A crowd down the back of the bus are flicking bits of rubber at people, not sore, just annoying. Hit again, back of the neck. Yous gonna stop that? comes a voice. Yous gonna stop that? Big Dawn, trying to put stuff on her face with a brush. Yous gonna wise up? They repeat what she’s saying, high and whingey. Gonna stop that! Gonna stop that! Sacrebleu! The guy that came in when Madame McGuigan was off for the month told them the word sacrebleu. The guy with the shitty wee car. That your shaggin wagon? No more of that please, he said. Sacrebleu. Sacre Bleu. Sack my Bleu. Suck my Bleu. Suck my Bla. A bag’s just got emptied on the floor, stuff’ll get booted around, wee guy is scrambling to try to get it back, wee guy cares about his pencil case, he’s not going to get that stuff back.
Why don’t you stop that and pay attention? Hinds said this afternoon. Dunno. This is important. To be fair miss, it’s not. What did you say, I beg your pardon? Right, out! Wrote stuff on a bit of paper and sent him to see the year head, the guy who looks like Martin Tyler but with a fatter face. Dandered off to see the year head. Jesus, this bus driver must be a learner cos what speed are they going at? Crawling along. His shoes are too small, they’re toe-pokers, bought for that cousin’s wedding and the marriage is already on the rocks, his ma says. Kick those shoes off when he gets in, take off the fuckin tie strangling him all day, be home soon now anyway, shit, what’s that, felt more like a coin hitting him this time, but soon he’ll be home, soon he’ll be
pressing the white button though
hearing the little flute of sound
toodle oodle oo
the whirr inside ahh ok
switch on the TV and there will be —
two guys in the front seat, taking it in turn to dig each other’s arms, hitting on bruises there from the day before. Guy that covered for Madame McGuigan said they don’t go ouch they go aieeee! Nobody believed that cos you don’t go aieeee no matter where you’re from, wise up like. Everybody started hitting each other, aieee! Aieee! Guy went crazy. The bus breaks and they’re flung forward and then back like in the car crash adverts, but only just a bit. Somebody drums their phone against the window, quicker and quicker, somebody bangs the seat but
a big paint splash
FIFA 19
English, press that
the swirl, then —
late for Madame McGuigan this afternoon cos of having to see that year head, headed down the corridor to her room past all the flags. Somebody said to the guy that was in for McGuigan, you not got the gay flag? The rainbow flag? No, he said, because gay is not a country. Got a lot of junk in those rooms down that corridor though, that picture of the big glass pyramid, somebody said it was on the TV in a show where you had to find a crystal, that big photo of all those cyclist guys going past that grey thing, the big bridge in the middle of nowhere. Madame McGuigan asked something when he came in, Dunno miss, dunno at all, and she did that dopey fuckin thing, held her hands up to her ears like the words were disgusting, she did that when you tried to speak normal. Tried to explain why he was late but she just made more of the noise and pointed at the free chair at the front. Oh well whatever, suit yourself, but anyway
UEFA Champions League
select country, country France
Angers, AS Monaco, ASSE, Dijon FCO, EA Guingamp, FC
Nantes, Girondins de Bordeaux, Lille LOSC, Montpellier
HSC, Nîmes Olympique, OGC Nice, OL, OM, Paris
Paris Saint-Germain, always gonna be,
Parc des Princes, yeah.
When he sat down Madame McGuigan started playing something, it babbled away, everybody wriggling in their seats, Suck My Bla! somebody whispers, then fill in the worksheet. It’s down the bottom of his bag now, drink leaked out this morning so it’ll have turned to mush. Madame McGuigan’s got a big poster behind her desk, a couple sitting at a table in a street, wee waiter coming over with a tray, but so fuckin what, places like that in the town. There was even a place in the town had a rat, somebody filmed it through the window late at night when it scurried around the café. Stinking old rat.
OK, will go with Barcelona
Shooting basics, crappy wee spot like the school pitch
Shooting basics with its wee park benches
alright, Parc des Princes
push and he hits the cold metal of the seat in front, hard whack on his ear so there’s silence and then every sound’s like at the swimming pool. Don’t turn round to look at the big guy as he’s getting off, even though he can nearly taste the sweet bloody slobber again, just look out the window, watch that man getting the black bag ready as that big dog crouches at the bus shelter, that one that’s always wrecked, the plastic over the timetable bubbled with a cigarette lighter but
Parc des Princes
grey sky but no shadow, dazzle of the lights,
criss cross crosshatch, bright white,
the red and blue squares, Paris est magique
wraparound, only the grey up above
wraparound the
six dark green stripes six light green stripes
squares, blue and red, triangles of flag
snug in the Parc des Princes, happy shapes of sounds from
the crowd and it’s gonna start soon
Revenons plus grands
everything’s gonna go grand or something like that
suck my Bla
Paris est magique.
Very Little Romance and Very Little Dialogue
Ashton Politanoff
The Parisian street is dimly lit, all the storefronts dark. Two men emerge from a parked car. They are wearing windbreakers and one of them has a moustache. They each carry an empty satchel. They don’t say a word.
