Sandra is anxious to get Aydee looked at by a doctor, but she doesn’t dare betray her friend’s wishes again. As Sandra kneels down to wrap Aydee’s right arm around her shoulders, she sees a man lying face up on the ground next to the opposite wall.
There’s just enough light for her to see that his throat is ripped open. Next to his chewed-up right hand, there’s a bloody dagger.
Weakly, Aydee says, “Russet had run off. I found him—” Aydee coughs again, and Sandra winces at the pain on her friend’s face. Aydee continues in a whisper: “Guy was giving him steak while pulling a knife on him. I screamed. Ran to save Russet. Guy stabbed me. Then Russet got him.”
The other Aydee is waiting for them outside the door to Lost Pages. When she sees them, she rushes over and helps Sandra carry the wounded and barely conscious Aydee into the shop.
Russet sniffs the other Aydee. His tail perks up, wagging enthusiastically, and he runs rings around the three women.
Inside, the other Aydee says, “This is my fault. If only I’d . . .”
Sandra doesn’t trust this Aydee. Her Aydee is going to die, and she’s powerless to prevent it. Unable to keep the anger out her voice she says, “So, how are you going to save her? She always told me you were a hero. But you’re just a coward.”
Before the Lost Pages Aydee can reply, the wounded Aydee opens her eyes and says, “It’s you. It’s really you.” Blood gurgles out of her mouth; she coughs, spitting out more blood.
The other Aydee says, “Yes.” Tears stream down her face.
The blood-stained Russet sniffs both Aydees intently.
The Lost Pages Aydee pulls a pendant from under her shirt. The palm-sized jewel reflects shades of green, blue, and brown. She clasps it in the wounded Aydee’s hand, then enfolds that hand with both of hers. She bends down, brushing her face against her doppelganger’s. She opens her mouth and kisses her double’s bloody lips and . . .
. . . green, blue, and brown light explodes into the bookshop.
Sandra loses all sense of herself; she experiences life—simultaneously, chaotically, blissfully—through the bodies of countless creatures: flying in strange skies, swimming through primordial oceans, worshipping monstrous deities, smelling alien flowers, hunting elusive prey, hiding from ravenous predators, giving birth to a litter of exotic animals . . .
As the Godlight fades, Sandra feels that a lifetime of ignored wounds have been healed. With calm joy she looks at Russet licking the other Aydee’s hand. But panic rises within her when she notices that her Aydee has disappeared.
Sandra screams, “Where is she? What have you done to her?”
There are tears on Aydee’s face. She moves closer and opens her mouth, but she seems unable to speak.
Baring her teeth in fury, Sandra pushes her away. Then Aydee erupts with laughter, crying even harder. “Sandra, it’s me! It’s both of us. We’re one person again. Finally.”
Aydee lifts her shirt, and there are fading scars where she’d been stabbed. Sandra looks at her face, and it’s true: the new Aydee’s face is a composite of both their faces, not as worn as the one, not as smooth as the other.
Aydee says it’s good to have a dog in the bookshop again. It amuses her when Russet intimidates customers by following them around.
These strange books about secret histories, lost worlds, and weird gods; the otherwordly clientele; the tenuous connection with any one reality—Sandra’s fascinated by it all, and amazed that she’s really working at Lost Pages.
As Sandra leafs through the book whose cover painting bears a curious resemblance to her tattoos—admiring the ornate hand-drawn illuminations but still unable to decipher the writing—she hears Russet snore from the foot of the bed. She yawns, puts the heavy tome aside, and gently presses her hands against the not-so-subtle bulge of her belly.
Sandra blows out the candle. She lies down and spoons Aydee.
