by André Alexis
Caught off guard, Baddeley stuttered.
– I’m sorry. I’m sorry, he said. The door was open. I thought there was someone home.
The man stared at Baddeley a moment.
– I’m home now, he said.
– That’s just it, said Baddeley. I thought a friend of mine lived here. That’s why I went in. I must have the wrong address. – Stop lying, said the man. I’m Avery Andrews and I know who you are, assassin.
When he thought about this moment later — and he was to think about it often — Baddeley thought about how strange his face must have looked. On learning that he had found Avery Andrews, the emotions that coursed through him were myriad, contradictory, and sharply experienced. He felt excitement, wonder, fear, confusion, guilt, deference, arrogance, and disbelief. And each emotion must have imposed its own fleeting expression on his face.
– But, but, but ..., he said.
Andrews interrupted him.
– I apologize, he said. I shouldn’t have called you “assassin.”
Let’s play this out. – Play what out?
was Baddeley’s first thought, but he almost dutifully followed Andrews back into the house. They walked through the kitchen into the living room.
– Don’t sit down, said Andrews. I don’t like housecleaning.
Baddeley stood, as Andrews sat down on the sofa. Andrews saw Baddeley’s manuscript, picked it up from the coffee table — Baddeley’s heart raced as his idol touched its pages — and threw it so that Time and Mr. Andrews hit Baddeley on the shoulder.
– You don’t know anything about my work, said Andrews. None of you do. You’re all deluded.
The bitterness in Andrews’ voice was so corrosive, Baddeley accepted his own insignificance as if it were an obvious fact.
– Yes, he said. But if only you’d help me interpret your work, it would be even more popular than it is.
– Are you out of your mind? asked Andrews. I write poetry. It’s not meant to be popular. Anyway, I can’t help you interpret what I don’t understand myself.
It was not going as Baddeley had hoped. He was certain a mind as acute as Andrews’ would know the springs and coils of its own mechanism intimately. If only he could coax certain things from the poet.
– Mr. Andrews, Baddeley said, I really believe people would have a deeper appreciation for your work if ...
Andrews cut him off.
– You don’t understand, he said. I can’t help you. I know nothing about my poems. I don’t understand them at all. The only thing I know for certain is where they come from. I’ll share that with you. That’s what you want, isn’t it?
On hearing Andrews’ words, it was — for Baddeley — as if a distant star had entered the living room. Did he want to know the source of Andrews’ poetry? Yes, he most certainly did.
– Thank you, Mr. Andrews. You don’t know how much it would mean if you helped me understand where the poems come from.
For the first time, Avery Andrews smiled.
– They come from God, he said.
– Oh ..., said Baddeley. They come from God.
He did not hide his disappointment.
– I believe it’s God, said Andrews. But I’ve never asked. I’ve been too busy taking things down. You can decide for yourself. It would have been difficult for Baddeley to say which aspect of this moment shook him most. Was it the change in Andrews’ tone, from bitter to ... something else? Or was it Andrews’ strange offer to show him how the poems came “from God”? With creative types, there was always the possibility of madness, but Andrews’ poetry had always seemed to Baddeley so sane and clear that the idea the poet himself was mad had not once — not in all the readings and re-readings — occurred to him.
Baddeley assumed Andrews would invite him to his desk, to the place where inspiration touched him and then lecture him about creativity. He did not imagine that Andrews would take him to see the “god” in question. But it appeared that’s what Andrews intended to do. They walked to King and from there they took the streetcar.
– I prefer to walk, said Andrews. But I’m tired.
And he paid Baddeley’s fare.
Where’s this madman taking me? Baddeley wondered. But he went anyway. Avery Andrews was determined to show him something and Baddeley’s love for Andrews’ work was sufficient to spur him on. But how strange genius was! Like something from a world where they breathe iridium.
As they approached Bathurst, the Wheat Sheaf tavern looking gothic in the silvery afternoon, Andrews spoke.
– So, you want to be a poet, he said.
