The Memory Artists

  “And Norval will be wearing my watch-transponder!” said JJ. “Is that brilliant, Noel?”

  But Noel was preoccupied; he was juggling coloured letters in his head, anagrammatizing supersonic into percussion.

  “To proceed,” said Norval, “Noel will tell me if the answer is a, b, c or d by one, two, three or four blasts of the whistle. Very simple. So, unless there’s anything else, I move we adjourn.”

  “Not so fast,” said JJ gruffly, letting seconds tick by for dramatic effect. “One last topic. Number five. Arson.”

  “God, I almost forgot about that,” said Samira. “Was there much damage, Nor?”

  “Some furniture, a few paintings singed—I was getting tired of them anyway. All insured—with enough to cover JJ’s place.”

  “Who do you think did it?” asked Samira. “The same person that set the other one?”

  “This is what we’re about to find out,” said JJ. Norval’s insurance offer had no effect on his expression, which remained detectival. “My gut tells me … that somebody in this room is responsible for both fires. And nobody’s leaving until we find out who.”

  The room fell silent. Samira nodded, struck by the inherent logic of the assertion. Could it have been Noel? Tracked down by one of his lunatic research patients? Or Stella, when wandering, unaware of what she was doing? How many times has she set off smoke alarms? But that’s impossible. No, it must be Norval …

  Stella looked anxiously from face to face, feeling something sinister in the air. Which one of these people lights fires? Because it’s not me, and certainly not my son. It can’t be him, he’s much too sweet a boy. Or her, she’s too sweet a girl. It must be him, the handsome one …

  Noel fidgeted. Yes, he thought, JJ may be right. It’s one of us … He looked around the room, dismissing each candidate in turn, until he got to Norval, whose face was buried in his hands. He must be behind this. Was he about to confess? Everyone in the room was now staring at Norval, waiting.

  Norval’s foot began to tap slowly. He raised his head, guilt seemingly etched on his face. “JJ, I’m struggling to put a positive construction on this. Until now, I have treated your herbally-warped ideas with benign contempt. But now I feel awe: even by your own high standards, you have outstripped yourself in pointlessness. Every day with you is like a trip to Pointless Island.”

  “But I saw this murder mystery on TV about an insurance scam and—”

  “Then your TV needs to be childproofed. The guy who set both fires was out to get me, a settling of accounts. He caught me in flagrante delicto with his girlfriend, Rainbaux. And then I caught him in my loft with a canister bomb. But there’s nothing to worry about. He won’t be setting any more fires for a while.”

  JJ was in a tizzy. “Really? You caught him? What’d you do? You held him until the cops arrived, right?”

  “Something like that.”

  Chapter 20

  Norval & Stella

  Arrow removed from man’s head

  Presse canadienne

  * * *

  MONTREAL, QUE.—A 28-year-old man is expected to be released from hospital today after doctors removed an arrow from his head.

  The arrow hit the upper part of the man’s left eye socket, missing the eye, and lodged in a sinus cavity, narrowly missing the brain. The man’s name was not made public.

  The victim, who is well known to police for drug-related activities, is being held as a suspect in an arson case on rue de la Commune in Old Montreal. The man claimed to be leaving a friend’s loft when an arrow, shot by an unknown assailant, lodged 10 centimetres in his head. The arrow is currently being examined for clues.

  The following day Norval was reading a newspaper, comfortably asprawl a Murphy bed in his chosen quarters, a secret and sacred lair that a younger Noel had cunningly carved out of the attic. A knock on the door distracted him from an article of interest.

  “Enter,” Norval commanded. He was facing away from the door, and did not turn round to see who entered.

  “Norval, I was wondering if you … if you’d like a drink.”

  “I would, yes. Just set it on the table.”

  “I mean, downstairs, with my mom. I was wondering if you could … you know, keep her company for a while. Until JJ and Samira get back. She’s all alone and I’ve got some things brewing in the basement …”

  Norval had still not turned his head toward his visitor. A cigarette smouldered from the fingers that also turned the page of his newspaper. He now stopped to listen, not to what his friend was saying, but to Herman’s Hermits’ “Mrs. Brown You’ve Got A Lovely Daughter,” which was wafting from Mrs. Burun’s room below.

