Black Rabbit and Other Stories (16 page)

Again you, Michael said. His hair had been trimmed too short on the sideburns and his ears yawned. I stared at them until his nose started twitching self-consciously. He leaned to me. What if I barred you from here, he said, what would you do? I thought about it for a moment. I would lose my mind, Mike, I replied. I could not live for more than a day or two without your coffee. That's the truth. He squinted and scrutinized my face. I couldn't help but laugh. It's funny? he said. It's funny, I said. Here comes your soul-mate, Michael nodded. What is it with him? I don't know, I said. Antonio marched into the bar. He was angry or put off about something, muttering and clenching his jaws. Antonio, I said,
cosa mi dicci? Mah
, he said,
sopratutto uno cornuto ma datto il ditto cosi
—he gestured. I told him someone gave me the finger every day. No big deal.
E pure
, he said,
mi fa male la gamba—madonna com'e dolorosa
. His leg ached. He turned it gently this way and that.
II ginocchio
, he stated, pointing at the knee. His twisted face convinced me of his pain. Michael stood by the espresso machine, unconvinced.

Melissa walked away from me. The sun had set, the warm evening smelled of barbecue, exhaust fumes, and garbage. She wanted a good night's sleep—she was meeting Gary tomorrow and needed a clear head. Gary's a married man, she added, he has two teenaged daughters and loves his wife. This was supposed to quiet my concerns, but I wasn't so easily thrown off the trail. Anyway, she said, he doesn't find me attractive. That meant what exactly? I didn't know. The thing was dead, I should have just buried it. I was holding back out of vanity
perhaps. I walked home, passing pubs and cafés full of young nubile bodies and optimistic, sensuous faces. Look at them, I thought, living. I wanted to join in the exuberance, take off my shirt and throw myself in there, but I knew I would have only drawn blank stares or gasps of horror.

Show me a few moves, I said to Giuseppe one overcast afternoon. Hey, he said, you and Melissa are finished? Well, I don't know, I said, why? Nothing, he said, I never see her with you anymore. Perhaps implying he had seen her with someone other than me. That was okay, he didn't have to spell it out. Take a swing, he said. I threw a wide right at his head. He redirected my arm with his just enough for my fist to miss his jaw. Then he used my momentum to pull me toward him in a circular motion, around and around, until I corkscrewed to the floor, my arm wrenched behind me and Giuseppe's knee in the small of my back. That was pretty cool, I told him as I jumped up, brushed myself off and stretched out a kink in my shoulder blade. I resented him for putting me on the ground. Let me show you something, I said. I had studied jujitsu as a teenager and still knew a few moves. Without too much difficulty I locked Giuseppe's left arm and forced him to his knees. His bald head turned red and he yelped in pain. I held on for a second or two longer than necessary before I released him.

I think I might settle here, Antonio mused one evening. A friend at the Italian Consulate has promised to help me land a position. I have found a good rhythm in this city—his English still betrayed him, he admitted, so he preferred conversing with me in Italian. My Italian had improved a lot since I had met him. He corrected my more egregious errors and praised any progress I made. I must say that I'd grown addicted to our conversations; there's a music to Italian and an
emotional register that English simply didn't have. I asked him how his love life was going. He removed his glasses and rubbed them with tissue paper. His brown eyes looked liquid and sad. My problem, he said, is that I like young women—in their twenties. Women in their thirties are bitter and I am not attracted to women in their forties. I'd like to have kids one day, perhaps sooner rather than later. I am fifty years old. I am not rich, nor am I handsome. All I have is my personality, my experience, my story.

Somehow we wound up in the Beaches on our bicycles. Melissa insisted on stopping at Gary's house. He and his family lived near the water. I don't know why I agreed to go along. The sun must have burned my brain. He lived in a beautiful brick and glass home facing Lake Ontario. He was expecting us. Pleasant surprise, he lied. He had on shorts and sandals. His knees looked like ostrich eggs. His toes were broad and hairy. His wife and kids were out of town for a week. Can I get you guys a beer? he asked. I wanted water; Melissa nodded to the beer. I hated being there. I wanted to get on my bicycle and split. Gary led us into the back yard and showed us his garden. It was impressive as gardens go, but I didn't give a damn. I had to pee. Gary told me to go in through the sliding glass doors and turn left off the kitchen, last door. The bathroom colour scheme disturbed me: black and pink tiles, black and pink wallpaper, black toilet bowl and sink, black and pink soaps, pink toilet paper, and so on. I glanced out the window, which overlooked the garden, for relief. Melissa and Gary sat on a bench with their backs to me, very close together. Gary put his arm around her shoulder and said something in her ear that made her laugh. Then he kissed her neck and looked up at me.

