The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [13]
Howard. Yet another man on a quest for permanent youth, fiercely resisting responsibilities of adulthood, living in his parents’ basement. One of those no-life “adultescents” who, when they aren’t playing with their video toys, are playing with themselves.
Jérome. A blind date. After which I severed my relationship with the matchmaker. Forever. First thing I noticed was his expensive Armani suit and strange dominating attitude, as though he’d crushed thousands in real estate deals. Next thing I noticed was his pony tail. Men, write this down: what this says is pimp, pornmaker or disturbed offender. After listening politely to twenty minutes of self-hero worship, I edgewised that I was going to the bathroom. “You’re going the wrong way, girl,” he said. “No I’m not, boy,” I said and walked to my bathroom at home.
Samira flipped back to her latest entry, Norval, and wrote:
Muslims believe that 2 angels sit on our shoulders, one tallying our good deeds, the other our bad. The good deeds are called hasanna—the gifts we give others without thinking about the cost or benefit to ourselves. Now, although I’m a lapsed Muslim, it’s time for some hasanna. I will not make love with Norval, even though I’m overpoweringly attracted to him. I’ve got my reasons. First and foremost, because of his ‘Alpha Bet’ hit list, which he was stupid enough to tell me about. It reminds me of the emperor in The 1001 Nights who vows to marry a woman every day and have her executed the next morning. But not only am I going to resist Norval, but somehow I’m going to get him to stop this foul enterprise, an insult to all women …
On the other hand, maybe if we make love he’ll like it so much that he’ll want to do it again—which will be against the rules and his Alpha Bet will be off. Yes, maybe it’s my duty to make love with him. My good deed.
One last thing. What is that white powder? I had a dreadful feeling when I saw it, I hope it’s not what I think it is. This whole place is starting to give me the creeps—especially the paintings on the walls—gloomy and depraved and fetishistic. God, now I wonder if he’s going to kill me. What’s in that vial? I can’t get it out of my mind. K … Am I paranoid? Not surprising, after what happened. But what happened? Attempted date-rape? It’s all a thick bloody fog, I can’t remember. Should I try hypnosis? In the métro this morning, I picked up a soiled Maclean’s magazine with footprints and read an article on Wayne Gretzky’s father. Apparently when he woke up in a hospital bed after a stroke ten years ago, he couldn’t remember a thing. Like the names and faces of his wife and five children—or their achievements, including those of Wayne, the greatest hockey player in history. Today, everything from the mid-seventies to the mid-nineties, he admits, “doesn’t exist”. Is this what’s happening to me, on a smaller scale? That the last week of my life doesn’t exist? Or am I just
A musical sound came from one of the partitioned rooms. The sound of a phone with a melodic phrase, a funeral dirge, then a muffled voice with no discernible words.
Chapter 4
Noel & Norval
“I know you’ve been calling me for the last twenty-four hours,” said Norval into his cell phone, calmly. “I’m perfectly aware of that. You left six messages.”
“Can we meet?” said Noel. “I have something to tell you. It’s about … well, the woman in the elevator. I mean the woman you introduced me to, in Dr. Vorta’s office …”
“What about her?” said Norval, distractedly. He was sitting at his desk, a pillar-and-claw library table inlaid with satinwood. After examining his image in a dressing-glass, and straightening the collar of a soft-blue cotton-gauze shirt, he returned his attention to the screen of an azurine laptop.
“Do you realise who she is? You’ll never guess in a million years.”
Norval pressed a translucent key. “Astonish me.”
“I recognised her voice images. The funny thing is I actually