The Heart Begins Here

by Jacqueline Dumas

  My mind wandered while Brossard responded to Griselda’s question. I came out of my trance in time to hear Griselda’s junior colleague reminiscing about a certain bar in Paris with which she claimed intimate knowledge, and which, incidentally, she had discussed in a recently published paper. She described the bar as “an iconic, contextualized locality that could not have existed outside of its specific time and place.”

  “Ah yes, I remember that bar,” said Brossard. “It closed several years ago. And it’s sad to say, but we no longer have any exclusively lesbian bars in Montreal. You here are so very fortunate to still have one in your city.”

  She smiled at the group of young women in black who were huddled together at her feet and who had been chatting with her before the reading.

  “Some kind students took me there last evening,” she said. “We spent a very engaging and agreeable time there.”

  Brossard’s comments were met with stunned silence, not the least because she had used the word agreeable to describe an evening at Virginia’s.

  Heads turned to examine the group of young writers. Who in their right mind would take an esteemed visitor to Virginia’s? The bar was fine for locals. We were used to the dingy decor and to Virginia’s eccentricities. But no one took anyone from Toronto or Montreal there.

  VIRGINIA’S WAS LOCATED in a basement off a cluttered back alley in the worst part of town. Some of the letters on the neon sign over the door were burnt out, and green letters flashed “Vi-gin-a-s” to beckon you in.

  The bar reeked of stale smoke and refried grease, and the place was dark, not to set a mood but because when a light bulb burned out it was not replaced. Although it was probably just as well that customers not see clearly what was being served.

  Virginia had her good days, but most of the time she was cranky enough to fuel ongoing speculation as to what could possibly have attracted someone of her disposition to start a business that generally relies on good customer service and pleasurable surroundings or, at the very least, decent drinks. Most in the community had vowed at one time or another never to set foot in the hygienically challenged bar ever again.

  But it was the only place in town, and inevitably, we found ourselves resignedly slapping a five-dollar bill on the counter while Virginia frowned and served up a glass of diluted draft beer with no head or a smudgy glass of overpriced no-name wine. Non-drinkers were stuck with equally insipid fountain pop. If you were brave enough to request a glass of water, Virginia was likely to slam the half-filled glass down in front of you just in case you hadn’t noticed that she wasn’t making a single measly cent off your lousy glass of water. And if everyone else was like you, how the hell could you expect her to make a decent living anyway? (Actually, on this last count, I sympathized with Virginia. Customers who nursed a glass of water all night were no different from those customers of mine who would sit all afternoon reading a book and never think of buying one.)

  On occasion, a group of famished ballplayers would congregate to rehash their game over an order of slippery onion rings or greasy chicken wings, but I had yet to see anyone order an actual meal, although a cardboard menu was wedged between the salt and pepper shakers on each table. Wanda once observed a mouse chase another across the small dusty dance floor in the corner, which was otherwise empty because Virginia herself had chosen the music that night and she has an inexplicable fondness for polkas.

  Wanda has known Virginia for years, ever since their days together in Winnipeg, and although Wanda has never said so, I have the impression they were once involved. Wanda is resolute in her loyalty to Virginia, who calls her “Andy,” and slaps her on the back and even gives her the odd uncharacteristic free drink. And Wanda is the only person who gets away with calling Virginia, “Ginny.”

  I had to admit that after the initial shock of the place, I had developed a peculiar liking for the bar. Other than the bi-monthly women’s dances, Virginia’s was about the only place in town where we women could relax together in a public place and be ourselves. You could joke around and smooch and waltz cheek-to-cheek without straight guys gawping at you or trying to take you home to make up a threesome.

  THE MOMENTARY LULL in the bookstore brought on by the mention of Virginia’s Bar provided me with the opportunity to cut in.

  “Perhaps one more question,” I said, “and then you’re all invited to help yourselves to the refreshments.”

