Archibald Full Frontal, page 8
“Poetry?” Michael’s voice brims with disdain. “How quaint. I heard that was very popular … in the sixties.”
“And you are nothing if not a paradigm of modern efficiency. If you continue recycling those plots, you may not actually need to write another word.” Archibald swallows, and I can see him getting ready to pounce, fangs out. My eyes volley between them. Just then, the elevator stops, and the doors open on our floor. Archibald, though, isn’t moving.
“Archibald?” I say anxiously, jostling his arm. He scowls in my direction finally. “We’re here. Home.”
“Give my regards to your ego,” Archibald calls out, just before the elevator doors close, but not before Michael slips in, “If you do the same for your buried youth.”
I follow Archibald to his door. I had always assumed there was a professional jealousy between them and that it was on Archibald’s side. After all, Michael represented everything he resented. He was mainstream, ultra-successful, charming, sought after. But their meeting signalled something more significant. A personal contempt, mutual on both sides, I felt sure. “What on earth happened in there?” I ask, panting.
He turns to me, the same arctic expression on his face. “Let’s just say, we have a history.”
I lean on the balcony, sucking absently on a blueberry. It is delightfully icy and tart. Sam brought by the tub of blueberry ice cream, one of Archibald’s favourites, for their card game. Archibald has been remote and grumpy since his elevator encounter with Michael a few days ago. The turnout for the game was smaller than normal, as though people could smell the danger in the air. Intuition is a survival skill in Archibald’s circle.
Archibald had played three games and then gone to his room and shut the door leaving Sam and Zoltan to themselves. Zoltan had shrugged smugly, finished off his ice cream, stuffed his winnings into a red and green beaded pouch, and left.
I had been trying to write a paper on Christopher Marlowe’s importance as an Elizabethan poet. I had managed two pages but had stopped, less than uninspired — I ended up out on the balcony, sketching.
“I see your paper is progressing well,” Sam says as he joins me on the balcony.
“It’s your fault,” I say, sticking out my purple tongue at him. “Too much sugar.”
I close my sketchpad on a rendering of Sam’s face I rather liked. We look down at the rusty, leaf-clogged streets. People on the way to or from some destination caught up in the beginning, middle, or end of their lives.
“Experience is a kind of knowledge, isn’t it?” I ask.
“Not necessarily. Experience can impart knowledge, create it, but it doesn’t always. Otherwise, older would always mean wiser, and that is definitely not the case.”
“I’ll say.” I lick my spoon. “Look at Archibald.”
He grins. “There’s a fair bit of knowledge rattling around in that brain.”
“And experience,” I joke.
“Plenty.”
“So experience can be a teacher, but whether anything of value is actually learned depends on the student,” I surmise.
“When did you learn something that wasn’t of value?” he asks, leaning beside me.
“Well, take sixteenth-century literature, for starters.” And this job, and Michael. Our affair was an experience to be sure, but did it actually have value? Was it changing me, and if so, for the better? The night before he had guided me to the bedroom, hands on my shoulders. A black cocktail dress was draped over the piano bench. It looked expensive. “I thought you might like it.”
“Wow. Were you expecting me or someone else?” I’d asked, wondering if he kept a wardrobe on hand for all the women in his life, in case he needed a last-minute escort to some high-end affair.
“You, of course. Size six, right?”
God, he was good.
“Try it on.”
How had he known that I had been coming? I hadn’t even known that I’d been coming. I had planned to spend the night watching an old black and white movie on television, something with Jimmy Stewart, but halfway through I had grown restless. So far, I had managed to avoid any of the other “restless” girls I assumed made their way through his perpetually open door. I had told him to hang a chain on his front door knob if he was “occupied” for the night to avoid any awkwardness. But on the dozen or so times I had gone up since, I had yet to see it.
