Barney's Version - Mordecai Richler [145]
I went and fetched another.
“Chin-chin,” he said, reaching for a dish towel to wipe the sweat off his chest. “Are all the windows open?”
“I ought to knock your teeth out, Boogie.”
“Only after I’ve had a swim. Oh, she asked a lot of questions about Clara. You know, on reflection, I think I was no more than a convenient deus ex machina. She wanted to get even with you for that woman you’re keeping in Toronto.”
“One minute,” I said. I hurried into our bedroom, and returned with my father’s old service revolver, which I set down on the table between us. “Scared?” I asked.
“Couldn’t that wait until after I’ve done some snorkelling?”
“You could do me a great service, Boogie.”
“Anything.”
“I want you to agree to be a co-respondent in my divorce. All you have to do is testify that I came home to my beloved wife and found you in bed with her.”
“Why, you planned this, you bastard. Taking advantage of an old friend,” he said, holding out his glass for a refill.
I scooped up the gun and aimed it at him. “Will you testify?” I demanded.
“I’ll think it over on my swim,” he said, rising shakily to fetch my snorkelling equipment and flippers.
“You’re too drunk to swim, you damn fool,” I said, following after him with that revolver still in hand.
“You come too,” he said, starting down the steep grassy slope to the water. “It will do us both good. Ime-tay or-fay old oys-bay to et-gay ober-say.”
“I’m going to lie down. So should you. Look at you, you can hardly walk in a straight line. Don’t, Boogie.”
“Last guy in the water does the washing up.”
“Stop,” I hollered, “or I’ll shoot.”
Boogie guffawed in appreciation of my jest. He paused to adjust his snorkelling gear, falling down twice, and then continued down the slope in his flippers. “Look out,” I said, and I fired a shot well over his head.
Boogie’s arms shot up in a gesture of surrender. “Kamerad,” he called, “kamerad. Nisch shissen.” Then he zigzagged the rest of the way down the slope, raced across the dock, and plunged into the lake, disappearing underwater.
I retreated into the living room to lie down, and had just begun to drift off on the sofa when the phone rang.
“I am calling to inform you that my daughter will be staying with me for the foreseeable future. I am instructed that you are not to attempt to communicate with her, but may address any inquiries to Hyman Goldfarb, QC.”
“Why, Goldilocks, that ain’t very friendly.”
“How dare you.”
“And tell her for me that Miriam Greenberg hasn’t got an unfortunate voice. It is a beautiful voice,” I said, hanging up.
Big-mouth, I thought. Now you’ve gone and done it. Hughes-McNoughton will blow his top.
Getting down on all fours, I made it back to the sofa and fell into a contented sleep instantly. I had only been out for minutes, it seemed to me, when a roaring, like an airplane engine, shook the room, and I dreamt that my plane was going down. Shaking off my stupor, I was overwhelmed by confusion. Was I in Montreal? Miriam’s apartment? The cottage? Scrambling slowly to my rubbery feet, I staggered outside, trying to locate the source of that roaring. It had been a passing airplane, but it was now so far away I couldn’t tell whether it was one of those NATO fighters out of Plattsburg or a transatlantic jet. Then I saw that it was dusk. Glancing at my wristwatch, I was surprised to discover that I had been asleep for more than three hours. I slipped back into the cottage, splashed my face with cold water, and then stood at the foot of the stairs and called out, “Boogie.”
No answer.
“Wakey, wakey, Boogieman.”
He wasn’t in his bedroom, or anywhere else in the cottage. Passed out on the dock, probably, I thought, but he wasn’t there either. Oh, my God, he’s drowned. No, not Boogie. Please, God. The lake is shallow and clear for