Spotted Lily (14 page)

—22—

'Come in, come in!' Brett's jovial voice answered to my knock.
Well, well!

I was turning the door knob when I heard a flurry and a
whoosh
, and then, 'Do,' from within.

The door swung easily, and there was my chair positioned for my comfort. He was again seated cross-legged near the ceiling with no visible means of support, a jumble of books and papers spread over his invisible table.

He was folding a piece of paper, so I waited. Then his left arm swung in a roundabout manner, and the folded paper flew out, navigated the room like a drunken fly, and plummeted between two mountains of books.

A paper airplane! The dear! What a deprived childhood he must have had.

'That was splendid, Brett. Why don't you try again? But you might have the wrong throwing technique.'

'Oh?' He cheered up immensely. 'What do you suggest?'

I was making the movements myself to try to figure out how to describe when his little plane swooped back into his hand, and he threw it to me perfectly.

I reached up and caught it by the tail. We both laughed with pleasure.

'Wow!' I exclaimed. 'How did you correct your throw that fast? It's inhuman!'

'You were spear-throwing,' he told me, but his initial excitement was gone. In its place was a dullness.

He was an inscrutable if there ever was one, but by now a twiddlebit tiresome. If he wasn't going to divulge, I wasn't going to dig it out of him.

There was writing on the paper, as I could feel from the texture on the back.

'Open it,' he invited, more smoothly now than a moment ago.

I opened, and read.

When in the idyll of slow country, caught
by coffee and remembrance of cups past
I sigh the lack of many a cup I bought
and with old clothes now hail my dear friend's face.
Then we can drown a fly, unused to go
in precious bends hid in bread's tasteless bite.
We'll weep on fresh loaves o'er date-cancelled Roe
and bone the tense of many a vanquished night.
Then you can leave as grievances slog on,
and heavily from Roe to Roe tell o'er
The sad account of Roes upon the phone
Which I do say as if not said before
That it's the fly that winks at season's end
If horses are enjoyed, and so Roes end.

'It's a sonnet,' he said.

I had guessed.

'You like it?'

'Well, it's very clever, Brett,' I again guessed. 'Who did it?'

'I.'

He could no longer restrain himself. He cleared a space for landing and zoomed down to lean against the back of my chair. I craned my neck to look behind me but instead, he reached over me and placed an open book in my lap. 'Read this.'

He had his finger on a poem that skewed its way crazily over the yellowed page. It said:

Poëms.

The benefit of Friendfhip.

WHen to the Seffions of fweet filent thought,
  I fummon up remembrance of things paft,
I figh the lacke of many a thing I fought,
And with old woes new waile my deare times wafte
Then can I drowne an eye (unus'd to flow)

Call me immature. Call me Philistine. I don't care. At this point, my arms were hanging helpless beside my chair, slack from laughter. Ftuff always does this to me.

'Hmm,' behind me.

Ftuffing my childishness down my throat, I put my hands back to work and turned to the book's front page.

'Poems: VVRITTEN BY WIL. SHAKE-SPEARE. Gent.'

Uh, oh. I had had my fufpishons. (Ftop that!)

'You were not invited in here to decry the great bard,' Brett intoned, earning a sharp turnaround of my head. He was, unfortunately, serious.

I read on, silently, of course:

For precious friends hid in deaths dateleffe night,
And weepe a frefh loves long fince canceld-credit-card woe,
And moane th'expence of many a vanifht fight.
Then can I greeve a greevances foregone,
And heavily from woe to Woe tell boringly ore and ore
The fad fashion account of fore-bemoned mone,
VVich I new pay on a your new Visa, as it not payd before.
  But if the while I finke on thee (deare friend)
  All loffes are reftor'd, and forrowes end.

And onwards. And don't
you
try skipping here. I couldn't.

Thy bofome is indeared with all hearts,'
VVich I by lacking have fuppofed good and dead
And there raignes Love and all Loves great acting parts,
And all thofe friends which I thought faffely buried.
How many a holy and obfequious croc teare

And on and bloody
on and on
, though I was ready to explode. Is it just me, or does this do it to you, too? It isn't that this is
bad
. It is just hilariously
undelectable
. It shines with not goodness as the rainbow shines on the surface of raw meat too-long-kept.

I glanced back at Brett, and he was doing what I had seen professors do—delectate. In professors, it had to be an act. In Brett ... but first, I had to continue.

And
you
do
,
too
.

Just joshin'. Don't say I've got no pity. I let you off the hook, but I read the rest, and closed the book before he could find another felection.

He took it from me with a frightening reverence.

'It's the Benson,' he said.

He was still behind me, but I didn't turn to face him. Stuff him. He could come around. 'Benson what?'

