by Zac Funstein
“I call this the BC set or the Badland-pieces.”
A set of Mahjong pieces made of plastic depict Chinese roadworkers constructing a highway that appears uncannily like where the Volvo was found are given for comparison.
“What would Bxumalo attribute our tragic event on this lonely stretch to?”
“I will ask him the next the great-man is in town-I’m sure his take will be pertinent.”
What was uncanny was that the person responsible for putting up the billboard for that remote highway had become something of a celeb. There had been a public lecture-the audience who did not know his works, were also surprised because the thankless artisan intrepidly presented something that previously was considered taboo or at least controversial.
Now they were even throwing in tours advertised as heavily pitching exotica for the intrepid (tents, thrown in with the cost) where rather like staying at a haunted castle a night could be spent where so many had disappeared. If you liked reality airbrushed or being given promises of the fabulous or mythical oases this was not for you however. Valentin Kalliomäki was well-organized, orderly, fastidious, someone who tried to maintain high standards, but could slip into being critically perfectionistic. Valentin a man who once dressed like a big baby with a pacifier spent hours in a day-care center before a supervisor got suspicious of his motives then kicked him out-now was comparatively soberly dressed. Kalliomäki took an unhealthy interest in those that were ticked off on his gruesome checklist.
“At about the age some take retirement, Tolstoy related that moments of perplexity, of what were called arrest, as if afflicted with not knowing if to go on or not, seemed to possess him. I decided to go on although many I believe would have taken the soft option in retiring.”
“Tell us about some of the girls you have had to add to your gruesome toll.”
“I just write them down mostly you understand-I drive out there take the old count down put up the new figure. It’s purely a job though you do get to know sometimes more about some than others. Some ask us don’t you get annoyed at what happens with no seeming end.”
“To which you reply Kalliomäki?”
“Some express anger whilst others suppress that I fall into the latter category. The recent girl was one of the youngest the oldest was Sara Suutari- Jääskö. Judging by the copious accounts of her doings, Sara was beautiful even alluring, but Jääskö was also a vain perfectionist, obsessed with the ‘kink’ that kept her from possessing a perfect Grecian profile–an obsession that led to the ruination of her beauty before middle-age from wax injections that lead to her removing all household mirrors.”
“Some have said Ms. Schreiber was not a classic Cinderella, but a sly, modern go-getter plotting her career- which incidentally-I believe is unfair.”
“You know what is funny sometimes when you have to get up there put a new person it says a lot about who this new casualty is-with the aforementioned I didn’t get anything bad as per vibes. Those aboriginal girls arent always wicked either-not like some have painted. It makes us cross how they’re depicted.”
“Do you have any glimmer of why any of them died?”
“Without love there is no happiness; only a world like living in a big cave in which all you get is your own echo. These victims-local or otherwise- had no love in their lives. The dead people are dead and they do not feel the pain caused by that nor see the suffering of people left. Here this should amuse- one of the parents asked us to write it on the billboard.”
A postcard was given from nearby which read:
‘How can you bring a child into a society that has no moral boundaries? What chance will your child have to grow up to be strong, honest as well as noble, when all sorts of evil temptations surround him?’
F
There was no way that it could be foreseen that someone like Boris Marjanović would suddenly decide to add his contribution to what happened but that is what occurred. Marjanović stood before the mantlepiece in his living-room, a copy of the Canadian Telegraph was turned to the horoscope-page. Boris was not reading the CT; but was peering over the top of it at his new Puerto Rican housemaid, who with a depreciatory sniff which suggested such lowly service annoyed her, set a silver tray carefully down upon the damask.
That Larissa Pereira Alves was plain/ respectable was pleasing to him.
“You have neglected,” Boris said, lowering his paper, moving a little to one side in order that Larissa might obtain a view of the grate which his broad figure had blocked, “to put the fire-irons into their position.”
