New Canadian Noir

by Claude Lalumiere

  His eyes are bloodshot and looking into them makes me nervous, so I let my gaze slip away. It settles just above the corner of his mouth, where I find myself staring at the rind of dried snot that rings one of his nostrils.

  “I have a sister…” I start to say, but don’t know how to finish.

  He leans forward anyway and points at something. I look down to find the drawing of the birds and the skull crumpled slightly in my claw-like grip.

  “Eshu,” he says. His teeth are yellow, nestled in pink gums. The name lingers in my ears as he motions for me to get up and follow him.

  I stand and reach over to slip on the backpack. He’s already turned around and is heading back to the building he came out of. Am I doing the right thing by following him? Is he leading me to the right place?

  I catch up after fumbling for the prescriptions. I hold them out as we walk and point at the address under Tara’s name.

  “Ragana,” I say. “I need to find Ragana.”

  “Yeah, yeah, Ragana,” he says as he waves off the papers. But then he says “Eshu” again, this time more sternly, and I get the hint that finding the Ragana residence is not going to happen right away.

  We go in through the front doors and I breathe in uncirculated air laced with roach poison and stale piss. Directly in front of us are three elevators all in a row; stencilled signs on either side of them indicate the presence of stairwells tucked away to our right and left.

  The stairwells in these big buildings are notorious corridors of violence and raw predation. Crews often run flights like street corners, enforcing their own tolls at all entry and exit points. All while slinging their particular product to anyone they manage to trap in there with them. And if you happen to be a girl coming home alone or trying to go out unmolested? Good luck to you, sister.

  I glance over at my guide to gauge whether he’s steering us in that direction, and am relieved when he moves without hesitation to the elevators instead. He punches a button and we wait for the car to arrive, which gives me time to think about my odds here. Can I take him if he hits the car’s STOP button once we’re between floors? Will anyone hear me if I yell for help?

  The middle elevator dings and we head up to the sixth floor in a very tense silence. The doors finally open and I see two more young shadows hanging out in the hallway. They’re standing by what looks like a reinforced door. My guide waves at them and they wave back.

  “For Eshu,” he says as we approach, and one of them nods and knocks on the heavy door. I’m ushered in quickly and don’t even have time to see my guide turn back down the hall before the door is shut and locked behind me.

  The room is surprisingly bright, and I find myself squinting at two big windows on the far wall across from me. There’s a third window as well, but a boxy contraption full of little birds almost completely obscures its existence. Those birds are happily chirping away, apparently content to hop around in the little cages that subdivide the box in the window. I quickly count three rows of five cell-like pens, with each bird tethered to its cage by a slender silk ribbon. The ribbons are a deep red, like a burgundy I guess, and are affixed with little clasps on each end.

  The other two windows offer a view of the stagnant Don River and the slab of parkway that flows along beside it. It’s not much to look at, really, but I’m guessing “Eshu” doesn’t live here for the view.

  There’s a couch and a glass coffee table nearby, and also some chairs and a big TV. I can tell music is playing, but the noise from the birds pretty much drowns out everything. The murmurings of a bassline bubble up here and there.

  A couple more man-shaped outlines are sitting at a little round table near the windows. I can’t see their eyes well enough to tell whether they’re watching me or not. There’s also an old guy in one of those motorized wheelchairs, like the kind they give to paralyzed people. He’s parked near the birds and has the chair reclined a little so he can stare at the ceiling. A blanket is spread over his chest and lap. Malformed hands lie on top, his oddly splayed fingers twitching every now and then. Drool has been trickling out of the corner of his mouth and is starting to pool near his neck. He looks pathetic and I feel like I’m gawking, but his eyes are clouded over in milky blue cataracts so I don’t worry about it too much.

  I don’t see the other person in the room right away. He’s sitting on the far end of the couch. Hash smoke hangs in the air around him and, set aglow by the light pouring in from the windows, acts as a floating blind spot that has only now begun to dissipate. Behind it sits a big guy in an expensive tracksuit. There’s a SPC tattoo on his neck, the letters done up in ornate blackletter. He sets down the video-game controller he’s been gripping and gives me a big smile.

