The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [60]
“It started out recreational, ended habitual.”
JJ let out a yodel-like guffaw. “Lots of fish in the sea, eh? Can’t settle on one?”
Norval took another gulp of wine. “Are you familiar with Baudelaire’s flâneur?”
“Uh, no, not really.”
“It’s someone who wanders through the city seeking deliverance from the miseries of the self—first through drink, then sexual depravity—in search of an elusive ideal: perfect love. But because people are not naturally loving and monogamous, but essentially self-seeking and unfaithful, this quest will never be … successful. So he goes from woman to woman, affair to affair, ever questing, never finding.”
How brilliantly phrased, thought JJ. A true poet. “So you’re a man with a mission.” He gazed at Norval humbly, reverentially, as though he were his manservant or page.
“More like a dog with an erection than a man with a mission,” said Samira. “I’ve never heard such bullshit.”
“All right,” said Norval, “here’s another explanation. There are two pleasures in life: food and fornication. In that order. All the rest is rat-ass futility.”
“What are you going to do with the money?” asked JJ. “Buy food?”
“None of your business.”
“I respect that,” said JJ.
Noel lifted his nose from a bookmarked page of The Count of Monte Cristo. “He’s giving it to the WWF,” he said quietly, prodded by Norval’s rudeness to betray a secret. The three turned to look at him. Glower, in Norval’s case.
“He’s giving twenty-six g’s,” said JJ, scratching his head, “to the World Wrestling Federation?”
Noel squatted, returned the book to the shelf. “No, the World Wildlife Fund.”
“All right!” JJ exclaimed. “Nor, you da man! Yeah, baby!”
“It was either that,” said Norval, “or the Canadian Centre for Misanthropy.”
JJ blew loudly through his mouth, his cheeks full like a gopher’s. “So how far have you got? What letter are you on?”
Norval paused before answering, slowly extracting an Arrow cigarette from its sheath. Noel held his breath, braced himself for the answer. But seconds ticked away and no answer came. A hissing sound broke the silence as the red phosphorus of a match ignited, a safety match that must have been JJ’s.
“I think you said you were on S,” Samira said finally. “Did you not?”
Norval regarded her coldly, blew smoke in her direction. “Yes, S is next.”
JJ waited thirty minutes for other guests to arrive—none did—before announcing the name of his new club: The Alchemical Poets of Persia Society.
“I just made that up now,” said JJ. “On the spot. I was going to call it ‘The Alchemical Troubadours,’ but then I found out Sam was from Persia. Plus troubadours are men, aren’t they?” Here JJ paused to click keys on a computer. “And here’s how we’re going to fund our new club. Check it out, it’s on the screen now!”
“I know the founder and CEO of the company!” said JJ. “Personally!”
“You know the founder and CEO,” said Norval. “Personally.”
“Yes! He’s an old school buddy!”
“Do you really mean that?” said Norval. “You have no idea how this news fills my cup. The skies are suddenly opening—”
“Norval, isn’t your performance project posted on the Web?” said Samira, with searing eyes and tone. “I’m sure JJ would like to see it.”
Norval said he was just as sure JJ would not.
“Au contraire!” said JJ. “Is it the Fed site? Hold on, it’s in My Favourites. Right. So I punch Lit? Then … Funded Projects?” As JJ squinted at the screen he began to resemble a schoolboy, tongue protruding as he frowned in concentration. “Then … ‘A’ for Alphabet?”
“In two words,” said Samira, looking over his shoulder.
“Let’s see … here’s something called The Acrorats, an ‘ephemeral in situ water-ballet proposal to fill a barge with rats, then set it on fire to watch them dive off …’ OK, got it!” said JJ. “Voilà!”
“Jesus Chrysler!” said JJ. “That’s awesome! Although I have no clue what it means. Except for the bottom line. Way to go, Nor—”
“JJ, the moment has come. The chemical phase of the evening. Now, or I’m fucking off.”
“Motion seconded. The tribe has spoken. Follow me, guys.”
In what