The Memory Artists

by Jeffrey Moore

  “I wish I was, believe me.”

  “So what were we talking about? I’ve completely forgotten.”

  “So have I.”

  “Liar.”

  “We were talking about …” Noel let out a sigh, not his first of the day. “… the psychology of love. We then moved on to all the women you’ve loved and lost.”

  “Right, the null set.” Norval looked at his chained watch. “I vote we change the subject.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  Noel rose and walked quickly to the men’s room, where a tottering man was using both urinals, and the wall between them. So he stepped inside the only stall. I’ll try one last approach, he thought, I’ll ask him about Cynara. After another drink. He zipped up his fly but did not flush, as the bowl was blocked by a light bulb and a waterlogged roll of paper towels.

  At the bar he had to shout to be heard, something he never liked doing. “The toilet! It should not be flushed under any circumstances! And there’s a man lying face down in his own urine!”

  “What can I get you?”

  Noel paused. What does Norval say? “Irish single, two-storey. And a Blanche de Chambly.” Much cooler when he says it. With an attempt at Norvalian nonchalance, he glanced at a blonde woman with tweezed eyebrows on a barstool beside him, then at the table, now empty, where the man with the laptop had been sitting, then at a “Culture Board” with posters advertising Helium Induced Orgasms: The Musical and Who Put the “KY” in FUNKY ASS?

  Norval, meanwhile, was conversing with two gentlemen: one was the guy in motorcycle leathers who had blocked his path earlier; the other was tall and stringy and metallic with a tiny hairless head, like a Giacometti man.

  “My girlfriend says you’re a hotshot writer,” said the leather man, with the inflection and warmth of a dial tone. “Before I kill you, I want you to read my bro’s script.” He nodded towards his slender companion, whose blinky grey eyes were cautious, constantly on the watch.

  Norval looked calmly from one man to the other, and then at an attractive redhead at the next table. “What’s it about? The Pope’s visit to Canada?”

  “You’re a dead man,” said the Giacometti man, displaying teeth like black pumpkin seeds. “You cease to exist.”

  “It’s called The Phyllis Killers,” said the leather man, a toothpick shifting from one corner of his mouth to the other. “It’s about two guys who rape and kill women—but only bitches named Phyllis.”

  Norval nodded. “A sentimental comedy? Have you tried Disney?”

  “Ain’t no fuckin’ comedy, dead man,” said the Giacometti man.

  “No? Is it based on your doctoral work in Greek tragedy?”

  “You know where fuck-heads like you end up, don’t you.”

  “Riding motorcycles?”

  “At the bottom of the Saint Lawrence, you little fucker. We know where you live, dead man. Next time we’ll get the right house. You get my drift, you frog faggot?”

  “Let me put it another way,” said the leather man. “You go near my girlfriend again and I’ll send her your fried pecker in a Fed-Ex box …”

  On his way back from the bar, Noel watched as the two bikers clomped towards the door. They had been replaced at the table, he noticed, by a crimson-headed woman. Noel ducked behind a wooden column with shelves for potted plants, and set the drinks down on a table. I’ll wait till she leaves, he decided. I’ll just make a fool of myself. He peered round the column. Maybe I’ll pick up some pointers. Focus focus, hocus-pocus, don’t let the colour-wheel spin …

  “Let me get this straight,” said the woman in French. “I tell you my name, and because it’s the right name, I have the honour of going back to your place.”

  “Correct. You qualify.”

  “I qualify.” The woman nodded, chomped on her gum. “Tell you what. You qualify if you’ve got a million bucks, are built like a gymnast and hung like a horse.”

  Norval slowly exhaled smoke from his cigarette, squinted at her through the cloud. “The first two conditions I can satisfy,” he replied, “but I’ll be damned if I get a penis reduction for any woman.”

  Through fleshy green leaves Noel saw the woman’s electric-red hair fly back, heard her high-pitched detonation of laughter. Yes, thought Noel, you have to make women laugh, something I never seem able to …

  The woman, shimmying her spandexed hips, was being escorted away by someone with a boyfriend’s authority. But she’d had time, Noel remarked as he approached the table, to leave a white slip of paper. A business card? Was she an S or a T? Noel craned his neck to see. Candy colours: wild cherry, menthol, blueberry, white chocolate, green apple, peppermint. Simone?