My head ached one morning over coffee. Sensing my pain, Michael spared me his jibes. I had to find a job; my funds were running low. I
didn't know how I'd pay my August rent. Antonio came in for his morning espresso sporting an azure neck kerchief. The Italians were playing a World Cup qualifier. The bar crackled with nervous energy, the conversations loud, overly animated, a spastic restlessness afflicting everyone. Even Michael admitted suffering from pre-game apprehension. I asked who the Italians were playing but no one supplied an answer. Antonio said something to a man ordering espresso that sounded like normal, unaccented English—but I found such a thing so improbable I dismissed it and blamed the noise level for distorting what I'd heard. Antonio then turned and looked at me with such a strange expression; for a moment I felt I didn't know the man at all.

Later that day I ran into him again and in contrast to his morning performance, he was effusive and chatty, grabbing my hands as he told me the Italians had won 2-0, Vieri and DelPiero providing the markers. What a strike force the
azzuri
had! I asked Antonio if he missed Italy at times like this and for a moment he looked mystified—then I realized I had asked him the question in English and restated it in Italian. He smiled and said yes, at times like this it would have been a joy to be in a proper piazza celebrating the great victory with his people. His chief criticism of Toronto was its lack of piazzas. Antonio ordered a beer from Giuseppe, who stood behind the bar, his head bandaged up with gauze and tape. He had said nothing about his injury but I felt obliged to ask. Mo, he said, lost his mind this morning. I don't know what I did to tick him off but I've never seen him so angry. Thought he was going to kill me. Maybe you should find another master, I suggested. That's what Mo said, Giuseppe muttered. Antonio joined two young ladies sitting in a booth. He appeared convivial, summoning every trick in his arsenal to charm them. They laughed at his audacity, his zest.

Then one day on College Street little Domenic almost ran me over with his stupid mountain bike. Outfitted in a full riding kit, complete with cap and goggles, gloves, spandex trunks, and so forth, he hopped off his bike and grabbed my arm. Guess what Michael told me this morning, he wheezed. What? I asked. Turns out, Domenic said, that Antonio isn't so Venetian after all. He just taught English there for a couple of years,
English
. He was born right here in the hood. Moved to North York as a teen. Michael always thought he looked familiar—then his Uncle Alphonse spots the guy in the bar and swears they went to school together. Do you believe this shit? Wow, I said, not surprised but disappointed. I had a feeling Antonio knew more English than he ever admitted, but for him to carry on that subterfuge for so long was ridiculous, perhaps even pathological. I would have been pissed off if we were more than just acquaintances, but that's all we were, I couldn't call him a friend. If the guy wanted or needed to play the Venetian, power to him, but it had probably taken more effort than it was worth.

Misery loves company—but I preferred solitude. My roommate Pat was off on another adventure—this time to Prince Edward Island for a cycling trip. I had the apartment to myself again and spent much of the time on my futon thinking about everything, often about nothing. I was too restless to read or watch television. I tried smoking pot but it made me paranoid. I was fucked. Though I fought the urge, I called Melissa. She never picked up. I left a few ludicrous messages, insulting her, accusing her of dishonesty, infidelity and so on, hoping to provoke a return call, even if to tell me to cease and desist, but she didn't call back. I rode my bicycle down to her house one night. The lights were on. I tried to get a glimpse inside through the curtained front window but I could see nothing. I heard music, however, and laughter, and I had half a mind to pound on the door and make a scene. I had been good for them in the past. But it was too late for scenes. I mounted my bicycle and rode home.

