were named after them and lined with them. Full and leafy when Malcolm and Denis had arrived, they were in their February nakedness now, their branches like a network of veins, the clots of once-hidden nests exposed.

Malcolm rang at Mrs. Soloff's door. Intending only to leave the basket, he turned and was walking back down the steps when a plump woman of about forty answered.

‘Come in,' she called, beckoning. Malcolm, coming back up the steps, said, ‘Really, I just wanted to leave this.'

‘Come in,' she said again and, passing her in the doorway, Malcolm brushed against her and smelled the clashing scents of hairspray and perfume.

‘I'm Elaine, the niece. Who are you?'

‘Malcolm. The—'

‘Did I see you at the funeral?'

‘No. I didn't hear the news until today.'

‘I didn't think I saw you. I would have remembered.'

There was a slight pause while he looked curiously at her. She beamed back, then set the basket on the hall table and helped him with his coat.

‘It happened on Friday.'

‘The funeral?'

‘The stroke.'

Tiny Mrs. Soloff in the throes of tragedy yet still remembering to get her niece to call her hairdresser and cancel her appointment.

The coat stand was already full, so she laid his overcoat on a pile on an armchair. Malcolm noticed a large picture hanging above the armchair, hidden now under a dark cloth. He could see into both the kitchen and the living room where Mrs. Soloff was sitting by the window. He'd never seen her in black. It contrasted sharply with her hair and made her look very pale, almost powdery, as if an exhalation might blow her away. Other people gathered round, children, too, all of them talking in subdued tones. Louder voices came from the kitchen crowded with women preparing food. He felt like an intruder.

‘He had a good long life, but that doesn't make it any less
sad. You know what a lovely man he was. And what a sense
of humour! What he used to say about meeting my aunt? “A
skinny girl at the time.”' Elaine laughed loudly. ‘You know
how they met, right?'

‘No,' said Malcolm.

‘In the camps.'

‘Christ!' He turned away, pressing his eyes. He'd had no idea. She never talked about herself, only her grandchildren. He thought of all his ridiculous prattle and felt sick.

‘He was a bit of a patron of the arts, too. He had this friend Phil Epstein, his accountant or something, who was always telling my uncle that he was throwing good money away. So my uncle started using this guy's name for “Philistine”. In our family we'd say, “He's such a Phil Epstein.” You probably know all this, right?'

‘No,' said Malcolm. ‘I didn't know him. My connection is to your aunt.'

A woman came out of the kitchen and said, ‘There you are, Elaine.' They were mother and daughter, Malcolm could tell. They shared a broad pleasant face and a shade of hair dye.

Elaine introduced him. ‘This is Malcolm.'

‘Hello, Malcolm.' She took the basket off the hall table. ‘Did you bring this?'

‘Yes.'

‘That's very nice of you. Elaine? Maybe he wants to say something to Auntie Rachel. Maybe he wants a cup of coffee.'

‘I was just going to get you coffee!' Elaine squealed.

‘Actually, I don't have the time.'

‘Well, say something to my aunt at least.' She hooked his arm and led him to the living room where everyone turned to look at him.

‘Malcolm,' said Mrs. Soloff, lifting her head as far as it would go. ‘You got the message? I'm sorry I couldn't make it.'

‘I was just telling him about Phil Epstein,' said Elaine and laughter filled the room.

‘Phil sent flowers,' said Mrs. Soloff.

‘Get out!' a woman sitting on the carpet said. ‘He isn't real, is he?'

From the couch, a man began, ‘While we're on the subject, here's the last joke Dad told me,' and everyone turned to listen.

‘This little old lady is walking down the street when who does she meet but this little old man she once knew. “Mr. Epstein!” she cries—' He paused until the laughter had subsided. ‘“Mr. Epstein! I haven't seen you in years! Where have you been?” “To tell you the truth,” says Mr. Epstein, “I've been in prison.” “Prison!” she exclaims. “What did you do to get yourself in prison?” “To tell you the truth, I killed my wife with an axe.” “Oh, Mr. Epstein,” she says. “So you're single?”'

The whole room cracked up. A box of tissues circulated. Malcolm took the opportunity to cross the room and take Mrs. Soloff's small mottled hand. Bending, he whispered, ‘I'm sorry for your loss.'

‘Thank you, Malcolm. Thank you for coming.'

