The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [127]
“No, you really don’t know him—”
“What’s that, that clusterfuck over there?” Norval pointed to a sideboard with a marble top and brass rail at the back, on which mounds of faded papers and airmail envelopes were scattered.
“Samira and JJ found them. They’re my grandmother’s stuff, her documents. She was a witch. Who cast spells.”
“Your grandmother cast spells.”
“Correct. She also had a great memory. Probably a synaesthete too, although I can’t find any references to it. She ended up in an institution.”
“So you’ll end up in the same place?”
“Very likely.”
“So what are you going to do with it? Put it in a recycling bin?”
“Well, Samira and JJ suggested I throw a bit of mysticism and spirituality and irrationality into my … research.”
“You’re going to cast spells.”
“In a nutshell.”
“Great. Now all you have to do is trade a cow for some magic beans.”
“We’re already starting to get results. Samira’s already cured her insomnia with an insomnia spell.”
“I’m afraid to ask what that involves. Eye of newt and toe of frog? Six pinches of powdered orangutan nuts?”
“Look, it’s right here: ‘Hot milk, turkey, nutmeg and oregano.’ Lactose is a sedative—that’s the scientific part—and milk is ‘sacred to the Mother Goddess, containing the spiritual power to comfort, soothe and nurture.’ Turkey contains tryptophan, an amino acid that causes drowsiness. Nutmeg has medicinal and magical properties similar to those of opiates or peyote. And then you just repeat this chant—”
“Jesus Christ, Noel. Has JJ bit you on the leg? Is this what you three Cuisinartists have been up to? Staving off the inevitable with spells?”
“There’s nothing ‘inevitable’ about my mother’s condition. You’ll see.”
The television was echoing in the cathedral-ceilinged family room when Norval stumbled down the steps the next day at noon, unkempt, unshaven and underdressed. He made his way into the kitchen as if sleepwalking, a smouldering filter in his mouth. Half-moons under his eyes matched the dark stains on his smoker’s fingers.
At a table heaped with the wreckage of breakfast, Noel was absentmindedly filling in the squares of a cryptic crossword. “What can I get you, Nor?”
Norval looked briefly for an ashtray before tossing his cigarette butt into the sink, which sizzled like an electrical short. “I don’t know,” he said with a gravelly voice. “What do you Scots have for breakfast? Haggis? Arbroath smokies with stovies? Soor plooms and chittery bite—”
“There’s coffee behind you.”
In the family room Samira was arranging blue irises in two vases on a side-table made of split-bamboo. Red-gold sunlight lay in bright puddles on the rush-matting beneath her bare feet. Behind her, on an overstuffed sofa, JJ and Stella sat side by side, watching soccer on an arcane sports channel.
“OK, Brian, it’s time for the second half of our feature match, Holland versus Saudi Arabia, which is shaping—”
“Saudi Arabia?” Norval said from the doorway, coffee mug in one hand, cigarette in the other. “The Saudis couldn’t score in a brothel.”
Samira turned. “Well, well, well, a breath of French air.”
“Nor!” said JJ, looking as bright and alert as a squirrel. “Join the party! Have a seat.” He wiggled closer to Mrs. Burun, patted the seat beside him. “Here.”
Norval remained standing, took a gulp of coffee.
“Hey Nor, why did the coach give lighters to his players?”
“Careful now. You wouldn’t want me to spit out my coffee.”
“Because they lost all their matches.”
“You hit the hilarity motherlode with that one, JJ. Let’s all take five minutes to slap our thighs, shall we?”
A belated burst of laughter came from the sofa. From Mrs. Burun. Looking her way, JJ dissolved in a jelly of giggles, which started Samira up.
“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 …