by Colin McAdam
“You don’t want it? I’ll take it if you don’t want it.”
“I want my son, my friend.”
“Yeah.”
“Does he talk about me?”
“Sure.”
“Is he all right?”
“I don’t know. Sure. He doesn’t talk much.”
“Right.”
“Flying. Fuck it’s cold.”
“Relax your shoulders.”
“He talks about flying, being a pilot. And he talks about some girlfriend in Montreal he’s gonna visit sometime.”
“Oh yeah?”
“And he talks about you.”
“What does he say?”
“Says you build houses.”
“That’s right.”
“Development, all rich and shit.”
“That’s right.”
“And you were never around when his mum poured beer on him.”
2
SOME OBSERVATIONS HE had noted following discussions with various members of the National Research Council:
• we could witness winds of up to 90 m/s;
• men of science are generally not handsome;
• models can be made of anything to be tested, if the actual body or structure is too large to fit in the testing section;
• a testing section of the size proposed, aside from being the largest in the world, would accommodate many small craft, automobiles, and crucial scale segments of all known vehicles;
• models have long been the focus of this sort of testing, so please don’t feel disappointed if everything gigantic cannot fit in toto.
The general civic purposes were infinite: all forms of transport could be tested and improved. Every imaginable form of weather could be conjured and thrown at every conceivable substance. But what caught his eye first, you see, what leapt from the pages of the Dreambook long before these discussions with Paul, was a note next to the entry “Wind Tunnel”: model of city to be built.
A scale model of this entire city would be built and placed inside. That’s what the initial dreamer hoped, and now Simon was making it possible. High-rises, bridges, perhaps the testing center itself. Every new shape on land would be made proof against the unexpected, would stand or fall before it actually stood. Would age, show its faults, tell us where we went wrong before we actually do it.
Do you see, you builders, mothers, dreamers? It is a place where mind, hope, and fact cohabit. Where the city becomes imaginary and our imaginings are real.
I will send a wind of whips and fire across this city, or a breeze that licks your walls. And you will never know me.
3
I GOT A birthday card from Jerry.
Dear Dad,
Happy Birthday!
Love, Jerry
It depressed me more than anything I had known. To remember me but tell me nothing, like I wasn’t worth telling. It was the cruellest thing you did, my Jerry, and then you did it again at Christmas.
I was out there looking for him like he was the future, but the most he could do was remember me.
And look at how empty that house was. Listen to it chattering away with itself like I wasn’t even there, creaking, adjusting itself. We weren’t getting along, that house and I; it was proving a point by adjusting itself, like a woman stretching out in bed to kick her husband out. I stayed in the living room, worked there, ate there, slept there.
The living room was where it all happened: mission control, the war room, the Penta-Jerry’s-Gone, my friend. That’s where I planned my missions.
I checked Billings Bridge mall, as Jerry’s friend had suggested. I went during the day at first to have a look around and then I went back to the living room for a bit of strategy. I decided I should locate all the malls in the city on my maps in case I didn’t find him at Billings Bridge. I would focus on different malls each week.
Billings Bridge was my warm-up, my practice mall, When I returned there, near closing time, I looked for teenagers and places they could hide when the shops closed. I saw roughly eighty-three thousand teenagers— armies of them, families of them, great swatting, kissing, giggling, gangly herds of zitty little monkeys. Boys giving each other a bit of the rough-house, girls smiling and kicking, holding their hands over their braces when they laughed. They made me want to cry, so ugly, sweet, and little.
Get it right, my spiky little friends, are you going to get it right? They’re all in these tight little groups. Does Jerry have a group, a buddy for the rough-house? Have you got a pretty friend to hold a bit of your sadness? All these kids are on their way home, stopping at the mall on their way from school. Why not you? Come home and I’ll listen to your sadness, buddy, you bet I will.
The groups disappeared, some of the shops rolled down their shutters, security guards waddled back and forth. Older, tougher kids hung around, smoking, spitting, checking me out. Maybe Jerry’s like them. They wouldn’t tell me if they knew him.
I found some hiding places. I kept clear of the security guards. It occurred to me that hiding in the department stores might be better than in the mall itself, but I was too late for that.
All the shops had closed now. I heard a “Hey!” from one of the security guards and a laugh from one of the tough kids. Billings Bridge was one long hallway, more or less, so staying unseen was a matter of being at the opposite end from the guards and hiding, somewhere, when they walked by. A janitor came out of a utilities room, did some mopping, talked to himself. I decided that that room might be the best place to stay once he left, if he didn’t lock it.
When it got really late and the guards left I had that nervous what next feeling you get when you play hide-and-seek and your friends don’t find you. I wandered down the hall as quietly as I could, and I was pretty sure that I was not the only one hiding. I heard footsteps at one point and I think I heard a sniffle. I went to that utilities room and it was unlocked. I felt for a light switch but decided not to flick it. If it was a good hiding place, maybe Jerry would know about it and come in later.
I felt around for a spot to wait. It turned out that Jerry wouldn’t come in.
He was already there.
As I went farther into the room I tripped over my sleeping son.
