The Memory Artists

by Jeffrey Moore

  “… callous, mercenary, chauvinist … So why does he do it? Why does he treat women this way? And why so many? Revenge? Because his mother betrayed his father he’s decided to fuck over as many women as possible? Or because he was so shattered by that betrayal—by the loss of his mother, really—that he’s been looking for a substitute in the arms of every woman who crosses his path?”

  Noel paused to think this through. “All that’s possible. I really don’t know. I’ve sometimes thought that losing himself in sex is a distraction.”

  “A distraction from what?”

  “Failure, self-doubt. An inferiority complex.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. Norval? You mean a superiority complex, don’t you?”

  “The two usually go hand in hand.”

  Here Samira paused, recalling his remark about the stairs that went nowhere. A reminder, he called it. “So that’s why Norval is so prejudiced? Because what he hates in others he sees in himself? But wait, that can’t be it. Can’t be failure and self-doubt. Didn’t he have all kinds of success with his novel? And that film?”

  “True, but for him mass appeal is a sign of failure. And besides, that was over a decade ago. He hasn’t done anything since.”

  “Is that why he’s so bitter? Why he drinks so much? Because his glory days are behind him?”

  “Hardly. He willingly got out of the business.”

  “Did he have any other offers, film offers?”

  “Lots. Withnail in Withnail and I. Jaques in As You Like It …”

  “And what about his novel? Was Bess modelled on anyone? Someone from his own life? Did he live in Nottinghamshire?”

  “He’s always maintained she’s pure invention. But I ‘hae ma doots,’ as my mother would say, I hae ma doots. He actually did live in Nottinghamshire, where I think he met his one true love. I think the answer, the key to Norval, is in that book. Have you read it?”

  “Yeah, it was in his bookcase, spine turned back to front. I couldn’t put it down. I think it’s absolutely brilliant. That notion of turning back the clock, trying to recapture something lost—it made me cry my eyes out. And his romantic scenes … they’re so beautiful! And so out of character—I can’t believe he wrote that book.”

  Noel refilled, handed the goblet to Samira. “I can.”

  “Well, you know him better than I do. So is that where he got his money? I mean, his place is … amazing. And he spends like a sultan.”

  “He also wrote two songs, believe it or not. In the early nineties. He had a burst of creative energy, producing one masterpiece, or minor masterpiece, in every genre he tried. And then just stopped creating entirely.”

  “He wrote songs? Good God. Anything I might know?”

  “‘Jardin de supplices’? It got some airplay in France and Spain.”

  “Never heard of it. So he made lots of money off that?”

  “No, not from his version. But it appeared on a Céline Dion album.”

  “Are you serious? Christ! Born under a lucky star or what … What was the other song?”

  “‘Dream Door.’”

  “Dream Door? By The Extinction Bazaar? Norval wrote that? You can’t be serious! I was a teenager when I heard that song! I bought the album because of that song! But … that doesn’t make sense. It’s a ballad, it’s romantic. He couldn’t have written that song!”

  “Don’t tell him I told you, whatever you do. He can’t stand hearing it. The other day we heard it at the theatre and he almost went into convulsions.”

  “But why did he … give it all up? He just topped out, apexed? Lost his muse?”

  “I can think of a number of possibilities. Well, three.”

  “Which are …?”

  Noel rotated the cup, took a long sip. “First, it’s not easy seeing things clearly through a haze of drink and drugs.”

  “Others have done it. What’s the second?”

  “That his muse was a single memory. His songs and novel really only deal with one thing—loss.”

  “And an attempt to regain what was lost.”

  “Right. But once he had written about that one dominant memory, there was nothing else left, nowhere else to go.”

  “What’s the third possibility?”

  “Well, when Norval was younger he thought art would fill the vacuum, the void opened up by the … the decay of religion. That the world’s problems could be healed, or alleviated, by art—that ‘great undogmatised church,’ he called it. But now, when he looks around at today’s art, music, film, he’s lost hope of that ever happening. He says today’s art is all about vanity and ego. That celebrity matters more than truth; hype and popularity more than merit.”