The Daily Star, November 15
News Briefs, page A7
The body of the heavily tattooed young Caucasian woman discovered wrapped in a quilt on Green Avenue in the aftermath of the freak snow storm that hit the city in late October has still not been identified. The coroner’s office has found no evidence of foul play and has concluded that hypothermia was the cause of death. The young woman was pregnant.
coda: The Lost and Found of Years
Phone rings. It’s Jasper. Says he wants a Montreal story for a new anthology he’s preparing, something about cities. Go crazy, he says.
Big money, he says. Hard/soft deal with Knopf/Vintage. HBO planning mini-series based on his concept, adapting stories from his book for TV. Put in all the sex you want, he tells me. It’s cable TV. Money, he says again.
Right. Money. But any of it for me? I ask.
Tell Jasper about Bestial Acts deal. The first story about my fictional bookshop, Lost Pages. Haynes bought the rights, made a film with Depp playing Lucas. Big indie hit. Didn’t see a dime. Not even a penny. Pringle took it all. Read your contract, he said. Fucking publishers.
Tell Jasper I’ll think about it.
Money sounds like a good thing. No story ideas, though.
Take the dog out for a walk. Look around. Maybe something in the neighbourhood will spark an idea or two.
Girlfriend always says I never notice anything. Always in my head. Stores go out of business. New buildings go up. And I’m just clueless.
I’m not really that bad. But she’s not wrong, either.
Walk around with the dog, look at stuff. But I get no story ideas.
Long walk, though. Makes the dog happy, at least.
Girlfriend says, Take that camera I got you for your birthday last year. You know, the one you never use. Take pictures of the neighbourhood. It’ll rev up your imagination. You’ll think up a story in no time.
Yeah, right.
I go out with the dog again. And the camera.
Meet lots of people from the neighbourhood. Portuguese grandmothers who can speak neither French nor English. Cute McGill students. Other dog walkers. Clerks from the neighbourhood bakeries, the newsstand, the used bookstores. People who know me ‘cause they see me walk the dog all the time.
They all fuss over the dog. They always do.
Dog just soaks it all in. Wags his tail. Smiles. Pants.
I don’t manage to shoot any pictures. No inspiration. Getting depressed. Go to the park to play with the dog.
Betcha Jasper never thought about how happy his stupid anthology would make my dog.
Lots of dogs in the park. Dog loves it. Humps a bunch of them.
Fuck it, I’m too depressed. Can’t play anymore. Head back home. Dog’s not too happy about leaving the park.
Girlfriend gives me a good pep talk. We gab about Montreal. What’s fun about it. What’s special about it.
All the different kinds of people. Culturally diverse. No violence. People holding hands and kissing in public. Gay. Straight. Whatever. Lots of sexy girls. Great city to walk around in twenty-four hours a day. Easy to make friends. And the food. People love eating. All kinds of food. And bakeries everywhere. Bagels. Croissants. Baguettes. More.
Then, bad stuff. The paranoid Anglos who think their culture is threatened. Yeah, right. The gullible Francophones who believe all that tripe about being oppressed. Yeah, right.
Nowhere near as many people like that as the media makes it appear. Most people just like to get along. Québécois. Anglos. Jews. Arabs. Blacks. Asians. Latinos. Whatever.
More bad stuff. Everyone fucking smokes. Well, not everyone, but, fuck, it sure feels like it sometimes. And everyone’s always late. Always. Montreal custom. Hate that.
Well, so what. Still no ideas for a story.
Fuck.
Temperature shoots up ten degrees today. The sky is clear, and the sun is hot. It’s just a few degrees above freezing, but, for us Montrealers, so eager to leave winter behind, it’s like the first taste of summer.
Go out to Rue St-Denis with the girlfriend.
Same as every year on the first day with even a hint of spring. All the terraces are open for business. Everyone eating outside, everyone underdressed, everyone checking each other out, everyone happy and chatty.
Fuck, there’s a lot of beautiful girls in this city. And it’s nice to see a bit of flesh again, after months of winter.
Girlfriend notices me noticing.
She laughs. She always does.
I love it when she laughs.