  Not that Missy had waited for permission. She already had a trail of crumbs down the front of her sweater and was groping under the cellophane that covered the cheese and crackers.

  The last question was twofold, the usual: Where do you get your ideas from? and How much money do you make on a book?

  Brossard graciously answered the questions she had probably heard a hundred times. I thanked her again for having come and encouraged everyone to buy a book and get it signed. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Wanda helping herself to some wine.

  Alice’n’Peggy were first at the cash register with a pile of Brossard’s books, then first to the autographing table. I cringed when I heard Alice say, “We considered trying out our French on you, but we’ve never been to Queebeck, so we don’t understand joual. We’ve only studied Parisian French.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” replied Brossard. “I studied London English and speak fluent Cockney, but English as spoken on the Canadian Prairies baffles me. Ironic, no?”

  I don’t think she actually said that, but it’s certainly what I wanted her to say.

  Business was brisk, and in the space of fifteen minutes I had sold forty-two copies of Brossard’s books.

  As I reached behind to replenish the stock on the counter, I heard Wanda’s voice, an ominous “Ooops!”

  Then I heard another voice, Andaya’s. “It’s okay, nothing to worry about!”

  I excused myself to Georgina’s trophy date, who had just placed a copy of Baroque at Dawn on the counter, grabbed a roll of paper towels, and rushed over to the bookshelf that Andaya was inadequately dabbing at with a tissue.

  “I’m so sorry, we banged into each other,” she said, taking the paper towels from my hand.

  One wine-soaked hardcover and five trade paperbacks, ruined.

  Andaya began to sop up the spilled wine.

  “I’ll clean this up, Sara. You’re busy enough as it is. And don’t worry. I’ll pay for the damaged books.”

  “Absolutely not, these things happen,” I said.

  And by this time next week it probably won’t matter anyway, I thought.

  Wanda wobbled and laughed inappropriately. “You’re right, Sarie,” she sniggered. “Silly things happen, even when you’re at your vaginal… vagilant… vigilant. Even when you’re at your vigilant best.”

  Wanda usually held her liquor well. To be so drunk, she obviously had had a lot to drink before coming to the bookstore.

  I hurried back to the cash register where by now five people were standing in line behind Georgina’s trophy date. A second line had formed in front of Brossard, the group of young writers at the head of it.

  “We’ll look after Wanda for you,” said Alice, who, along with Peggy, had materialized behind the cash desk, at my elbow.

  “Do you want us to take her home? It can’t be easy having her here.”

  Alice’n’Peggy gave me another of their soulful looks.

  “Where’s Chris?” I asked. I knew that Chris didn’t drink and that Wanda would probably prefer to be driven home by her.

  “She left as soon as the reading finished,” said Alice. “Freddie was released from the hospital yesterday, and she’s staying with Chris for the time being. Chris didn’t want to be away for too long.”

  “Wanda can come home with me,” I said. “We’ll be okay. The two of you go ahead and enjoy yourselves.”

  They looked doubtful but made their way to the back of the auto
graph line, which had now come to a standstill. Apparently undaunted by the lack of a chair, the junior professor was on her haunches holding Brossard hostage with another barrage of comments.

  Once the last of the customers at the cash desk had paid for her books, I edged my way through the crowd to the junior professor’s side and coaxed her away with the offer of a glass of wine, then helped myself to one of my own before making my way over to Wanda.

  “You didn’t bring your books to get signed? You might not get another opportunity.”

  “I forgot. Anyway, what’s it matter now? Can I have a sip of your wine?”

  My knee-jerk reaction of annoyance was quashed by a surge of sympathy. I would have liked to slip out to get Wanda’s cherished first editions to be signed, but I couldn’t exactly leave the store. I handed her my glass and she drained it.

  The crowd started to dwindle.

  “We’ll be heading off now. Are you planning to go to Cindy’s memorial next week?” asked Peggy.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “We’ll make sure to check in with you beforehand,” said Alice.

