cautiously. A sliver of cold light cuts across the kitchen tiles. In the fridge, some concentrated tomato paste. He squeezes the tube and licks the end. Two Jerusalem artichokes. A jar of wheat germ. Some fine imported horseradish. Lard in wax paper. Blackstrap molasses. Yoghurt culture. He closes the door and mutters, “Fuck.” Then louder, “Food food everywhere and not a bite to eat.”
Cops patrol Westmount regularly during cottage season, or so Dad has warned, so Robbie dares not switch on a light. He didn’t think of this when first entertaining his Bacchanalian fantasies for the weekend. Bummer. Sitting on the floor in the dark,he makes a furtive phone call, counting the holes in the dial with his fingers. His voice sounds flat in his ears.
“Hi, can I speak to Ivy.”
“No. I’m sorry. She is gone away.” Ivy’s Grendel mother. “Who is calling, if you please?”
He hangs up. Immediately the phone rings again.
“CHRISSAKE ,” he shouts. “No one TRUSTS me around here.”
He makes two more furtive calls, to Brat, to Louie, allowing four rings only, but no one answers. He sits down on the chair and listens to the last of the evening traffic. The silence closing in like pillows on his ears. He makes for the dungeon, holding on to walls. Lurks down there like Gollum in the damp, nostrils curling up at the mildew. Funny, how all winter long he lurked in this upset-stomach, steeped in bitter contentment, taking acid pleasures from his solitude, and now look: sunstruck and defeated, he lies down on a gutted beanbag chair and falls fitfully asleep, hugging the crunchy pillow and pretending Ivy is lying there beside him, breathing gently with her hand curled against her throat.
Next morning he turned the living-room stereo up to full, yelling ALL PARENTS MUST DIE! He opened a tin of maple syrup and poured a bowl of stale Sugar Krunchie crumbs. Into that he mixed water and a generous drop of cherry leb hash oil. He read the blurbs on the box. There were FREE! plastic endangered species, offered both in French and English. How educational, he thought. Our bilingual culture.…
He loses track of time. He must have been there munching the same soggy mouthful for at least twenty minutes now, for suddenly the record is going
scrrtcch scrrtcch
. He gets up to change it, then returns to his Krunchies ’n’ Hash. Stares at the watercolour gallery. SHERT. PANTIES. RED SOX . Dirty sox, hethinks, smelling his own fiendish feet with his magnified sense of smell. He drags himself up the stairs. Sits on the landing, takes off his socks and leaves them on the hallway carpet. Kneels in the bathtub, staring at the water rushing from the faucet, the level rising fast. He imagines himself a mercenary knight in rusting spiky armour, trying to forge a brook on his way to Agincourt, the water past his knees. If his horse falls, he wonders, will he be able to unhitch his heavy skin in time, or will he drown with his helmet on?
Scrrtcch scrrtcch
. Chrissake. He hates the house so quiet. Only the sound of this roaring brook, and the record like crickets chirruping. He stamps down the stairs, leaving spludgy footsteps in the carpet behind him. In the den, intending merely to turn the record over, he’s distracted by his own reflection in the TV screen – as if in a foe’s dull breastplate. He unbuckles his Harley-Davidson belt and shakes it at the box, one of the first on the market with remote-control, which bursts into life. An evangelist is doing his hilarious sin and repentance number. Robbie jangles his belt again. And lo, if it isn’t
Hello World!
He’s just in time for the regular
Environment in Vogue
bit. This week there’s a sequence, edited to jaunty music, of women in the street balancing themselves with briefcases or shopping bags as they lift their heels to inspect fresh runs in their stockings; women in Washington and New Orleans are complaining about damage to their nylons, apparently in greatest numbers
Cops patrol Westmount regularly during cottage season, or so Dad has warned, so Robbie dares not switch on a light. He didn’t think of this when first entertaining his Bacchanalian fantasies for the weekend. Bummer. Sitting on the floor in the dark,he makes a furtive phone call, counting the holes in the dial with his fingers. His voice sounds flat in his ears.
“Hi, can I speak to Ivy.”
“No. I’m sorry. She is gone away.” Ivy’s Grendel mother. “Who is calling, if you please?”
He hangs up. Immediately the phone rings again.
“CHRISSAKE ,” he shouts. “No one TRUSTS me around here.”
He makes two more furtive calls, to Brat, to Louie, allowing four rings only, but no one answers. He sits down on the chair and listens to the last of the evening traffic. The silence closing in like pillows on his ears. He makes for the dungeon, holding on to walls. Lurks down there like Gollum in the damp, nostrils curling up at the mildew. Funny, how all winter long he lurked in this upset-stomach, steeped in bitter contentment, taking acid pleasures from his solitude, and now look: sunstruck and defeated, he lies down on a gutted beanbag chair and falls fitfully asleep, hugging the crunchy pillow and pretending Ivy is lying there beside him, breathing gently with her hand curled against her throat.
Next morning he turned the living-room stereo up to full, yelling ALL PARENTS MUST DIE! He opened a tin of maple syrup and poured a bowl of stale Sugar Krunchie crumbs. Into that he mixed water and a generous drop of cherry leb hash oil. He read the blurbs on the box. There were FREE! plastic endangered species, offered both in French and English. How educational, he thought. Our bilingual culture.…
He loses track of time. He must have been there munching the same soggy mouthful for at least twenty minutes now, for suddenly the record is going
scrrtcch scrrtcch
. He gets up to change it, then returns to his Krunchies ’n’ Hash. Stares at the watercolour gallery. SHERT. PANTIES. RED SOX . Dirty sox, hethinks, smelling his own fiendish feet with his magnified sense of smell. He drags himself up the stairs. Sits on the landing, takes off his socks and leaves them on the hallway carpet. Kneels in the bathtub, staring at the water rushing from the faucet, the level rising fast. He imagines himself a mercenary knight in rusting spiky armour, trying to forge a brook on his way to Agincourt, the water past his knees. If his horse falls, he wonders, will he be able to unhitch his heavy skin in time, or will he drown with his helmet on?
Scrrtcch scrrtcch
. Chrissake. He hates the house so quiet. Only the sound of this roaring brook, and the record like crickets chirruping. He stamps down the stairs, leaving spludgy footsteps in the carpet behind him. In the den, intending merely to turn the record over, he’s distracted by his own reflection in the TV screen – as if in a foe’s dull breastplate. He unbuckles his Harley-Davidson belt and shakes it at the box, one of the first on the market with remote-control, which bursts into life. An evangelist is doing his hilarious sin and repentance number. Robbie jangles his belt again. And lo, if it isn’t
Hello World!
He’s just in time for the regular
Environment in Vogue
bit. This week there’s a sequence, edited to jaunty music, of women in the street balancing themselves with briefcases or shopping bags as they lift their heels to inspect fresh runs in their stockings; women in Washington and New Orleans are complaining about damage to their nylons, apparently in greatest numbers
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