I had picked up the dress. It was silky and covered in a matching translucent film. It looked like something ex-Miss Vancouver would have worn. I looked to see if the price tag was still attached, just to make sure it was not a cast-off of hers. I pulled it out: $800.00. I had never had an entire outfit worth that amount, let alone a single, tiny dress.
He stepped out of the room. I put it on. There was barely anything to it. The top was cut in a low V-neck, and it had long sheer sleeves. A slit revealed an entire leg from calf to thigh. Still the effect was unusual. I looked about five years older. I held up my arms and swirled, feeling like a shadowy butterfly.
“You look incredible.” He had changed into black slacks and a signature silk shirt with grey embroidery around the neck. “I almost forgot these.” He handed me a pair of shoes, black and shiny with long, thin stiletto heels. They looked Italian and lethal, like they could poke a person’s eye out. Heck, they looked like they could perform eye surgery.
“You expect me to walk in these?” I asked, looking down at my feet.
“You’ll manage fine.”
I slipped them on. They added about four inches to my height, making me about six feet tall.
“You look like a seductress,” he said.
“Or an expensive prostitute,” I quipped. That was probably the desired effect. But I wasn’t displeased to see myself so completely transformed. He pulled back my hair, which looked redder against the black dress, and kissed my shoulder.
“We should be going.” He glanced at his watch.
“Going where exactly?”
“I booked a table at Convent. It’s just a little restaurant, a nightspot really. Very private.”
I tapped my heel, which made a metallic klink on the marble floor. “I thought we worked this out. We don’t go out places as a couple because we aren’t a couple.”
“What’s one night in the scheme of things?” he said genially. “And who would see us? Archibald is out of town, right?”
“How do you know that? You two aren’t exactly bowling buddies.” Archibald had packed up after receiving a last-minute invitation to a weekend “retreat” at a fellow writer’s house in Washington State.
“We have acquaintances in common.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“What are you so worried about? Look, we’ll take the car downstairs. No one can see in the windows. You’ll be incognito.” I looked at him. I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked at him again. Why did I have a sense of foreboding about this? And why did I know I was going to completely ignore it?
We pulled up a long, secluded driveway and stopped in front of an old brick mansion, set back in the hills of West Vancouver, on a windy road. Inside, we were whisked to a table immediately. A youngish woman with long red nails smiled and greeted him by name. We were taken below ground to a medieval-style wine cellar where about ten other couples were seated at tiny tables. Dark and intimate, it was almost eerie, very discreet. I looked around, imagining all the other couples as products of illicit liaisons. He ordered champagne — to celebrate our first date, he said. I ordered pasta with clam sauce. He ordered the fish and sat back in his chair, looking pleased with himself.
I sipped the champagne and thought of smooth undulating waves. I felt my body relax, almost against its will.
“So, what was with all that tension in the elevator the other day?” I asked.
He played with his fork. “He just has the knack of rubbing me the wrong way.”
“You’re not the only one,” I said, even though I didn’t buy his explanation.
“Speaking of elevators, who was the guy you were with the other day?” he asked lightly. I was picking up a mussel drenched in a wonderful creamy chive sauce.
“You’ll have to be more specific. I have a frequent rider’s card on that elevator.”
“He was younger, with longish hair. I thought I recognized him.”
“Oh … you must mean Sam. He’s the caretaker.”
“Really? You seemed pretty well-acquainted.” He leaned forward in his seat but kept his eyes on his plate.
“I mean, he plays cards with Archibald and — we’re friends.” I was trying to remember when I had last seen Michael when Sam and I had been together. I must not have noticed him, which seemed weird. I dipped bread in the sauce. He hadn’t moved.
“Good friends?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Just curious…”
“Yes, come to think of it, he is a good friend, as far as friends go.”
“How good?” Something uncertain flickered in his eyes. It was like the moment of hesitation before a sputtering flame quietly dies or bursts to life and incinerates the room.
I stared at him for a second. “What are you getting at?”
“You tell me.”
