Archibald Full Frontal, page 6
“It already has.” I stifle a burp. Edna waves at him enthusiastically, calling him over.
“Be good,” he says to me, eyes mischievous. “As Clinton says, ‘Don’t kiss and tell. You are in the army now.’ Or was that Hillary?”
I give him my best military salute. “Watch out for the punch,” I call after him. Speaking of punch, I think, I could use another hit.
She almost knocks me over as I close in on the punch table.
She is in her thirties, tall and slim with long, straight dark hair. She stands out, dressed in a skimpy, off-the-shoulder sheath and silver stilettos, not exactly standard picnic attire. She looks like she’s just stepped off a runway. In the collision, she jostles me with a bony hip. I drop my plate and it lands with a plop in the grass. A matronly woman with a helmet of tight grey curls scowls at me as if I had tossed my food on the ground intentionally.
“Hey,” I say, irritated. I had worked long and hard to fill my plate so full.
“Sorry.” She staggers, glancing towards me. Under her mane of hair, I see that she is crying. Her charcoal eye makeup is smudged, giving her a gothic punk look. A tiny dragon tattoo glares at me from her bare shoulder blade. She is to-die-for gorgeous. I feel bad for her. Anyone so perfectly groomed didn’t put in all that effort for her own pleasure. It is on my tongue to say, He’s not worth it. You’ll feel much better if you have some punch and maybe a little or a lot of food. But I hesitate, and she stumbles off. The crowd parts to let her through. Glamour and mystery cling to her like an unwanted overcoat. Heads turn after her, eyes greedy, watching her go; the collective thought is, Where did she come from? And where is she going?
She pauses as she reaches the trail that leads to the underground parking and casts a long, scathing glance at something or someone.
And then I see him in the distance. He is standing in the flower garden, partly concealed by a clump of tiger lilies and a bonsai tree. He sees me too and averts his eyes, looking sheepish.
Fireworks explode, splashing through the sky. Ephemeral paint scorches my eye sockets, the colour of violence, bruises, and grapes, fading into violet, dried lavender. I lean down on him, my face inches from his and flick my hair forward so he is hidden under the burning curtain of my hair. And I can no longer see the intensity in his eyes. I can feel my skin, sensitive and charged; the momentum of our two bodies wrapped together; the slightly bitter smell of his sweat in the coolness of the evening.
We are outside on his balcony high above the party below. The concrete is hard beneath my knees, grating against my skin. I close my eyes and clamp my mouth shut against a scream.
We silently watch brilliant patterns weave through the electric air. Orange, pink, and then blue arch and burst in a final paroxysm across the black sky. Below us, people clap and cheer. How many of them will stumble home drunk and make love, clinging to each other as they fall asleep in the darkness of their rooms?
“That was … nice,” he says, his voice thick.
“Very nice,” I agree, reluctantly coming out of my stupor. That was some punch, I think.
In the kitchen, throat parched, I gulp down two glasses of orange juice. He steps into the kitchen, hair slick from the shower, in a burgundy robe. It is his favourite colour, I have discovered. He leans on a stool, looking reflective. He has the moody look of a gothic lover in a Brontë novel.
“Mr. Rochester,” I say.
“Does that make you the governess?” He half-smiles, his minimal, uncommitted smile.
“Are you thinking about her?” I ask. “The woman downstairs.”
“A little,” he admits.
“What happened?” I ask. I finish off my third glass of juice, feeling a bit queasy.
“Another?” he quips, shaking the near-empty container.
“Did you love her?” I ask, knowing very well that what he felt for her would have made Cupid scowl with disdain.
“Love her…?” He looks away.
“Well, did you at least like her?” I press, enjoying a slightly perverse sense of power.
He frowns. “Of course I liked her.”
“Well, then, why not keep seeing her?” I reason.
“Because I don’t … I can’t give her what she needs,” he fumbles.
“Give her what she needs?” I lean forward on my elbows, a reporter pressing her interview subject.
“A commitment. I’ve been down that road before.”
“And what do you need?” I probe.
“I don’t need a lot of questions,” he says edgily.
