The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [115]
“William Osler? Isn’t he the one who thought the best method of diagnosis was one finger in the throat and one in the rectum? From what I’ve heard, that’s Volta’s preferred method for his memory tests.”
Noel closed his eyes. “If that’s supposed to be—”
“And if he’s such a hot-shot neurologist, why isn’t he working for the Montreal Neurological Institute, as Penfield did, instead of some fourthrate lab for rejects run by the Health Minister’s cross-eyed wife? Who he’s been swording for years.”50
“I’m not going to discuss these … these inventions from divorce lawyers and jealous colleagues. It has nothing to do with what we were talking about.”
“Which was …”
Noel paused, took a deep breath, tried to block out Norval’s wild accusations. His mind began turning, bleeding colours like a washing machine. There was no truth to any of this, surely. “Childhood trauma,” he said finally, in a near-whisper. “And true love.”
Norval stared at his friend, whose eyes were averted. “Any last words on either subject, so we can bury them forever?”
“Yes. I predict that one day, in some fabulous future, you’ll find closure for what’s happened in the past—you’ll find the right chemistry with someone and fall madly in love.”
“I want you to promise never to use that word again in my hearing.”
“Which word? Chemistry? Love?”
“Closure.”
“Closure, closure, closure …”
“And this would be a reversion to … age five?”
“I’m simply making a prediction, that’s all.”
“What is this, a career move? You’re now a soothsayer?”
Noel remained silent. Norval, he knew, was concealing something. He’d known it from the beginning of their relationship. He had an intuition, a gut feeling, even though he’d never had an accurate one in his life. He paused before trying another tack. “What happened to your father?”
“My father?”
“He went mad, right?”
“He drank himself to death.”
“Because your mother betrayed him?”
“He drank to forget.”
“And so now, in revenge, you’re fucking over as many women as you can, treating them as numbers. Or rather letters. Demeaning and debasing them for the sake of childhood wounds.”
“Don’t be a stooge. Things will be less foggy when you catch up on your sleep. Or go to a brothel.”
“You have two half-sisters, right? And you made love to them both?”
“Correct.”
“Is that the dark secret you’re hiding?”
“How many times do I have to tell you there’s no darkness, no secrecy? I don’t give the episodes a backward thought, haven’t a scintilla of remorse. Nor do they.”
“Does your love for one of them, or for your first true love, prevent you from committing yourself to another?”
Norval broke into laughter. “Are you auditioning? Is this stand-up?”
“Then why don’t you commit to anyone?”
“It’s not something I want on my résumé.”
“What about that Spanish woman we ran into the other day? From Barcelona. She said she was an old flame of yours.”
“A spark, a mere cinder.”
“How about … Kayleigh? The one you lost to that performance artist, Scott Free.”
“I didn’t lose her so much as wipe her off my shoe.”
“OK, what about that beautiful French-Canadian? Who left for Belgium. Didn’t that break your heart?”
“Which beautiful French-Canadian? They grow like weeds in this town.”
“The one you picked up at Ex–Centris. Chantal.”
“Chantal? The journalist? You’d need a fork-lift to pick her up.”
“Not that Chantal. The other one, the dancer.”
“She was a C. Nothing more. Taken on the sperm of the moment.”
“But she was … beautiful.”
“Show me a beautiful woman, says the Hindu proverb, and I’ll show you a man who’s tired of fucking her.”
“What about Lise, the acrobat with Cirque du Soleil?”
“She’s not an acrobat, as it turns out. At least not for the circus. She’s a professional fluffer.”
“A fluffer? What the hell’s that?”
“Her job is to keep porn stars aroused between scenes.”
“Right … But didn’t you say she was an ex?”
“More like a why. She was a fling, an amourette. She was three months gone at our first passade.”
Noel shook his