  “Not too many people know this,” said Norval, “but Herman recorded another version of that song. A gay version.”

  Noel listened. “He did? What was it called?”

  “‘Mr. Brown You’ve Got a Lovely Pecker.’”

  Noel paused, then straight-faced began to sing the rising echo-line, “Love-ly pe-cker …”

  Norval laughed, uncharacteristically.

  “So what are you reading?” Noel asked. He walked closer to the bed, the sprung floorboards undulating under his feet, and peered over Norval’s shoulder.

  Norval frowned, put the paper down. “Noel, I can’t stand people reading over my shoulder. Especially during sex, because that means I’m getting buggered.”

  “I’m not reading over your shoulder. I’m trying to see the cover of that book beside you.” Noel craned his neck to read the title: In Praise of Older Women. A fuse began to crackle inside his brain, lit by a letter from the word Praise, a writhing scarlet S. “Norval, surely you’re not planning on … you know …”

  “Spit it out, Noel. On seducing your mother? Not in the least. But I am fond of older women …”

  You can’t still be on S, thought Noel. What happened to red-haired Simone?

  “… and in fact I’ve adopted Byron as my model. He had sex with the Countess of Benzoni of Verona when she was sixty-one.”

  “She was from Venice.”

  “He then upped the ante with Lady Melbourne, who was sixty-two, and a few days later seduced Lady Oxford’s daughter, who was eleven.”

  “He raped her and was caught in the act by her mother. With whom he was having an affair.”

  “Really? I did something similar with a mother-daughter duo. The age gap, though, wasn’t as great, and it was a consensual three-way.”

  “Is this one of your fabrications for Dr. Vorta?”

  “Hardly. It involved his wife and daughter.”56

  “High-end port you have here, Burun. How odd that you should serve it in a claret glass.” Norval held the crystal up to the light.

  “Screw off.”

  “I noticed a pipe on the mantelpiece. A Comoy’s, I believe. You wouldn’t have any tobacco for it, would you?”

  “Yes, I’ve got some Latakia.”

  “Don’t know it. What’s it like?”

  “Middle Eastern, dark and aromatic.”

  “Perfect.”

  “But I’m not giving it to you. Or the pipe. Smoking a used pipe is like wearing another man’s underwear, my father used to say.”

  “Quite rightly. Noel, your mother needs a refill. So do I, for that matter. Is there a bell I can pull?”

  “My mother’s already had a glass. I think that’s enough.”

  Mrs. Burun was sitting calmly in her favourite blue armchair, silently observing the two men.

  “Of course it’s not enough,” said Norval. “You’re not up on the latest research. Alcohol is good for Alzheimer’s. It breaks up, or frees up … well, doesn’t matter what. Something that needs breaking and freeing up.”

  “It breaks up blood platelets. And frees up acetylcholine in the hippocampus.”

  “Exactly. Which is good for learning and memory, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Yes. Aromatic alcohols with intact phenolic groups act as neuroprotectants, guarding against oxidative damage and cell
death.”

  “I rest my case.”

  “But other research suggests that it’s not alcohol, but the red grape. And the same research indicates that too much alcohol leads straight to dementia. Which, judging by the amount you’ve had since breakfast, is where you’re headed.”

  Norval inspected his nails. “Noel, does that sort of thing pass for wit back in Scotland?”

  “And why is my mother chewing gum?”

  “JJ gave it to her. He says studies at Northumbria University—”

  “Suggest that it improves the memory.”

  “Well, yes. Thirty-five per cent improvement, in fact. JJ will tell you all about this, and more, if you’re not careful.”

  “And you’ve got my mother smoking again, I see. She hasn’t smoked in twenty-five years. Those cigarettes are for guests.”

  “She asked for one, said she always liked a good smoke. Didn’t you, Stella. And besides, tobacco’s good for the memory.57 And especially Alzheimer’s.”

  “It more than doubles the risk of getting it.”