  “Hard to disagree there. The entertainment industry—it’s a freaking cesspool.”

  Noel eyed Samira closely. You would know, he thought. “And he says that egalitarianism is to blame. Or unionism. When you pay plumbers and postmen and athletes that kind of money, you’re going to get films and books and TV shows directed at them, designed to take that money away.”

  Samira smiled as she studied the floorboards, as if following the path of some insect.

  Noel hesitated. “Didn’t something like that happen to you too?”

  Samira raised her head, the smile dying in her eyes. “Something like what? What do you mean? I’m not a musician or writer.”

  “True, but you were once an actress.”

  “An actress? Me? What’re you talking about?”

  “Does the name Heliodora Locke mean anything to you?”

  Samira emptied the cup, in large gulps. “Should it?”

  Noel regarded her searchingly. “Yes, it should.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because you’re her.”

  “My name is Samira Darwish.”

  Noel tried to look into her eyes, the one place you can’t conceal the truth. “I’m sure it is. But you used to be an actress, right? Your stage name was Heliodora Locke?”

  “Listen, I … can we change the subject?”

  “It’s none of my business anyway.”

  Samira bit her lip. “You wouldn’t have a cigarette, would you?”

  “No. But I can get you some.”

  “Don’t bother …” That bloody film, she reflected, was made … what? Eight years ago? Nine? At my peak, my high tide. I’ve aged, I’m not wearing make-up, my hair looks like shit. “How did you … you know, recognize …”

  “Your voice colours.”

  Samira nodded. “Right.”

  “So that’s why you cut off all your hair? So as not to be recognised?”

  “No. Because hair down to my waist just seemed to attract men, like a red cape before a bull.”

  “And you don’t want to attract men.”

  “Or bulls. I’ve made a vow of chastity. No, seriously.”

  Norval and Samira, thought Noel. A natural pair. Each had a moment of fame and was repelled by the stench. Each attracts and is repelled by the opposite sex. “So you have a lot in common with Norval.”

  “He’s taken a vow of chastity?”

  “No, I meant—”

  “He’s accomplished way more than me.”

  “Why’d you stop?”

  “Acting or sex?”

  “Acting.”

  “Because … because some people are cut out for it, some aren’t. I don’t like seeing myself on screen, I don’t like being recognised, I don’t like money enough to have to deal with … well, the cesspool, as Norval called it.”

  “You called it that.”

  “The critics, the creeps, the poseurs, the paparazzi, I just couldn’t stand it. And I never really wanted it. It was just a … fluke. It was a dark period in my life, a big black patch …”

  “Why? Because of … getting involved with the director—Federico Zappavigna? When you were eighteen and he was forty-eight?”

  “No, that was exciting. Do you read People magazine or something? Or Teen People?”

 
“No … I … was just wondering what happened to you, so I … floated your name on the Net.”

  “Great. Those stupid interviews, those idiotic illustrated profiles, will haunt me forever. I’ll never do another interview, never let a photographer near me as long as I live.”

  “Because of that nude scene on the Adriatic?”

  “Which one? The one in the film or the one in the tabloids taken by that … that Venetian snorkeller with the telephoto lens?”

  “The one in the film …”

  “Well, you know what I’m talking about.”

  “ … which was sort of integrated into the plot, I mean the character …”

  “Me lying naked in a gondola, rubbing Coppertone on my thighs? It had nothing to do with plot or character. It was more like product placement. Listen, Noel, please don’t tell anyone about this, OK? I’m trying to put it all behind me. I have my reasons. Noel, will you promise?”

  “Of course I will, I give you my word.”

  Samira looked him straight in the eye. Yes, she thought, I can trust him. “Can we change the subject now? Can I ask you some personal questions?”

  “Within reason. But first I have to go the bathroom.”

  “You mean to your mom’s bedroom to see if she’s all right.”

  “Uh, well, that too.”

