The Memory Artists - Jeffrey Moore [93]
“Aren’t really what? Your cup of tea?”
“No. I mean yes, they are … my cup of tea. It’s just that I can’t really get close to anybody, I’m sort of blocked. I have trouble expressing … One psychologist suggested I take ecstasy.”
Samira laughed. “You’re joking. What for?”
“In his words, for ‘heightened emotional responsiveness, lowering of defensive barriers, openness and sense of closeness to others.’”
“Did it work?”
“No, but I continue to take it—four times a year, every equinox. Any more than that and the drug’s a total waste.”
“And has it helped with your relationships? With women?”
“No, women aren’t really … I seem to have this anti-talent for attracting them, the Midas touch in reverse.”
“I have a similar talent—for attracting the wrong men. But you’ll find someone with the right chemistry, I know it. Sometimes it’s just a question of patience. And luck.”
Noel closed his eyes as he spoke: “Tendency to brood, emotional numbness, general confusion.” He reopened his eyes. “The words of another doctor. No woman can handle that, no woman will ever take me on. Plus I’m always going overboard, head over heels, whenever I meet the woman of my dreams. It scares women off. And if I don’t know the woman that well, I have to concentrate so hard that I usually end up with a horrendous migraine. Scintillating scotoma. I’m afraid I’m quite hopeless. Women generally think I’m retarded.”
As I first did, thought Samira. “Scintillating scrotoma?”
“Scotoma. Migraine aura—I see this brilliantly lit image, a kind of throbbing, zigzagging line.”
“And you get this when you make love?”
“Most of the time, yeah. I also get it when I meet someone … special, for the first time. A woman, I mean.”
“Did you get it with me?”
“Well … yes. So now I’m into abstinence, coitus nonexistus. It’s a lot less complicated.”
“Join the club. I’m on the sexual wagon too. Be right back.”
As he waited a half-dozen lines, all flattering, swirled through Noel’s intoxicated brain. You are a vision of loveliness was one; I find it impossible not to gaze at you with uncivil persistency was another, which he’d heard Norval use to good effect. Norval. The great satrap with his twenty-six concubines. Wonder what letter’s next for His Serene Highness …
“You are a vision of uncivil persistency,” Noel mumbled when Samira returned, holding an unlit cigarette between her fingers.
“I’m sorry?”
Noel shook his addled head. “Nothing. You … you look lovely, Sam.”
She regarded him with raised brows. “You tell one more lie, Noel, and you’ll turn to stone.”
Noel opened a drawer beneath the lab bench and pulled out a tarnished lighter, which he’d refuelled but never used. His hand trembled like a compass needle as he held a flame under Samira’s cigarette. Should I ask if Norval is past S? No, don’t be an idiot. Relax, take a deep breath … He raised and closed the lighter’s lid, stared at its faded insignia, a tegulated AP. His father’s final employer.
“Thanks,” said Samira, with a puzzled expression.
Far things felt near.“When I was young I … no, never mind.”
“What? Tell me.”
He took a deep breath. “Well, you’ll probably laugh but I used to dream about meeting an Arab woman like you. An Arab princess, actually. Probably because my favourite book of all time was … well, this one here.” With his cheeks afire and heart beating louder than his breathing, he nodded towards a volume of The Thousand and One Nights. “Do you speak Arabic?” he blurted into the vacuum of silence.
A smile played about Samira’s lips. “Yeah, although I probably sound like a ten-year-old. Or younger. My parents came to Montreal as children, so we spoke mostly English at home, except when my grandfather was around. He’s the one who sent me to a madrasa for two years, where I dutifully memorised my lessons.”
“What nationality are they—your grandparents?”
“Persian—although my grandmother’s people were from Egypt. Alexandrian Jews.”
“Persian? How old are they? Or is