  “Rubbish. My grandfather’s ninety-three. Smokes like a bonfire. And clear as a mountain stream. Who’s the oldest living North American? A tobaccoholic named John McMorran, who’s 113. And besides, I’m putting my foot down. I’m limiting your mum to a pack a day.”

  “I don’t want her smoking.”

  “Let her have some fun, for God’s sake. Let her eat, drink and remarry.”

  “No. Alcohol doesn’t interact well with the new compounds I’m giving her. Nor does nicotine.”

  “Let’s drink and be jolly and drown melancholy,” said Stella, lifting her glass in a Scottish toast. Tipsily, thought Noel. “Slàinte mhath!”

  “There you go,” said Norval. “You can’t disobey your own mother.”

  “You heard me,” said Noel.

  “What is it with everybody around here? I’m surrounded by pleasure police. Sam’s a prissy-ass vegetarian, JJ’s a homeopathic e-quack, and you’re a … factualist. Blinded by science. ‘Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob Joy of its alchemy …’58 What is it with today’s society?”

  Noel looked at his watch. This, he knew, was the preamble to a long lecture. “Look, Norval, I’ve got to go down—”

  “Today’s healthism fanatics, nutrition cheerleaders, lifestyle correctors—they’re ruling people’s lives the way the Church used to. They want us all in a perennial state of Lent. Instead of conspicuous consumption, they want conspicuous self-denial. If it’s pleasurable, let’s do some studies and find something wrong with it. Let’s get everybody believing that if they eat the food we tell them to, they’ll be leading the ‘good life’, will live forever, be beautiful forever, paragons of morality. And anybody who smokes or drinks, anybody who eats a hamburger or a fried onion ring, will be excommunicated, cast off as undesirables, untouchables.”

  Norval was speaking slowly, to give the impression this was unscripted, an old trick of his.

  “OK, Norval, you’ve made your point, so now—”

  “The world has become afraid. Worriers and hypochondriacs. Candy-asses and bores, the bland leading the bland. Parents are the worst. ‘Put your helmet on, Bobby, you’re opening a can of Coke.’ Where’d you say the liquor cabinet was?”

  “I just finished saying that I don’t want you—”

  “Keep everyone afraid and they’ll consume—it’s the new corporate motto. The drug companies in particular—they’re the real fear factories, the scaremongerers, along with the doctors of course, who can cram more patients into their schedules by prescribing the drug-of-the-month. But do we need all this shit? There are fifteen thousand new drugs a year. We don’t have enough diseases to go around. So what do the drug companies do? They hire psychiatrists to invent more. What was it Oliver Wendell Holmes said? You with me, Noel?”

  “Said about what? He said a lot of things.”

  “Well, what are we talking about? Drugs.”

  Noel heaved a tired sigh. “That if the world’s entire pharmacopoeia were thrown into the sea, it would be better for mankind, but worse for the fish.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But he said that in the nineteenth century.”

  “And do you know what old people say—really old people—when they’re asked about the secret of longevity?”

  “Yes, because I’m the one who told you.”

  “‘Stay away from doctors, never take any medicines.’ They all say the same thing.”

  “But in my mom’s case—”

  “The French Revolution,” Mrs. Burun interrupted, but let the words hang in the air.

  An awkward patch of silence followed. Noel held his breath. Mrs. Burun took a long drag on her cigarette.

  “What about the French Revolution, Stella?” said Norval.

  “Norval, please leave her—”

  “Changes in health philosophy,” Mrs. Burun replied, dropping her cigarette butt into her glass and watching it sizzle.

  “Really? What kind of changes?”

  A look of doubt began to creep into Stella’s face. Is this relevant? Or have we moved on? What was the last topic? Coercive health, or over-medication? “Nothing,” she said. “I think I … I think we’ve moved on … we’re talking about something different …”

  “We were talking about health philosophy. What happened during the French Revolution?”

  “Norval,” said Noel under his breath. “I suggest we—”

  “Changes,” said Stella, “based on the idea that proper diet and lifestyle were the best ways to make people obedient, compliant … And in Germany, around the same time, the merchant and upper classes got more or less the same idea. That the best way to keep things running smoothly, to prevent unrest or change, was to make sure that workers were healthy, fit.”