She gives me that look. I love that look.
We go home and fuck. We have so much fun we can’t stop laughing, even while we’re cumming.
Still no idea for a story, though.
I decide to try again with the camera. I don’t bring the dog this time. I give him a cookie instead. He takes it in his mouth and plops himself on the couch.
Okay. I’m outside. I’ve got the camera.
Take pictures. Lots of pictures. Old school. With film.
Buildings. Skylines. People. Dogs. Trees. Stuff on the ground.
Run out of film pretty fast. Fun, though.
Dunno if it’ll help me with the story or not.
I go buy more rolls of film. Lots more. What the hell.
I feel good.
I go home and write.
I write a whole story in one sitting. But it has nothing to do with Jasper’s anthology.
I reread my new story. I’m pretty happy with it. Needs only a bit of editing. A big turning point in my Lost Pages mythology. I send it off to Klima at Electric Velocipede.
I try the camera thing again. Use up another whole roll. Fun.
But no new story ideas today. Not for Jasper, and not for anything else.
I do the camera thing every day now. Sometimes I bring the dog, but it’s too distracting.
I end up taking lots of walks. Camera walks; and dog walks. I try to leave enough time for writing.
Story for Jasper. Book for Savory. Novella for Kasturi.
Today, I notice something weird. But it’s too freaky. I’ll look at the pictures again tomorrow. Probably too tired. Seeing things.
Halpern on the phone. Wants a new Lost Pages story for a Di Filippo tribute anthology.
I ask about the money.
Print on demand, he says. No money up front, but higher royalties. Royalties. Yeah, right.
I tell him I’ll think about it.
In bed. Trying to sleep. Girlfriend snoring. It’s kinda cute. Makes me smile. But restless anyway.
Didn’t use the camera today. Dog walks only. Didn’t write anything.
Didn’t look at the pictures.
Don’t want to deal with it. Too weird.
Can’t get to sleep. Get up. Go look at the pictures.
I look at the pictures. Of the row of houses across the street from our house. I spread them on my desk. Compare them. And there it is. I can’t deny it.
I look out the window of my office. Across the street. To that house.
And there it is.
Fuck.
Should I wake her up? Fuck. That makes her grumpy. She’d bite my head off.
I’m gonna wait till morning.
Go back to bed.
Try to sleep.
Can’t sleep. I have to tell someone. Show someone.
I whisper girlfriend’s name. Touch her shoulder.
She mumbles. Doesn’t really wake up.
I try harder. Say her name. Once. Twice. Little shake.
She mumbles again and turns away from me.
I shake her harder. Say her name and, You have to wake up. I need to talk to you.
She turns toward me. Opens her eyes. She’s not happy.
She gets up. Reluctantly. Puts on a T-shirt.
Dog lifts his head to see what’s going on, but then he moves around and settles on my pillow.
I drag the girlfriend into my office.
She is annoyed, but not biting my head off.
Good.
She can tell that I’m really upset. Takes it seriously. Takes me seriously.
I show her.
Look, I say. Look. Look.
I point to that house, on a whole bunch of different photos.
She doesn’t get it.
She says, It’s that house across the street. So what?
I say, Don’t you notice something weird?
She doesn’t get it.
I drag her to the window. I point to the house across the street.
Look. Look!
I hold a picture of that row of houses in each hand. Pictures from two different days.
Look at these. Then look outside. That house. There! Don’t you see?
No, she doesn’t.
Fuck.
Why the fuck did you wake me up, she says. Is this another of your stupid jokes, she says.
No.
We fight.
It gets ugly.
She gets dressed and storms out of the house.
I shouldn’t have woken her up.
Okay. Calm down.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Stupid house.
Fuck you, stupid fucking house across the street.
Girlfriend always says I don’t notice anything.
But now she’s the one not noticing.
Not seeing. But why not?
Fuck. This is too weird. Plus, she’s mad at me.
