The Memory Artists (20 page)

“Yeah, some asshole informed the Head of Women’s Studies.”
²⁵

“Oh dear. But … why alphabetical? Why so many?”

“Because,” said Samira, “it’s worth twenty-six grand. And because he’s like one of those characters in Greek mythology—half goat.”

“The alphabetical order allows me to explain to my collaborators,” said Norval, “after they fall in love or clamour for an encore, that it was a limited run, a one-night-only performance. It gets me off the hook, in other words.”

“And because of his sex addiction,” said Samira, “Sir Thunderpants would be doing this kind of thing anyway. Might as well get paid for it.”
²⁶

“You’re a sex addict?” asked JJ, staring at Norval with his eyes grown big.

“It started out recreational, ended habitual.”

JJ let out a yodel-like guffaw. “Lots of fish in the sea, eh? Can’t settle on one?”

Norval took another gulp of wine. “Are you familiar with Baudelaire’s
flâneur
?”

“Uh, no, not really.”

“It’s someone who wanders through the city seeking deliverance from the miseries of the self—first through drink, then sexual depravity—in search of an elusive ideal: perfect love. But because people are not naturally loving and monogamous, but essentially self-seeking and unfaithful, this quest will never be … successful. So he goes from woman to woman, affair to affair, ever questing, never finding.”

How brilliantly phrased, thought JJ. A true poet. “So you’re a man with a mission.” He gazed at Norval humbly, reverentially, as though he were his manservant or page.

“More like a dog with an erection than a man with a mission,” said Samira. “I’ve never heard such bullshit.”

“All right,” said Norval, “here’s another explanation. There are two pleasures in life: food and fornication. In that order. All the rest is rat-ass futility.”

“What are you going to do with the money?” asked JJ. “Buy food?”

“None of your business.”

“I respect that,” said JJ.

Noel lifted his nose from a bookmarked page of
The Count of Monte Cristo
. “He’s giving it to the WWF,” he said quietly, prodded by Norval’s rudeness to betray a secret. The three turned to look at him. Glower, in Norval’s case.

“He’s giving twenty-six g’s,” said JJ, scratching his head, “to the
World Wrestling Federation
?”

Noel squatted, returned the book to the shelf. “No, the World Wildlife Fund.”

“All right!” JJ exclaimed. “Nor, you da man! Yeah, baby!”

“It was either that,” said Norval, “or the Canadian Centre for Misanthropy.”

JJ blew loudly through his mouth, his cheeks full like a gopher’s. “So how far have you got? What letter are you on?”

Norval paused before answering, slowly extracting an Arrow cigarette from its sheath. Noel held his breath, braced himself for the answer. But seconds ticked away and no answer came. A hissing sound broke the silence as the red phosphorus of a match ignited, a safety match that must have been JJ’s.

“I think you said you were on
S
,” Samira said finally. “Did you not?”

Norval regarded her coldly, blew smoke in her direction. “Yes,
S
is next.”

JJ waited thirty minutes for other guests to arrive—none did—before announcing the name of his new club: The Alchemical Poets of Persia Society.

“I just made that up now,” said JJ. “On the spot. I was going to call it ‘The Alchemical Troubadours,’ but then I found out Sam was from Persia. Plus troubadours are men, aren’t they?” Here JJ paused to click keys on a computer. “And here’s how we’re going to fund our new club. Check it out, it’s on the screen now!”

“I know the founder and CEO of the company!” said JJ. “Personally!”

“You know the founder and CEO,” said Norval. “Personally.”

“Yes! He’s an old school buddy!”

“Do you really mean that?” said Norval. “You have no idea how this news fills my cup. The skies are suddenly opening—”

“Norval, isn’t your performance project posted on the Web?” said Samira, with searing eyes and tone. “I’m sure JJ would like to see it.”

Norval said he was just as sure JJ would not.

“Au contraire!” said JJ. “Is it the Fed site? Hold on, it’s in My Favourites. Right. So I punch Lit? Then … Funded Projects?” As JJ squinted at the screen he began to resemble a schoolboy, tongue protruding as he frowned in concentration. “Then … ‘A’ for Alphabet?”

“In two words,” said Samira, looking over his shoulder.

“Let’s see … here’s something called
The Acrorats
, an ‘ephemeral
in situ
water-ballet proposal to fill a barge with rats, then set it on fire to watch them dive off …’ OK, got it!” said JJ. “
Voilà
!”

“Jesus Chrysler!” said JJ. “That’s awesome! Although I have no clue what it means. Except for the bottom line. Way to go, Nor—”

“JJ, the moment has come. The chemical phase of the evening. Now, or I’m fucking off.”

“Motion seconded. The tribe has spoken. Follow me, guys.”

In what may have once been the dining room, JJ kicked aside a carpet and opened up a hatch door. The faint sounds of an old French song could be heard as the three guests followed JJ down a wooden ladder with rungs missing. Although less than six feet high, the basement was surprisingly spacious. It was also extremely bright—there were six 1,500-watt growlights—and extremely hot. Exhaust fans spun, sucking air through charcoal filters, while a series of ducts vented air out the side.

