Barney's Version - Mordecai Richler [189]
“Do it yourself.”
But coward that I am, I couldn’t, not after all those years he had been with me. So I procrastinated, even as his work deteriorated further. But now that he had insisted on a twelve o’clock meeting in my office, surely to plead for more money, making things easier for me, I decided to act, with Chantal as my witness. “Sit down, Serge. What can I do for you?”
“I’ll come right to the point. Your friend Dr. Herscovitch established that I was HIV-positive after my little adventure in Parc Lafontaine. And now I have been diagnosed as suffering from full-blown AIDS.”
“Oh, shit, Serge, I’m so sorry.”
“I’m still capable, but I would understand if you wanted to be released from our contract.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Chantal, “Barney asked me to rewrite your contract only yesterday. He wants you to be cut in for a percentage of the syndication gravy.”
“Retroactively?” I heard myself ask, glaring at Chantal and wishing that I had bitten my tongue instead.
“Yes. As you like,” she said.
“I need some advice, Barney.”
So the three of us went to lunch at Le Mas.
“What about Peter?” I asked.
“He seems to be one of the lucky ones. I think he’s immune. Barney, there’s an insurance broker in New York who buys life policies from guys like me. I make him beneficiary and he advances me seventy-five per cent of the capital due on my death. What do you think?”
“You don’t need to traffic with such bloodsuckers. Tell me how much you want and I’ll lend it to you. Isn’t that what you were just about to suggest, Chantal?”
“Yes.”
After Serge left, Chantal lingered behind, and we continued to drink.
“You know something, Barney? You’re not such a bad guy.”
“Oh yes I am. You don’t know the half of it. My sins are legion. So I’ve got to put some points on the board while there’s still time.”
“Have it your way.”
“Christ, I’ll soon know more dead people than live ones. Why don’t you marry Saul?”
“For sure, when it comes to knowing what’s best for me, it’s a toss-up. You or my mother.”
“I don’t like to see you quarrelling with Solange.”
“Why don’t you marry her, Barney?”
“Because Miriam will come home one of these days. I’m willing to bet on it. Hey, for a guy named after a character in a comic strip I haven’t done too badly, wouldn’t you say?”
“Barney, there’s something I’ve always wanted to ask you.”
“Don’t.”
“Did you really murder that guy all those years ago?”
“I think not, but some days I’m not so sure. No, I didn’t. I couldn’t have.”
12
Bad days my memory functions no better than an out-of-focus kaleidoscope, but other days my recall is painfully perfect. Today I seem to be pumping on all cylinders, so I’d better get down on paper what I’ve been avoiding until now before I expunge it again. I didn’t lie about those last two days87 with Boogie, but neither did I tell everything. The truth is, the Boogieman who came to me to kick his habit was no longer the friend I revered. Over the wasting years all those drugs he ingested, not to mention time and fevers, had scrambled his head, burning away his individual beauty.88 He was, for instance, no longer generous about other writers, except for McIver — “He showed some promise” — but that was proffered only to needle me. Something else. On one of my forays into his favoured New York watering-holes, following his disappearance, I discovered that he had latterly come to be regarded as a man who promised better than he paid.
When we pulled up in front of my house in Hampstead, so that he could shoot up one more time, he said, “You must be rich now.”
“Boogie, don’t make me laugh. I’m heavily in debt. I never should have gone into TV production. If not for the commercials and crapola industrial documentaries I’m obliged to do, I’d be dead in the water.”
Boogie was amused by our split-level home and The Second Mrs. Panofsky’s flair with its furnishing. The enormous mirror shot through with gold flake. The collection of porcelain cats perched on the mantelpiece. The sterling silver tea set and cut-crystal whisky decanter on the sideboard.