Part 31 (1/2)
”This is an admittedly crude model of a buffalo head, the future of 10 Garneau.”
But for the French music and the gentle creaking of David's chair, as he rocked back and forth, the boardroom was silent.
s.h.i.+rley raised her hand.
”Yes?”
”Raymond, are you saying you want to turn 10 Garneau into a...buffalo head?”
”That's precisely what I'm saying. We will do some renovations to the current house and cover it in a buffalo head sh.e.l.l.”
”Rye whisky going once,” said Jonas. ”Rye whisky going twice.”
”You see, the buffalo is the great martyred G.o.d of Edmonton. Sixty million of them wiped from the plains in ninety years, and for what? For the short-term”
David raised his hand. ”Won't the hair rot?”
”A terrific question, David. I have taken the liberty of contacting the DuPont company in Wilmington, Delaware, and they have just the product. It can freeze in the winter and bake in the summer. Moisture runs right off.”
Jonas raised his hand. ”You're a k.n.o.b.”
”I don't agree.”
Despite the crudeness of the buffalo head model, s.h.i.+rley didn't agree either. The tone of Raymond's voice reminded her of the student she had met thirty-five years ago. Back then, he was on his way to Yale and Oxford; he was going to be the leading philosopher of his generation. Marriage, fatherhood, lack of regular exercise, poor eating habits, and a long succession of career failures had erased all of that. Suddenly Raymond was back and she tilted her head at him. ”What will go inside?”
”Another good question, and a difficult one. The new composer-in-residence of the Edmonton Symphony Orchestra was here this afternoon and we discussed that very thing. If we all agree that a buffalo head affords the highest possible degree of mythic powerand I think we canthe sights and smells and sounds inside that buffalo head are of supreme importance. I was thinking”
”Will the buffalo head house have a mouth, Raymond?” Abby approached the model. ”Because this thing doesn't really have a mouth.”
He sighed and raised his arms. ”Maybe it would be better if I drew the model.”
Across from s.h.i.+rley, Rajinder grunted. ”Are there any objections or alternate solutions?”
”I hate it,” said Jonas. ”I'm humiliated for us all.”
David nodded. ”Yes, it's quite ridiculous. And I must say, Rajinder, a considerable waste of resources.”
”Thank you,” said Rajinder, flatly. He sighed. ”A show of hands, please. Who would like to proceed with the head-of-a-buffalo house on the site of 10 Garneau? If we agree, I will hire architects and Raymond will organize a publicity campaign to shame the university.”
Slowly, all but Jonas and David raised their hands. Abby approached her husband and whispered in his ear until he smiled naughtily and raised his right arm.
”Jonas,” said s.h.i.+rley. ”Raise your hand, you big t.i.t.”
It took several minutes worth of sarcastic remarks, and s.h.i.+rley's promise that she would indeed take a rye whisky with him after the meeting, but Jonas finally lifted a finger in support of the buffalo head.
75.
the crying men s.h.i.+rley and Jonas took their rye whiskies at Earl's on Campus, where they also ordered a plate of calamari and some spinach-artichoke dip. For half an hour Jonas mocked the idea of a museum shaped like a buffalo head until, that particular engine of mockery running out of fuel, he concentrated on littering, politics, architecture, and weather.
”What are you really talking about, Jonas?”
He sprawled in his chair and finished his whisky. ”I hope the university destroys the block with a bomb.”
”Jonas.”
”I'm feeling quite hateful, s.h.i.+rley.”
”Don't say that.”
”I hate everything right now.” Jonas looked out the window at the intersection, where a black sports car rumbled before a red light. ”How much you want to bet that guy lets his car idle all the time? When it's cold and when it's hot. For hours. Hours! And then he complains about high oil prices, the stupid inbreeding gaybasher. I bet Carlos does that too. The barbarian coward son of a zealot.”
”Jonas.”
”I'm a fool for living here and so are you, s.h.i.+rley Wong.” Jonas turned around and addressed the drinkers and diners. ”Only idiots live in Alberta! You're all redneck idiots and I hate you!”
A man in a camouflage jacket and a collection of rings in his lip and eyebrows waved. ”I hate you too, buddy.”
Jonas and the man met halfway across the room, shook hands and introduced themselves. For a couple of minutes they complained about urban sprawl, gun control, herbicide use, and the sorry state of contemporary literature. While this went on, s.h.i.+rley dipped the last few deep-fried squid in tzatziki and gave her credit card to the pa.s.sing server.
Jonas returned. ”That man's nickname is The Goo. He introduces himself to strangers as The Goo.”
”You see? Edmonton's not so bad. The Goo lives here.”
”It'll take a lot more than The Goo to make me love this city again. I'm gonna need to win the lottery or something. Something drastic.”
s.h.i.+rley signed the bill and took her jacket from the nearby tree. Before it got too late she wanted to get back home to Steamer, who was probably reading that podiatry textbook she had bought for him. Jonas followed her out of the restaurant, laying some skin on The Goo as he pa.s.sed.
”Hate on, brother,” said The Goo.
They crossed the avenue and pa.s.sed the university theatre, where men and women in suits and dresses sipped drinks and nodded at one another and laughed. Jonas stopped. s.h.i.+rley thought he was going to make a spiteful remark about the student actors. Instead, his eyes filled with tears. ”I'm forty-something and I'm lonely.”
In September, Raymond had been fired. Then, a day ago, regretful about his roguish behaviour on Halloween night, Steamer had cried twice about breaking his parents' hearts and sinning himself straight to h.e.l.l. Now, s.h.i.+rley comforted her third crying man the way she always comforted a crying man, by rubbing her hand down the back of his head and saying, ”Shhh.”
She walked Jonas to his door and waited in the kitchen while he completed his bedtime was.h.i.+ng, flossing, and brus.h.i.+ng regimen. It was stuffy in his house, a marriage of unwashed dishes, cologne, and marijuana smoke, so she opened a window. When Jonas was finished in the bathroom, she drew a gla.s.s of water and tucked him into bed.
”Am I going to be okay?” said Jonas, as s.h.i.+rley walked out of his dark bedroom.
”Of course you are.”
Walking home, s.h.i.+rley studied her neighbours' houses. Madison's lights were dim. Upstairs at the Weisses, there was life in the kitchen and in the spare bedroom, where Raymond lived. Through his picture window she could see Rajinder reading a hardcover book on the white couch, his legs crossed daintily.
She entered her front door and a blast of wind sucked her in. This meant the back door was open, which was not an energy-effcient idea in November. She called out to Steamer, and Patch answered from downstairs, ”He's taking his last load out!”
Downstairs, Patch was watching a show about swimsuit models.