“Exquisite,” said Norval, bending over, examining some dozen plants in two-gallon buckets, between four and six feet tall, not far from harvest. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen plants like these. What kind of system are you using?”

“Ebb-and-flow, phototron. A heat pump that keeps the room a hair under eighty-five degrees. A generator—over there by the wall—in case of power failure. Or nosy parkers checking the meters.”

“What’s with the Trenet?” said Norval.

“Grow music. Beautiful, eh?” They paused to listen to a French song from the forties. “
Que reste-il de nos amours /Que reste-il de ces beaux jours …”

“The plants
love
Charles Trenet,” said JJ. “They really respond.” For some reason he smiled at Noel, who was smiling himself, enjoying both the sounds and odours. Not to mention the news regarding
S
.

“Why does it have to be so hot?” said Samira, wiping her temple.

“The trick is to get the flowering tips of the female plants to produce as much resin as possible, which the leaves and flowers excrete as protection from the sun—growlights, in this case.”

“What are these beauties?” asked Norval, pointing to the two tallest plants.

“This one’s called Love-in-Idleness. Steamy spicy fumes, exquisite after-bloom. Safe, short-acting, non-addictive. This one’s called Yelleberry, named after its creator. Made from plants my grandfather found—plants of a species never determined by science, never seen before, never seen since.”

“This club,” said Norval, mouth-wateringly, “is getting better all the time.”

“But aren’t you afraid of the cops, JJ?” Samira asked.

“Why?”

“Well … because, you know, it’s illegal.”

“What’s illegal?”

“Growing … marijuana or jimsonweed or whatever this is.”

JJ laughed. “This is not marijuana or jimsonweed. These are organic alternative mood elevators, imported rare and exotic herbs. Completely legal.”

Norval closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them, JJ, the room, the club would have disappeared. He opened his eyes. “JJ, you have taken all three of us down here, into this confuckulated dungeon shithole, to show us
legal
plants? You can
not
be fucking serious. If they’re legal, how can they be any fucking good?”

“You’d be surprised,” said JJ, unruffled. His baby face creased and dimpled. “No, it’s not the cops I’m afraid of, Sam. But I am afraid of someone else.”

“Who? Bikers? Hells?”

JJ nodded, with a slightly worried look. “And the Rock Machine. The first thing growers learn is this simple rule—do not mess with either gang!”

“And have you? Messed with either gang?”

“Yeah, I’ve sold marijuana substitute to both gangs. They found out I had a grow op—they track you down through the hydroponic supply shops, which they run—and paid me a visit. A knock ’n’ talk. When you get a knock ’n’ talk from these guys it’s way more serious than the Mounties showing up on your doorstep. They give you two choices. One, work for them. They protect you, tell you when and how much to grow and the price they’ll pay for grade-A bud, and that you better not screw it up. Or two, you give them your lights, bud, money and whatever else they want. Obviously, you can’t go to the cops. But if you’re stupid enough to, they set fire to your farm.”

“And have you had a … ‘knock ’n’ talk’?” asked Samira.

“Yeah. The next day I found Merlin hanging from a tree. My dog. I’ve tried to explain my herbs are legal and not cannabis or poppy or jimsonweed or ’shroom. But they keep coming back and threatening me. I’ve thought of growing the illegal stuff but decided against it, being of a lawful disposition. Plus my mom and dad wouldn’t have approved. Treat your body like a temple is what I say. Most of my stuff is good for you, body and soul. Here, take a look at this batch—they’re all ’up-lifting.’ Fijian Kava Kava, Caliban Root, Byronic Heroine, Baby Hawaiian Woodrose, Syrian Rue, Equatorial Guinean Iboga, Japanese White Heliotrope …”

The magic of these words held Samira like a spell, and Norval like a bad dream. This is so wrong, he thought, on so many levels … Noel’s mind was spinning like a blender, crushing and mixing and whipping up fruit-coloured forms. JJ’s last two words, “White Heliotrope,” triggered lines from a poem he associated with his first love. A retinal circus of images, sensations, emotions …

“Colouring?” said Norval, seeing his friend’s fluttering lids. “Noel?”

Noel rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “Uh … it’s nothing really …”

“Tell me.”

“Just a … poem. ‘White Heliotrope.’”
²⁷

“White Heliotrope? You want to start with that?” said JJ, missing one bus but boarding another. “A smooth customer, that one. A blend of black haw, cramp bark and morning glory seeds. Rolled with wood betony and laced with oil of heliotrope.”

Here JJ opened a salesman’s attaché, with rows of small plastic display cases. “For our second choice, we’ll choose between Northern Laudanum and Absinthe MHGF.”

“Absinthe?” said Norval, sceptically. “I’m afraid to ask what those letters stand for.”

A smile of delight split JJ’s face in half. “Absinthe Makes the Heart Go Fonder.”

“I’m going home,” said Norval.