– I don’t have the talent to be a poet, answered Baddeley. I only wish I could write the poetry you write. It would ...
Andrews cut him off.
– I wanted to be a novelist, he said. I’ve always hated poetry. They got off the streetcar at Bathurst, and Baddeley, alert in the company of Avery Andrews, looked up at the world. In one distance, the city rose to a craggy peak of metal, cement, and glass. In another, it was the lake that seemed to rise, like the inside of a glinting, grey-green cup. Behind them was the Parkdale from which they’d come.
– We’ll walk from here, said Andrews.
Which they did, going wordlessly north, until they came to the Western.
We’re going to Radiography 11A, Baddeley thought, alarmed, but they went, rather, to the fifth floor of the north wing. As they left the elevator, Avery Andrews stood still a moment before moving towards Ward 55A.
Now, disappearance generally moves along a line from “done with mirrors” to “sudden drop.” The suddenness of a disappearance is, of course, part of what makes it uncanny. And if, on entering the room, Avery Andrews had disappeared in any of the “usual” ways, Baddeley would have been dismayed and, no doubt, frightened. But as the two went into Ward 55A, Andrews was absorbed by the room. It was as if the man were a streak of ink blotted up, his disappearance taking a full five seconds: time enough for Baddeley to wonder what was happening; time enough for him to realize he was alone in the same room he had entered in the hospital’s basement — thirty feet by thirty feet by thirty feet, white. More than that, it was now obvious to Baddeley that the room could not be as it appeared to be, its dimensions making it impossible to fit between the fourth and sixth floors of the Toronto Western.
As much as Baddeley feared the madness of others, he was even more terrified of losing his own sanity. At the “absorption” of Avery Andrews, he looked away, as if he’d inadvertently seen something taboo. No sooner did he look away, however, than 55A turned into a typical ward: a ceiling ten feet above them with four banks of fluorescent lights; four beds, all of them occupied; a window looking out on another wing of the hospital, beyond which he could see more buildings and smoke rising from a tall chimney.
Standing beside the patient in the bed furthest from the door was Avery Andrews. In the bed was a very old man or, perhaps, a young one with a long, white beard. It was difficult to “read” the patient, but something about the man did not feel old. Without moving his lips or at all shifting position, the whitebeard said
– Come closer.
It was as if a statue had spoken. There was no doubt that the “statue” had spoken to him, however. So, warily, and still shaken by his vision of Andrews’ absorption by the impossible room, Baddeley approached.
– You’re interested in poetry, said the patient.
Once again, the patient’s lips did not move. It was both uncanny and fascinating.
– It is better if you don’t look at me, said the patient. I am not where you see me, but I am close.
– Look out the window, said Andrews.
And Baddeley noticed that Avery Andrews had turned away from the patient, had all the while been observing the smoke as it writhed from the chimney — bringing to Baddeley’s mind a thin, old woman struggling out of a stone boot. The world could not be as he was now experiencing it and still be the world. Therefore, he had lost his mind, or some drug — mysterious
ly administered — had taken it from him.
The patient said
– It wouldn’t make any difference if you did lose your mind.
Alexander Baddeley felt light-headed. The room spun 290 degrees and the floor politely rose to meet him. What met him first, however, was the laughter of the patient — the last sound he heard before he lost consciousness. No, that’s too easily said: “he lost consciousness.” As if something were taken away. In this instance, it would be truer to say that Alexander Baddeley gained a consciousness that, manifestly, was not his own. He fell to the floor, but instead of darkness there came ... not voices, exactly, but a presence, something like the soundless manifestation of a collective. There on the floor with him, a knot of red ants were at work carrying off the remnants of a crust of bread, and it seemed to Baddeley that he would have given anything to be one of them. That is, he experienced the purposeful delicacy of “mindlessness.”
How long he spent both inside and beside himself, Baddeley never learned. After a time, he woke in Andrews’ house on Cowan. Judging by the light coming through the windows, hours or perhaps minutes had passed. There was sunlight but, for some reason, Baddeley imagined it was evening. He was on the living room sofa. Andrews was standing above him.
