The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [138]
APPLAUSE sign.
“Fifteen-minute break,” said the fuzzy-haired boy. “Then we’ll wrap this up.”
The fuzzy-haired boy stood in front of me, smiling, waiting for an answer. He reeked of stale sweat and his voice had almost no colour, no inflection.
My mouth was dry, a sandbox. “I can’t do it,” I croaked, petrified at the thought of going on TV. “I have … problems. Stage fright.”
“Can’t you try, Noel?” Samira asked. Her voice was velvety, haloed. “For your mom? And me?”
I could feel my teeth grinding, my bottom lip being bitten, the side of my thumb being scratched till it bled. I looked at my mother, who smiled at me. She’d never forced me to do anything before, and wouldn’t now. “That’s all right, Noel,” she said softly, reassuringly. “I understand …”
A jolt, like an electrical surge, made the house lights flicker and I was suddenly backstage, in claustrophobic corridors, all of them colourless, all of them blind.
“Welcome to Tip of Your Tongue! Brought to you by Memorex and a brandnew co-sponsor … Maxwell House coffee! One hundred per cent pure Arabica. Now in resealable canisters. Take it away, Dr. Volta.”
“Vorta.”
“Take it away, Dr. Vorta!”
“Maxwell House coffee, according to our researchers, was named after the Maxwell House Hotel in Nashville, Tennessee, where Joel Cheek’s blend became the house coffee in 1892. Legend has it that on a visit to Nashville in 1907, President Teddy Roosevelt declared that Maxwell House coffee was ‘good to the last drop.’ One hundred years later, that familiar slogan remains the brand’s promise to its customers. Good to the last drop!”
“Thank you, Dr. Volta. Let’s hope our viewers could cut through that thick Swiss accent! All right, at the end of last week’s show, Norval Blaquière, a thirty-three-year-old bachelor from Montreal, earned a total of ten thousand dollars before narrowing his subject to … Arabic literature! And then decided to pass the torch on to his best friend. So now it’s time to meet Norval’s torchbearer. How about a warm hand for Noel Burun!”
APPLAUSE sign.
“Welcome to the show, Noel. How do you feel about coming into pinchhit for your best buddy? A little nervous with all that money on the line? Noel?”
My insides were twisted, my bones molten. I cupped my hand to my ear, as if I couldn’t hear.
“I asked how the old nerves were. Noel? Should we cut here, Pierre?”
“We’ll edit. Keep it rolling ...”
“As you know, you can either try for the top prize of fifty thousand dollars, or with one wrong answer fall to zero—an Arabic word, isn’t that right, Dr. Volta? Yes? What would you like to do, Noel?”
Inside my head, round and round as if caught in a sandstorm, feather-edged aubergine beads reeled with centripetal force. I closed my eyes, let my head sway gently to and fro, slowed my brain to the brink of vegetabledom.
“Noel? I said what would you like to do? Noel? Are you all right? Nerves getting to you?”
The voice was small, like the sound from someone else’s walkman. “No, I … I’d like to continue please, Mr. Lafontaine.” My own voice had a quaver—I could hear it myself. “Thank you.”
“Excellent stuff. All right, on the subject of Arabic literature, we are now ready for the first of three sealed questions. I’ve been assured by Dr. Émile Volta, the world-famous neurologist, that he’s concocted some real ballbusters … shit.”
“Cut!” said the fuzzy-haired boy. “Start again from ‘I’ve been assured.’”
“I’ve been assured by Dr. Émile Volta, the world-famous neurologist, that he’s concocted some real brain-busters this week, so we’ll find out in the next few minutes if Noel’s brain can be busted. Are you ready, sir?”
I nodded, wiped my face with a Kleenex. I felt so hot I thought I could smell burning flesh. Off camera, I’d just chewed on some betel leaves