The Memory Artists (16 page)

“Rousseau? Great. The man who put all five of his children into foundling hospitals.”

“Or Baudelaire, who thought that genius was no more than childhood recaptured at will, with an adult’s means to express it.”

“Would another analogy be the music of our youth? Which we never forget? Because it’s the only music that ever really reached us, touched our soul? I mean, old people
never
listen to new music, they reject it all, they return perpetually to the music of their innocent, impressionable youth. Lullabies, children’s songs, teenage music. Is that the sort of thing we’re talking about?”

Norval stubbed out his cigarette. “No.”

Samira nodded. “Right. So what are the ‘shackles’ you mentioned? What’s stopping Noel from being a great artist?”

“A weak motor and broken rudder. And like every failure he spends an hour worrying for every minute doing. But he’ll get there eventually.”

“What does he worry about?”

“You name it. He worried the first time he had shit stains in his diapers. He then ground his teeth in his sleep so savagely it took three orthodontists to fix them. Now he worries about his weight. And his mind. Just like Byron, who had two fears, of getting fat and going mad— and who was sometimes both.”
¹⁹

Samira fell into a thoughtful silence. “Noel seems too … sensitive, too melancholic, to be able to …”

“Melancholy’s good for art. Look at Proust. He wrote
À la recherche du temps perdu
while lying in bed, in a chronic state of depression.”

“… to be able to deal with life. He seems monstrously sad—I think he’s the saddest man I’ve ever seen. Even the word ‘sad’ seems inadequate. There’s something broken in him, something completely shattered, crushed.”

“As most geniuses are. They see the flaws, the deadly disorder in the machine.”

“I have this feeling that if someone close to him dies, or if he’s rejected by a woman—”

“He’s been rejected by women all his life. At first they find him cute and put up with his tongue-tied confusion and mind of many colours, but soon find him unmanageably weird. ‘Rigid, mechanical and emotionally dissociated’ is how Vorta describes him in a file I ... came across.”

“Really? That’s not what I would’ve thought. I thought he’d be … well, oversensitive emotionally, dangerously oversensitive. Someone who would never get over, never forget a death or a rejection.”

“Forget? Noel can’t forget anything, can’t block out anything. His memories haunt him forever. One of the things he can’t stop reliving, in lurid detail, is his father’s suicide.”

“Oh, God …”

“His wife was having an affair with Vorta. He found out, drove his car into a water-filled quarry.”

“Are you serious? Is that what happened?”

“It’s possible. Anyway, don’t think Noel’s problem is a woman or a broken heart. Oh, no. Noel never goes out with women.”

Samira paused. “He prefers men?”

“There may be the odd scuff mark on the closet door. But what I meant was that he doesn’t go out with women because he already has one. He’s already in love with a woman.”

Samira nodded reflectively, but said nothing.

“I might as well tell you,” said Norval. “The news will be out soon enough. Noel’s been living with a dark secret for years, ever since his father drowned himself. It involves a Scotswoman of fabulous wealth and Deneuvean beauty.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“A perverse passion—with a Greek precedent.”

“Not
Oedipus Rex
…”

“And a French precedent as well. After his father died, Baudelaire and his mother lived together in what he admitted was a ‘period of passionate love,’ a ‘verdant paradise’ in which she was ‘solely and completely’ his own. It’s a bit like that for Noel and his mother.”

“Are you making all this up?”

“About Baudelaire? Absolutely not.”

“About Noel.”

“Shall we get started?”

“Started?”

“On
The Alpha Bet
.”

At the breakfast table the following afternoon Samira asked, “Are you ever going to ask any questions about me? Like who I am, for example?”

Norval didn’t look up from his mail, which included the
Nillennium Club Newsletter.
“Wasn’t on today’s planner, no.”

Samira repressed a smile. “You’re incorrigible, mad. Not to mention a son of a bitch.”

“You must know my mother.” Norval folded up the newsletter, emptied his third cup of espresso, then stood.