  “Well, come on in, little Miss Room Service.”

  I don’t say anything. I don’t move a muscle. This makes him smile even bigger.

  “Somebody send you over?” he asks. “You got a man owes me a favour or something?”

  “I don’t do that,” I say. I try to sound stern and confident, but I can’t quite keep the nervousness out of my voice. “I’m just looking for someone who lives here. I don’t want any trouble.”

  He smiles some more, then nods in a way that’s supposed to be thoughtful.

  “Yeah, we get that a lot. People coming through, in need of safe passage and all that.”

  “I need to go to the twenty-first floor,” I say. “I won’t go anywhere else or bother anybody.”

  “But the thing is,” he interrupts, “it’s bigger in here than you think. More of a maze, too. You could get turned around if you don’t know where you’re going, know what I’m sayin’? Maybe end up in the wrong place.”

  “I can find my way. I already know the apartment number.” I hold up the scripts as proof, realizing my mistake a second too late; his eyebrow arches at the sight of them.

  “Lemme see those?” He extends his hand in my direction, beckoning me to come closer.

  I tell him they’re fine where they are and his smile wavers a bit.

  “Up to you,” he says. “Getting out’s just gonna cost you something else, then.”

  I start to panic when I realize he’s done talking and is now waiting to see what I offer him. I know the longer things stay quiet, the more he’s going to assume he can dictate the terms. At this point, that can only be a bad thing for me.

  Music burbles up again from under all that bird chatter. It’s distracting me, making it hard to think. I doubt I can unlock the door behind me quick enough to get out into the hall. Even if I could, what then?

  We’re both startled by a thin, ragged voice that says, “She can go up.”

  We look over at the old man in the wheelchair. His blind eyes are still staring at the ceiling, but his face doesn’t look as slack as it did before.

  “She can go up,” he says again.

  The guy on the couch looks annoyed. “Eshu, man,” he says, “this is my building. I should be the one who says—”

  “Give her a bird to take,” the old man says. “You play your games some other time.”

  The big guy doesn’t like this but motions for someone to go to the cage anyway. One of the dark figures gets up from where it was sitting and carefully pulls out a bird from a wire compartment, along with the ribbon attached to the thing’s leg. He walks over and silently hands me the free end of the ribbon. I grasp it numbly and the bird hops onto the sleeve of my hoodie. It seems so natural for it to perch there, but its closeness freaks me out a little and I have to fight the urge to shake it off me.

  “They’re nightingales,” the old man continues. “She likes their songs. Give it to her, or she won’t let you in. Tell her it’s a gift.”

  His instructions must be for me, but he makes no effort to acknowledge my presence in the room. It makes me feel like I’m not really there, like I can still escape this whole shitty scenario if I leave quietly enough. I turn to unlock the door, hoping the spell will hold and they’ll somehow forget I’m here.r />
  But I hear the guy on the couch say, “See you on the way down, bitch,” and I know he still sees me all too clearly. And the flat way he’s speaking makes me think he won’t be giving me any more of those big smiles the next time we meet, either.

  The elevator stops and I step out into a quiet hallway. Beige apartment doors line both sides of the corridor. I follow their progression until I find the one that matches what’s printed on Tara’s scripts. It’s unremarkable like all the rest of them, which surprises me for some reason. I stand in front of it for a while, going over what I should say. Eventually I knock.

  Nothing happens at first, but then I hear an old woman’s muffled “Yes?” from inside.

  “Is this the Ragana residence?” I ask.

  She’s understandably suspicious and wants to know who I am. I tell her Tara asked me to come by. After a handful of seconds, she cracks the door enough to get a look at me.

  I hold up one of the prescriptions close to the opening for her to see Tara’s name next to her address. The longer she squints at it, the more disapproving her expression gets.

  “So much trouble,” she says. Her mouth compresses into a hard line and she shakes her head.

