The Memory Artists Part 29

"Hey Mrs. B," said JJ, "why do golfers wear two pairs of pants? In case they get a hole in one."

Another detonation from Mrs. Burun, followed by one from Samira. Norval's face remained blank as the two women screeched.

"A guy in a restaurant, Nor."

"JJ ..."

"'Waiter, there's a giraffe in my omelette-'"

"JJ ..."

"Yes?"

"Sod off."

"Right."

"... Saudi Arabia on the attack. We're two minutes into the second half and it's six-nil Holland ..."

"I vote we switch channels," said Norval.

"How about Fas.h.i.+on TV?" JJ offered, wiping tears from his face. "Maybe Mrs. B would like that." He pushed a number on the remote.

"Fas.h.i.+on TV," said Norval, "can be watched only one way."

"Really? How's that?"

"Muted."

"Are there any sports you like, Norval?" asked Samira, as JJ muted. "Besides swimming and archery?"

"Certain moments. My favourite is watching a bullfighter get gored by the bull. Or a horse trampling its rider."

With one hand over his mouth, JJ switched channels with the other, to a Quebec show called Ayoye! Ayoye!

"Must we listen to that language?" said Norval.

"That language?" said Samira, a crease of irritation appearing between her eyes. "It's your mother tongue. And JJ's." language?" said Samira, a crease of irritation appearing between her eyes. "It's your mother tongue. And JJ's."

"Look, it's about time everybody stopped being politically correct about this. The so-called French spoken in this province is bilge-mongrelised, pidginised gibberish. The premier knows it, the education minister knows it, and anybody listening to Canada's Prime Minister knows it. But n.o.body has the guts to say it. Not only do most people in this province have a vocabulary of less than a hundred, but the accent is the vilest and vulgarest on the planet."

"Why you don't tell us what you really think?" said Samira. "Don't be shy."

"It's the Emperor's New French."

Samira nodded. "Do you ever actually think, or do you just spit out words like a wired doll? Prejudices, sweeping statements, generalisations-you never seem to get beyond that."

"Sweeping statements are the only kind worth listening to. Balanced opinions are for bores and third-rate minds."

"Must you always talk in aphorisms and faux profundities? Who are you trying to be? La Rochefoucauld? you always talk in aphorisms and faux profundities? Who are you trying to be? La Rochefoucauld? Every Every language on earth has people who use it poorly. This province no more than any other. Vile? Vulgar? Those are subjective terms. I happen to think the accent is lovely. And who made you the grand arbiter of taste and beauty? Who gave you that t.i.tle? Why do you despise people who are different from you?" language on earth has people who use it poorly. This province no more than any other. Vile? Vulgar? Those are subjective terms. I happen to think the accent is lovely. And who made you the grand arbiter of taste and beauty? Who gave you that t.i.tle? Why do you despise people who are different from you?"

"I despise people who are like me as well."

"You hate everything and everybody. You're nothing but an embittered, middle-aged cynic."

"Middle-aged? I was a cynic in kindergarten."

"A bellyacher and a bleater."

Norval exhaled a long jet of smoke while squinting at Samira. "Let's switch to the weather channel, JJ. I heard the forecast last night, but no one said anything about a s.h.i.+tstorm."

"Hey!" said JJ. "Where's the love? Friends are us."

Norval glared at JJ and was about to say something but decided instead to b.u.t.t his cigarette in the earth of a potted geranium.

"Friends and relatives are supposed to have a calming influence," JJ continued. "They reduce stress and heart attacks and increase longevity. Even make you less susceptible to the common cold!"

"Really," said Norval. "What about the friends and relatives who lie and betray? Who drive you to depression and suicide?"

"Married men live longer than single men. That's a fact."

Norval took a gulp of his cafe au lait cafe au lait. "They don't actually live longer. It just seems seems longer." longer."

JJ let out a high-pitched tweet of a laugh. "How did you ever get to be such a pessimist?"

"By listening to you optimists."

Identical laugh. "Good one. So how do you like my cafe au lait cafe au lait?"

Norval felt something fiery and amphetamine racing through his blood. "Has a bit of a bite, I have to admit. What's in it?"

"It's triple-caffeinated with roasted guarana and the soymilk contains a natural h.o.m.ologue of Benzedrine."