  When Noel looked in on his mother he found her sitting in the bathtub, in an inch of lukewarm water, wearing a bikini. “What time does the train leave?” she asked, more than once, while shivering. Where’s the Bath Lady when I need her? Noel asked himself. And why isn’t JJ looking after her?

  “Find a phone,” said his mother. “Call the principal. I can’t remember his name. Just say ‘the principal.’ Tell him I won’t be in today.”

  It took almost an hour to calm her down, another to get her into bed.

  Noel pulled a chair close to her pillow, wondering which words would work this time. “Would you like to hear about … let’s see, that time in Florida, when the hurricane hit? Hurricane Emily? Do you remember? When everyone fled the island except us two? And the governor came on the radio and said ‘Flee or die!’? And we ran out of food, but not alcohol, and got plastered?” Instead of smiling at the memory, his mother gazed at the ceiling with deadened eyes. “Would you like to hear a poem instead? A funny one, by Stevie Smith? No? I know which one. One of your favourites. You remember?

  Wild nights! Wild nights!

  Were I with thee,

  Wild nights should be

  Our luxury!

  Futile the winds

  To a heart in port,

  Done with the compass,

  Done with the chart.

  Rowing in Eden!

  Ah! the sea!

  Might I but moor

  To-night in thee!”35

  With her head to one side, Mrs. Burun regarded her son with a quizzical air. “I’m feeling better now,” she said softly. “Thank you, dear. I’m going to sleep now.” She placed her cheek languorously against the lilac pillow. Noel leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. He turned off the bed lamp, tiptoed out of the room.

  From the hallway, with blurred vision, he glimpsed a light shining palely from under a door. Samira’s door. He walked to within an inch of it, but didn’t knock. He’d apologise in the morning.

  He continued on to his own room, where a surprising image—an optical illusion, a trick of the light?—awaited him. Sprawled out on his bed was the woman of his dreams, fast asleep, her dark hair spread out like a fan on his bone-white pillow. Her turtleneck sweater was pulled up, across the bridge of her nose, like a half-veil. He folded the bedspread over her bare legs and switched off the lamp. He then went down to his lab, where he worked until dawn.

  Chapter 13

  Samira & JJ

  The next day the Burun house was a hive of activity. Picture albums were out. Loose photographs were out, in motley mounds on counters and sideboards. Playing cards were out: one deck halfway through a game of Crazy Eights on the rush matting of the family room, two others on a butler’s cocktail table in the dining room, paused in double solitaire. Interactive Art, including sand paintings that moved when you turned them, was waiting to be interacted with. A box of Pelican watercolours waited to be painted with. A large institutional clock now hung in the kitchen, above a bold-faced calendar, with a way of marking off the days as they passed. There was a “reality” board in the same room, with date, place and weather conditions, as well as a “Schedule of Activities” bulletin board.

  After a brain-deadening day at the library, Noel thought he’d entered the wrong house, a neighbour’s perhaps.

  “To help her orient herself,” Samira explained in the kitchen. She and JJ were wearing red-bordered name tags. “Even I had trouble with your old clock, with the Roman numerals. And as for her tiny wristwatch, well, not only do you need a magnifying glass to see it, but it has to be wound every day.”

  “She never wore it anyway,” said Noel, examining the reality board.

  “Because she could never find it, or couldn’t read it?”

  “Both, I guess.” Noel looked to his left. On the English-oak table, between stacks of photographs, were bags of groceries and a case of wine. And above the case, pinned to the wall with four green pushpins, was an ink-jet list:

  MEMORY FUEL

  B12

  Fish; Spinach; Poultry

  FOLATE

  Leafy Greens;

  Dry Beans; Peas; Chickpeas

  Tomatoes; Oranges; Beets; Soybeans

  Fish; Eggs

  VITAMIN E

  Leafy Greens;

  Sweet Potatoes; Avocados

  Whole Grain

  ANTIOXIDANTS

  Blueberries; Pomegranates

  Broccoli; Brussels sprouts; Carrots

  Cocoa powder

  OMEGA-3 OILS

  Oily fish (such as sardine and tuna)

  Walnuts; Flaxseed; Canola

  “See the last item on the list?” asked JJ. “Do you know where it comes from?”

