Dinner Along the Amazon (28 page)

Annie’s room was the last on the left, with windows facing both east and south. Her views were of the park and the dark cathedral; of streets slipping down to the town and the river itself, the black St. Lawrence: oiled by ships in transit; arched by bridges; strung with lights. It was autumn and the leaves had fallen: the very best time of year to see in all directions, including down. She had always preferred the November streets, alive and wet with snaky neon; reflections everywhere; and everywhere, the bent, unseeing eyes of passers-by. The very best time of year. In every way.

The telephone rang.

“Annie Bogan, please.”

“Mademoiselle Bo-gan n’est pas ici, M’sieu’.”

“Uhm-oh.” (Whoever it was could not speak French, she supposed. All the better to keep him at bay.)

“Eh? S’il vous plait, M’sieu’? Un message pour la?” (Dead silence.) “M’sieu’?” (More fumbling silence: a sort of sigh.) Annie now amused herself by adding a sing-song tone: “Okay! A vo’service, M’sieu’. Bye-bye…” and had all but completely hung up, when the voice came through with a shout:

“You bitch! Is that you?”

The voice now had a certain familiarity, even held at arm’s length. She brought the phone back up to her ear.

“Qui va la?” She smiled. The standard English greeting in Quebec, since Wolfe.

“It’s me, you dumb-assed broad.”

“Hughie?”

“None other…”

“Come on, now. Don’t get smart,” she cut him off. “Where are you now? Are you here?”

“Of course I’m here. I live here. Christ! You don’t remember nuttin’. I always said you was nuts. So—what’s ya doin’?”

Hughie Gates. And, suddenly, she didn’t want at all to see him. Two seconds before, when first she’d recognized his voice, her heart sort of leapt up—but, now, his collegiate gaiety had brought her down with a bang. She remembered him real: as he was.

“I’m busy,” she said, too fast. “You know I’m very busy these…” she went on, trying to string it out so it wouldn’t sound unreasonable. “And just how did you, by the way, find out that I was here?”

“Claire. She knows everything.” (Hughie’s wife.)

“Really!” (I’ll kill her.) “And how are you?”

“Hating it.”

“Hating what? Montreal?”

“Teaching, dumb-ass. English. You know:
an-glais
.” Roars of laughter. God—he thought he was a bloody scream…

No. She did not want to see him.

“Hugh, listen, what can I do for you, hon? I really am quite busy.”

He paused. He was obviously thrown. Mostly, she was glad to see him: when she saw him. Over a year, but not quite two. A long way off and a long time ago. In Toronto.

“I thought we might have a drink,” he offered.

“No.” She had to say no. “It’s just this trip. I’m really kind of pressed.”

“Okay,” he said. And he came right down to the Hugh she had liked, the one she could abide, with his own voice: “I’ll tell you the truth; there’s a problem…”

Jesus. She didn’t need a problem. Not someone else’s problem. Not now: but, still…

“What is it? Is it Claire?”

“Come on, Annie: don’t be so crass. I thought you had more imagination than that. Jesus! A man says he’s got a problem and everybody jumps right in with ‘your wife, of course!’” (He was using his voices again.) “It is not my wife, dumb-ass: it’s…”

Someone was talking off-stage at Hughie’s end of the line. Annie waited. She might as well hear the worst and then hang up.

“Are you there?” she said.

“Yes, yes. Hang on…” More voices. Claire’s was one of them—and, then, one other: indecipherable.

Annie watched herself waiting in the mirror across the room. She was wearing red. Her face was absolutely white and her eyes were absolutely black. She was Irish, but her long, white face, black hair and vivid mouth had a way of making her image Japanese. Her wrists were Japanese—and her hands, with beautiful, cultured nails like pieces of elegant shell, were Japanese. And the red. She surrounded herself with red: all kinds and every shade of red, from pink through orange. And black and white. Kabuki. F.N. Thompson even called her that: “Kabuki Bogan: the Lady of Words.” And his letters always began: “My Lady…”

“Yes?”

“Well, you see—we have a visitor. Who sort of wants to see you.”

No. “Who’s that?”

“It’s Frannie.”

Annie caught her breath. She was lost in the mirror. Too bad: the pause would be telling. Still, she couldn’t help it. Frannie. Jesus-and-Teresa. Why? “So what’s the trouble?”