Larissa sniffed again-it was a natural infirmity, those in her immediate circle were more bothered about than herself- then glanced at the tiles on the hearth, at the andirons standing upon it, then at the fire-irons referred to, which instead of reposing on the andirons stood assertively erect on either side of the grate.
“Now you are going to say we have not neglected them had purposely stood them erect in order to save them from getting soiled. This omission was not due to any regard for the fire-irons, but was conceived with the object of saving herself labour. If the brass became blackened it would be necessary to polish it daily.”
Larissa went to considerable trouble to explain this to Marjanović, who listened with grave amazement to her voluble reasoning powers. Instead of commending her prudence Marjanović repositioned the irons in their correct position in the fender gently in the natural ordering of things-as if this was something inviolable that shouldn’t be moved.
“For the future,” Boris said, straightening himself after the performance of this feat, “we will have them in their position.”
“They get dirty in the fender,” Larissa objected trying to stand up for herself, “it makes a lot of cleaning. Everyone knows brass fire-irons didn’t ought to be used.”
“What purpose do they serve, then?” Mr. Marjanović inquired.
“They are meant for show, sir,” answered Larissa, with a sniff that betokened contempt for his masculine ignorance.
Mr. Marjanović examined her with growing disapproval.
“To keep things for show is essentially inappropriate,” Boris said. “Everything has a proper use, and should be applied to it.”
Having delivered himself of this rebuke Boris returned to the perusal of his newspaper. Larissa took up her tray, but, hearing someone at the entrance-intercom, put it down again then with another protesting sniff, prepared to answer this call.
Boris noticed a slight stain on the CT as Larissa was about to leave. The glass which was cracked must have cut him-it was dropped clumsily by the andiron so that it broke into several shards.
“Could you bring the first-aid kit upon your return Larissa.”
Confirmation was mumbled then Alves left the room.
Marjanović arranged himself at the glass table with its cover, its air of solid comfort, which, assertive though it might be, could not disguise a certain blank chilliness of aspect which the expanse of damask covering the long table insensibly conveyed; as did also the large, handsomely furnished room with its orderly transparent perspex furniture which seemed mutely to protest against this disregard for their vocation. The apartment was essentially a family room, yet one man took control indeed had taken them there for many years: first as a small boy, with his parents Mariana/Leonor-smaller sister Letícia, later as a man, who had seen these dear companions drop out from their accustomed hierarchy one by one, until now Boris alone occupied the table, dwelling occasionally on those halcyon days when his musings had not been so solitary-rather like King Arthur whose knights had deserted him.
An accident in their Renault Argos had claimed his parents, Boris had accustomed himself to their loss. But the loss of his sister was a more recent event, less in accordance with nature, in opinion, so much so that sometimes it made him bitter.
When Luan Santos Lima brought in Renan Correia Alves with the first aid kit Boris took it from her then dressed the wound himself, then told Filipa to sweep up the rest of
the glass then dispose of it. Having completed this the maid stood by silently then at his behest hurried out.
If Luck has a way of followin' a person 'round,bidin' its time, till it pounces upon some unfortunate personage like stalked prey then Renan must have been missed out for his appearance was very much dishevelled like someone for whom dressing smartly was at the lower end of his priorities. Renan wore a round padded cap, quite bare of material at the edges where the stuffing showed as if a child pulled the contents from a doll with pleasure. A nylon tippet was tied round him knotted with the ends dangling down over his coat. This itself was a full length one of some fuzzy material, with huge side pockets into which the man's mittens were plunged.
“Renan-it hardly seems like yesterday that we met at the Morven exhibition dedicated to the needlework of New Jersey schoolgirls.”
“Time flies Marjanović. Morven yes it seems like yesterday. Gabrielly Alves Fernandes was beautiful-It's better to have loved/ lost than to be in a lacklustre uninspiring relationship however-I had to get out, but this is not why you are here.”
“Schreiber naturally-finding who the culprit obsesses all departmental bastions not just myself.”