He did come around, squatted and peered at me. '
The
Benson.'

The Benson, the Benson ...

'The 1609 edition.'

Oh, god! He's—'You're a collector!'

His face showed the gloat and the guilt, immediately. 'What's wrong with collecting?'

'Outside of stealing, which you must have done with this, there's avarice, and obsession, and...'

I couldn't think of anything more, but 'What are you doing collecting books when you're supposed to be writing mine?'

An excuse was on his lips, but I got in first. 'And why are you writing poetry when you're supposed to be writing a novel. A romance with adventure, remember? My classic for all time?'

He smoothed the paper airplane out on my lap. 'Read it, please.'

There was no defensiveness in his tone, so I read. His poem was a take-off on the sonnet, but other than that, what?

'It's the introduction element in your book,' he said, 'to come right after the dedication.'

He was right. The book did need something classy in front, reminding me of another element I had quite forgotten. It had to be dedicated, a serious issue which produced a welling up of panic, but only temporary.

To Brett Hartshorn with Love
—that would look excellent.

That settled, I examined Brett's poem. It was ... a mess.

'Brett, uh, could I have a squizz at what you're reading?'

I must have sounded respectful enough because in a moment, my head was bashed against the ceiling, and then I was landed more softly at his invisible desk. I was supported on a nothingness that moulded itself to me but didn't present the instability problems of a waterbed.

It was evident in a second what Brett's problem was. At least, part of his problem.

An icicle ran up my spine at the sight of the bulk he was working through: a heap of leather tomes gold-stamped: '100 Best Books'.

'Brett, I appreciate your hard work,' I began. 'Catching up with the cultural stuff, remedially and now.'

He dipped his head in acknowledgement.

'But your problem is,' I said, and he cringed. He actually sunk his head between his shoulderblades, giving me a little satisfaction before I struck with, 'You're trying too hard.'

'Pshaw!' he snorted, delighted. We laughed together—he, with relief, and me, from worry.

'First of all,' I explained, 'I told you to read the one hundred best-loved books,
not
the one hundred best books.'

A blank look. I'd get to this later.

'Then, no one. No one,' I said—his attention was now all mine, all trusting, and I felt
so guru
—'No one could mix Shakespeare with chick lit and hags-in-sisterhood, and Dylan Thomas, and who else have you got here? And get away with it.'

He looked up at me with hope in his eyes. 'No one? Not even Shakespeare?'

'Not even Shakespeare,' I said with total confidence.

This was an unnatural position, and I needed closeness to get my message across. 'You can lower me.'

When I was settled in my chair again after a smoother trip, he sat on the floor in front of me.

'Just between me and you,' I said, touching a fingertip to his knee, 'Do you understand that Shakespeare thing?'

'Do you?'

'Not likely,' I laughed.

'Me neither,' he said, frowning. 'But I thought I should.'

'Don't we all.'

This reassurance produced, to my dismay, not to mention a teensy bit of wanting-to-strangle-him annoyance, that same reaction of immediate depression and dullness that had bubbled up with the paper airplane.

'Brett, you're making me dizzy with your moods.'

'What moods?' he sighed.

'What moods, you sigh?' But that was making things worse. I think I hurt his feelings. 'How sensitive
are
you,' I asked. 'Like—'

'I'm okay,' he said, ending the discussion.

But I didn't want to end it, and the way he slowly crawled through the air to his desk made me ask him a question. 'Do you know the term "hard yakka", Brett?'

He didn't, so I asked, 'Do you want to work on the book now?'

'No.' He hadn't even stopped to think.

'Are you going to work on it? The book, I mean?'

'Yes.'

'That,' I told him, 'is hard yakka. You working on it.'

He nodded. 'Thank you for explaining.' And crosslegged up there, he bent his back to work.

'Brett,' I said, 'Why don't you come down from there and let's do something else.'

'But don't you want...'

'No, Brett,' I smiled.

What the hell he thought he would accomplish is beyond me, but I had nothing else to do. 'I might as well help you write this book.'

~

He futon-mountained and I chesterfielded in the lounge.

'Why are you helping me?' he asked.

I wondered about that, too. Boredom was one reason ...

Then I was conveniently interrupted by a knock at the door. Brett's lunch and my second dose of the day had arrived.

My steak was delicious. I had forgotten how good a good a steak
is
in those dozen meat-free years, till Kevin's régime reminded me.

 The shakes were still vile. I was choking down this sludge when I noticed Brett stabbing his stiletto fingernail
stab stab stab
into his chopped meat. Something was wrong.

'Please?' I asked, now able to touch the raw stuff. I stuck my own fork into his meatball, and it stopped cold. His tartare was raw meat, all right—but microwaved, with a frozen centre!