– What happened? Baddeley asked.
Avery Andrews looked down at him, all sympathy.
– Don’t look at Him, he said. And try not to speak. Look out the window or keep your eyes closed. There’s nothing to see, anyway.
– But what happened?
– You’ve been out for a while. I didn’t know where you’d gone. I found you here, because He told me you’d be here. It could have been worse. I was gone for three days the first time He spoke to me. But don’t think about that. You want to write, don’t you?
At that moment, Baddeley had no idea what he wanted and no clear idea how he felt. He was concerned for his state of mind. Had he really met “God”? Or was it, rather, that Andrews had found some way to pull him into a delusion? (What, if it came to that, did “God” mean, in this situation?) Yet, along with the fear and the mistrust, there was exhilaration. Baddeley was in thrall to the depth of feeling he’d experienced while watching the red ants carry crumbs away. If he was capable of feeling anything so deeply — and it was a revelation to him that he was capable — it might just be possible for him to write poetry as well, especially if Avery Andrews was guiding him. Insane though the man might be, Baddeley would follow him quite a ways, if it led to such depths.
– Yes, he said. I want to learn to write like you.
Andrews said
– It’ll be a short apprenticeship. There isn’t much to learn.
You have to prepare yourself, that’s all. I’ll show you how you do it, then you’ll take over from me. If I were you, I’d get my life in order. Pay off your debts. Say goodbye to your friends. Three days from now, meet me at the Western at seven a.m. If you find the room on your own, everything I have will be yours. This house, that sofa you’re lying on. Everything.
Andrews held up his hand, as if to ward off conversation.
– Three days, he said. I’ll answer the rest of your questions then. Now, please ... I need to get ready.
Although, at that moment, there were a thousand questions on Baddeley’s mind, when Andrews asked him to leave, he got up from the sofa and left the house, still in shock. Nor, in the days that followed, could Baddeley grasp why it was important that he “get his life in order.” Neither why nor how, for that matter. His life amounted to so little, it was, in a sense, inevitably “in order.”
He did follow one bit of Andrews’ advice, though. He spoke with a friend. The day before he was to meet the poet, Baddeley met Gil Davidoff at The Cobourg, a bar in Cabbagetown. More than anything, he wanted to tell someone about his encounters with Avery Andrews. Davidoff would not give a damn about his experiences and Baddeley knew it. That was why he wanted to tell Davidoff everything. Davidoff’s self-regard had a way of turning even the most dire things in Baddeley’s life trivial, rendering them less painful.
They were sitting at the front of The Cobourg. Their table was in a bay, its tall windows looking out onto Parliament Street. Cabbagetown was not bustling, exactly, but it was almost lively.
– I met Avery Andrews, Baddeley said.
– You see? answered Davidoff. I told you chicks can’t lie to me.
– You’re right, said Baddeley. And he wants me to meet him at the Toronto Western tomorrow morning. He didn’t say where.
– The Western’s not that big, said Davidoff. I met a couple nurses there once. They’re pretty good, nurses. Know their stuff. But I prefer actresses. You can screw an actress for weeks without doing the same woman twice. Know what I mean?
– Not really ..., said Baddeley. But what about Andrews? Do you think I should go? I felt like I was hallucinating when I was with him. I really think he might be crazy.
– So? You should meet him if you want to, said Davidoff. What’s the worst a poet can do? Throw up on your shoes? Just remember, Hemingway punched Stevens’ lights out. Not the other way ‘round. And that’s how poets should be treated.
Davidoff turned away to look out at the late-autumn world, lowered his dark-rimmed glasses to get a better look at a woman just then passing on the street.
– You think I should go, then, said Baddeley.
– What? Sure. Are we still talking about you? answered Davidoff.
– No, no, said Baddeley. I’ll figure it out.