“In remote Bay de Verde where I come from, parents play a central role in the lives of their children; the parent-child relationship is fundamental to who you are- what you become, how you perceive yourself although laden with contradictions, with tension, with anger, with love, with loathing with angst. This tragedy for one so young touched us immediately.”
The mention of the icy town seemed to make everyone shiver at the moment.
“The deceased visited your motor-spares store?”
“Sometimes it was her father but yes the deceased did pop in-I believe that we were stopped off on the way to her doom.”
“Really,” said Boris a little suspiciously-since Alves speech writing grandfather-always good with words- was widely credited with having coached Reagan to victory in a presidential debate having disappointed his partisans with what some call a lacklustre effort in the first debate. “What did you decide?”
“We were going over a boy that was liked called Vinicius Barros Cavalcanti. When you're interested in somebody, and you are sure they might be interested in you, you should point out all your beauty problems-G said. The unfortunate child had told this boy all her faults so a perfect version of her could be constructed by him. I told her that was being a little hard on herself needless to say.”
“You didn’t like it by the sounds of it-that comes across immediately.”
“What I loath is the hypocrisy/intolerance of an organized group forcing their style of ‘morality’ on the rest of us while they are blind to their own failings or worse, see a ‘Spiritual path’ as a means to control/ manipulate others for personal gain.”
“There was membership of a cult I didn’t know that!”
“I don’t know if belonged is the correct monicker but a devotee of Bishop Bxumalo lives nearby that was called upon. Personally, I'm kind of loath to judge work by the author, more the other way around, but I believe Bxumalo has written some definitive bible’s which have appealed to political, economic/ corporate circles with such breadth one of which was found in the glove compartment of her car if the rumour is with foundation.”
Many patterns of carpet lay rolled out before them on the floor enticingly —Amritsar lying next to Nazmiyal seemingly innocently-indeed were an intoxicating mix; whilst a score of ingrains lured their taste as well as their pocket. The chief buyer of the department Estevan Silva Barros did them the honor of waiting upon them himself. Joe the elevator boy who brought them up gawped in incredulity. Perhaps Lara was correct, maybe Estevan had been pushing himself too far too fast. The pressure/strain was taking a toll on his ability to rationalise when several minutes of pained inane chatter later the chief-buyer was called away to the telephone, in his mind the splendid promise of the carpets plus the irk of the pocket-book were thrust aside by a greater doubt plus anxiety. It was his wife Lara who called. The coming into his life of the woman who called herself Lara Oliveira Barros was an incident in his progress of far greater significance that even Lara had considered. Whither it inclined his footsteps Lara knew not. All Lara knew was that, almost in a moment, Lara had become definitely linked up with his future through a bond, the meaning of which even Estevan had no full understanding of. All Estevan knew was that Lara had some great bearing upon the ultimate, that it was his desire to follow blindly the track Lara had opened up before him.
“Estevan there is a legal wallah to see you a Boris Marjanović.”
“What does this Marjanović want?”
“Something to do with the Schreiber girl that was attacked in BC they’ve found one of Bxumalo’s efforts in her glove-compartment.”
“Okay tell Marjanović or whoever this is I’ll be over as soon as I can.”
When Estevan arrived it could be seen his wife had been the perfect host. Lara dressed in a plain empire line dress, seemed to be a nice woman too into the bargain. Quiet, with nothing much to say for herself, though Boris could tell Mrs. Barros was a gentle being. Boris in turn was to describe Estevan as a delightfully dry man who was clearly devoted to his wife. Marjanović had been married several times, was still determined to get it correct to find his lifetime partner was always fascinated by couples.
Although Estevan always portrayed himself as the perfect husband/ father with the perfect family, below the veneer things we were far from perfect as was revealed “I had a pair of boys from a previous marriage who were born selfish, tiresomely, disgustingly so Otávio/Marcos. They were good boys in many ways. As they grew older they were respectful, obedient, they were not untidy, and not particularly rough, but their one concern was for themselves each one for himself, and they used to quarrel with each other in regard to their needs. While we were in Vancouver, we had only a small, yard.”
