Barney's Version - Mordecai Richler [191]
“You’re pathetic.”
“Oh, no. I’ll tell you what’s pathetic. Pathetic is a man so empty that he needs somebody else’s achievements to justify his own life.”
I was still struggling to recover from that hit when he smiled and said, “And now if you don’t mind, I’m going for a swim.”
“I want to know why you can no longer pick up anybody else’s novel without sneering at it.”
“Because what’s being published and praised today is second-rate. And I’ve still got standards, unlike —”
“Here, you want to read a real writer,” I said, and I threw my copy of Henderson the Rain King at him.
“Leo Bishinsky used to say, ‘How can you tolerate that know-nothing kid from Montreal?’ ”
“And you no doubt pointed out that we were friends.”
“I took you in hand and educated you, for Christ’s sake. I put the right books in your hands. And look what you’ve become. A TV hustler. Married to a rich man’s vulgar daughter.”
“Not so vulgar that you didn’t bang her last night.”
“Yeah, but she’s not the only wife of yours I had in bed. Clara, I said, what do you see in him? A breadwinner, she said. But I’ll give her this much. She made a great career move dying so early.”
“Boogie, maybe I ought to punch you out after all. That was fucking nasty.”
“But true,” he said.
I couldn’t handle any more. I was too frightened. So, natural coward that I am, I retreated into humour. 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.”
“You come too.”
Instead, I fired that shot well over his head. But I only raised my gun hand at the last minute. So if I wasn’t guilty of murder in fact, I was by intent.
13
“What’s wrong?” asked Chantal.
“I can’t remember where I parked my car, and don’t look at me like that. It could happen to anybody.”
“Let’s go,” she said.
It wasn’t on Mountain Street. Pardon me, rue de la Montagne. Or on Bishop.
“Somebody has stolen it,” I said. “Probably one of your mother’s separatist buddies.”
We tried de Maisonneuve, formerly Dorchester Boulevard.89 “What’s that?” she asked, pointing.
“If you blab to Solange, you’re fired.”
Saturday afternoon I was just drifting off to sleep when Solange phoned. “What time are you picking me up tonight?” she asked.
“Am I? What for?”
“The game.”
“Ah, I think maybe I’ll give it a skip tonight.”
“The hockey game?”
“You know something? I’ve had enough of hockey. Besides, I’m very tired.”
“It could be the last time we’ll ever see Gretzky play.”
“Big deal.”
“I don’t believe this.”
“You want the tickets? Take Chantal.”
Ten days later, according to Chantal, I dictated the same letter to her for the third time in a week. Leaving the office, I’m told I automatically reached into my pocket and pulled out a key, but didn’t know what it was for.
“What are you staring at?” asked Chantal.
“Nothing.”
“Open your hand.”
“No.”
“Barney.”
I opened it.
“Now tell me what that is?”
“I know damn well what it is. Why are you asking?”
“Tell me.”
“I think I’d better sit down.”
Next thing I knew, strolling home from Dink’s late one afternoon, I opened the door to my apartment and found Solange and Morty Herscovitch lying in wait. Shit. Shit. Shit. “I know times are tough, Morty, but don’t tell me you bastards make house calls now.”
“Solange thinks you may be suffering from fatigue.”
“Who isn’t at our age?”
“Or maybe it’s merely a brain tumour. We’re going to have to do a CAT scan and an MRI.”
“Like fuck we are. And I’m not chewing any of your tranquillizers or antidepressants either. I remember when doctors were doctors and weren’t working on commission from drug companies.”
“Why would I prescribe antidepressants?”
“I’m now going to pour myself a drink. You can both join me before you leave.”
“Are you depressed?”
“Chantal took away my car keys and won’t give them back.”
“I want you at my office at nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Forget it.”
“We’ll be there,” said Solange.
Morty was not alone. There was another