The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [77]
Noel squinted into the semi-darkness. The jigsaw pieces of his dream lay scattered on the floor, which a beam of light from the hallway vaporized. “Is that …? What are you … right.” His heart began to churn. “Come in. Are you OK? Is my mother OK?”
“Everyone’s fine.”
“I’ve just been … what time is it?”
On Noel’s writing desk Samira set down a covered stainless-steel platter, on top of which a portable phone was balanced. “Eight, eightthirty.”
“In the morning?”
“No, at night.”
He sat up. “You’re not serious. That’s impossible … My God, twelve hours? Why didn’t someone wake me?”
“Because you needed the sleep.”
“I haven’t slept that long since … age two.” He stroked his cheek: stubble, almost a beard. He felt like Rip Van Winkle. “Is my mother all right?”
“She’s fine, Noel, we spent the day together. But there’s a call for you.” She handed Noel the receiver, whose red battery light was flashing. “It’s Norval.”
Noel rubbed his eyes, shook out cobwebs. “Can you … tell him I’ll call him back?”
“Can he call you back, Nor? No? Tell him what? OK, fine. Ciao.”
“What did he say?”
“He said fuck you very much, and that he can’t make tomorrow’s ‘classic mat’? Does that make any sense?”
“Yes. Is my mom OK?”
“Noel, your mother’s fine, relax. You’ve got other people—employees— working for you now.”
“I do? Oh, right. And how about you? Everything OK? Accommodations satisfactory?”
“Couldn’t be better. Can I turn this on?” She nodded towards his bed lamp.
Noel yawned widely, like a lion. “Yes, go ahead. I can’t believe I—”
“Are you hungry? No, don’t get up.” She watched Noel out of the corner of her eye, amused. “Do you always sleep with your clothes on?”
“No, I … I must’ve been really tired.” He leaned back against the headboard and stretched his arms, while surreptitiously smelling his armpits.
“Move over.” Samira set the platter on the side of the bed then dramatically opened the lid: poached eggs, home fries, sausages, grilled tomatoes, two crumpets, orange juice and a Dresden blue pot of tea, its spout chipped in a way that had been familiar to him for years. “Your mom said you like breakfast at night sometimes. I wish I could say I made it for you.”
“JJ?”
“Your mom.”
“Really? Fantastic. She hasn’t done that in … a while.” He examined the items on the platter. Everything was done the way he liked—the finest of membranes on the yolk, a well-done crispness to the potatoes … His mother used to remember things like that. She remembered everything about him, it seemed. Even as a child, it touched him that she bothered. “Where is she now?”
“Playing Crazy Eights with JJ. While playing songs from the sixties— and singing all the words.”
Noel smiled, then began a sentence he couldn’t finish. He started another. “I … really … you know, appreciate—”
“Eat.”
As Noel salted and peppered, Samira pulled the stringed tea bags from the pot and poured out two cups. Noel paused, his eyes at a level coinciding with her centre of gravity. He speared a cherry tomato and popped it into his mouth. A morsel of potato followed, then another, then half a glass of orange juice, then another tomato. With his mouth full he said, “Want some?”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“Right.”
“Have you always been so close to your mom?”
Noel swallowed, then emptied his glass of orange juice. He was feeling good. Like a castaway he felt exhilarated talking to someone. “No, I was an idiot in my teens. Like most adolescents I ‘rebelled’—except how can you rebel against someone who devoted her life to you? In my twenties I wasn’t much better. Selfish and stupid. But I woke up. Just like that, mysteriously, like a voice telling me to return. The prodigal son. She never once reproached me either.”
“‘How like a serpent’s tooth to have a thankless child.’ King Lear?”
How sharper than a serpent’s tooth … “Right. Act one, scene four.”
“No line number?”
“Around nine hundred, I think.”
Samira laughed. “That’s … phenomenal. I’ve heard a lot about you, Noel. All good. So tell me what you do for Dr. Vorta. Do you use your