My deepest apologies, Antonio said in perfect Toronto English, bowing his head a little and taking my hands in his. You of all people, he said, you who never presumed, never judged, and yet I've seen you suffering and you've never spared a smile or a good word. I beg your forgiveness. I've offended you and . . . He went on at some length. I told him to forget about it. I wasn't going to hold a grudge. We all have our reasons for hiding behind masks. Don't sweat it, I told him, all's forgiven. Today is a new day. He happily ordered two grappas from Giuseppe. Pour one for yourself as well, Antonio said. We clinked glasses and drank. It burned nicely going down, the aftertaste pinching my tongue. Several young women entered the bar in a swirl of perfume, hair, and sunlight. No reason to despair, I thought. There was a lot of summer left, and I intended to make the best of it. Just one more thing, I said to Antonio, still batting his eyes with regret and solicitation. Shall we continue speaking in Italian?

Two men were beating another man senseless in front of a darkened tavern. It was late, well past closing time. I watched in silence as the two kicked the other into unconsciousness. His body and head shook from the blows; his assailants didn't look like they intended to stop. Under the gloomy street lamps their eyes flashed and their leering faces shone. Except for them, and the unconscious man, the street was deserted. They hadn't noticed me yet. I stood there calmly watching as they continued to kick away, grunting with effort. Takes some work to kick a man to death. A gun or a knife would have been quicker but surely not as satisfying, and not as earned. Finally, I stepped forward.

“Hey,” I said.

My presence startled them.

“Who the fuck are you?” said one, taller and uglier than the other, who was short and ugly.

“Don't you think he's had enough?”

“What business is it of yours, motherfucker?” barked the short one.

“It's not any of my business. I'm sure he deserved the beating, but unless this is a contract thing—I mean, what are we, animals here?”

The two looked at each other. The short one kicked the limp body one more time and then approached me with his partner on his heels.

The little man opened his yap as if to bark out something else, but
before he could I kicked him squarely in the chest and dropped him cold. The tall one, surprised by the suddenness of the action, backed off, turned around, and started running with a flat-footed gait.

Didn't take long to catch up to him. I tripped him and stomped his face until it was unrecognizable. Then I dislocated both of his shoulders.

Went back to the other short one. He hadn't gotten up, but he was conscious, though his breathing faltered.

“Fuck . . . fucking . . . bastard . . .”

Sat on his chest and with my thumbs, pressed his eyes until blood began to spurt. He couldn't scream; most likely the kick had cracked his sternum, a horrible thing to suffer, but I'm sure he wanted to scream, I'm sure in his way he was screaming. I slapped him a few times, more for myself than anything. The slaps were the least of his worries, the slaps. I had an idea. I dragged him to the side of the road. Straightened his legs, positioned his feet on the edge of the curb. Then I jumped on his knees.

The dude beaten up by the pair stood there.

“You . . .” His mouth gurgled blood.

“What is it?” I said.

He staggered toward me, clawing at the air with his bloody hands. He was all broken, his intentions unclear. I stepped up to him and cracked him one across the chin. He went down in a heap.

My hands ached as I walked home. What was wrong with people? I hated all of them, all of them. They made me hate myself. They made me hate myself and that was unforgivable. But I didn't know myself back then. Things had gotten savage. I had to survive. The only thing I had left was self-preservation.

The cockroaches rustled when I switched on the bedroom light. Most of them scattered under the litter, but the bolder ones knew I posed no threat. They never touched me and I respected them for that, small hardy bastards. I saw genius in their form. What else would you call it?

And just as I saw genius in all things, in all the myriad forms and constructs, all the movements and machinations, I saw how even my
existence had genius guiding it, the genius of all things. But I needed to sleep. I needed to shut my eyes and clear my mind, for there was chatter filling it up. I touched myself. But no, I couldn't under the circumstance.

Unable to sleep, I got up and dressed. It was almost dawn. I stepped out. A fine drizzle fell, disturbing my eyes.

A large black dog came trotting toward me but he stopped abruptly and veered across the street. He knew better. Walking, walking. Pum, pum. And then it was morning. I found myself sitting on a bench near the harbourfront. Gulls, ugly gulls, filled the low grey sky. The lake looked like iron. My knuckles throbbed. I shook out my hands. A man on an orange bicycle pulled up.