Part 29 (1/2)
revolver Butch ”Carlos” Ca.s.sidy leaned against the bar and yawned. Jonas, the Sundance Kid, waved at Butch from the dance floor and Butch made like he was shooting the Sundance Kid between the eyes.
For the eighth or ninth time, a manthis one dressed up like a CIA agenttried to pick up Carlos. Jonas could not read lips but he imagined Carlos saying, ”No, no thank you. At the moment I'm marvellously in love.”
For years, Jonas had questioned the motives of his friends who went to the Roost as a couple. A room filled with hundreds of inebriated and available men is designed to make attached people feel badly. You've either settled for an inferior partner or you're the inferior partner.
Somehow, Jonas felt neither inferior nor jealous. As he swayed to ”Monster Mash,” he tried to will Carlos onto the dance floor. Then he realized it was dumb to stand four metres away from Carlos and gesture at him. Jonas quit the dance floor.
”Is it always like this here?”
Jonas looked around. The drinking, the dancing, the smooching. ”Apart from the Halloween costumes, yes.”
”I never liked nightclubs. Even when I was a kid.”
”How come?”
Carlos shrugged. ”I prefer pubs. Or my house. Or just about anywhere, really.”
”You're a senior citizen.”
”My dad says that.”
A surf rock tune started up and Jonas wanted to shake his tight blue jeans. But a strange thing was happening to him. He was beginning to understand his partner's discomfort. ”You're sure it isn't a gay nightclub thing?”
”Well...”
”Would you like to leave?”
Carlos shrugged again.
”Be honest.”
”I want to leave real bad, Jonas. Real bad.”
Jonas crouched a little and performed his Paul Newman squint. ”Kid, the next time I say, 'Let's go someplace like Bolivia,' let's go someplace like Bolivia.”
”That's from the movie!”
”Good boy.”
Carlos walked out of the Roost and into the blizzard.
A giant black truck emerged from the storm. Jonas grabbed the back of Carlos's s.h.i.+rt. ”Butch has all the good lines but the Sundance Kid is better looking. Where should we go?”
At the Mustang, Carlos insisted Jonas sit in the car while he wiped off the snow and sc.r.a.ped the windows. Jonas reached over to start the engine and eject the Limp Bizkit CD. He found the case inside the glovebox and slipped the alb.u.m under his seat.
Carlos got in and cranked up the defrost. It remained almost impossible to see. Jonas wiped the condensation from his window. ”Should we maybe just call a taxi?”
”If we do, it'll take two hours.” Carlos put the Mustang in gear and proceeded slowly. South of Jasper Avenue, in complete whiteout, Carlos shook his head and turned into the Chateau Lacombe where he eased into the underground parking lot.
Carlos removed a black bag from the trunk and led Jonas to the hotel lobby and elevator. In La Ronde, the revolving restaurant, the host bowed to them and apologized. The room was nearly empty. Food service had been cut off but they were welcome to have a drink.
Jonas ordered an old-fas.h.i.+oned and Carlos asked for a coffee. They sat near the window and Carlos pulled a thin laptop computer out of his bag. ”Are you checking e-mail? That's awful, Butch.”
”Can you speak Spanish?” Carlos peeked around from his computer. His face shone white and faintly blue.
”Por supuesto,” said Jonas.
”Yes or no?”
Jonas didn't want to lie or explain about the limitations of level-two Spanish so he pointed at the laptop. ”The only thing more tactless than talking on a cellular phone on a date is opening up a computer.”
”When do rehearsals for A Christmas Carol begin?”
”Why, Carlos?”
”Just when?”
”The twelfth of November.” Jonas would be Bob Cratchit in this year's Citadel production. The role didn't bring out his best qualities but the money was good and he would be downtown, within walking distance of Chinatown restaurants, for almost two months.
The server arrived with their drinks and it struck Jonas that he was beginning to favour comfort over adventure. Here he was, sipping a quiet drink in a revolving hotel restaurant on one of the wildest nights of the year. Later on, at his place or in Leduc, he and Carlos would romance one another like a married couple. Instead of starring in an experimental show at the Roxy, he was choosing to play off Scrooge. And he was thinking seriously about auditioning for a three-month dinner-theatre gig in January.
”What's happening to me, Carlos?”
Carlos was lost behind the computer screen.
”I'm becoming everything I thought I'd never be: a fussy bourgeois without the regular paycheque. I might as well start wearing khakis and subscribing to Martha Stewart Living.” Jonas rested his head in his arms. ”At approximately 10:15 p.m., Halloween night, on the dance floor of the Roost, Jonas Pond became his father.”
Carlos closed the computer with a click. ”It's done.”
”I know. But you should have seen me fifteen years ago, baby. I was a star.”
”No, I mean it's done. Our trip is booked, but I left the hotels open. You can negotiate in Spanish so it'll be cheaper. We leave for La Paz at 6:41 in the morning, November second.”
Jonas leaned across the table and kissed Carlos on the cheek.
”Don't!” Carlos shoved Jonas away. He scanned the room to make sure no one saw, just as he always did when Jonas attempted a public acknowledgement of their relations.h.i.+p. The snow had dissipated somewhat and, through the window, the eastern half of the city revealed itself. Carlos pressed his forehead against the window. ”Hey, someone's trying to crawl up the slope of the valley.”
The Sundance Kid took his old-fas.h.i.+oned standing up, in one gulp. Then, without alerting Butch Ca.s.sidy, he walked to the elevator and pressed the call b.u.t.ton.
71.
quietude In her favourite chair, surrounded by lit candles, Madison attempted to think. Not think while watching rap music videos or reading Les Miserables. Just think, in silence.
It was torture.