We follow these men through courtyards and staircases and hallways. The faint sound of a dinner party can be heard. One of the men grabs the bare breast of a statue as he passes.
One by one, these two men climb through a skylight hatch until they are on a roof. They are silhouettes just like the chimneys. Soon, they are overlooking an empty plaza with a roundabout.
With affixed rope ladders, they climb down until they are level with a high window. They cut a hole in the glass and an arm reaches through the hole to turn a knob from the inside. They enter the building, a bathroom, in this way.
A security guard is level with the handle of a pistol, his mouth taped shut, arms and legs tied tight. A third man appears outside the building in a trench coat. The third man is carrying a guitar case, but we know he isn’t here to play music. These two men are able to buzz the third man in right through the front door.
In a room full of jewels, the three men converge. The third man removes a tripod and pieces of a rifle from the guitar case. The rifle is assembled quickly and silently. The tripod is set up. The third man mounts the rifle onto the tripod and adjusts the legs of the tripod so the target, a keyhole the size of a small bullet, and the gun, are perfectly aligned. But then, the tripod is abandoned. The man removes the rifle and aims. The other two men look alarmed. This isn’t part of the plan. The man shoots.
The bullet disappears into the hole. There is a moment of uncertainty, but then all the jewellery display cases unbolt automatically and the other two men open their satchels and start filling their bags.
The third man, the marksman, sniffs from a flask of whisky. This is the smell of victory. He puts the flask away without so much as a taste. The two men steal the entire collection and the third man leaves early for the getaway car. The security guard comes-to and is able to trigger the alarm with his forehead, but the men have completed the job.
My wife comes into our home office where I sit with my laptop watching as the alarm shrieks wildly from the film, the first sound of its kind. The men are already in the getaway car. Even though this film takes place in Paris, there is very little romance and very little dialogue.
We have to go, she says.
We get in my car, the present in the backseat, and I drive. I take what I think is the fastest way there.
&nbs
p; What were you watching? she asks me.
A French movie, I tell her. I tell her the name, but she doesn’t say anything. She returns to the screen of her phone and I look ahead at the road as we climb the hill. The eucalyptus trees hide the sun, the car passing through shadow and light. Soon, the sun will set.
Their house isn’t far from an elementary school. My wife thinks I can pull into their driveway, but I park on the street instead. The air is fragrant and fresh. It smells like a different country up here. My wife rings the doorbell before I reach the landing and the door swings open. The husband, Bill, is there. Bill and I were friends before he met his wife Karen and my wife, but now we are all friends. My wife hands over the present, and we follow Bill inside. This is their new house.
Wow, my wife says to Bill.
Karen, I say. Congratulations.
Yes! my wife says. On the house and the baby.
The present is for the baby, not the house, I say. Bill and Karen laugh but my wife doesn’t.
The baby is sleeping in a low rocker near the dining room table and my wife follows Karen to the kitchen. Bill gives me a tour. He points at the windows. Those were all redone, he says. The old windows — the glass wasn’t tempered. That could have been dangerous.
The house has two floors. I lose count of all the bedrooms. They have a real backyard that overlooks a valley and in the distance, the coast can be seen.
They call this view the queen’s necklace, Bill says. At night it’s easy to see why, he says. He shows me the fountains with Spanish tiles, and the little koi pond, all that came with the property.
Under the pergola on the picnic table, there are cheese and crackers on a cutting board and a bowl of olives. Wine is served. Like my wife, I opt for the rosé.
Really? Bill says. My wife laughs.
Bill turns on the grill and disappears inside to prep the salmon and side dishes. My wife disappears and before Karen and I can talk, we hear the baby waken and whimper, so she leaves too. I go to the edge of the backyard and rest a hand on the metal railing. The drop is steep and thorny with cacti all around.
Inside, I find my wife in the kitchen with Bill. They don’t see me, and my wife speaks in a soft voice — I can’t hear what she has said. I don’t see Karen anywhere, and I don’t want to walk in on her nursing, so I leave and go back into the yard. I expect my wife to appear at any moment, but she doesn’t. Instead Bill comes out with a tray of salmon. The salmon is well-seasoned with wedges of lemon and other herbs. Bill lays tinfoil directly onto the grill and then places the salmon one fillet at a time. The transaction is smooth and efficient. He leaves me there. I pour myself more from the bottle and sit in a dusty cushioned loveseat, my wife and Bill appearing and disappearing, sometimes together, sometimes separately. The Brie is stiff and doesn’t spread easy. I crack a lot of crackers in the process. By the time the food is ready, I am already halfway full. The meal consists of salmon and instant rice and microwaved veggies with butter — broccoli, chopped carrots, cauliflower. I sit across from my wife, and Bill sits next to me, diagonal from my wife. I look at my wife look at Bill.
How’s work going? Karen asks me, the baby now down and napping again near her feet in a bassinet.
Part-time still, I say. But well.
My wife eats from her plate. Bill works in finance. He does very well. The conversation soon turns to him and I tune out.
