Part 28 (2/2)
”Some things are private.”
”So that explains why you look so dug-up lately. And why your house is falling apart, like some decaying mansion out of Poe.”
”Should've seen it before Sam and JJ arrived.”
”And yet your mother seems ... fine. I mean, in the few exchanges we've had.”
”She's getting better.”
”Was it ... is it Alzheimer's?”
Noel nodded.
”At fifty-six? s.h.i.+t. Wasn't that the age that Claude-”55 ”Yes.”
”So you feared ... what? You thought that since I couldn't stand my mother I wouldn't understand your ... your devotion to yours? Your martyrdom, sacrifices?”
”Martyrdom? Sacrifices? What am I sacrificing? I've nothing else. She spent practically her entire life caring for me. She used to drive thirty miles out of her way, daily daily, so I could go to a special school. And after Dad died it got even harder for her, to say the least. And she didn't go out with other men-she didn't have time, she said ...” Here Noel flashed to a colleague of hers in the history department who was mad about her, whom he had stupidly objected to one evening, for no valid reason, whom she immediately stopped seeing. ”So why wouldn't I care for her? Helping her, on a small scale, as she helped me?”
Norval was surprised by this sudden outpouring. He was moved as well, on a small scale, but made sure not to show it. He undid a smokedpearl b.u.t.ton on his s.h.i.+rt before covering his face with the brandy snifter. An intoxicating perfume of almonds, vanilla and poached pears.
Noel watched him, almost enviously. He would never be able to knock back an amount like that, not without retch and spasm.
Norval savoured the long spicy (clove and pepper?) finish. ”I hear you're working with JJ,” he said evenly, feeling a pleasant internal flush. ”Down in the dungeon.”
”Correct.”
Norval gave a slight nod. ”That sounds promising. To save time, why don't you just tie a millstone around your neck and jump in the Saint Lawrence?”
”No, you really don't know him-”
”What's that, that cl.u.s.terf.u.c.k over there?” Norval pointed to a sideboard with a marble top and bra.s.s rail at the back, on which mounds of faded papers and airmail envelopes were scattered.
”Samira and JJ found them. They're my grandmother's stuff, her doc.u.ments. She was a witch. Who cast spells.”
”Your grandmother cast spells.”
”Correct. She also had a great memory. Probably a synaesthete too, although I can't find any references to it. She ended up in an inst.i.tution.”
”So you'll end up in the same place?”
”Very likely.”
”So what are you going to do with it? Put it in a recycling bin?”
”Well, Samira and JJ suggested I throw a bit of mysticism and spirituality and irrationality into my ... research.”
”You're going to cast spells.”
”In a nutsh.e.l.l.”
”Great. Now all you have to do is trade a cow for some magic beans.”
”We're already starting to get results. Samira's already cured her insomnia with an insomnia spell.”
”I'm afraid to ask what that involves. Eye of newt and toe of frog? Six pinches of powdered orangutan nuts?”
”Look, it's right here: 'Hot milk, turkey, nutmeg and oregano.' Lactose is a sedative-that's the scientific part-and milk is 'sacred to the Mother G.o.ddess, containing the spiritual power to comfort, soothe and nurture.' Turkey contains tryptophan, an amino acid that causes drowsiness. Nutmeg has medicinal and magical properties similar to those of opiates or peyote. And then you just repeat this chant-”
”Jesus Christ, Noel. Has JJ bit you on the leg? Is this what you three Cuisinartists have been up to? Staving off the inevitable with spells spells?”
”There's nothing 'inevitable' about my mother's condition. You'll see.”
[image]
The television was echoing in the cathedral-ceilinged family room when Norval stumbled down the steps the next day at noon, unkempt, unshaven and underdressed. He made his way into the kitchen as if sleepwalking, a smouldering filter in his mouth. Half-moons under his eyes matched the dark stains on his smoker's fingers.
At a table heaped with the wreckage of breakfast, Noel was absentmindedly filling in the squares of a cryptic crossword. ”What can I get you, Nor?”
Norval looked briefly for an ashtray before tossing his cigarette b.u.t.t into the sink, which sizzled like an electrical short. ”I don't know,” he said with a gravelly voice. ”What do you Scots have for breakfast? Haggis? Arbroath smokies with stovies? Soor plooms and chittery bite-”
”There's coffee behind you.”
In the family room Samira was arranging blue irises in two vases on a side-table made of split-bamboo. Red-gold sunlight lay in bright puddles on the rush-matting beneath her bare feet. Behind her, on an overstuffed sofa, JJ and Stella sat side by side, watching soccer on an arcane sports channel.
”OK, Brian, it's time for the second half of our feature match, Holland versus Saudi Arabia, which is shaping-”
”Saudi Arabia?” Norval said from the doorway, coffee mug in one hand, cigarette in the other. ”The Saudis couldn't score in a brothel.”
Samira turned. ”Well, well, well, a breath of French air.”
”Nor!” said JJ, looking as bright and alert as a squirrel. ”Join the party! Have a seat.” He wiggled closer to Mrs. Burun, patted the seat beside him. ”Here.”
Norval remained standing, took a gulp of coffee.
”Hey Nor, why did the coach give lighters to his players?”
”Careful now. You wouldn't want me to spit out my coffee.”
”Because they lost all their matches.”
”You hit the hilarity motherlode with that one, JJ. Let's all take five minutes to slap our thighs, shall we?”
A belated burst of laughter came from the sofa. From Mrs. Burun. Looking her way, JJ dissolved in a jelly of giggles, which started Samira up.
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