I shrug, put my juice down with an unintentional clink on the marble counter, and get up to go. I glance back at him. He is still sitting in the kitchen staring absently into space.
“I’m going to go,” I say.
“Wait,” he says. “I didn’t mean to be sharp. I just … despite what you may think, I’m not a Casanova. I don’t have a harem, you know.”
“A harem, no, but a sizable fan club.” I will not be hurt by him. He looks away, face impassive and remote. I can still detect irritation beneath its surface stillness.
He reaches forward abruptly and takes my arm. I jump in reflex and then stand for a second, uncertain. He closes his fingers around my forearm lightly as if considering it. Then he takes the other arm and places it around his back, until my arms encircle him. His robe is soft beneath my fingers. I sigh and slide my arms around him. And I feel my heart beating its silent consolation. I know what I signed on for, I think. And so did she, the other one. It wasn’t as though he had lied.
“Why do things always end badly.” It’s a statement, not a question, as though he knows an answer will not be forthcoming. He releases me then and leans against the smooth marble counter, forehead creased. A Grecian statue come to life, but instead of pondering the nature of the universe, he’s pondering the fruitlessness of his love life.
“Do they?” I ask, hardening myself.
“For me.”
“Well, this won’t,” I say with conviction.
“This?” he asks blankly.
“Yes. You and me. This is ending with a firm handshake before a final ‘So long, it’s been a slice.’” I grin like a cheesy salesman.
“Why do I always get the feeling you’re making fun of me?” He sounds peevish.
“Because I am. You like it.”
“Sometimes.” He reaches forward and fixes one of my dress straps. “You’re twisted.”
“I know.” I laugh. “Look at you — always undressing and redressing women.”
He smiles ruefully. I sit on the floor and put on my shoes.
“I missed you, last week, when you didn’t come,” he says quietly. I look up at him.
“It was only for a little while.” I had been testing myself, as I did periodically, taking a week off. Making sure things stayed as they were.
“It was long enough.”
Was this a hook? If so, what was he fishing for? I stand up, uncertain. He leans in to kiss me, but I block him with a forearm.
“Are you trying to tell me that I’m the new Miss Vancouver?” I say lightly. “Do I get a tiara?”
He sighs, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. And he is fun Michael again. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Marcell Returns
I sleep that night with a strange sweetness in my mouth. Sugary and tart at the same time, it’s like a lemon-flavoured lollipop stuck in my throat. I had stayed up late with a mystery novel, a thin, old-fashioned volume that Archibald had recommended. He had come home from a book club meeting, which seemed to be just another opportunity for him to indulge in drink and ego, to find me sitting exactly where he had left me hours earlier, in front of the TV switching the station every five minutes. He’d rumbled around in the kitchen in search of goodies, finding nothing but a plate of cookie crumbs, the remnants of Maria’s chocolate-jam cookies that I had eaten in his absence. He dropped the plate in the sink with an irritated clatter and then disappeared soundlessly. A few minutes later, he tossed the volume at me. “You watch too much television; how about taking your brain for a walk or at least resuscitating your imagination?” The book landed on the couch beside me. I ignored it until he was gone from the room and then took it up. It was a slim, tattered paperback, covered in what I guessed (or hoped) to be coffee stains. I took it to bed with me that evening, prepared to be disappointed.
But the book was pretty good, I had to admit. It was fast-paced, free of lengthy observations and supercilious descriptions. It got to the point. I read until my eyes were raw and heavy, and I felt wrinkled all over with good, satisfying exhaustion. I put the book down just as James Drinkwater, Mrs. Grinsome’s younger lover and scuba-diving instructor, was about to provide a much-needed alibi for his whereabouts on the night of the murder.
My dreams were cluttered with blood-stained knives, romantic trysts, underwater adventures through turquoise waters, and the strange and perplexing taste of lemon. After my dream’s exotic pivot, it hardly seemed surprising to awake to a little man pushing open the door to my room and padding unsteadily to my bathroom. My bed is positioned in such a way that I can just make out the bathroom door when I’m lying down. He leaves the door slightly ajar, and I can hear the tinny sound of urine hitting the bottom of the bowl. He is humming to himself, low and off-key, a kind of sad, lonely, wolfish melody, not quite human. And when he is finished, he sighs loudly, as though the temporary relief of an overfull bladder renders life just bearable, and lets the seat fall with a jarring klank.