“You must have some redeeming qualities,” said Samira.

“No, none whatsoever.”

“What does Noel see in you?”

“Ask him. Listen, I’m off to the Schubert. Be back by four.”

“The Schubert? The
Piscine
Schubert?” How out of character, she thought. “You swim?”

“Daily. It’s a dress rehearsal.”

“A dress rehearsal? For what, a play?”

“Death. I plan to end my days in water.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I’ve heard there’s a clarity of memory that drowning people have. Which might relate to our first immersion—in amniotic fluid or the shock of baptism … not something you Arabs would ever feel, I suppose. Anyway, as you’re drowning it seems there’s this detonation of memories, crystal-clear memories from the first plunge to the last.”

Samira shook her head. “I still can’t figure out when you’re kidding and when you’re not.” Or quoting from one of your lectures. “Isn’t air the final resting place of the soul?”

“We’re more water than air—it’s our origin and destination.”

“You write fiction, don’t you? I saw a book on the shelf with your name on it. A novel?”

“Some have called it that.”

“What’s it about? What … kind of novel is it?”

“Well, I felt that Joyce didn’t go far enough in
Finnegans Wake
. That he held back. This was an attempt to take it one step further.”

“Very funny. You’re French, right? From France?”

“Right.”

“Then why do you sound like some depraved British … viscount or something?”

“The depravity comes naturally, the accent from a string of indifferent British public schools. Where I was sent—or rather exiled—by my whore of a mother.”

“Why do you say she … Why did she send you to England?”

Norval sighed as he pulled out his watch, opened the lid. “Because she wanted me out of the way. Because I’d been pestering her for years to let me go there. Because my favourite authors at the time were Baudelaire and Rimbaud. I knew that Baudelaire had learned English as a young boy, and went on to translate Poe, and that Rimbaud had lived in London as a teenager, where he wrote his best stuff. So if I had to be exiled, if I had to go to boarding school, England was where I wanted to go. It all made sense—in my convoluted logic of youth. My mother, in any case, was happy to send me there. With my father’s money, of course.”

“But why would your mother … why would she want to ‘exile’ you?”

“Because she wanted to fornicate in private, without having to lock me inside my room for hours. Because our shouting matches were upsetting the neighbours. Because she thought I was going to poison her.”

“Were you?”

“I toyed with the idea.”

Samira looked deeply into Norval’s eyes, trying to determine whether they mirrored truth or falsehood. She couldn’t decide. “So … tell me more about her, about your mother. Is she—”

“My mother? My mother is a sack of excrement.” Norval lit up another cigarette. “A lustful she-ass.” He blew a stream of smoke into Samira’s face. “Do you want me to bring you anything back? Any addictions to appease?”

“No, I … I should really go … somewhere else. I’m taking your bed.”

“One of them.”

“I mean, I could … stay a bit longer.”

“There’s a wad of bills in my desk drawer, if you’re short.”

What do you expect in return? Samira wondered. “Thanks, but …”

“Did you get one of these?” From his inside coat pocket Norval extracted a white card with florid silver letters, like a wedding script.

“What’s that?”

“The ‘laudanum and absinthe readings.’ Yelle’s party.”

“Right, I forgot, at the lab … JJ mentioned something about it.”

“You going?”

“Well, I … wasn’t planning on it, no. I mean, I just met the guy and I’m not really into drugs anymore.”

“No loss. I can’t see him serving any real drugs. Worse, he’s planning on reading poems.”

“And? What’s wrong with that?”

“Poems should never be read in public.”

Samira frowned. “Don’t be ridiculous. They’re meant to be spoken, and besides—”

“Poetry is a lonely pleasure, a solitary art. You don’t want other people distracting you, you don’t want others reading poetry in ways you wouldn’t. The way to make poetry ridiculous and effete is to read it in public. T.S. Eliot, for example, should never have recorded his poems for the world.”

Samira laughed. “Or given us
Cats
.”