I jumped up and banged the heel of my palm against the intercom. 'Serge!'

'When he gets his bloody arse up here, I'm gonna tear it off!' I assured a bemused Brett.

Bloody
nothing
happened.

Five minutes later, I ran down the stairs to find a strange woman at the desk. She glanced at me and raised her eyebrows. I was, of course, in my one-size-fits-all bathrobe.

She was wearing a bright red uniform suit, with a big gold label riding her right breast, reading "Jane" and "F.H.O.T.W." in red and blue enamel.

'May I help you?' she asked.

'Uh.' I looked around. No one in the lobby. 'Where's Justin?'

'Mister Justin?' she asked.

'Okay, Mister Justin.'

She checked a register.

I fled—back to our suite.

—23—

According to Kevin (who came at my third insistent
brrrring
), all kinds of things had happened during my ensconcement. The first Thing was that Justin had fallen in love. Well, I knew that. I patted Kevin's hand. Justin's tragically white-wabbit love could never be requited, but it wasn't dangerous.

But no! This 'love' had found a way—with a woman of no refinement but over-endowments in all the right places. No one knew anything about her. She was, physically, 'as extraordinary as you', Kevin said, and then he added quite unnecessarily—'were.'

Most
unlikely.  But Kevin wasn't interested in the Fishbinesqueness of this silicon trollop.

Worse than her falseness—this creature yearned for the lifestyle of the rich and discreet as chronicled under the sheets by Justin to her. She urged him to set aside provisions for her and him to establish a love nest.

 So Justin had done just that, only to be outsmarted by the company's own finance department. Now Justin was 'languishing in chookie' (Kevin's new multicultural tongue), awaiting his trial.

At this point Kevin stopped for breath. 'I really must get back,' he said. He was extremely tense, and he sure talked fast. But he continued.

Next—oh, headache! Justin's embezzlement must have motivated the company directors to re-examine the core business, because they sold to an international hotel chain that had lusted for it.

A new regime was being established. Serge was gone (well, I knew
that
—unless the frozen meatball was his
ta ta
). An ex-McDonald's manager was running the kitchen now. And the management of the hotel was now in the experienced hands of a Pam Borghwick.

A
woman!

Don't you just
hate
women managers!

Kevin agreed. He was practically on a leash, and had been given notice after our session this morning that he was a downstairs worker—only.

I had never known Kevin's job title. All of a sudden I felt rather protective of him. And also, a rush of gratefulness for his caring. After all, he was endangering his job by sneaking upstairs to tell me.

'They converted my sewing room to an office.'

Sympathy.

'They're turning the underground clinic into a conferencing centre.'

Yuk, but that was a rarely-used extravagance. 

'Anyway,' he shrugged, as if none of it mattered. 'I snuck up to see you now cos I gotta get my clothes out of here. Can you help?'

'Why?'

'Why help me!?' He raised his fist, unreasonably hysterical.

I caught his fist in my hand, and subdued him with no real effort. He was too depressed to fight back. 'No,' I said, 'Why do we have to get them out?'

'Because I'm getting the flick any minute. I can feel it, and Justin's antics pulled out the welcome mat from my coming back for visits to you, dear lady. And you don't know how to care for anything.'

'Why?' I felt stupid asking
why why why
, but his paranoia was forcing me.

'Because, dear Miss Lily, Borgia downstairs told all of us that no guest. And she meant
you
in particular, is to get any special treatment, anything off the á la carte, any special visits from the staff or other specialists. And in short, any more room service
at all
, until the corporation has these components of service and goods properly reassessed in a thorough and wide-ranging cost benefit analysis, which she estimates will take approximately six months.'

'Fuh! Ukh!' The toadying bitch.

His incisors gleamed in the satisfaction of my finally understanding the degree of camaraderie we shared.

'Get me something to wear,' I said, 'and I don't care how you do it.'

'Right-oh.'

'And get it up here in half an hour.'

He nodded.

'And meet us in Paris in one week. You have money?'

'Some.'

'Here.' I wrote him a cheque for what I thought was enough.

He did, too. 'Where d'you wanna meet?' he asked

Hmm ... 'At the Ritz.' (Really, how would I know?)

He was thinking hard, flexing his biceps alternately—a nervous tick. 'Somewhere else?'

'Oh?'

'Somewhere more anonymous?'

I giggled. 'You're not worried about espionage, are you?'

Sheepishly, he grinned. This was beginning to be fun.

'Prague, under the clock tower?' he suggested. 'Sunday noon?'

Much more exciting than the boring old Ritz.

I didn't know Prague, but Brett just might.