ON THAT PARTICULAR occasion my sleeping son was a graybearded sixty-year-old who smelled like a pissed-on sock. He welcomed me to my shopping-mall life.
I returned to Billings Bridge every night that week, finding new places to sleep, new people sleeping. I brought a flashlight, a flask of coffee. I shone my light on people, scared some, pissed off others. None of them knew Jerry, few of them were actually sane enough to understand me. Those men in closets converse with no one but their past.
I shone my flashlight down the hall once and I scared someone, a young guy, Jerry, and he ran, ran, ran. I know it was him.
In my living room I chose some other malls on the maps. From four p.m. every day I hung out in some mall or other, with my flask and my flashlight. I started to recognize a lot of the teenagers at the end of their schooldays. They all made fun of me. In one of the malls, out near Woodroffe there, I was known as the Retard. I wore plaid shirts, wore my flask on my belt. Here comes the Retard.
WORK?
No thanks. Couldn’t give a shit.
THE GIRLFRIEND IN Montreal?
I was willing to bet it was that baby-sitter of his, Kwyet. Her mother said she was living in Montreal now. She was a beauty who deserved my son, but I expected fifteen was a bit young for her.
I called up her mother again to make sure she was still in Montreal, and she was. I got her number and address.
4
HERE IT IS. Royal Victoria College. An all-women residence.
There is a front desk. Security.
“Hello. I am looking for Kwyet Schutz.”
“Is she expecting you?”
“Yes.”
“Sign in here, please. I will call her. Your name?”
“Simon Struthers.”
“Are
you her uncle?”
“Do I have to be?”
“No, sir. Hello, Ms. Schutz, there is a Mr. Struthers here for you . . . All right . . . She will be right down.”
“Thank you.”
What a dreadful place. Perhaps if he comes to Montreal often he should get an apartment. He could sleep on a foldout couch whenever he misbehaved. He could wear silk pajamas. He would never get erections except at the appropriate moment.
“Hi, Simon.”
“Kwyet! Yes . . . yes, two kisses is the Montreal custom. How are you?”
“Good.”
“They keep you under tight security here.”
“They do. But the clever ones find their way in.”
“Do I look like your uncle?”
“I don’t have an uncle. You look well.”
“Well fed, yes. I welcome your dishonesty. You look . . . ”
“Simon?”
“Yes?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“You know how you invited me to dinner?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s where we are going now?”
“Yes.”
“Can my friend come?”
“Your friend?”
“You’ve met her. You met her by the pool. I know it’s rude of me . . . ”
“Not at all . . . ”
“She seemed jealous of me going out.”
“I understand.”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“I understand.”
“She’s on her way down actually.”
“Good! I am honored.”
“And also . . . Here she comes . . . Hi . . . You remember Simon, from the pool?”
“Yeah. Hi.”
“Hello.”
“Thank you for inviting me.”
“It’s a pleasure.”
“I had a party to go to, but I thought I might eat with you two, since you invited.”
“It’s an honor. I thought we might walk to the restaurant. It’s only . . . ”
“I’m starved, totally starved, aren’t you, Kwyet? Famished. Is that the word? Famished?”
“The restaurant is only . . . ”
“From practice, you know, Kwyet and I had practice today, Saturday, you know, so I, anyway, am like so totally starved it’s not funny, and every Saturday it’s the same.”
“I see.”
“Saturday’s the big training day.”
“I see. We aren’t far from the restaurant at all . . . ”
“Oh, I bet I know where we’re going. I bet, I bet. Sorry. But I bet.”
“It’s just a block away . . . ”
“Yes, yes, yes, oh, Kwyet, it’s so nice, you are so lucky!”
“I’m sure.”
“No . . . ”
“Yes!”
“It’s only . . . ”
“Yes! Anyway, Kwyet, sorry Simon, I was telling Kwyet this story just before, earlier, sorry, so Bruce was told, Coach told Bruce that he had to, what was it, he had to, yeah, he had to knock off ten seconds, you know ten seconds! off his time or he wouldn’t make the cut—sorry, Simon, swim talk—but, like, OK, ten seconds is a lot, but over fifteen hundred meters, maybe not so much, but, still, totally, can you believe that? And just to be told like that, you know, say I’m Coach and you’re, say Simon’s Bruce, and I get totally in Bruce’s face, right, like I’m Coach, and I’m like, ‘Si . . . Bruce, you cut your time or you’re out,’ like that, right, it is so rude. If nothing else, it is so rude. Right? Right, Simon?”
“I’m Bruce.”
“He is so funny, Kwyet. But seriously, it’s not only rude . . . it’s . . . Bruce was so upset, I had to hug him, like he was a boy, you know, like this, let’s say Simon’s Bruce, like this . . . ”
“I see.”
“Sorry, Simon, I get like this, sorry, it’s Saturday, I get like this on Saturdays, Kwyet and I do, maybe not her so much, but me, on a Saturday? I’m all wound up.”
“Well, here’s . . . ”
“I am starved.”
“Here it is. Le Caveau.”
