by André Alexis
He would have eaten this final meal, but two things happened.
First, after setting the table and putting the sticky pasta and thick sauce onto a plate, he went to the door to his backyard. He went to take a final, sentimental look at the night sky, but he was suddenly overcome by the most violent stomach pain. It was all he could do to crawl to the living room where he lay, in agony, for hours, thinking death was upon him.
As he was in the living room, Walter did not hear the neighbour’s dachshund, Otto, come into the house. And so it was Otto, climbing up on Walter’s chair, who ate most of the spaghetti. This was particularly sad, because Walter liked his neighbours, Mr. and Mrs. Molnar, and had been friendly enough with Otto to gain the dog’s trust. (While he himself groaned in agony, Walter heard Otto’s final, faint bark, and he’d thought it appropriate that this should be the last sound he heard on Earth, though, as it turned out, his were the last sounds Otto heard.) So when, at four in the morning, he discovered the poor dachshund’s corpse on his dining-room floor, Walter was devastated. He was devastated, and he had no idea what to do. He could not bring himself to tell the Molnars that their beloved dachshund had died in his stead
– Couldn’t you have been more careful?
– Couldn’t you have eaten the rat poison before you went out?
– Why do you want to die, Wally?
had died in his house, in fact
– Otto always loved your kitchen, Wally.
And, yet, it seemed wrong to lie about Otto’s end.
He decided not to speak of it. He wrapped Otto in newspaper, put him in a white plastic bag, and left him out with the refuse. He threw out his pots and pans (along with the dishes and silverware he’d used for his final meal), and he was as kind to his neighbours as he could be, commiserating with Mrs. Molnar in particular, genuinely sorry for her distress during the weeks when they searched for their dog. He would, he resolved, be kind to them to his dying day.
His third attempt was not, technically, an attempt at all. It was only a partial surrender to despair. It was May and all the reasons for death were again persuasive. Again, he resolved to die, going again to the river where, temperature be damned, he would jump – less likely to take anyone or anything else with him. It was the last night in May. It was warm and cloudy, though the stars were visible, from time to time, above the clouds. He thought he was as determined as he had been in February, but it was ten o’clock and, it being Friday, there were more people about. He tried to focus on death by drowning, but he also thought about swans. Why swans? They had never been of particular interest to him: great, clumsy birds, but lovely when you thought about it, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it. It became a kind of frustration, a distraction to such an extent that he walked to the bridge without much noticing his surroundings, and he was surprised to find himself halfway across the Alexandra, staring absent-mindedly at Hull, at the river, mindless of the passersby, one of whom said
– Nice night, isn’t it?
to him or to someone else, and it suddenly occurred to him, or he suddenly remembered there had been two swans in his life: one was a woman named Cygny Krausas, the other was a real swan that had belonged to his friend Louis Zukofsky.
Of Cygny, he could remember nothing but her name. Louis, though…The Zukofskys had lived on Elizabeth Street, just off Bell. Ukrainians they were, and kind.
What had that to do with him now? Nothing that he could see.
Yet there must have been something about swans, or Zukofskys or even Cygny, because, without being quite aware of what he was doing, Walter walked back along the route he’d taken, thinking about the night, which was beautiful, and about his own life, which was not, and about his death, whose moment had not yet come.
That was, to date, the last time he made anything like a concerted effort to take his own life. It was not the last time he would try to commit suicide. At least, he didn’t think so, which is why he kept his belongings to a minimum and abandoned his search for wider knowledge, for the Feminine, or for a better self. He put his pursuits and desires on hold until the time came, if it came, when he knew he would live, live long enough to make pursuit and desire feasible.
It was now February 24, 1986. He had lived without any major pursuit for a year, long enough to make death welcome, you’d think. And yet, he thrived. Freed from his mania for books, his quest for women, his need for acceptance, he did little more than teach sociology and read, over and over, the Bible and King Lear. Every once in a while, he went out with someone who hadn’t forgotten him, but, aside from that, he had time to appreciate the silence and solitude his new life brought. That’s not to say that Walter’s misery faded, or that he resolved his conflicts, or that his life in death’s shadow was entirely restorative. There were moments when he was assailed by the thought of his own failings, moments when this memory or that laid him out, and he spent dreadful hours trying to fit his old life into the new. And it was not all that unusual, particularly in summer when there were no classes, for him to find himself distraught: one part of him prodded into despair, the other looking on with a kind of alarmed curiosity.
The part of him that stood beside his own emotions was not unoccupied. At times, it was happily engaged in planning the finer points of its own death. As others draw diagrams of their ideal houses, sheds, or summer homes, so Walter wrote more and more elaborate scenarios for his own end.