“Trouble?” His whimsy had returned.

“Don’t be dense, Hugh. I’ve already said I’m busy. And I could hear all those voices. Ergo: trouble. Now—come on. Tell me. Stop horsing around. There isn’t time for cute…”

“Well—fuck you, too!” He was serious, now: and angry. “Christ! You pick up a few reviews and a bit of money and you go all grand on everyone. Screw that, Bogan. Goodbye.” And he hung up. Just as suddenly as that. He was gone. And with him, why ever it was that Frannie had been so desperate to see her. She felt as if someone had pinned her.

4 p.m.

The phone didn’t ring again. And she couldn’t, even though she’d gone so far as to look up the number, really telephone him. Not Hugh. Not after the past—and the present. No.

She’d tried to take a few drinks. But never—they never worked. They were not the same. It was not enough. Nothing but all the way was enough. And she thought of her arms—and the needle and just how long it had been since (careful) yesterday. And, well: it was now…it was sometime, now, in the afternoon. And she walked, had walked to the window and looked, had looked all the way down. It was twenty-one window-ledges down and she looked, had looked at the street. And then it was now. It was now in the afternoon and, yes, she would have to. Yes, she would have to. Yes. And she did.

She crossed the floor and drew off the dress and was still in red, because the slip was red and then she went and locked herself in the bathroom. She locked the door, because the locking of the door was a part of the process: always had been a part of the process. And always would—and always would—and always would be. Even locked in behind a thousand doors, she would always lock that final door. The farthest door. The furthest door. Farthest and furthest.

Farthest is place
, she repeated:
furthest is always in the mind
…

And then, in twenty minutes (four o’clock) she came back out and lay on the bed. Her arm, which was sore, was across her face and her eyes were closed. In a moment, it would not be bad: so bad. And then it would slowly get better. And better. Until it was all all right. And the needle took effect.

She wished there was music. Music was always nice. Or Frannie. Or something. Later on, she might—she just might, yes, go out and see if there was something. Somewhere. But, now (she got up) a drink: a drink would go down very nicely, very nicely, thank you now, my love.

And she lifted the dress and she floated, all in red, across the room toward the windows—gathering whisky all the way. The Lady of Words was pinned against the glass. If only F.N. Thompson could see her now. His Lady. Laugh.

11 p.m
.

Le Bistro was slowly filling. Annie felt late. She always felt late in the rush.

There was music here—and that was good. Helen Reddy was singing a song called “Time.”

“…carry me on…” she could hear, as she raced, or seemed to race for a place, alone, at one of the tables. She sat. Her coat was a weave of red and orange: and, above it, her face was powdered, over-white and she wore her deep green specs, the ones with the silver frames and her gloves were as long as giraffes and her shoes were like tongues that could taste the floor.

Here was a haven-place. A home. Relaxed: “A Pernod, s’il vous please.” Amongst the true companionship—the anonymity of peers. Of peer-sons. Wow! She breathed. She sighed. The Lady of Words who hadn’t made it out the window yet. Tonight.

Off with the gloves, then: one by one, expose the nails; one by one by one by one; the “Pernod fluted into frame; the boy who brought it beautiful; the waves of Helen Reddy’s singing one by one
and when I
one by one
go home my heart like a
one by one
stone: will they
one by one
call me their own when I
one by one
go home
?

Her fingers, laid out in neat array at last upon the zinc, were very pale and shell against the grey. She was mirrored, now: and waited. She counted up her muscles, thinking: here are poems:
here are my poems: my desperation in repose
…

It was good. It was written: published—and good. Even Hugh had thought it was good—in his back-handed way—even in anger, good. And, here was freedom—if someone would come.

The faces scattered round the room were English, French, Canadian, some above leather, some above dumpy-wool and duffle. And their feet all leaned so easy on the floor. It was lovely to watch their feet and to wait. There were faces she knew and some she did not. There were shoes she didn’t give a damn about and some she longed to hold between her teeth and suck. Some shoes had even come across and said hello. It was getting early now—and the earlier it got, the more she thought: if someone doesn’t come, I’ll have to let some one sit down. She was cast adrift: anonymous, and yet they knew her. Her specs were a ruse against the dangerous light—and a signal of respect for friends. And every one of them who stayed for words was good about her book: no flattery, just pleasant praise, acceptance, gratitude that she’d survived. The pleasure of her peers, who knew you survived, or did not survive, a book. And then…

There was Frannie.