The noise shakes me out of my dreamlike trance. I sit upright in bed, heart thundering. Was it James Drinkwater come to life? I realize that my eyes are open, and that either my dream is real or I am, in fact, not dreaming. I blink doubtfully. But the bathroom door is ajar. A slice of yellow light escapes through the gaping membrane between the door and wall. A man’s voice mutters, thick and guttural, as from within a deep, soupy fog. And I reluctantly come to this conclusion: someone has just taken a piss in my bathroom.
I move to the edge of the bed, running various scenarios through my mind. Before I have time to unmuddle my thoughts, to my horror and relief, the door swings open, and there before me stands the stranger, exposed, illuminated by the moonlight shining through my window.
He is a little grub of a man, greasy, wearing oversized pyjamas that billow from his tiny, sinewy frame. He is balding, and what hair remains stands up in two brown tufts on top of his head. His face is unshaven, and his eyes are barely open, only the tiniest of slits. From his person emanates the unmistakable aroma of lemons. I sit paralyzed on the edge of my bed, holding my breath. He takes no notice of me, scratches his chest for a second or two, and begins to make his way across the room, swaying and muttering. It is obvious that the man is extremely drunk. I wait for him to let himself out, but he pauses, then staggers and turns slightly.
“Zut! Where did I put my car?” he mutters in a thick French accent. I glance over at my clock. It is 3:15 in the morning. He turns his head this way and that as if his car has been misplaced somewhere between my dresser and the window. When he doesn’t find it, he scowls.
“Excuse me!” I say, discovering my voice all of a sudden. It is obvious there has been a huge mistake. “Hey, you! Little guy!” I stand up now, T-shirt nightie hanging below my knees.
He looks over to me, and his eyes widen into two shocked, yellowish globes as he surfaces from his drunken stupor. “Christ on a crutch!” he exclaims, looking me up and down. “Who are you?”
“I think a better question is who are you?” I say, losing my remaining patience. “This is where I sleep. My room. It’s not a urinal.”
“Who am I?” he repeats. And then again, uncertainly, “Who am I?” I begin to feel like I might be having an existentialist nightmare. I take a step towards him, and he jumps, taking a step back in retreat. “I am … Marcell,” says Marcell, in obvious relief. “And I am … where am I?”
He scans the room, as if he has just been beamed down from a UFO with his memory freshly erased, and I begin to feel sorry for the man. He is, by the looks of it, utterly harmless. Even if he is a murderer, he’s a very small one. I relax. “Okay, well, I’ll get Archibald. He must know something about this.” I push past him, opening my front door. He manages to follow me out into the hall, leaning slightly to the left and colliding with the wall.
“Did you say Archibald?” he says. He peers around the apartment, relief spreading over his face. “Thank God! I thought I was going mad. Again.” He stumbles into the darkened living room, and I see that the couch has been made into a bed. Clothing is scattered beside it on the floor, small pants and a grimy shirt. Marcell, without any further explanation, sinks into the couch, where he lies soundlessly with his eyes closed. The whole room percolates with the smell of lemons. I stand waiting for a second or two, and when he doesn’t move, I return to my room, shut the door firmly behind me, and press a chair up against the knob to prevent a second visitation.
The next morning, I awake later than normal. I hear faint sounds emanating from the innards of the apartment. Maria, irritated to find a stranger sleeping off the effects of a drunken night in the living room, must be kicking up a racket in an attempt to intimidate him. I imagine her slamming dishes and muttering in Hungarian while the little man tosses and turns.
What I find instead is extraordinary. The living room is freshly vacuumed and the couch, free of blankets and Marcell, is neat and orderly. Perhaps she’s given him the heave ho, I muse as I make my way to the kitchen.