  “She’s in the hospital,” I say. “She’s very sick.”

  Her eyes flick up to mine and I can see she thinks I’m probably scamming her. I get the feeling she’s about to slam the door in my face. But as her eyes continue to scrutinize me, her attention is caught by the little bird quietly perched on my forearm. Her eyes go wide, and she looks up at me with a sly grin.

  “For me?” she asks.

  I nod uncertainly and tell her it’s a gift, like I was told to do. Nearly clapping with delight, she coos at my little companion. She pulls at the door a little to undo the security chain, then opens it wide to welcome us in. Thank fucking God, I think, and exhale the breath I’ve been holding this whole time.

  I’m barely through the door when she takes the ribbon from my hand and quickly carries the bird deeper into her apartment. I follow behind at a respectable distance, giving her time to get the bird into its new cage while I look around for signs of whatever I might be here to pick up.

  Most of it is typical old-lady stuff – doilies and porcelain tchotchkes and an old china cabinet full of fancy plates. Everything is tidy and clean in a way that brings back memories of childhood visits to my own grandmother’s house. My nana cleaned a different room every day of the week; I wouldn’t be surprised if this Ragana lady did the same thing. Grandmas the world over must do that.

  She eventually comes back for me and we move into the living room.

  “Sit, sit,” she says. “I make tea.” She disappears into the kitchen while I sink into a recliner sporting leaf-patterned upholstery. It’s very hushed in here, even with the birds and all. She has them tethered to a stand with branches like a tree, but they aren’t moving around on it very much. It’s a little darker in here as well, so maybe that explains why they hardly make a sound.

  “You are good friend of Tara’s?” she calls from the kitchen. Her accent strikes me as Eastern Bloc, but with a lilt I can’t place.

  “We’re very close,” I yell back. “More like sisters.”

  I hear a faint “That’s nice” while she clinks around with the teacups and saucers in the other room. Any further small talk is cut short by the kettle’s moaning whistle.

  She finally comes back in with a tray full of dishes, and I move a candy jar from the nearby coffee table so she can set it down. On the tray are little plates of thick crispbread crackers with some kind of moss-like garnish on top. I take one and briefly consider the tiny bowl of pickled fish, but decide not to risk it. She leans over to pour tea for the both of us, then takes a seat across from me in a high-backed wooden chair. I drop a sugar cube in my tea and leave it to cool while we smile uncomfortably at each other.

  “So, she is not well,” Grandma Ragana prompts. Her eyes are scrutinizing me again as she blows on her tea. This makes it harder for me to read her, because she keeps the cup hovering protectively near her mouth while she waits for me to respond.

  “The nurses think it won’t be long,” I say. I take a sip of my tea to settle my suddenly shaky voice.

  “She’s pretty out of it by now,” I continue. “But the last time I saw her, she asked me to come here and see you. She said you had something of hers and that she needs it back.”

  Grandma Ragana doesn’t say anything. The teacup still obscures part of her face, but her eyes are twinkling in a way that makes me think she knows what I’m talking about.

  “Did she say what it is I have?” she asks quietly.

  “No,” I say. “I’m not really sure if she knows herself. I think it might have to do with you, though. I think maybe she’s desperate for something that will make her feel safe, now that the end is so near. I think she wants to have that feeling close to her again, and I’m guessing you must be tied up with it in her mind.”

  “Ah,” Grandma Ragana says, and cracks a compassionate smile. She takes another sip of her tea.

  “That is very touching,” she says. “Very sweet of you to say. But forgive me when I say that does not sound like the Tara I know. To me, it sounds like what you are feeling. Being safe must be something you want. And I am glad for you to feel safe here, in my home.”

  We smile at each other and I find myself feeling almost grateful for the understanding she’s showing me. It puts me at such ease, and I’m surprised to find that I actually do feel safe in here with her, safer than I’ve felt in ages, despite the dangers of the building she lives in. Relief floods over me, a real contentment that makes me feel almost woozy.