“Authors should be read and not heard. If you doubt that, go and hear Margaret Atwood.”

“Nonsense. How about Dylan Thomas’s readings? Or Charles Dickens? Or Mark Twain?”

“There have been exceptions.” Norval paused, eyeing Samira intently, as if he had just noticed an undervalued piece in an antique shop. “You sound like you’re a student of literature.”

“I believe that’s almost a personal question. The first since the elevator, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Do you want a job?”

“Doing what?”

“Teaching.”

Samira laughed. “I’ve only got a general BA. A shaky one, at that.”

“We’ll cook up some degrees for you, along with some publications and references.”

“No, I don’t think I could possibly—”

“What school did you go to?”

“Cornell.”

“Perfect. What was your field?”

“I didn’t have one.”

“What fiction do you like? What century?”

“Well, right now I’m sort of into the Female Gothic …”

“Really? Like Anne Radcliffe? You like that sort of thing? Terrifying adventures in lonely castles?”

Samira sighed. “There’s more to Anne Radcliffe than just—”

“Terrified girl flees, pursued by ghosts and lecherous monks. Caught, she then escapes, is caught again and escapes, is caught again and escapes.”

Samira smiled, despite herself. “There’s more to Anne Radcliffe than just—”

“That’s settled, then. You’ll give a couple of courses on the Gothic novel.”

“But how can you just—”

“Because I’ve been having intercourse with the director since the day she hired me. Three years ago. Which is the only reason I’ve not yet been sacked. Well, maybe not the only reason. If my tenure were revoked, there’d be a revolt from the student union.”

Samira rolled her raven eyes. “And why is that?”

“I give all my students an A, and no assignments.”

“And sexual edification, I presume?”

“If requested.”

“But what’s all this got to do with—”

“Blorenge begins his sabbatical next semester. I’ll tell the director I’ve got a kick-ass replacement. And since Blorenge will be spending his sabbatical in a detox centre, or perhaps in sex-offender therapy, it could end up being permanent.”

Samira stopped to think about all this. “Sex-offender therapy?”

“The women’s swim team caught him hiding in a locker, looking through the vents, in onanistic ferment. So you want the job or not?”

Samira shook her head. “No. I’m not qualified to teach literature. And besides, I’ve moved on.”

“To what?”

“Art therapy.”

“You’ve
got
to be kidding.”

“No, I’m not.”

Norval again fished out his pocket watch. “
Maasalaama
.”

“Can I ask you one more question before you leave?”

“If it’s the last.”

“What’s that staircase for?” Samira pointed. “That one, that goes nowhere.”

Norval hesitated, took a final drag from his cigarette. “Unmotivated steps.”

“I’m sorry?” Wasn’t that the name of his novel?

“In architecture they’re known as unmotivated steps. They do nothing, they have no destination. They’re a reminder.”

“A reminder of what?” She looked at Norval and knew he wouldn’t answer: his mind was a kingdom to him, a kingdom never invaded. “I mean, it’s none of my business, you don’t have to tell me …”

Norval was already turning the doorhandle. “Glad you feel that way.”

“Wait, Norval, don’t go. You’re not serious about … you know, what you said before, about ending your days in water and … all that? I mean, anytime soon?”

“Perfectly serious. After
Z
, I’m dead.”

Chapter 10

“JJY”

T
he Cemetery Gatehouse was all that was left of the Yelle family fortune. Gaétan Yelle, in the latter half of the nineteenth century, had made his money manufacturing tobacconist goods, but his son Jean-Jacques was not cut out for the smokeware business and eventually sold it. After his wife died he spent most of his legacy on horses at Bluebonnets or bingo at Église St–Ambroise, although he did make one rather strange investment: along with a partner, he bought Le Cimetière Mont-Royal. He ended up selling this too, except for the gatehouse, a mock Gothic structure of wood and stone, where he lived the last twelve years of his life, a happy widower, in the company of his happy son Jean-Jacques Jr, whom everyone called JJ.