  “You get everything? Or do you want me to read out the bits you may’ve missed?”

  “What? No, sorry, I just …” Noel set down the drinks, pulled out a chair. “So who were those two guys? They looked pretty rough.”

  “Nullities. Expendables. Toilet flushings.”

  “Right.”

  “Unless you’ve more questions, I’ll think I’ll fuck off.” With a flick of the wrist, Norval tossed back his drink.

  “Well, actually, I did have one more … but, you know, you don’t have to answer it.”

  Norval looked down at his suede thigh, at a streak of fallen ash. “Glad to hear it.”

  Noel took two great gulps of beer. “Who’s Terry?”

  Norval looked up quickly, then just as quickly inhaled the last of his cigarette. So, Samira did some snooping around, he deduced. “You tell me.”

  Noel took a blind stab at it. “The person you once loved. Who you call Bess in your novel.”

  Norval crushed out his cigarette. “Je vais aller pisser. I may or may not be back.”

  Noel sat and waited, repeating the name Terry over and over, watching the letters change chromatophorically into Cynara. Yes! The truth about Norval is in that poem. That was his confession! He closed his eyes, conjured up the last stanza. When he reopened them, Norval was sitting across from him, slumped in his chair. Seconds passed before he looked up. Noel searched his friend closely, trying to read the truth in his eyes. Should he continue to bluff his way through this?

  “You did love Terry. Because the relationship was doomed, because he or she was sick, because like Cynara—and Bess—Terry was dying, am I right?”

  “Piss off.”

  “Tell me what happened. Was it like in your novel?”

  Norval paused. “No.” The word was spoken in a humbler key and with a look that Noel hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t anger. It was more like bone-weary, world-weary sadness. His mask had slipped. For the first time since the two friends had met, Norval’s expression was the same as Noel’s.

  Chapter 18

  Norval’s “Diary” 52

  On an unremittingly monochrome day in the fall of 1989, at the end of a tree-lined cul-de-sac near Nottingham, Norval rapped on Mrs. Pettybone’s front door. He unhooked his leather knapsack, turned round to examine the front yard: walkways swept and reswept, hedges clipped with Euclidean precision, garden ruthlessly weeded, leaves dusted, gnomes groomed.

  He clapped the polished knocker again, harder, and was answered by the rattle of a chain, the sound of bolts being drawn back and a key turning in the deadlock. Like a mastiff bitch peeping out of a doghouse, a woman’s face emerged—tense, hurried, hostile. She examined Norval top to bottom and didn’t seem to like what she saw. “What do you want?” she growled.

  “A room.”

  “And what makes you think I’d have a room?”

  “Because it says B & B on the sign.”

  “Oh, is that still up?”

  “And it says ‘Welcome’ on the mat.”

  Mrs. Pettybone eyed Norval’s unshaven face and riotous hair, his mud-spattered greatcoat and high boots, like relics from an ancient war. “Well you’re not welcome. I’m full up.” She closed the door with force.

  “Gally gave me your address!” Norval shouted, with irritation, at
the oaken wood. He had come a long way, on foot, in mud.

  Inch by inch, creakingly, the door reopened. Mrs. Pettybone, her face now drained of colour, seemed to be struggling against tears. “Come on in, then, and sharp about it. And take those boots off.”

  Inside, it was clean—mercilessly, tyrannically clean—with the stench of disinfectants warring with the scent of air fresheners. A pink carnation motif on the curtains and wallpaper, fake daffodils on the mantelpiece, funereal furniture waxed and polished to a frenzy.

  They stood, without words or motion, sizing each other up. A halfcentury-old volcano, Norval decided, dyed red hair, smouldering eyes, churning and foaming inside, and yet attractive in a way … A bone-lazy young hooligan, Mrs. Pettybone decided, handsome enough if you scraped through the layers of dirt, but a hooligan all the same. “What you need is a good scrub,” she said.

  “Does that come with the room?”

  “Don’t be impudent. How many days, Mister …?

  “Blaquière.”

  “How many days do you intend to stay, Mr. … Black whatever. Mr. Frenchman with the Oxbridge accent.”

  Norval glanced at the burnished floors and unblemished walls. Starry Night, with Van Gogh’s name in large letters along the top, hung on one of them, and on the floor beneath it stood a padded mallet, oriental looking. “Just the one.”