  “Canola? Yeah, it’s a rapeseed oil, low in erucic acid.”

  “It comes from ‘Canada oil—low acid.’ We invented it!”

  Noel knew this too, but pretended not to. “Really?” he said, while continuing to absorb the various changes and additions. “So … where’d all this stuff come from?”

  “While the cat’s away,” said a grinning JJ, “the mice will play.”

  “But … who paid for it all?”

  “A mystery donor.”

  “Come on. Was it you?”

  JJ shook his head.

  “Who, then?”

  “A credit card.”

  “I scissored my mom’s credit cards.”

  “It wasn’t your mom’s.”

  “Whose, then?”

  “We can’t tell you. When Norval authorised us to use his AmEx, he asked us to shut up about it.”

  “I was wondering,” Samira quickly interjected, “if you could put the important numbers in speed dial, and then we’ll put them up on the reality board. And fill out these name badges when people come to visit her. Your mom’s been working really hard today, by the way. I’ve been cracking the whip. Hope you don’t mind.”

  Noel was getting confused. Information overload. Norval paid? “What … kind of things? What’s she been doing?”

  “Let’s see. I asked her to set the table, water the plants, iron two blouses, sort out the laundry … among other things. JJ’s been helping her.”

  “You did the laundry? But we have someone who does that. The Bath Lady.”

  “Oh, we were thinking of letting her go. You don’t really need her anymore. You can’t afford her anyway.”

  “No, you can’t let her go. She … doesn’t cost all that much, really. Her services are … subsidised.”

  Samira paused. “I’ve arranged your mom’s clothing by colour and in a sequence—it’ll make decision-making easier. She’s not changing her clothes … enough.”

&
nbsp; “Sorry, I …”

  “It’s not your fault, Noel. It’s the Bath Lady’s. And in your mom’s bathroom I’ve arranged her things so they’re easier to use. And I’ve posted a bathing schedule on her calendar of daily activities.”

  “Wow, this is … amazing. How did you …”

  “I got some advice from Dr. Rhéaume and Dr. Ravenscroft. And took out some library books.”

  “That was my idea,” said JJ.

  Noel nodded. “Look, all this is great, and don’t think I don’t appreciate it … but I’m not sure my mom is at the stage where … I mean, I think she’s getting better and I plan on making things even more … better. I’m working on … JJ and I are working on … things.”

  “I understand that,” said Samira, “and if anything can be found to help her, I’m sure you two guys will find it. But for the time being, Noel, your mom has problems. You have to realise that. I know she’s up and down, but she still has serious problems. I’m just trying to make things easier for her. And you.”

  “Thanks, I … appreciate it.” Noel quickly looked away from Samira’s penetrating gaze. In the cabinet beside her, he noticed an unfamiliar hole. “Where’s the television?”

  “In the garage,” said Samira. “Along with the two others.”

  “But … my mom likes history programmes and quiz shows and—”

  “That was my idea,” said JJ. “It’s the eighth annual TV-Turnoff Week. Last year six million pulled the plug. Their website lists a hundred and one suggestions for alternative activities—like baking, yoga, gardening, reading. There’s a connection between obesity and TV-watching, Websurfing and video games.”

  “And passive screens don’t exactly help Alzheimer’s,” said Samira.

  “OK,” said Noel, nodding. “My father would’ve approved.”

  “We also went through the kitchen cupboards,” said JJ. “We threw out everything that contains artificial sweeteners, including two cases of Diet Pepsi.”

  “But why? I’m trying to cut down on calories and …”

  “Because,” said JJ, “aspartame has been linked to Alzheimer’s. Monsanto has known this for years. The information is freely available on the Net. The Palm Springs Institute for Medical Research in California says it causes convulsions, blindness and loss of memory.”