So, despite his trepidation, he went to the hospital on the appointed day, at seven in the morning. Having no idea where in the maze of Toronto Western he was to meet Avery Andrews, he simply followed what might be called “instinct.” It was not a strong “instinct.” He wandered about for an hour before he went up to the sixth floor of the east wing. He felt a certain “curiosity” about a janitor’s closet between two wards. The closet was unnumbered. A panel on the door said “Employees Only.” When Baddeley opened the door, however, he found himself in the ward in which he had first encountered the patient, and there the patient was again. Avery Andrews stood near his “God,” looking out the windows.
The room was, of course, astonishing. It could not possibly fit in the closet Baddeley had entered. What’s more, this time, the view from the windows was as if from the middle of Lake Ontario looking back on Toronto, looking back, impossibly, on the Toronto Western and on the very window in which Baddeley and Andrews were framed. Looking out the window and raising his right hand, Baddeley saw his own hand rising in the distance. It was, to say the least, disconcerting: an illusion of some sort, obviously, but most confusing.
Without waiting for a question, the patient said
– The answers I could give you would not help. I am here because I too suffer. You remember how peaceful it was for you to share the mind of ants at work? So it is for me when I am in your mind, my son. It is such bliss to find simplicity.
It didn’t seem to Baddeley that his thoughts were simple.
– Your thoughts are simple, said the patient. You’re only worried about what you call your sanity. A negligible matter, Alexander. The boundary is subtle, even for me. But, I understand you’d like to write poetry. There are two obstacles to your writing. One is within you. You must learn to listen to me when I am with you. And that will not always be pleasant. The other obstacle is before you. You’ll have to free Mr Andrews, if you’d like to take his place. I don’t believe you’re capable of it, but Avery is convinced that you are.
Avery Andrews turned to face the man he had, from the moment he’d set eyes on him, assumed to be his killer: Alexander Baddeley.
– I want to die, he said.
Nothing about this moment made any sense to Baddeley. For one thing, who could comprehend the trajectory he was expected to make: from admirer of Avery Andrews to Andrews’ assassin? How was he supposed to put aside years and years of admiration for Andrews? At this moment, in this place, for this audience, he
was to murder a man he loved? There was no question of him doing any such thing. Whatever Andrews’ emotional problems, Baddeley could not see himself killing a man who was one of the only sources of beauty and consolation in his life. Someone had misjudged him.
Turning towards the patient, Baddeley asked
– Who are you?
– Don’t look at him, said Andrews. Look at me. I’m the one begging for mercy. I’ve been bound to him for thirty years. I’ve looked after him for thirty years. Every line of poetry I’ve written, everything you’ve admired has come from him, from listening to him. I’m nothing but a vessel for his ramblings. I want to be free. I want to die.
– But I’m not a killer, said Baddeley.
– You must be, said Andrews, or you wouldn’t have found me.
Turning toward the patient but not looking at him directly, Andrews pleaded.
– Tell him, he said
– What should I tell him? asked God.
– Tell him that I’m nothing. There’s no poetry in me, except for what you put there. All these years, he’s admired a stenographer. It all comes from you. There’s nothing of me in it. I’m a fraud. He could do what I do just as well as I do. Better! He’s a critic!
His hands shaking, Andrews pulled a notebook and pen from his shirt pocket. Opening the book to a blank page, he held it up for Baddeley to see.
– Look, he said and, then, turning to the hospital bed, he bowed his head and mumbled something or other. Baddeley could not make out Andrews’ words. Baddeley himself was thinking of nothing so much as how to escape from the men into whose awful company he’d wandered — the poet and his “God.” But then, a strange “mind” was made manifest to him. Yes, insofar as he could recognize “divinity,” the mind Baddeley experienced was “divine.” In a way, it was the twinned opposite of the red ants’ mind. While there, with the ants, a purity beyond words had brought peace; here, in this presence, he experienced a peace brought forth from infinite ramification: mind without end, pattern without border, a reachable horizon. For the first time in his life, Alexander Baddeley knew a different order of beauty, an unworldly vision that lay just within the range of words.