  I had been looking forward to taking Brossard out for a drink after the reading, but with Wanda in the state she was in, I had to offer my apologies instead. I wasn’t happy about it, but I couldn’t see any alternative.

  “Don’t worry,” said one of the young writers. “We’ve got it covered.”

  Once Brossard and the writers left, Alice’n’Peggy and the rest soon followed. The last customers were out the door, and I now had a very drunk Wanda to deal with.

  “My sweet martyr, Sarie, is going to clean up the store by herself and then take me home,” she blubbered.

  “Why do I always feel obliged to do the right thing?” I whined. “You, on the other hand, always do exactly what you want, no consideration for anyone else. Even at Christmas. Every year, you insist on a real tree, then you come up with some lame excuse when it comes time to decorate it. I always have to decorate by myself. And not once have you ever helped me take it down. Christmas after Christmas, same story. Decorating a tree by yourself is depressing enough, you know, but taking it down alone is a total bummer.”

  Christmas? The Christmas tree? Where on earth had that come from?

  I tidied the store as best I could, and in a foul, confused mood, I drove us home.

  Wanda stumbled out of the car.

  “You know what, Sarie?” she said. “You didn’t have to do this. You could’ve called me a cab.”

  16.

  THE DAY OF CINDY’S MEMORIAL, I had planned to skip work to spend a quiet morning preparing myself psychologically for the impending ordeal. I would show solidarity with the community and solidarity with Wanda, whom I still loved if no longer cherished.

  But my quiet morning was not to be. Instead, I endured a string of unwanted phone calls—first from a bill collector, then my mother, and finally Carmen apologizing that she would not be able to open the store.

  The bill collector called at six a.m., presumably to catch me asleep and off guard, which he did.

  At the time, I was imprisoned in a dream in which I was being chased, accused of some unspecified crime for which I bore some obscure, generic guilt. I had escaped into a church and slipped into the back pew, only to notice my mother in the pulpit, standing upright and clothed in a purple robe. I ducked, but not in time.

  “Marguerite, I see you,” she intoned.

  Slowly and purposefully, she lifted a white surpliced arm and pointed at me.

  “Listen to your mother,” she said. “I have met with the Reverend Jerry Falwell, and he has explained to me how the rampant homosexual lifestyle has brought upon us the wrath of God. Now he may not be Catholic, but the man knows that of which he speaks. Marguerite, it is you and your ilk who carry the responsibility for this latest campaign of terror. The world is being punished for your sins. Beg God for forgiveness. Now! Before it is too late.”

  She jangled a rosary at me—jangle, jangle, jangle—like a jangling telephone.

  Half-awake, I fumbled for the receiver.

  “You better be ready to go to jail,” a voice shouted in response to my foggy hello.

  I didn’t do anything, I thought. It wasn’t me.

  “Better start saying your goodbyes.”

  “Pardon?” I said, still too disoriented to be other than polite.

  “This is Ms. Requeer? Ms. Sara Requeer, owner of Common Reader Books?”

  Despite the mispronunciation of my surname, which is Requier, I admitted to being myself.

  “Well then, Ms. Requeer, I’m informing you officially that you are on your way to jail. Fraud is a criminal offence in this country, in case you don’t know.”

  Fraud? I sat up.

  “Who is this? What are you talking about?”

  The voice was calling on behalf of Dustycan Publishers and referred to a specific outstanding invoice for $312. I vaguely remembered the amount and less vaguely a pile of statements on my desk at work: Final Notice, stamped in red.

  “You ordered and accepted books that you had no intention of paying for, and that, in the eyes of the law, is fraud.”

  “But I had every intention of paying for those books, and I still do. It’s just that the fall season has been unusually slow. I should be able to send you a cheque next week. We just hosted a very successful reading, and we’re planning a huge sale next weekend.”

  “A closeout sale, you mean.”

  “What? Good heavens no. Just a plain old regular sale.”