“I thought you wanted your own space. To see other people.” I had smelled her perfume in his bedroom just last week. I knew I wasn’t his only nightly visitor.
“Sure. And you see him, the janitor?”
“He happens to be a professor.”
“Really? A professor of what?”
“Philosophy.”
“It figures.” He laughed derisively.
“What does that mean?”
“Only a philosophy instructor would have to supplement his income by fixing other people’s johns.”
“He’s not a plumber.” I put my fork down. “Not that there is anything wrong with plumbers.”
“You don’t have to be so defensive.”
“I’m not,” I said even more defensively.
Not sure why I was angry, I got up and made my way to the bathroom. Unbalanced on my heels, I took what felt like an hour to get there. The bathroom was plush and soothing, the floor covered in garnet-coloured carpet, the walls with mirrors that were diagonal and skewed. When I looked in the mirror, I couldn’t recognize myself. I didn’t like him badmouthing Sam. But Sam was just a friend. Why was I so worked up?
By the time I made it back to the table, Michael was conciliatory. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just curious about what you get up to.”
“Well, you will have to stay curious,” I said tightly, but smiled.
“Are you ever curious about me?”
“No. I’m not.”
After dinner, he led me through the restaurant, up a flight of stairs at the back of the house, and into another larger room. Couples danced over a polished hardwood floor while a jazz band played from a small platform. This is where rich people get it on, I thought.
I put my arms around his neck as we slow danced. I’d had a thing for jazz ever since that night months ago with Sam. I could feel the warmth of his neck beneath my fingers. I was almost as tall as him in my heels. I let my head rest against the place between his throat and shoulder. He ran a hand up the back of my thigh, and I dipped my head back. Blood rushed to my brain. I closed my eyes.
He leaned in close and whispered, “You’d tell me? If you fucked him.”
I stood up abruptly, dizzy. “I didn’t think you were the jealous type,” I managed.
“And what if I was?”
“Then I would say it’s time to call it a night.”
“Be my guest.” He released me suddenly and I stumbled slightly, trying to gain my balance. He turned away. I glanced around me, but the other couples kept dancing, uninterested. I hurried from the room, heading for the staircase, heart pounding. I rushed down two flights until I reached an exit.
Outside, the cool air was bracing. I leaned against the building. This had not been what I expected. The door opened beside me with a groan, and I knew he was there.
“I’m going to walk,” I said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t walk in those.” He sounded contrite, but his face looked stormy, unsatisfied.
“Of course I can,” I said, staggering off in the general direction of the driveway.
By the time I had finished meandering down the driveway, he had pulled up in his silver Porsche. He pushed the door open, a triangle of light beckoning me. I hesitated and then got in.
“Why can’t everyone just agree that Nikes are sexy?” I said, closing the door.
“Look, I’m sorry. But what’s wrong with being a little jealous?”
“It just doesn’t fit. It’s not us. I can’t believe I’m trying to explain this to you.” I yawned, suddenly exhausted, the velvet-smooth motion of the car making me sleepy.
“What if I wasn’t seeing anyone else?”
“Then that would be your choice,” I said. “But you are anyway. I smelled her perfume in your room last week.”
“Who?”
“You know who. Miss Vancouver.”
“She came by to pick up a few things. That was all.”
“Look, it doesn’t matter, but there’s no reason to lie.”
“It was just goodbye.” His eyes were on the road. The car manoeuvred swiftly around a corner and sped up down a long stretch. It was like it was driving itself.
“And you can say goodbye or hello as often as you like. You said it yourself, monogamy is overrated.” Was he really serious about all of this? Or was this some childish masculine ritual I knew nothing about? An attempt to implement a double standard — he could date whomever he wanted while I had to remain faithful? I wished I had a copy of Casual Dating for Dummies handy or at least a quote from Gloria Steinem to back me up. He was silent as we pulled into the parking lot.
“Surely you see women who are just casual acquaintances? Women who have other lovers, like you?”
