Part 38 (1/2)

”Stop inhabiting an imbecile and help us.”

Jonas left Rajinder and the bald stranger near the front door of 10 Garneau and returned to the truck, where he accused some volunteers of wasting company time.

91.

small objects In the living room of 10 Garneau, Abby and Madison sat behind two computers. They catalogued each small object of mythic power according to a number, a description, the owner's name, and a sentence about its resonant properties. Raymond Terletsky, who discovered he was born to be a curator, greeted each donor at a small desk in between the kitchen and living room.

”It's a bird,” said a tiny, elderly woman. She held the ornamental blue jay in her quivering hands as though it would fly away if given the chance. ”A local bird.”

Raymond had already written her nameGladys Poonand a description of the object. What he had to extract from her was its meaning. ”Why is it important to you, and Edmonton?”

”Well,” said Gladys Poon. ”You see, I feel for it.”

He pretended to write that down. ”Where did you get the small bird?”

”My husband bought it for me sixty-two years ago. Every year at this time we would put it on top of our Christmas tree.”

”Instead of a star?”

”Yes.”

”Does Christmas mean a lot to you?”

”I'm Buddhist but I love the lights, giving presents, sharing time with friends and family.”

”So the bird...”

”The bird has soaked up sixty-two Christmases in our house. My husband has pa.s.sed now, and the children have their own families, their own children and grandchildren. The bird is not lovely enough for any of their Christmas trees.”

Raymond lifted his pen in triumph. ”Soaked up sixty-two Buddhist Christmases in the house of Gladys Poon.”

”Arthur and Gladys Poon, if you please.”

Raymond made the adjustment and took the bird. He shook the tiny hand of Gladys Poon and guided her to the door. ”I thank you, Mrs. Poon, and the entire city thanks you.”

”You're very welcome.”

Abby and Madison looked up from their computer monitors to say, in tandem, ”Thank you, Mrs. Poon!”

As the volunteer greeter helped Mrs. Poon out of 10 Garneau, Raymond tore the sheet out of his ninth notepad and placed it in the in-tray of the Weiss women. He took the blue jay's sticky number, 9012, and pasted the number to its underside. The bird would either sit on one of the shelves with its sentence of resonant properties or wait in the storage area downstairs for its two weeks on display.

Raymond's job as curator was becoming increasingly difficult. More and more Edmontonians were lining up with their objects of mythic power, and the house was beginning to feel small. The university president and her entourage would arrive for a tour of 10 Garneau on the eighteenth of December, so between now and then Raymond had to decide on an opening exhibit. The collection of items had to represent the whole of Edmonton, its history and its contemporary social and political culture, the peculiarities of its people. The Great Spirit had to be perfect, even though it would lack the buffalo headfor now.

The bird would stay upstairs.

Screaming electric saws and twenty hammers, multiple footsteps on the second floor, the echoing voices of men and women, filled the house. Each room had to be transformed into a gallery s.p.a.ce. Due to an odd confluence of noise just as the next donor entered, Raymond had to introduce himself with a scream. He was so accustomed to this ritual that he hardly noticed the man before him, with a copy of Henry Kreisel's The Betrayal in a gloved hand, was Dean Kesterman.

Dean Kesterman removed his right glove and offered forth the novel. ”Signed first edition,” he said.

”Do you have a moment to sit down, Dean?” Raymond pointed at the chair. ”We have a bit of a formal process here. How long were you waiting?”

”An hour and a half, two hours. But there's a musician out there singing and playing guitar, and a woman gave us coffee and puffed wheat squares. I'm a little bit jumpy.”

Raymond numbered the book and wrote the Dean's name. He tried his best not to appear nervous or shameful. ”You think we have a chance here?”

”Not a hope in h.e.l.l.”

”You're wrong.”

”Between you and me, certain people are whispering there are better places for the Isley Centre. But they aren't the right people.”

Raymond enunciated. ”I need a sentence from you that explains the resonance of your object.”

”I hardly need to defend a Henry Kreisel first edition.”

”It's part of what we're doing here.”

The Dean removed his hat and scratched his temple. ”Let's see. Expert use of the North Saskatchewan River as symbol. An urban Edmonton novel with elements of the immigrant experience, which is really the Canadian experience. The death camps”

”Sorry, Dean, Not good enough.”

Dean Kesterman sat up in his chair. ”Well. Well, I didn't know I was going to be judged.”

”How about a quotation?”

”That's what I'm trying to give you, Raymond.”

”No, a quotation from the novel. Do you remember what it's about?”

”Of course I do!”

Raymond a.s.sured the Dean he would take care of it, and escorted him to the door. In tandem, Abby and Madison looked up from their computer monitors to say, ”Thank you, Dr. Kesterman!”

The volunteers led two tubby and nervous adolescent boys into the house. Raymond stood in front of the picture window and surveyed the scene before him. Workers putting a new facade on 10 Garneau. A seemingly endless line of donors. Three women and a man behind a table borrowed from the community hall, brewing coffee and singing along with the guitarist. Beyond them all, his house across the street, his house again, the warmest place in the world.

92.

fitfamily The floor of the abandoned health club was strewn with dust, gla.s.s, Molson Canadian cans, Burger King detritus, nails and screws, and smashed fluorescent light tubes. It looked to David as though a coil of human feces had been left on the boot mat in the entrance.

”What is that?” Abby looked down at the coiler.