I hate it when we fight.
This is all Jasper’s fault. Stupid fucking anthology.
Okay. Calmer now.
I look at the pictures again.
Then I look at the house.
Fuck.
Every day, it’s a different house.
Every day, that house changes.
It’s not the same house from one day to the next.
Okay. Stop reiterating. No matter how I say it, it still sounds crazy.
One day, it’s a well-kept red-brick duplex.
The next, it’s a triplex, with one of those famous Montreal outdoor staircases.
And then, it becomes an ugly 1970s apartment building, with half the windows boarded up.
And then, a gorgeous old-fashioned place with big, grey stonework.
Then, a yuppy townhouse.
Then, a croissanterie.
A travel agency.
A condo development.
A pet shop.
An empty lot.
A small park with nice big trees and a couple of benches.
A narrow renovated house with a driveway on the side, in the same style as ours.
I look out the window again.
Right now, it’s a barber shop.
Can’t sleep.
Get dressed. Go for a nighttime walk with the dog.
He growls at me when I get him out of bed. By the time we’re outside he’s happy enough. Wagging. Running. Sniffing.
I do not look at the house across the street.
Breakfast. I make pancakes. Sausages. With maple syrup. Girlfriend is back. Not talking to me. But sits with me while we eat. So things not too bad.
Tea for her. Orange juice for me.
I don’t mention the house.
I don’t say anything.
We eat.
She has to go to work.
She almost gives me a hug.
Stops herself.
Then hugs me anyway.
Okay. Things are good.
I decide to never mention that house again.
When I sit at my desk, I can see that house through the window.
Today, it’s a teepee.
Maybe I should move my office around. So I don’t see outside while I work.
I stare out the window all the time. I try to see the house change. To witness that moment of transformation.
Fuck.
I always miss it.
I go to the bathroom. I yawn and blink for a second too long. Whatever.
I always miss it.
Changes getting weirder. Bizarre architectures. Foreign. Or something.
One night, I recognize
it. From one of my stories. Not a house that time. But a vast, dark, deep hole in the ground, surrounded by a moat of water sparkling with green, blue, and brown light. Giant black tendrils erupt savagely from the hole in the ground, kept in check by the godly waters.
Too weird.
Not sleeping. Not writing.
Fuck.
Midnight. Can’t sleep. Girlfriend and dog curled up together, sleeping. They’re beautiful.
Get up.
The house looks kind of futuristic tonight.
I’m so fucking tired.
Peculiar architecture. All curves and unusual angles. Don’t recognize the building material. Some kind of stone, but different. Weird.
Window slides open. Woman appears.
Naked. At least the part of her I can see.
Dark wavy hair to her shoulders. Light brown skin. Big eyes. Full lips. Svelte with soft curves. Full, firm, round breasts. Looks about twenty.
She notices me looking. Staring.
She laughs.
I love it when girls laugh.
She turns away for a second and gestures with her hand.
A second woman joins her.
They look exactly the same. Twins?
They laugh.
I love it when they laugh.
They touch each other’s breasts, looking at me.
I’m so hard I feel like a teenager.
They gesture for me to come join them.
On my way out I see the dog and my girlfriend on the bed. Sleeping.
I should stay here. I love her. She loves me.
I go outside.
The women are still at the window.
They’re the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen. They look at me. Gesture for me come to them.
Fuck, I’m almost creaming just thinking about them.
I walk to the house. To the door. Strange futuristic door. Have no idea how to open it.
While I try to figure it out, it dissolves. And I see inside.
And the girls are there, on the floor. Naked. Looking at me with their mouths open just so.
Fuck, they’re gorgeous.
And then I think: What happens if the house changes while I’m in there? Will I vanish along with it? To another place?
With these girls.
But I love my girlfriend. And she loves me.
I hear the girls moan.
I’m trembling. My cock is almost ripping through my pants.
The Door to Lost Pages Page 10