  Grandma Ragana notices this change in me and nods approvingly. There is a long pause where both of us are happy to just sit and enjoy a peaceful moment. Finally, she says, “I do have something of Tara’s. Now that you have come, I am happy to give it back to her.” Then she puts her teacup down and stands up. She takes a few steps over to where her birds are kept, and clicks her tongue at them to get their attention.

  “I was born near a place called C¯esis,” she says. “Do you know where that is? I lived for a long time in the forests there. It was so lovely, and I could be alone as much as I wanted. The birds always kept me company.”

  I smile at the image this paints in my head; it’s like something from fairytales.

  “But then the Germans came,” she continues. “And the Poles. There were the trials, and many people were burned. The Russians came, and with them so much blood spilled. Then the Germans came back and made their massacres near Riga. After that, more Russians. No place was safe, even for someone like me, alone and hiding in the woods for all those years.”

  She picks up a bird that had been sitting near mine, and holds it up for me to see.

  “I am like you; I want to feel safe. So I learned a trick, to survive.”

  Holding the bird out, she says, “This is what Tara sent you for.” Keeping her eyes on mine, she whispers something to the bird. It stops moving, and she opens her hand to let it roll off her palm. Her eyes are still on me as it falls to the carpet, dead.

  “Now I share my trick with you,” she says with a tight smile, and picks up my bird. I try to tell her I don’t want to see whatever it is she’s about to do. But the woozy feeling has come back, and I can’t seem to draw a breath. I can’t move. I’m horrified to find myself trapped in my own body.

  Grandma Ragana holds up her thumb for me to see, then carefully digs her nail into the bird’s body. It screeches in agony, and she smiles as she continues gouging away at its innards. She finally gets ahold of some wet piece of organ, something long and bloody, and pulls it out of the shivering bird. She lets it dangle for me to see. Then she puts the bird back on the perch it had been sitting on.

  Still smiling, she returns to her chair. She’s watching me intently again, her eyes blazing in a way I haven’t seen before. It scares me and I try to scream, but no sound comes out. My limbs won�
�t move, either. I can’t even look away. It takes all my energy just to moan in disgust. She takes a deep breath, one that flares her nostrils, and I feel something in me wither. Something collapses, perhaps turns black. I know it means I’ve begun to waste away.

  “There now,” Grandma Ragana says. “That will do nicely.”

  She picks up her teacup again and sips at it while she watches me struggle to breathe.

  “You’re scared,” she says. “But don’t worry. They can live for quite some time this way.”

  There’s blood on her teacup now, blood staining the sleeve of her blouse.

  “But I wonder if she will become lonely in this place, here with me.”

  She leans forward like she wants to confide something in me.

  “I wonder,” she whispers, “if she would like a sister.”

  I want to cry but nothing happens.

  “Wouldn’t that be nice? Maybe you can find her one for me.”

  LADY BLUE AND THE LAMPREYS

  Ada Hoffmann

  Lady Blue likes everything just so. Second table from the far window at Old Benny’s Pub, the dark wood shining clean and the drapes half down, an Electric Lemonade in a frosted highball glass just off-centre. No menu, no salt shaker. This is Lady Blue’s spot, and Benny saves it for her every Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday night, with a second chair pulled out discreetly for Lady Blue’s dearest husband, whether or not he arrives.

  He is here tonight. The latest model is a Jason, young and clean-cut, with gym-rat muscles and a mischievous little beard. His eyes are hazel. The girls at the bar can tell he’s Lady Blue’s property from the way he hangs on her gestures. That, and the bright silver key on a bright silver chain round his neck. Lady Blue’s husbands get keys, not rings.

  That’s the tableau. Lady Blue impeccably neat, in a sky-blue evening gown, with her hair up to bare a slender neck. Jason, in the half-light, leaning in to her whispers. Men in old brown coats around them, drinking and drinking, and girls in a little less than that. Everyone’s huddled together, night like tonight. Benny says there’s a sea-storm coming.