“Yes, of course,” he said impatiently. “But I didn’t expect that with you.”
“What? That I might want to see other people? Or that other people might want to see me?” I could feel the heat creeping from my neck up to my face.
“That’s not what I meant. I don’t know what I meant. You just didn’t seem like that type. Not really, anyway.”
I opened the door. “I guess you were wrong.”
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” He was a wounded bird now. But I never liked birds much.
“To bed,” I said. I hopped out and made a beeline for the elevator. He had the good sense not to follow.
The next morning, I opened the door to get the paper and found a paper bag. I opened it up. It was the stilettos and a long-stemmed yellow rose. A small, neat, handwritten note said: “Too much wine last night. Forgive me? M.”
I sat down in the kitchen and looked at the shoes as I absently rubbed my sore, puffy arches, not sure what to make of the strangeness of the night before and of the even stranger game he seemed to be playing. A game where the rules seemed to be mutating. Maybe it was time to take a break for good.
I dumped the shoes and rose into the back of my closet and opened my English textbook. Christopher Marlowe had been a well-known womanizer killed in a tavern brawl. Had we really evolved much in the interval? If Michael was any example, maybe experience had taught us nothing at all.
“Okay. Who am I?” Archibald quizzes cheerfully as he steps out of his room.
He is modelling his costume for tonight’s Halloween party. He has finally found an event where he can be himself. Dressed in a deep red suit and a matching cape, with two horns protruding from his head, he twirls around to reveal a pointy tail, while jabbing a tiny pitchfork in the air threateningly. I was eating popcorn in front of the TV after spending the morning organizing Archibald’s filing system and feeling especially apathetic.
“A flight attendant?”
“Be serious!”
“Satan’s grandfather?”
“Do you think it’s too much? Be honest.”
“Not at all. In fact, I barely noticed you were wearing a costume. What are you really going as?”
He gnashes his teeth menacingly and swings the pitchfork in my direction, which thankfully is made out of felt and plastic. “I am smashing, aren’t I?” he says with a familiar self-satisfied gleam in his eye. “And the pitchfork doubles as a cane. Festive and functional. Have you tried your costumes on yet?”
“I’m not going.” I cross my arms.
“Of course, you are. I bought you a ticket and went to the trouble to pick not one but two costumes for you to choose from. You are not going to sit here and watch television tonight. Not on my watch. Besides, I need you to drive me home in the likely event that I become obscenely drunk,” he says, revealing his true motives.
“All right,” I grumble. It’s my twenty-fourth birthday and no one has even so much as bothered to call. “But I am not going as a mermaid, and that is final. I’ll freeze to death.”
“If you’ve got it, flaunt it. It won’t last forever, you know. First gravity, then childbirth … what a cruel penance.”
I think about the last time I dressed up. Michael has been gone for over three weeks on a publicity tour. I told myself the time off was necessary, a good thing, even. After our disastrous dinner, things had been too intense. And yet since his departure my life had been completely dull. The phone wasn’t ringing. Nothing held my interest. My barometer was permanently set to boring.
“Besides, a night out is just what you need,” Archibald continues. “You’ve been positively depressing to be around these days.” He leans on his pitchfork.
“Geez, thanks for the cheerful thought, Horned One.”
I get up from the couch as he threatens me again with the pitchfork. I’m glad it’s not real, as he seems especially nimble tonight.
“And do something with your hair for the love of Christ and the Devil!” he calls after me.
I dress in the second option: a roaring twenties dress. It has spaghetti straps and is covered in long fringes with beads that flare out whenever I move. I put on two long beaded necklaces. I brush my hair, which hangs below my shoulders, unruly, bordering on frizzy, and pin it up in the back and, with mass amounts of gel and hairspray, attempt to arrange it in finger waves. A little rouge and he’s right, I do feel a little better. I look like a fun-loving, carefree girl, almost.