Elaine followed him back to the door. ‘Sure you don't want to stay for coffee?'

‘I really can't. I have to get back to work.'

She tilted her hair to one side and put on a face of unfeigned
disappointment. ‘We might meet again?' she suggested.

‘Yes,' said Malcolm. ‘We might.'

She smiled, helped him on with his coat, then brushed at something on the arm.

‘What do you do?'

‘I'm a hairdresser.'

Instantly, her face fell. Her smile literally slid away. Flushing, she clapped both hands over her mouth—ten long brick-
red nails—and made an alarming noise, half snuffle, half
squeal, as she leaned into Malcolm's chest. Horrified, glancing back to see if Mrs. Soloff saw her niece in his arms, he hissed, ‘What is it?'

‘I'm embarrassed!'

‘Whatever for?'

When she lifted her face, he saw she was trying not to laugh. ‘Oh, God.' She took a step back and looked him up and down. ‘And I even phoned and left a message for you! That was you, wasn't it?'

‘Yes.'

‘You're not Jewish, are you?'

‘No,' said Malcolm.

She seemed relieved. ‘At least I didn't get
that
wrong.' At ease now, she was suddenly what she really was, a handsome woman who tried too hard. ‘Never mind,' she said, opening the door for him. ‘Maybe I'll get your card from my aunt. My hair's not right, is it? It's too big, right?'

‘It's not doing you justice,' admitted the Queen of Tact and Elaine laughed.

‘Can I ask you something?' He pointed to the draped picture above the chair. ‘Is that your uncle's portrait?'

For a second, she was confused. ‘Where? That? Oh, no. It's a mirror.'

 

 

 

4

 

He finished shaving and rinsed the razor under the tap. Dried his face then carefully refolded the towel around the door of the medicine chest. Every mirror in the apartment was draped now with a towel or cloth, like they were in mourning, sitting shivah on the death of their former life.

The sky, too, had a grey cloth tossed over it, he noticed from the bedroom window as he dressed. An inconsolable sky, drab with tragedy. So green, so green, was what they always said about Vancouver, but in the perpetual half-light he seemed to lose his ability to distinguish colour. All winter he had felt as if they'd been living in monochrome.

In the dining room, Denis brought him his coffee with unsteady hands and sat down with his list. ‘I was thinking about
matelote d'anguille
for tonight. It's been years.'

‘Denis,' said Malcolm, valiantly patient, endeavouring not to gag.
‘Matelote d'anguille
requires three bottles of Bordeaux.'

‘It does not. Two Bordeaux, one
vin ordinaire.
And twenty pearl onions,' Denis wrote. He was having difficulty with the pencil and it moved stiffly in his hand.

‘Denis! It's too expensive!'

‘Trop cher?'
He looked at Malcolm with pale, mocking eyes and half a smile, then said what he always said when expenses were brought up, ‘Aren't we worth it?' Malcolm, fingers pressed to his eyes, sighed.

‘One Spanish onion,' Denis wrote. ‘Twenty button mushrooms. On the small side. Will you remember or should I write it down?'

‘See you in the poorhouse,' was Malcolm's offhanded comment. ‘Of course, you'll still fancy yourself in the City of Light.'

He didn't think Denis would catch his meaning, but evidently he did. He let the pencil drop and, after a long stunned moment, turned to Malcolm and asked, ‘Where am I?' as if only now he had noticed. Abruptly, he rose and stumbled over to the window. ‘Where are my pigeons? Where are my cats?' The feral courtyard cats that he had used to feed leftovers. Throw
ing open the window, he shouted down, ‘Where are my cats?'

Malcolm hurried over. ‘Darling, we moved. I told you that.' Three sharp blasts—Yvette,
thank Christ.
‘Who could that be?'
he asked.

‘How the hell should I know!' Denis roared.

‘It's Yvette, you idiot! Come. Let's meet her at the door.'

‘I don't know any Yvette,' Denis muttered. ‘I don't want to know any Yvette.'

Malcolm buzzed her in and began coaxing Denis down the hall.

‘Where are we going?'

‘To let Yvette in.'

‘Who is Yvette?'

A cursory knock, she opened the door herself, surprised to see them standing there. ‘Denis.' She took a step towards him, ignoring Malcolm as usual and frowning when Denis stepped back.

‘Who is that?' Malcolm asked, pointing at Yvette, giddy with dread. ‘Who is it, Denis?'