Norval emptied his mug. "Got any more?"

"No, but I also made some tea. An old Algonquin recipe. Young twigs of mountain-ash with old twigs of white spruce, leaves of wintergreen and flowers of Canada elderberry. A real pick-me-up."

"Great. Then I'll paint my face, put on a war bonnet."

JJ pursed his lips, as if about to whistle a song.

"Why don't you make your announcements now, JJ," said Samira, as Noel entered from the kitchen with a hesitant and unbelonging manner.

"Right you are. Hey, it's the Noelmeister! Join the party, dawg. I'm about to make some announcements. Four in total. All good. Let me just turn this off. Right. Number one: we're forming a club, with us five as members, with our headquarters here at Mrs. B's. This will qualify us for some very sweet munic.i.p.al grants. The Alzheimer Alchemists is the name I propose for our club. All those in favour, say-"

"JJ," said Norval.

"Yes?"

"Get on with it."

"Number two: federal and provincial grants all lined up-for mortgage payments for our new clubhouse, lab equipment, medications, and for generally easing any ... financial embarra.s.sment. On one of the grant applications, by the way, I had to say we're making a feature-length doc.u.mentary. Which will bring the private sector on board to fill our coffers-because with my film experience I'm going to handle the PR and funding! And you know what? I'm going to sue the companies that stole my film tagline-for general, punitive and aggravated damages-with all proceeds going to the club. We're going to reach an amount that only astronomers can make sense of!" Here JJ stood up and raised his arms, as if trying to start a wave.

A few seconds of puzzled silence followed, which Samira filled with an "All right! Good for you, JJ!"

"And the good news," said JJ, "keeps coming! Number three: CBC4, the satellite channel, is auditioning contestants for a quiz show. In May. I'm sure you've all seen it: Tip of Your Tongue Tip of Your Tongue!" He looked directly at Noel. "But it gets even better. Guess what the subject is for the month of May."

"The subject doesn't matter," said Norval. "Noel will memorise everything ever written on whatever it is. Right, Noel?"

"No, that's not right," said Noel. "I'm not going on television. That would ... not be possible."

"What's the subject, JJ?" Samira asked.

"Are you ready for this? The subject is ... poetry. Poetry Poetry, can you believe it? It's destiny! Opportunity rocks!"

"What's the top prize worth?"

"If you go all the way, fifty g's! And Norval has a plan, a real humdinger. Totally Totally foolproof." foolproof."

"Foolproof depends on the size of the fool," said Norval.

"Veux-tu continuer, boss?"

"A few years ago a British army major won the million-pound jackpot on the British version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. It turns out he was helped by an audience member, who used a system of coughs to help him answer correctly. You must have heard about it. Well, if Noel refuses and I have to go on-a.s.suming I qualify-then we're going to do something along the same lines. Not with coughs, that's hare-brained, but with a supersonic hearing device. Any questions I can't answer will be answered by Noel, who will give me signals with a dog whistle." It turns out he was helped by an audience member, who used a system of coughs to help him answer correctly. You must have heard about it. Well, if Noel refuses and I have to go on-a.s.suming I qualify-then we're going to do something along the same lines. Not with coughs, that's hare-brained, but with a supersonic hearing device. Any questions I can't answer will be answered by Noel, who will give me signals with a dog whistle."

"And Norval will be wearing my watch-transponder!" said JJ. "Is that brilliant, Noel?"

But Noel was preoccupied; he was juggling coloured letters in his head, anagrammatizing supersonic supersonic into into percussion percussion.

"To proceed," said Norval, "Noel will tell me if the answer is a a, b b, c c or or d d by one, two, three or four blasts of the whistle. Very simple. So, unless there's anything else, I move we adjourn." by one, two, three or four blasts of the whistle. Very simple. So, unless there's anything else, I move we adjourn."

"Not so fast," said JJ gruffly, letting seconds tick by for dramatic effect. "One last topic. Number five. Arson."

"G.o.d, I almost forgot about that," said Samira. "Was there much damage, Nor?"

"Some furniture, a few paintings singed-I was getting tired of them anyway. All insured-with enough to cover JJ's place."

"Who do you think did it?" asked Samira. "The same person that set the other one?"

