The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [76]
“There’s a man downstairs,” his mother said in his ear, her voice and hunter’s lamp quivering. “A big man with red hair. I caught him redhanded, making bacon and … those round things. Shall we call the police?”
Noel squinted at her shaking hands, one almost entirely covered with blue-ink reminders, like tattoos. “No, Mom. He’s a friend of mine, you’ve already met him, he’s staying here.”
“He’s got a knife.”
“I’m sure he’s just—”
Here a head poked through the door, a head with orange stick-up hair. “Morning, people. I thought I heard some voices. Morning, Mrs. B.”
“You put quite a scare into my mother, JJ. She thought you were coming after us with the carving knife.”
“Now Noel, I did not say that. I only said—”
“That’s all right, Mrs. B. Entirely my fault. I’m the intruder. Takes some getting used to. Are you hungry? Feel like a good old-fashioned petit déjeuner québécois?”
Mrs. Burun shook her head. Who is this man? “No, I … I’m not really hungry.”
“I found another album of photographs, in with the recipe books. I was wondering if you’d take me through it. If you have time, that is.”
Mrs. Burun’s aspect changed, as if she’d just recognised a childhood friend who had come over to play. “The album … in the kitchen? With the recipe books?”
“That’s the one.”
“Some of those pictures are quite dear to me. They were taken by my mother, you see.”
“Were they, now? I noticed a picture on the cover. A beautiful girl with curly blonde hair. By the seaside.”
“Why, that’s … me.”
“No!”
“Let’s go down, shall we?” said Mrs. Burun excitedly. “Take a look? Did you manage to find everything in the kitchen …” Here she paused, trying to remember the gentleman’s name. She should know it, he’s been around here long enough … How many days, now?
“Not everything,” said JJ. “I’ve been looking high and low for the tea strainer. I said to myself, JJ, you must be blind!”
“I can’t find it either! I think somebody must have stolen it!” She turned to look at her son.
Noel was now sitting up in bed, bleary-eyed. “I know where it is, I’ll just get dressed and—”
“You stay in bed,” said JJ. “We’ll manage. I’ll bring your breakfast up later. In the meantime, get some sleep. Your mother and I have some things to do, don’t we, Mrs. B?”
“Why, yes, I suppose we do … JJ.”
After a long shoving-match with insomnia, his regular nocturnal visitor, Noel found himself onstage, a snow-blindingly white spotlight boring into his eyes. He put his hand up as a shield and squinted out at the audience. On one side he could make out, just barely, his mother’s face, and on the other, Norval’s. The spotlight shifted to something approaching from offstage: a chryselephantine horse-drawn carriage, spattered with mud. Inside was a bare-shouldered woman wearing a jewelled crown that sparkled with colours he had never seen before, colours not derived from the primaries. With great fanfare, a tuxedoed man with a microphone asked Noel to name the person inside the carriage. As it rattled closer, dark shadows fell across the woman’s face, but he recognised her anyway, because she was speaking. The meaning of her words did not register. “Time’s almost up,” said the quizmaster, who began to look like Dr. Vorta. Even though a correct response was worth thousands of dollars, Noel decided not to answer the question. “I don’t know who it is. I’ve never seen her before.” It was Heliodora Locke, the actress. He gazed at her as she passed, but she did not return his gaze. Her lustrous eyes were directed elsewhere, toward … Norval? As the carriage disappeared from view he could hear the rhythmic sound of a drumbeat—or was it horse’s hooves? Rat-a-tat-tat rat-a-tat-tat …
“Noel?”
He unglued his eyelids, listened. It was the sound of someone rapping on his door. “Mom, is that you?”
“Can I come in?” The door slowly opened. “Sorry, Noel, but I thought it was time to wake