  “Are you married?”

  Norval gave a quarter-smile, shook his head. Où est le rapport? “Hardly. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I have a daughter—whom I shall thank you to steer clear of. There shall be no carnal commerce in my house, do we understand each other? You’re all alike, you men. And I don’t want you wagging your thingy at me as one of our guests did, the late Reverend Hickenby.”

  Norval nodded. “You know, Mrs. Pettybone, now that I think of it, it may be more convenient for me to get a room in town—”

  “Come this way,” she said. And for some reason he obeyed, penetrating deeper into the maze of the house, ascending a back staircase, steep and narrow, perhaps for servants, at the top of which Mrs. Pettybone pushed open an unlocked door. She stood before a renovated en suite bathroom. “Do you know what a bidet is for, Mr. Black? Are you aware of its function? Last year, I had an American boy who defecated in it. I’ll have none of that in my house, do we understand each other? No Yankee gangsterism in my house.”

  “I’m French, Mrs. Pettybone. We invented the bidet.”

  “There’s the shower, there’s the soap.” She pointed to translucent antibacterial bars on dishes and racks. “Use them.” On this congenial note she left, closing the door behind her, giving it a click on the other side, as if locking him in.

  Like walking into a spider’s parlour, Norval thought as he looked around the room. Tapestried four-poster bed with a picture of the Holy Child over top, plastic pink roses in a vase on the bed table, curtains with the red flounce put in coffins, milky iridescent wallpaper with bunches of pinkish lilies cascading in each corner. The same pink lilies, Norval noted, on the white ceramic of the toilet, sink and shower. The bathroom, like the rest of the house, was as cold as a crypt.

  Norval shed his clothes and opened the sink cupboard, searching for shampoo. It contained nothing but cans, aerosol cans, lined up in groups of three: Alpine Rose, Cinnamon Apple, Citrus Fresh; Country Air, Country Breeze, Country Cornucopia; Hawaiian Breeze, Island Breeze, Jasmine Utopia; Lavender Meadow, Lavender Mist, Minty Jamboree; Mountain Berry, Mulberry, Oceanside Breeze; Ocean Spray, Passion Fruit, Spicy Potpourri; Spring Rain, Summer Rain, Wintergreen Bouquet ...

  “This can not be happening,” Norval muttered in the shower, while lathering his hair with anti-bacterial soap. “Alphabetical order, for Christ’s sake. The woman’s a burning lunatic. This is a must-flee situation.”

  When Norval opened his eyes the next morning, a fierce ray of sun blinded him. Mrs. Pettybone had hoisted the hospital-white blinds and was now securing the draw string. Wearing a red jogging suit, white apron and red garden gloves, she began plucking articles off the floor. A look of disgust warped her features as she dropped each article of clothing into a large white sack. “Breakfast at seven,” she barked while striding out of the room. “Sharp,” she added from the hallway, hauling away the sack like an anti-Santa. “And no smoking!”

  Norval squinted at the alarm clock. Six thirty. He shook his head, rubbed his eyes, threw the bedclothes back, swore, swore again, turned over and instantly fell back to sleep.

  Fifteen minutes later his body was vibrating from a loud, hollow noise, repeated at regular intervals. It was the sound of a gong.

  “Mr. Black!” a voice shouted, as if from under the bedsprings. A few seconds later Mrs. Pettybone reappeared in the doorway, releasing vapour from a violet can.

  Norval watched, one eye glued shut. “What’s the fragrance of the day, Mrs. Pettybone? Guest Neutraliser? Norvalicide?”

  “His lordship’s breakfast is served.”

  And so it was. Plates so full that Norval wondered if a party of stevedores would be down any minute. Fried eggs, rashers, sausages heaped on one plate, mounds of fried potatoes and tomatoes on another, stacks of toasted brown bread dripping margarine on yet another. Jars of marmalade and honey, two miniature boxes of Corn Flakes, a pitcher of milk, a pitcher of orange juice, and something grey and viscous that looked like a pot of glue.

  “You’re late, Mr. Black. I believe in the three p’s: punctuality, propriety, cleanliness.”

