Part 29 (1/2)
”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-”