The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [136]
Norval, his finger still resting on one of the buttons, looked stunned. JJ slumped in his chair. Samira and my mother exchanged glum looks. I was distracted by the odd colour form, but understood the question when I saw the screen, saw the numbers. Should I say something? I turned and whispered into Samira’s ear.
“Are you sure?” she said. She then whispered into JJ’s ear; he leaned over to look at me and I nodded.
“Congratulations, Sylvie—”
“Hold on!” a voice came from the audience. JJ’s. “There’s been a mistake!”
“Cut!” said the fuzzy-haired boy.
Dr. Vorta, in an agitated state, lifted his beard from a reference book. “Yes, I fear there has been an error. The 1 and 2 should be reversed.”
“You sure, Doc?” said the fuzzy-haired boy. “Positive? OK, Pierre, can you change the graphic? Jack, we’ll start again at ‘The correct order is …’ Ready? 3-2-1 …”
“And the correct order is 4, 1, 2, 3, 5. Let’s see who had the right answer … Two people again. I mean two people. And the one with the fastest time is … Norval Blaquière! Norval, come on up here please!”
This time the ovation was thunderous, mostly because JJ was rabid, out of control. With his patented smirk Norval walked casually onto the stage, and sat down with his arms folded across his chest.
“Well done, sir. So how does it feel, Norval, to be in the hot seat?”
“It’s cold plastic, Jack.”
“Good one! I see we’ve got a livewire tonight! A lit disturber! All right. So, my friend, it says here you’re a writer and a teacher. Where do you teach?”
“I see no reason to embarrass the school, Jack—I’m about to be sacked for unethical conduct.”
“Shall we get started? You know the rules—you’ll be asked a series of questions of increasing difficulty. Let me remind you: you may stop at any point and take the money and run. Otherwise, if you answer incorrectly, you will leave with zero. Take a deep breath. Ready?”
Norval rolled his eyes.
“Let’s play … Tip of Your Tongue! These sealed envelopes I’m holding in my hand are secured each week in a bank vault at the Laurentian Bank headquarters until just before show time. Which reminds me—check out their new mortgage rates! Shall we get started? First question, for a hundred dollars: What is an abecadarius? Is it (a) an acrostic, the initial letters of whose successive lines form the alphabet; (b) a verse arranged in such a way as to spell names or phrases; (c) a notebook which lists the rudiments of a subject; or (d) a lover’s diary in which conquests are listed alphabetically?”
“A.”
“Just won a hundred bucks! A two-parter coming up. Which type of poem is the following, and what is the metre? Check it out on the monitor …”
A lesbian bride and her groom
Asked a gay man up to their room.
They spent the whole night
In a hell of a fight
Over who should do what, and to whom.
“Is this (a) a sonnet; (b) a villanelle, (c) a—”
“Limerick.”
“Uh … right you are. Second part. Is the meter (a) iambic; (b) ionic; (c) trochaic; or (d) anapaestic?”
“Anapaestic.”
“Ultimate, untakebackable answer? You sure? Glad to hear it, because
you’ve just won five hundred bucks! Let’s give it up for Norval Blaquière!” APPLAUSE sign.
“So, Norval, it says on your résumé that you’ve worked as a film actor …”
“That was a fabrication I used to get on the show.”
Jack burst out laughing. “Don’t tell anyone, but that’s how I got on the show too! OK, third hurdle for a thousand dollars. Have I got the right question? Here we go. Another two-parter. A certain lover of Lord Byron’s, who in a fit of jealousy bit through her glass at dinner when she saw the poet leaning towards another woman, later sent him a lock of her hair, asking for his in return. For one thousand dollars, who was this lover and what was the poet’s response?”
“Caroline Lamb. Byron sent her another woman’s hair—the Countess of Oxford’s pubic hair.”
Jack paused before looking up from his card. “Could someone get me a fire extinguisher? Because Norval’s brain is on fire! All right baby! Three in a row! Are you loving this, audience?”
APPLAUSE