She could see him beyond the glass refractions and he had to break through the Gauloise fog to reach her.

“Hello,” he said. His hands were in his pockets.

“Yes. Well. You didn’t phone, you see. And I thought you might have telephoned when he hung up—and then I got unbusy and…I drifted over here.
Sit down
.”

He did not sit down.

She watched him—sideways, while he watched the room. He did not look well. He did not look sane, somehow.

“Sit down. It would be nice. You draw attention, when you stand.”

“Maybe I want to draw attention.”

“Frannie. Shit. Sit down.”

He sat: a sort of glide to the chair, his hands still deep inside his pockets, shoulders hunched, his hair across his face.

Annie smiled.

“Here we are,” she said. She reached for a cigarette and held it tight between her teeth. “I’d like a match, if you have a match,” she said.

Frannie fumbled around in the depths and hauled out a Zippo lighter and flicked it open. He struck the flint with his thumb and placed the flame at her disposal. The waiter came. Frannie ordered a bottle of wine and Annie held her glass up, empty. Frannie and Annie.

The waiter took the glass and went away and they were left alone again.

“How come you’re in Montreal?” she asked.

“I’m writing a screenplay,” he said. And he gave the word a smell as he said it.

“Film Board?”

“Yes.”

She knew he hated it. “It’s a living,” she said.

“So’s dying,” he said, “by comparison.”

Annie smiled. “Remarks are not literature, Mister Hemingway,” she said.

“And you are not Gertrude Stein.” He finally turned and fully faced her. “Thank the Lord Jesus.”

The waiter brought the wine and a glass and Annie’s per-nod. Frannie began to talk.

“It’s rained four days,” he said. “It will rain for one day more—and then it will snow.” He poured his wine. “This place is nice: I’ve always liked this place. The tabletops are
zinc
. They’re French, you know. This whole idea is French. The whole idea of zinc is French.”

Annie watched him, feeling careful: moored, not quite adrift.

“You zinc zis isn’t Frenzh…“he rapped the top of the table. He was trying to smile. It took a long time. And it never quite came.

Annie locked her hands.
Please, Frannie: don’t be dumb
, she tried to say, but couldn’t. And then she looked up and Frannie was weeping: soundless, immobile. “What’s wrong?” she asked in the gentlest way she could. “What is it, Frank?”

“For Christ’s sake, pay no attention.” He got out some rainy wads of Kleenex and a pair of old, blue gloves and set the gloves aside while he blew his nose.

Finally, he said: “It’s good to see you, Ann. I’m glad. I’m very glad you’ve had success.”

That did it. “Come off it, Frank,” she said.

She bit her lip and looked around the room. She’d pin him, if he wasn’t careful. And then she looked right back. “I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it. She was. She knew he didn’t need another hurt. “You want to go?”

“I haven’t finished my wine.”

Annie laughed. “You’re a hopeless drunk.”

“I know.”

“And you think that’s attractive?”

“No. What is, these days?”

Anger: “
Christ
! I was only
kidding
, Frank. Jesus!
Hopeless
!”

“I’m not complaining about my hopelessness. Don’t you.”

Annie sat silent. She looked around for someone to pin. It didn’t matter who, just someone. She began to feel a chill and she wove her coat around her shoulders, drawing on the long black gloves. With a terrible sense of foreboding, she felt the floor return beneath her feet. Her face began to freeze with a desperate poise. I’m here: she thought. I’m here, goddamn it. I’m here.

Frannie began to finish his wine. It took him almost an hour.

Annie thought: I wish F.N. Thompson would come. I want to be carried out a Lady.

The Saturday 3 a. m
.

In the room, they lay on the bed, in the dark.

“Funny,” said Frannie: “how we talk in voices, like Hugh—and terrible puns like me and French, like you.”

“Funny? Why funny?”

“Dunno. Just funny.” He drew on his cigarette and made an orange firefly. Bang. It went out.

“Do that again. It was nice.”

He did it again. And then he began to make it dance around in the shifty dark above the bed. “My father used to do that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. He used to sit on the other side of the room, when we were going to sleep as kids. My brother and me. And Dad would make these zippy fireflies all around the room.”