  “Like feeding the galley slaves to keep the boat moving,” said Norval.

  “They even had terms like ‘medicine police’ and ‘health police’. And then of course the eugenics movement came along, suggesting that only the ‘superior’ variety of people should propagate.”

  “Not a bad idea, actually …”

  “So then poor health, which was previously seen as unavoidable, as bad luck, was seen to be the result of bad habits, or bad lifestyles. And from there it was a short leap to a new theory—that control of breeding and lifestyles was the legitimate business of governments.”

  “The philosophy of the Third Reich,” said Norval.

  “Exactly,” said Stella.

  Norval reached over, clinked glasses with Stella. “Noel, we need bad habits, for Christ’s sake. We need risky lifestyles, dangerous lifestyles. You know why? Because with all the boomers going into retirement, the state is not going to be able to pay these people to hang around doing bugger-all— apart from pumping iron and prancing around in gyms. Soon we’ll need fleets of vans that cruise around all day picking up joggers and taking them home—they’ll be in great shape but won’t remember where they live. So the healthists have got it all backwards. Smokers and alcoholics should be thanked, saluted, for selflessly chopping years off their life. Binge-hogs who scarf down Big Whoppers and fries sitting on their whopping asses, knocking back beer in front of the box, should be canonized for cashing in early.”

  Stella laughed, a deep belly laugh, one Noel hadn’t heard in a while. “My mother used to feel the same way,” she said. “She had every bad habit in the book—and told her doctors to go to the devil.”

  Noel was now smiling, delighted at his mother’s new coherency—and the latest drug responsible for it. “All right, Mom, I give in. If cigarettes and alcohol are a pleasure, go for it.” He could hardly wait to tell JJ—it must be the A-1001. He should make more. “Listen, I’ve got some things to do in the lab, and a couple ideas I want to work out. You two’ll be all right? Got everything you need?”

  Norval gave a slight nod, then waited for the basement door to close. “Let me light that, Stella.”

  As she leaned over the match Norv
al caught a glimpse of the cleft of her breasts and black lace bra. When she resumed her position, he studied her swept-back salt-and-pepper hair, her patrician face, her upper lip the shape of an archery bow. More like Lauren Hutton, he decided, than Catherine Deneuve. About the same age and with that seductive incisor gap that a tongue might just slide its way through. And that luscious Scottish accent …

  “Stella, in the interests of art, I was wondering if you’d help me out with this project I’m working on …”

  Chapter 21

  Stella’s Diary (II)

  20 April 2002. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. Jackdaws love my big sphinx of quartz.

  Well, that feels better. My fingers feel better, my mind feels better. I’m not all the way there but I feel like I can finish sentences now. And I can remember what I had for breakfast this morning.

  If the sword of Damocles fell, it missed.

  21 April. Touch wood. I remembered something else today. When Noel reads to me at bedtime -– as I read to him aeons ago -– he often mumbles something before starting, almost like a prayer. Which sometimes makes me cry. But no matter how hard I tried, I could never remember what it was, until today: ‘To you mother I will read these lines, for love of unforgotten times.’

  24 April. Finally met Noel’s best friend, a Frenchman named Norval Blaquière. He’s what my students would have called ‘hot’. I never thought I’d use that word. He’s handsome (almost looks like a Burun!) and his clothes -tailor-made by the look of them –- are exquisite: white muslin shirt with metal snaps, leather jacket of the deepest green, black wool trousers with grosgrain trim ... But all on the well-worn, genteel-shabby side, as if picked up at an aristocrat’s jumble sale.

  And he can be quite charming, despite his air of selfsatisfied superiority in all matters of taste and intellect, and this cold, cutting tone he has (he wears his hatchet on his sleeve). Still, he makes me laugh -- even more than JJ. The strangest part of it all is that, from the way he looks at me so piercingly, I almost think he’s attracted to me, that he’s ‘making love to me’ (in the old-fashioned sense). Is that a figment of my imagination? Wishful thinking? A faded beauty’s yearning for attention? But I did feel something –unless, like so many other things, my woman’s intuition is failing me.