L (and Things Come Apart) (9 page)
WITH A ROCK SHE SMASHED THE LOCK.
SHE Wrapped her cold fingers around the handlebars and placed her foot on the pedal. It was a black bike with a bent crank and two rusty pedals that grinded like a slow hand marking seconds on a clock.
She pushed down on the pedal and the bicycle moved forward. She had only to make one stop before leaving. The bicycle would take her as far as it would take her. She wouldn't stop peddling until the bicycle refused to do so. If a little force and a little effort spelled the possibility of tearing herself past the margins of the city, she would try. And if the city itself had no end or no borders she could find, well then, she was not above burning the bloody place to the ground. She tore through the streets, gripping the icy handlebars and when she rang the bell, the rain began to fall a little harder on her face and she squinted her eyes as water slid down her cheeks. She had only one stop before she left this place for good.
WHEN HE RETURNS THERE IS A WOMAN
sitting at the table next to the butcher whom he presumes is the man's wife or close acquaintance. Throughout the night, she speaks very little except once when asked how she feels about the new exhibit coming to the museum. She says it is of little interest to her. She says she can only handle so many pictures of the Madonna and the Crucifixion before they all seem to blend into the same image. The butcher apologizes on her behalf and says she knows little of art and the importance of displaying the wonderful pieces, whose acquisition his company was to help finance.
Henry listens attentively to the music and its methodical progression to the end. As he watches his wife and her guests laugh and tell stories and clever anecdotes, as he watches one of the men touch his wife's hand as he delivers a punch line, or rant, or clever remark or whatever it is he's sayingâHenry will never know because he stopped listening the instant his wife pulled the record from the sleeve and placed it beneath the needleâhe remembers hearing a story once of a river that travelled so great a distance that its mouth opened to what was its own source.
Henry brings the table into focus as more wine is poured into glasses. He listens as they discuss a painting recently acquired by the museum, an image of which sits before them in a book on the table. The piece in question, which the host and her colleagues examine, does not interest Henry, but he listens as they debate the seasonality of the piece and whether it was spring or fall, basing their estimation on the colour of the snow, its grey hues, the exposure of the earth beneath. Surely, it's spring, declares a guest, and notes how the body is newly discovered beneath the snow as it melts. Another refutes that, surely it is fall, and the person sees no end to their story so they jump. How can you be sure it isn't a murder? But there are no visible wounds; all you can see is an arm. Exactly. Proof that it is spring.
And so on.
Henry pours himself wine, declines to comment with a slow nod, which says they can all go to hell and if the subject of the piece in question jumped from anywhere it was because the agony of enduring both their prejudice and speculation was probably too much to bear.
Henry moves his eyes upwards to the ceiling fan circling above. There were times on hot days when the fan spun like propeller blades that he feared or wished for the sequence of events which might unfold should it ever dislodge. Imagines sitting beneath the fan as it breaks free from the ceiling and what his last sight might be before dying. Maybe it would be a book he was reading, a pale tablecloth, speckled with blood. He imagines the others, sitting beneath the same whirling blades as they carried on idly with themselves about this piece or that piece of art. Maybe they wouldn't die, as he imagines he would. They would just be scarred, be marked. Would he sit idle as they panicked less at their need for immediate help than at the horror of the possibility that their face mirrored the severed faces across from them? Music begins to fill the room. Master ventriloquist, Henry watches their mouths move but hears only what he wants to. All but one of the guests at the table make scandalous jokes about the vagrants, vandals and lowlifes in the city, and all but one make complaints about the ineptitude of the city to properly manage the migration habits of these people, as their intrusion into the finer suburbs on the outskirts of the city was sure to drive down property value.
“Henry, he's talking to you.”
“I'm sorry,” answers Henry. “Could you repeat?”
“You need to find the man who sells you coffee and have him shot,” suggests another guest. His wife and her guests laugh. Henry responds with a smile. He raises his glass, smiles and empties it.
A record skips beneath the needle, the twin scratch of a heartbeat over and over. She had arrived after him, a sailor, wet hair with ropes of wet mascara anchored to her cheeks. She had watched Henry's every move from a perch high above the city. Between her fingers she spins an empty wine glass by its stem.
None but one recognized Henry for what he truly was. With her eyes she tells him to come to her. It takes time for him to recognize her, but when he does his chest tightens. He places both hands on the table, slowly stretching the tablecloth, disrupting plates and settings. These are the images, which occupy Henry as his mind passes through the seasons. An iris. The black holes at the centre of the eye where all matter takes shape yet no matter exists. A single wrinkle. A damp leaf pressed against a windowpane. Henry rises from his chair and lifts himself on to the table and with apprehensive limbs, makes his way over to her where he will climb deep into her eyes to sleep for thousands of years. He grips the neck of the bottle for balance as he brings his foot on to the table. He knocks over a glass, spilling wine into the cloth.
“Is it that hard to pour wine, Henry?”
Special Thanks to Sacha Jackson, Nic Boshart, Robbie MacGregor, Megan Fildes, Jenner-Brooke Berger, Chloe Vice and Michelle Sterling. To Gail Scott, and the late Rob Allen. As always, to closest friends, and dearest family.
Ian Orti was born in Kingston, Ontario. He is the author of
The Olive and the Dawn
(Snare Books) and his work has appeared in journals and anthologies in Canada. He also writes a music column for
Matrix Magazine
. He isn't really based anywhere at all, but spends his time between eastern and western Canada and the Northern and Southern hemisphere.
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Text copyright © Ian Orti, 2010
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Orti, Ian, 1976-
L : (and things come apart) / by Ian Orti.
ISBN 9781926743103
Based on Print ISBN 9781926743059
I. Title.
PS8629.R84L2 2010 C813'.6 C2010-901603-3
EPUB created by Carolyn McNeillie and Nic Boshart
Print Version Cover & Interior designed by Megan Fildes
Print Version Typeset in Laurentian and Slate by Megan Fildes
With thanks to type designer Rod McDonald
Invisible Publishing
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