“This is the place! This is the place! You are so lucky, Kwyet. My uncle took me here. It’s like . . . oh . . . I don’t even know. You have got to eat here.”
“Yes, well . . . ”
“Thank you.”
“Thanks!”
“Hello. Struthers. Table for t . . . I mistakenly booked for two people, but I meant for three.”
“No problème, monsieur. This way.”
“That is . . . oh, look, I’ll tell you later. There’s something I want to tell you about the . . . wait till the waiter . . . ”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you.”
“May I offer you an apéritif? Madame?”
“. . .”
“Kwyet?”
“Oh, I . . .”
“I’ll have a Bloody Mary. While you’re deciding, Kwyet, I’ll have a Bloody Mary. I can chew on the celery.”
“Madame?”
“I . . . ”
“You better order, Simon. She never decides.”
“Would you like champagne, Kwyet? Why don’t we have champagne?”
“I’m having a Bloody Mary. Champagne’s not good for me.”
“Champagne would be lovely.”
“We have Billecart-Salmon, monsieur.”
“Good.”
“That’s . . . Wait till he goes . . . Yeah, that’s what I wanted to say . . . When my uncle took me here, he was just like Simon. He didn’t speak French, and I was so . . . I don’t know, I’m sick of French, and, you know, I don’t even know what I mean, but it’s just so nice . . . ”
“Yes, I . . .”
“It’s just so nice here. So . . . ”
“Simon is a civil servant.”
“Yeah? I am so tired.”
“Quite right.”
“I haven’t got a clue . . . you know, I’m in, Kwyet and I are in fourth year, and, I don’t know about you, Kwyet, but I do not have a clue what I will do with my life, like, civil servancy, what?, that’s, I bet that’s good, but I feel like there’s probably more for me.”
“Probably.”
“I don’t know. Ah, celery!”
“Monsieur?”
“That’s fine.”
Pop.
“I’m jealous. I wish I could have champagne.”
“Please do.”
“No, I so totally can’t. I’ll be sick.”
“To your health.”
“Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
“I am afraid I never got your name.”
“I’m sorry, Simon.”
“You never told him my name? That’s hilarious! It’s like Bruce on the team, actually. I didn’t know his name until we went out last year, and we’re like in the middle of a date. I can’t believe I went out with him. Thank God that didn’t last. But I do feel sorry for him. Coach has got a serious attitude these days. He’s a sweetie, to me, and, I don’t know, to you, sure, but he has an attitude lately. I don’t like it. I’m not sure it’s good for the team. I mean, Bruce sucks, but I don’t know what Coach is doing these days.”
“How long have you been swimming, Kwyet?”
“Quite a while.”
“We shouldn’t talk about swimming in a place like this. Sorry. I started it. It’s like with my uncle, you know, he likes books and things, like you, Simon, and I talked his ear off about swimming. We should talk about books. How do you two know each other, anyway?”
“Simon’s a friend of my father’s.”
“That’s so nice. I hope I still have friends at that age. Kwyet will be. For sure. You’re my friend for life. God, seriously, if we want to get serious . . . ”
“We should look at the menu.”
“Yeah, definitely, but if we want to get serious, Kwyet, seriously, what are we going to do with our lives? I mean, I know you don’t know bec
ause you can’t decide anything, but me? Have you told Simon about some of the frat parties? Theta boys?”
“Me? No. Why would . . .”
“That would be so funny. If he came? Seriously.”
“I don’t think . . .”
“He’s got to. He has got to. Let’s order. He has to come. Can I tell him?”
“No . . .”
“Simon, don’t worry about Kwyet. She has this . . .”
“We should order.”
“I know what I’m having. Fish. Anything with fish. All fish. Any fish.”
“They have a dégustation, a six-course menu. Perhaps you would like . . . ”
“Does it have fish?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’m there. Totally. Six courses?”
“Kwyet?”
“That sounds nice.”
“I was talking about something . . .”
“Let’s just order . . . Can . . . Hi . . . We . . . Could we have . . . We will all have the dégustation.”
“Very good, monsieur.
“Easy.”
“Thank you.”
“Thanks.”
“Fish. Can’t wait. I should go to the bathroom. Excuse me.”
“Of course.”
“I am sorry, Simon.”
“About what?”
“My friend.”
“Not at all. I only . . . I hope we will have a chance to talk.”
“No chance.”
“As I feared.”
“Are you staying overnight?”
“Where?”
“Montreal.”
“Yes. Yes. At the Radisson.”
“I would . . . If I had room I would . . . ”
“Would you? No men allowed, isn’t it?”
“No, no. Men are allowed, anyone’s allowed. That’s just general security.”
“Perhaps we could have coffee.”
“Yes, well, absolutely. You should . . . ”
“I’m back!”
“Hi.”
“Hello.”
“What do you guys think of my shoes? I suddenly got worried that they weren’t right, not nice enough, you know, but we’ve got this party. Did Kwyet tell you about this party? We’ve got to go to this party, and I always ruin my shoes, you know, frat boys, always these frat boys around spilling beer on my shoes. I have yet to meet one nice frat boy, except Kwyet’s.
“This champagne is fantastic.”