He began with the simple
I am drowned.
moved on to the convoluted
I am drowned in the waters of the canal, after a day of drink…and, by the end of summer, arrived at the frankly inosculate While riding the seven: I accost a stranger and start up a conversation, after which, the two of us having descended at the same stop, I invite him or her to the nearest bar where we discuss the latest news, after which, as if on a whim, I introduce the subject of quahogs and order a round of whisky, followed by another round of whisky, followed by, this being Saturday and both of us being at liberty to drink, two or three rounds of drink, perhaps whisky, after which we drink even more and I again, in a good-natured way, mention the quahogs and, if more drink is needed, order still more whisky1 before suggesting we cement our newfound amity with a walk2 to Chaudière Island or, better, Île Riopelle, where, I say, I happen to know the quahogs can be found, and we proceed, in a leisurely way, to Île Riopelle, to the edge of the island where I convince my companion to put his or her head under water, after I’ve done so myself, assuring him or her that the sight is worth the discomfort and then, when he or she claims not to see any quahogs, because after all there are no quahogs at Île Riopelle, I suggest that he or she look again and, this time, I put pressure on the back of his or her head, holding him or her under just long enough to cause real distress but not long enough to drown,3 after which, naturally angry, he or she will, instinctively, do the same to me and, in their drunken state, hold my head under until I drown.4
Now, in what way does this suggest a man who was thriving?
As his scenarios grew more elaborate, so they became more playful, and as they became more playful, so the idea of suicide became more abstract, the final piece in a puzzle whose assembly was more attractive than its solution. In a word, the distraction was gradually, and at least temporarily, good for him, though it was macabre.
One might say almost as much about Walter’s newfound austerity. It was distracting in a negative way. That is, having very little in his house while, at the same time, feeling compelled to stay at home, Walter was forced to rely on his own resources: reading, silence, and thoughtfulness. Although those who cared for him suggested he get out more, it was actually more instructive for him to discover how little it mattered if he did not go out, that his own limited resources were, at least temporarily, enough, that the books he had would do, that thought allowed to proceed at its own pace was not inefficient.
And what about his sensua
l life?
Well, during the first half of 1985, when he was thinking most seriously about killing himself, he had, perhaps not surprisingly, no sex at all. That is, it ceased to be an issue. His desire for women flickered and went out. Or so it seemed at first. What flickered, though, was the frantic longing for intercourse.
After the summer, in the first days of autumn, he permitted himself a night out. He dressed in black, something he had never done, and went to the Royal Oak, where he stood at one end of the bar, not anxious. That in itself was odd. His old self had never been able to stand at a bar without feeling there was a woman near with whom he could fornicate, if only he asked, and he had always asked, persuaded, or seduced. On this night, though, he barely noticed the women. He noticed them, but not particularly. In the past, he’d been cautious in bars, for fear he’d encounter women with whom he’d slept, and for whom he felt no longing. It wasn’t so much that he’d been averse to having sex with women with whom he’d already fornicated, but rather that, in his mind, the repetition was almost invariably taken for deeper interest. So, he had tended to have sex repeatedly only with women who were manifestly drunk. That is, if, on the first night, the woman had been inebriated, he would, without compunction, sleep with her again, on the principle that she was unlikely to remember their first time, and so most unlikely to think this second liaison a sign of romantic interest.
How complicated these things had been and how pointless his rituals. It made him wonder how much he had done to protect himself, especially now that he couldn’t think what it was he had that required such elaborate defence.
In any case, on this night at the Royal Oak, he needed no protection, because he wanted nothing. He looked about him as he drank his ale, interested in the shape of the bar, the feel of it, the sound of conversations, the smell of the place: perfume and powder, alcohol, smoke, beer, and roast beef. He observed the restrained movement of the bartender: quick, a little careless, mostly efficient. He watched the to and fro of three waitresses, dressed, all of them, in T-shirts and black pants. Then there was the bar itself: its large, plate-glass window looking out onto Bank Street and Barrymore’s, its wainscoting…not an English pub, but a fair imitation, though why anyone should wish to be in England when they were not was, and always would be, a mystery.
Perhaps there was a man, a would-be publican, who so missed the land of his birth he had felt compelled to turn this little piece of Ottawa into a version of the land he’d left behind. He himself would not have been fooled by his own creation. It was not English. It was not filled with Englishmen, and no sooner did one step out the door than the absence of England was flagrant. So, if the object was to quell nostalgia, the Royal Oak would have to be counted a failure. It would be a constant reminder, to our publican, that home was elsewhere; rather an inducement of nostalgia than a charm against it. There was something touching in all this: poor John Bull…no home in Canada, not only exiled, but in exile in exile.
And so, the Royal Oak was born, and Ottawans flocked to it because…?
Well, first, because they could drink their way to Hell and back and still do their vomiting at home. Second, because it was exotic, the words royal and oak bringing to mind places they’d heard about, or about which they’d formed vague, and vaguely noble, imaginings: knights in armour, ancient castles, damsels in distress. Third, because there were a number of Englishfolk in Ottawa, some of whom wished, on occasion, to be reminded, however imperfectly, of home, even when home itself had become intolerable.
Lost in minor but diverting thought, Walter did not hear the bartender announce last call. Nor did he hear the woman beside him ask
– Do you want another drink?
until she repeated the question while leaning towards him:
– Do you…want…another drink?