When everyone is finished eating, I start grabbing plates and serving bowls and forks and spoons and knives. I find their trash and use a knife to clear the plates one at a time. I find Tupperware and place the leftovers inside. Then, I get the sink going and I find a pair of yellow rubber gloves that are a little big for my hands. I use the gritty side of the sponge first and rinse everything under the hot jet of water. The heat gets to my fingers and Bill and Karen assure me that I don’t have to clean, I should just leave it, but I ignore them and I continue on. I am focussed on my work.
Seriously, Karen says calling from the dining room.
No, I say.
She says my name. She comes into the kitchen. She slaps my shoulder playfully. She wears a low-cut shirt. This is becoming a kind of game and I grow more obstinate, like this is my mission in life, to clean the kitchen. I grab dirty glasses and small plates that have no association with our dinner — items that were dirtied at another time, probably from lunch — and start scrubbing. Karen tickles me and I finally stop even though part of me wants to see how far this will go. My seated wife doesn’t look at me when I leave the kitchen, her whole body turned away and facing Bill holding the baby. I look right at her. Her legs are crossed.
Should we head out? I say.
Let me finish my glass, she says, but she doesn’t even touch her glass for several minutes.
The metal screen door of our apartment slams behind us. I fill two coffee mugs full of warm wine and sit on our couch, thinking my wife might join, but she goes straight to the bathroom and shuts the door. I hear the door lock. Soon the shower is running, and I remember the film.
I go into the office and wear headphones so only I can hear this time.
The three men escape from the robbery untouched, but the detective on the case hunts them down. In the final scene, in a meadow, the three men are shot and killed by the police.
Soon thereafter, my wife and I cease face-to-face communication altogether.
Master Framer
Kathryn Scanlan
He said he’d studied under an old master of the trade. He was with the old master until the master died. From the master, he learned all there was to know.
They felt lucky to hire him. They had a stack of lithographic prints — playful, pandering Parisian street scenes — which they intended to sell for tidy sums at a tony local street fair. The master framer began work at once, with an industry they admired from their office, where they looked up from paperwork to nod in approbation.
Then one day he came in gray, disheveled, wearing what he’d worn the day before. They asked what the matter was. His wife, he said, had changed the locks and put his things on the lawn. He’d put the things in his car and driven to the parking lot of a large discount store, where he spent the night. He’d set his shoes outside the car while he slept, and when he woke, they were gone.
They saw that instead of sneakers, he wore stiff leather wingtips, which gave him a professional air despite his rumpled hair and clothing. They suggested he sleep on the sofa in the workshop until he got sorted.
Weeks passed. When they unlocked the workshop in the morning, the master framer snored open-mouthed on the sofa in his undershorts, often with an erection in plain view. His unbathed body rubbed its oily brine — soured by the odor of discount cologne — into the upholstery irreversibly.
When the master framer stepped out for lunch one afternoon, whistling a tune and wishing them well, they approached his work station with caution. He always appeared busy, so they didn’t worry. But today they picked a finished frame from the stack and held it beneath the special lamp they’d purchased for this purpose.
Ah, see — very nice! said one.
What is that? said the other.
Beneath the glass, on the white mattboard, was a smear of peanut butter, stuck with cracker crumbs — oozing dark oil.
Disgusting! said one.
An honest mistake, said the other.
But they found some offensive object encased in each of the frames in the master’s stack: a thick clipping of ragged toenail — several kinky pubic hairs — a crushed potato chip — dandruff by the handful — a green crust of nasal mucus — congealed blood.
Then they saw that the corners of the frames were crooked. The screws — sent in sideways and too hard — split the wood. Glue oozed in permanent, sculptural drips. Not one was usable. They cried and exchanged bitter words of blame.
When the master framer returned from lunch, his box of things sat soggily on the sidewalk and his key would not unbolt the lock. No one answered when he knocked. He put h
is ear to the door. He looked up and down the street. A dirty little white dog with an upturned snout lifted its leg on his box. He gave chase, but the dog outpaced him without effort. Winded, the master framer heaved the box into his car and drove away.
He never saw them again — his employers — but he did see one of their prints hanging in a bathroom of the house of a wealthy woman who hired him for odd jobs some years later. She needed her trees trimmed and her leaves blown and the crap of her dog removed from the lawn, where she liked to walk barefoot.
When he’d performed these services tolerably well for a few weeks, she offered him the modest guest quarters above her garage. She liked the master framer — liked him even better when he told her he’d framed the print in her bathroom, which she prized.
What an amazing coincidence, she said. What fine work. What a man of many talents you are.
To Disturb So Many Charms
Utahna Faith
Theatre.
We alone are happy to recognize vibrations running in the abyss of black paused ground which we followed. The vast theatre rose before us, and we entered, barefoot in silk and velvet. Hands held in the transitioning dark. Eyes pinpointing the distant stage.
Too distinct to be killed, and too luminous for dementia, the spouses will remember two major acts, performed hastily in front of royalty; the aftertaste of disappointment. The sigh unnerved them. There were no inquiries, no smiles, and no ringing of tiny bells as the red velvet drapery fell.
We'll Never Have Paris Page 6