  “Really. My sources inform me that you’re in the process of closing down the business.”

  Sources? What sources?

  I had discussed my financial difficulties with only two people: Wanda and the bankruptcy trustee. Wanda, for all her faults, is intensely private and would not have said anything to anyone, not even her new darling Cindy. As for the bankruptcy trustee, he had assured me that our discussion was confidential. Perhaps the book reps had been gossiping. They could not but have noticed the dwindling stock and small advance orders I had been placing.

  “It’s true that I might decide to close the bookstore at some point,” I told the bill collector, “but for now, I’m doing my best to keep it going.”

  “Which is neither here nor there. The facts are clear, Ms. Requeer. If a cheque for the full amount is not on my desk within five business days, I will see to it personally that you are prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”

  I pictured a balding man reclining in a black leather chair, feet up on a cluttered desk, a smoking cigar butt in a stinky ashtray, hands clasped behind his head as he barked into a speakerphone.

  “Look, I’ll send you money at the beginning of next week, I promise. And I’ll do my best to pay the whole amount.”

  “You’re not suggesting partial payment?”

  “Well, yes, I am. It’s not just Dustycan, you see. I’m behind with some of the other publishers as well, and I’d like to send you each a little something. Spread the wealth, so to speak.”

  “Not acceptable, I’m afraid. Five days. Full payment. Or else.”

  The voice was suddenly closer, deeper, more intimate, as if it were no longer on speakerphone—the voice of those kneecappers on kitschy gangster shows.

  “I repeat. You have five business days. That gives you until Friday, five p.m., Eastern Daylight Time. Otherwise, I will see you in court. Good day, Ms. Requeer.”

  His drawn-out Ms. buzzed like a sarcastic cut at the entire Women’s Movement: Mzzzzzz….

  After the bill collector, my mother called.

  No hellos. My mother got straight to the point. The devil had taken up residence in her computer, the brand new one she bought only last week. He had snuck in sometime during the night.

  “When I turned it on this morning, he was already skulking around
in there,” she said. “The computer wouldn’t respond to anything I did. Even when I tried to shut it off, it kept on with its dirty business until it was finished. Then it shut itself down, just like that.”

  I sighed and explained that it was probably a worm or a virus of some kind.

  “It’s normal,” I said. “It happens all the time. It can be fixed.”

  “Marguerite, this was anything but normal. I’m telling you, it was him. Oh, these are evil times, evil wicked times. And, listen to this: it was eleven a.m. when I bought the computer—on Tuesday the eleventh, remember? I checked the bill. Now eleven o’clock is exactly fifteen minutes after Flight Eleven—note, Flight Eleven—crashed into the World Trade Center. And it was eleven p.m. on the dot when the computer shut down of its own accord. And don’t forget that your father died on November eleventh. Now you can’t tell me all of that is coincidence. The devil has an affinity for certain numbers, you know.”

  “What exactly were you doing when it happened?”

  “Trying to print some prayer cards. Yesterday after Mass, Father Mulligan asked for volunteers to make copies of some special prayers, you know, prayers to protect us from the terrorists. As usual, I was the only one who stepped up, even though there are other people in the congregation who know lots more about computers than I do. Mr. Schmidt, for example. I don’t know why he never volunteers but he never does. He owns his own computer company and everything. Anyway, you know how I am, always willing to do whatever I can to help. I found this beautiful, precious image of the baby Jesus on the Internet, and I spent all of last night formatting the cards with it. But this morning, when I tried to print the cards, there he was, ready to pounce.”

  “Mr. Schmidt or the baby Jesus?”

  “Don’t mock me, Marguerite. You know who I’m talking about.”

  By the time my mother had got the finished prayer card up on the monitor and pushed “Print,” the baby Jesus had mysteriously transmuted into a naked man, and the new and speedy laser printer had spewed out one colour copy after another of what I imagine was a generously endowed male hunk.