– No, thank you, he answered.
– It’s last call, she said.
– Thank you. I’ve had enough.
She had been drinking. It looked as though she wished to sleep, and yet her words were not exactly slurred. (For the briefest moment, she reminded him of another young woman, the one on the Alexandra Bridge. Perhaps it was her voice. There was no physical resemblance, but…what was the other woman’s name? Had he ever known it? She had saved his life, stayed his hand or, rather, stayed his feet, and he could remember the look of her coat more than he could her face or her name.)
– Well, I’m going to have a drink, the young woman said.
She smiled and ordered a daiquiri.
– You sure you don’t want one? Let me buy one for you. Please?
He could not refuse without hurting her feelings, and so he found himself nursing a banana daiquiri, sweet enough to gag a maggot, on an autumn Saturday night, shortly before one o’clock. The woman did not say much, but she looked in his direction often enough to demonstrate her interest, and she smiled in a knowing way, though, really, it was unclear what it was she knew. Still, the banana daiquiri seemed to do what she wanted, because, once she’d swallowed the last of it, she seemed less incapacitated. She got down from the bar stool and smiled.
– Do you want to walk me home? she asked.
In the moment of asking, she seemed genuinely shy, as if he were the first man she had ever asked to walk her home. Well, perhaps he was, though there was a strong undercurrent of something, an undercurrent that made it seem as if, in her question, the extremes of innocence and experience met. Quite a question, then.
– Of course, he answered. Where do you live?
– Just around the corner, she said.
Though where she actually lived was at Cooper and Elgin, a good way off, far enough to observe her struggles, for the most part successful, with balance, and to keep her from crossing into traffic, and to piece together the fragments of conversation. Her words didn’t add up to anything coherent, but she herself did. He tried to imagine how her apartment would look. Would she have a stuffed animal on her bed? (Yes) Would she have a photograph of a nude woman? (Yes) Would she have a cat? (Yes) Would she have books (yes) and would they be novels (yes: Stephen King, Rita Mae Brown, Margaret Atwood) or textbooks (yes, as well: Accounting, Economics)?
And the woman herself, Brigit by name?
She was attractive, even inebriated: blonde, with brown eyes, a slightly flat nose, large hips, small breasts, long fingers that held her white jacket closed over her light-orange dress, and a graceful neck, only partially obscured by the collar of her jacket. An unexceptional woman, he might, at one time, have said, though why is that? Everything she was on this starry night (September 28, 1985) in this city (Ottawa, Ontario) was…what was the word? Unwiederholbar: gone, past, never to return…the very essence of an exception.
At the door to her apartment building, she invited him in for tea. He said
– That’s very kind
and walked up the steps with her.
Her apartment was much as he’d imagined, but there were a thousand things he could not have predicted:
its smell: coffee grounds and lavender potpourri
a framed photograph of an elephant spouting water onto its
own back
a modest collection of glass turtles on top of the television
white underwear on the kitchen counter
He watched as she threw her jacket over the back of a chair and reached behind to pull down the zipper on the back of her dress. As if it were a delicate operation, she filled a kettle with water, put it on the stove, without turning it on, and took down two black mugs, on both of which the word Penetanguishene was written in gold lettering. All the while, she carried on a fractured conversation with him, with herself. Something about the place, something about the night, something about tea, about her clothes, about the bar, about the tea, music, night, tea…
There was something about the tea.
He thanked her again for making it, though
she hadn’t done so, and he was caught off guard by her entrance. She returned from the kitchen with her dress around her ankles and, as he stood to meet her, she fell, or let herself fall, towards him. Their embrace was ungainly, but she said
– Oh…
as if there were something passionate in the way he held her up. No sooner was she able to stand on her own than she began to kiss his cheeks, his neck, his ears. Then, she pulled his head towards her, crushing his glasses against the bridge of his nose. She left her mouth open, waiting for his tongue that she then playfully bit. It had been a long time, for Walter, but the world contracted, as the world will, and his powers of observation faded.
(Not entirely…Perhaps because it really had been a long time between bouts, he would remember a number of things about this particular encounter. For instance, it had never really occurred to him that no two women touched, held, or stroked his penis in quite the same way. Certainly, he knew there were differences, but he had been unmindful. His pleasure, and gratitude, at being touched had been sufficient. As he walked home that night, however, he was conscious of the range: from those who were timid, who touched in an almost glancing way, to those who held on for dear life and would not let go. He would not, previously, have expressed a preference. He had sustained no permanent damage, and, besides, the sins of exuberance were, in this arena, entirely forgivable. Still, there was something about a certain delicacy…Brigit, though she’d been drunk, had adroitly guided her hand down the front of his trousers, showing remarkable dexterity once she’d found what she was after, not wrestling with him, but provocative. And he, how had he touched her? An extraordinary question, enough to make one self-conscious and vulnerable. How did she prefer to be touched?)