"This is what we're about to find out," said JJ. Norval's insurance offer had no effect on his expression, which remained detectival. "My gut tells me ... that somebody in this room is responsible for both fires. And n.o.body's leaving until we find out who."

The room fell silent. Samira nodded, struck by the inherent logic of the a.s.sertion. Could it have been Noel? Tracked down by one of his lunatic research patients? Or Stella, when wandering, unaware of what she was doing? How many times has she set off smoke alarms? But that's impossible. No, it must be Norval ...

Stella looked anxiously from face to face, feeling something sinister in the air. Which one of these people lights fires? Because it's not me, and certainly not my son. It can't be him, he's much too sweet a boy. Or her, she's too sweet a girl. It must be him, the handsome one ...

Noel fidgeted. Yes, he thought, JJ may be right. It's one of us It's one of us ... He looked around the room, dismissing each candidate in turn, until he got to Norval, whose face was buried in his hands. He must be behind this. Was he about to confess? Everyone in the room was now staring at Norval, waiting. ... He looked around the room, dismissing each candidate in turn, until he got to Norval, whose face was buried in his hands. He must be behind this. Was he about to confess? Everyone in the room was now staring at Norval, waiting.

Norval's foot began to tap slowly. He raised his head, guilt seemingly etched on his face. "JJ, I'm struggling to put a positive construction on this. Until now, I have treated your herbally-warped ideas with benign contempt. But now I feel awe: even by your own high standards, you have outstripped yourself in pointlessness. Every day with you is like a trip to Pointless Island."

"But I saw this murder mystery on TV about an insurance scam and-"

"Then your TV needs to be childproofed. The guy who set both fires was out to get me, a settling of accounts. He caught me in flagrante delicto in flagrante delicto with his girlfriend, Rainbaux. And then I caught him in my loft with a canister bomb. But there's nothing to worry about. He won't be setting any more fires for a while." with his girlfriend, Rainbaux. And then I caught him in my loft with a canister bomb. But there's nothing to worry about. He won't be setting any more fires for a while."

JJ was in a tizzy. "Really? You caught him? What'd you do? You held him until the cops arrived, right?"

"Something like that."

Chapter 20.

Norval & Stella Arrow removed from man's head Presse canadienne

MONTREAL, QUE.-A 28-year-old man is expected to be released from hospital today after doctors removed an arrow from his head.The arrow hit the upper part of the man's left eye socket, missing the eye, and lodged in a sinus cavity, narrowly missing the brain. The man's name was not made public.The victim, who is well known to police for drug-related activities, is being held as a suspect in an arson case on rue de la Commune in Old Montreal. The man claimed to be leaving a friend's loft when an arrow, shot by an unknown a.s.sailant, lodged 10 centimetres in his head. The arrow is currently being examined for clues.

The following day Norval was reading a newspaper, comfortably asprawl a Murphy bed in his chosen quarters, a secret and sacred lair that a younger Noel had cunningly carved out of the attic. A knock on the door distracted him from an article of interest.

"Enter," Norval commanded. He was facing away from the door, and did not turn round to see who entered.

"Norval, I was wondering if you ... if you'd like a drink."

"I would, yes. Just set it on the table."

"I mean, downstairs, with my mom. I was wondering if you could ... you know, keep her company for a while. Until JJ and Samira get back. She's all alone and I've got some things brewing in the bas.e.m.e.nt ..."

Norval had still not turned his head toward his visitor. A cigarette smouldered from the fingers that also turned the page of his newspaper. He now stopped to listen, not to what his friend was saying, but to Herman's Hermits' "Mrs. Brown You've Got A Lovely Daughter," which was wafting from Mrs. Burun's room below.

"Not too many people know this," said Norval, "but Herman recorded another version of that song. A gay version."

Noel listened. "He did? What was it called?"

"'Mr. Brown You've Got a Lovely p.e.c.k.e.r.'"

Noel paused, then straight-faced began to sing the rising echo-line, "Love-ly pe-cker ..."

Norval laughed, uncharacteristically.

"So what are you reading?" Noel asked. He walked closer to the bed, the sprung floorboards undulating under his feet, and peered over Norval's shoulder.

Norval frowned, put the paper down. "Noel, I can't stand people reading over my shoulder. Especially during s.e.x, because that means I'm getting b.u.g.g.e.red."