But Marcell, still very much present and accounted for, is seated at the kitchen table. He is hunched over with his head buried in a newspaper. Print-covered pages are strewn in disarray across the table. Still in his pyjamas and draped in one of Archibald’s silk kimonos, his face and neck are covered in uneven stubble, and he has large purple bags under his eyes. He looks like an eccentric millionaire after a night of subterranean misadventures. The radio is blaring folk music. And Maria, standing with her back to me at the stove, is humming of all things! Before I can announce myself, she turns, holding out two heaping plates piled with pancakes, sausages, and eggs, and sets them before Marcell. She beams down at him solicitously.
“Your favourite, Marcell,” she says. “The lumberjack’s breakfast.”
Marcell, droopy-eyed, gives her a crooked little grin. “Ah, thank you, mon cheri,” he says in a deep, raspy voice. “You have a memory that is as clear as a glacial lake.”
Maria beams, understanding that he has paid her a compliment, if somewhat uncertain about the actual clarity of a glacial lake. I shift uncomfortably, trapped in a scene of strange domestic felicity. Just then, Maria notices me. The smile dies on her lips, and her cheeks redden. “Oh, Maggie, you are finally up,” she says, back to business. “I was just getting Marcell’s breakfast.”
Marcell looks up from his paper, stands up formally, and takes my hand. “It is a pleasure, Maggie.” He is not more than four-and-a-half-feet tall and looks to be anywhere from his late forties to mid-fifties. There is an air of weariness about him, as though life has been less than kind and he has emerged in one piece through sheer endurance. He smiles briefly and for a second is young and charming, as he might have been years before. He then sits down heavily, massaging his temple, once again a bedraggled, middle-aged man. “My head, it throbs,” he says apologetically and helps himself to three tablets from an Aspirin container Maria has served with the food. He swallows them back with a gulp of coffee. He lifts a fork and hesitates over the pile of food before him, as if staring up the face of a treacherous mountain trail. “It looks delicious,” he says and takes a big bite of pancake. Maria watches him, satisfied, and turns back to her work cleaning cupboards. There is nothing but dregs left in the coffee pot, but I manage to pour myself out half a cup of the bitter brew.
“So, are you visiting from out of town?” I ask. Who is this tiny stranger who has elicited so much devotion from the previously bloodless Maria?
He sighs a long, wispy exhale and then bites into a strip of bacon. “Je suis un petit peu from everywhere.”
“Marcell is from Montreal,” announces Maria, head in a cupboard, as though this at once explains his mysterious appeal.
“That was a long time ago,” he says.
“Don’t you look like one big happy family.” Archibald appears from around the corner, startling me and causing me to choke on a mouthful of the putrid coffee. I cough and swallow hard. He is freshly showered and dressed in tan checkered pants and a pink cardigan, a pastel golfing outfit. He admires golfing fashion but has nothing but disdain for the sport itself. Today, he almost bounds into the room, exuding childlike anticipation. “Marcell, darling, this is Maggie, my assistant,” he says.
“We met last night.” I give Marcell a sideways glance. He looks up blankly from his mountain of food and raises a bushy brown eyebrow at me innocently.
“Good,” says Archibald. “Marcell is a dear old friend. A most welcome guest. He’ll be staying for a few weeks or so, until he gets settled. So, Maria, can you make up the hideaway for him? He can sleep in my office.” This is royal treatment. I never imagined he would allow someone to spend a night, let alone a week, in his most private sanctum.
Maria turns and beams in Archibald’s direction from her perch by the kitchen counter. She tucks her rag in her pocket, gingerly climbs down from the stepladder she uses for cleaning, and hustles out of the room.
Archibald glances impatiently at Marcell, who is plodding wearily through his food. “Great Jehovah, is all of that for you?”
Marcell shrugs. “I must look like I need it. That Maria is a fine cook.”
“Maggie will help you. She eats like a horse,” he offers.
“Not hungry,” I say indifferently as my stomach growls in protest.
“Well, in that case, you can attend to the pansies; they need replanting, and then you can finish off the letters I left in the dining room,” he says officiously. “Marcell, get yourself showered. The day awaits. The evening beckons.”