  Norval arched an eyebrow, but let it pass. Mrs. Pettybone, in trainers and tracksuit, was bobbing and fidgeting like a runner in a relay, waiting for the baton. She made several adjustments to the items on the table, all unnecessary. “Eat,” she commanded, before racing back to the kitchen.

  Norval did as he was told, gratefully, ravenously, while glancing at a Nottingham Post folded neatly beside his plate. Not a bad woman, actually. Must bring up the subject of money. And Gally. As he bit into an oil-popping sausage he thought he heard footsteps from above, in the vicinity of his room.

  Mrs. Pettybone returned with a stainless-steel pot. “Will you have milk first or last in your coffee, Mr. Black? I’m not offering tea because frogs don’t drink it.” She said these words with the speed of an auctioneer, as if she’d just consumed a pot or two herself.

  “I don’t take milk,” Norval replied. “So listen, Gally mentioned that—”

  “I suppose you’ve no money to pay for your room, am I right, Mr. Black? I do not care for economic cripples. Least of all French ones.”

  Norval nodded. “Yes, well, as a matter of fact, Mrs. Pettybone, I am a bit undercapitalised. My accountant, I’m afraid, has buried my wealth in impenetrable shell companies and offshore accounts. Very difficult to get at.”

  Mrs. Pettybone’s eyes narrowed. “Very funny,” she replied. “If I wanted a clown, I wouldn’t have divorced my husband.” She began pouring milk into Norval’s coffee. “So what do you do for a living, Mr. Black? What is your trade?”

  Norval hesitated, wondering how best to answer this. “I’m a professional actor.”

  Mrs. Pettybone recoiled, as if he’d said he was a professional leper, take my arm for this dance.

  “In fact,” Norval continued, “that’s why I’m here in England. But there’s been a few foul-ups … Gally thought that—”

  “That I’m a soft touch. We’ll discuss the matter later.” Mrs. Pettybone, now wearing orange rubber gloves, removed his plate, as well as a fork from his hand. “I’ll just do the washing up,” she said. “And don’t even think about lighting up that cigarette!”

  By the time Norval finished his newspaper, lingered over his coffee and returned to his room, his clothes were washed, dried and ironed. Impossible, he calculated. Surely a record of some sort. Must call Guinness. Even his socks and underwear were ironed. He put on his chlorinated, fabricsoftened clothes, butted his cigarette, then hitchhiked into Nottingham in search of a job.

  This pattern, unbroken, continued for th
e next seven days. Norval, the only guest in the house, awoke to blading sunlight or a flicking lightswitch, then reawoke to a gong; he ate like a swine at breakfast to obviate lunch and dinner, went out looking for work, came back after dinner without work. Why did he stay? Because he was penniless, because Mrs. Pettybone no longer mentioned money, because he was starting to like the woman. The way she doted on him, the way she darned the darns on his socks, sewed buttons on his shirts, polished and repolished his boots, appointed them with Odour Eaters. True, he could do without the ironed underwear and crease down his jeans. True, the woman was insane. But you can’t have everything. Besides, there were mysteries to solve. Who exactly was Gally? And where was the inviolable innkeeper’s daughter?

  On his eighth day Norval got a job: playing an eighteen-year-old Rimbaud in a film based on the poet’s life in London in the 1870s. He couldn’t believe his luck. I dazzled the director, he thought, I was made for this role …

  Returning to the house well after midnight, with celebratory beer on his breath and a script under his arm, he got lost in the manor’s dark labyrinths. He tiptoed right, left, up one corridor and down another. His memory had completely fogged. He climbed what he thought was his staircase but arriving at the top realised it went nowhere. It just stopped four or five feet from the ceiling. He walked back down, shaking his head, worse for drink than he thought. On the landing a door opened.

  A figure in a man’s white dress-shirt, torn tights and unlaced boots stepped out of the shadow. “Monsieur Blaquière, je présume?”

  Norval scrutinized her pale, makeup-less features, radically short hair and tattered clothes. She was in utter disarray, he said to himself, the words floating back from his audition. Rattlings of death and rings of muted music made her goddess-like body rise, expand, tremble like a ghost …

  “I’m Teresa, Mrs. Pettybone’s daughter. Are you … hearing-impaired?”

  “No, sorry, I’m just a bit … lost. Well, more than a bit. Wholly. I went up those steps, you see, and …”