“We Estevan?”
“My previous wife Larissa plus myself. When we came here, I said, 'I am going to try an experiment.' We got this house because it had a large yard, plus a garage that would do for the boys to play in. Then I got them together, we had a little serious chat-man-to-man. I said ‘Otávio/Marcos I am not pleased with the way in which you are living’. They did nothing for anyone but themselves from morning to night. If I asked them to do an errand for myself or Larissa, it was done unwillingly or shoddily or even not at all. Of course, I knew they had their school to go to, but they had a good deal of leisure time when they might do something for someone else. I asked them if they were certain they were going to make real, manly Christian boys at this rate, they said no. I was disillusioned with Jesus then I met Lara?”
“You are a devotee of Bxumalo’s?”
“When I first came to Ontario, I was teenager not much older than the unfortunate victim. I had plenty of health but very little religion. While in my native town of Senneterre in Quebec I had considered the life, universe everything-had gradually passed through various stages of scepticism, until I was dissatisfied even with the advanced Unitarianism of a preacher like the Rev. Matilde Pinto Cavalcanti. But I could not find any literature in advance of his position, there was no one of whom I could inquire so that I almost gave up.”
“You found yourself devoid of anything to believe in.”
“Secularism/ Atheism I had never heard of in any definite way, although when a little girl, having had an Atheist pointed out to me in the street, Naturally I regarded him as something terrible. I did not know what Atheism was except in a very vague way; but I inferred from the tones, expressions, gestures of those who pointed him out that an Atheist was wickedness in human form.”
“Our friend wasn’t an atheist though.”
“I’m coming to that soon after I came to Toronto I found out an old school-fellow, and went to lodge with his family: They were tainted with Atheism, and my once pious playmate was as corrupt as the rest of them. They took me one evening to Cleveland Hall, where I heard Vinici
us Bxumalo knock the Bible about delightfully. Vinicius was not what would be called a man of culture, but had what some devotees do not possess—a great deal of natural ability; you mustn't judge Bxumalo in quite the same way as you'd judge other people. To him the aesthetic side is always uppermost; the logical side is comparatively in abeyance. Questions of creed, questions of philosophical belief, questions of science don't interest him at all; he examines all of them from the point of view of the impression alone. His discourse was very different from the Unitarian sermons I had heard at Senneterre. Vinicius spoke in a plain, honest, straightforward manner, so I resolved to visit Cleveland Hall again.”
“Is that where you met the subject of our concern at Cleveland Hall?”
“When the new Hall of Science was opened I became a regular attendant. I heard Mr. Thiago Cardoso Melo, who was then as now a capital debater; Mr. Julian Ferreira Martins, Mr.Erick Sousa Castro, Mr. Enzo Almeida Pereira- perhaps other lecturers whom I have neglected. Mr. Rodrigo Carvalho Silva frequently took the chair, especially at Mr.Vitór Sousa Pereira lectures, a capital chairman Rodrigo was, giving out the notices in a pleasant, graceful manner, and pleading for financial support like a true man. Rodrigo was working hard for the success of the enterprise himself, so had a right to beg help from others. The tragic-girl was there frequently so that we invited here where we gave her the Bxumalo….but please Mr.Marjanović.”
“Yes please don’t be bashful.”
“I trust you don’t believe either of us were responsible for what happened.”
“A funeral in Canada is a very different thing from what the same mournful ceremony is in all other parts of the world,” explained Dennis P. Jessen who took over after the operative’s untimely demise.
His companion peered out through the slats of the vinyl blind at the washing machine service commer-van turning around outside. Some pale girls had got out of the sliding-side who were wearing knitted tank-tops. Bra straps threatened to move from their anaemic tanned position.
