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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781771834216 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Guernica Editions, Incorporated |
| Publication date: | 10/01/2019 |
| Series: | Essential Prose Series , #169 |
| Edition description: | First edition |
| Pages: | 200 |
| Product dimensions: | 4.80(w) x 7.90(h) x 0.70(d) |
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CHAPTER 1
On one side of town Charlotte smiled, amused by the absurd and perfect position of her body flat on the bed, as though arranged in the night by an undertaker. Legs extended, eyelids closed, hands placed one over the other, wanting a prop, a bouquet perhaps, held just below the ribcage, which expanded now as she breathed deeply. Definitely not dead. She thought about her ribs. The bones of a corset. The hull of a boat. An accordion. A paper fan. Wings. Unfolding. Refolding. She drew her knees up, sliding her feet along the smooth cotton, then pushed them straight again, pointing her toes, arching her back and stretching her arms above her head, tossing the imaginary bouquet. She curled onto her side. The sun was insisting through the heavy curtains.
On the other side of town Theo was waking up too. He fumbled on the floor for a bottle of water. He seized empty plastic bottles one by one and chucked them across the room. They clattered down the wall. He reached a little further and found a full one that had rolled under the bed. He propped himself up on one elbow and drained it. Then he threw that one at the wall too. He fell back with a sigh. It was noon and he had a few hours before he had to go to work. Usually he managed to trade off the early shift. That way he avoided all the set-up. But today he was stuck with it. At least he'd be off early and could catch up with Curtis.
Theo and Charlotte were waking up on opposite sides of the city. The fact that they had once known each other was not on their minds. It was so far from their minds that it could almost be called forgotten.
CHAPTER 2Charlotte opened the window and reached her hand out to test the air. Even in the shade of the eaves, she felt the new warmth. The day was still. The streets were empty. She watched a squirrel scratch its way up the chestnut tree and scurry to the end of a branch. It paused, turned and darted back. Fretting. Squirrels always seemed to fret, like they were working on a problem, an eternal, mystifying question of the universe. Every so often the squirrel froze, listening for sounds of danger. But there was nothing but the occasional song of a bird.
Charlotte held still. That must be Jacqueline coming up the stairs. She shivered in spite of the warm air and looked around for her cardigan. And where were her slippers? She kneeled down to check under the bed. There was a brief knock on the door. From her crouched position on the floor, she could see clear to the other side. The door swung open and a pair of feet entered the room. Loafers, tan.
"Charlotte? Are you there?"
"I'm under the bed."
"Under the bed? Why?" Jacqueline didn't wait for a response.
"Your dress has arrived."
Charlotte emerged, slippers in hand, and looked at the black garment bag that Jacqueline had laid across the quilt. It reminded her of herself that morning before she had tossed the bouquet and got out of bed, herself lying flat and long like the contents of the garment bag, waiting, not yet animated, not yet sprung — a wedding gown, the suit of an undertaker, a fashion jack-in-the-box, a costume, another costume.
The two women stood across from each other, graceful and straight. They could have passed for mother and daughter. Jacqueline, at sixty-one, held herself like a perfect ballerina. Charlotte, twenty-two years younger, was slightly taller and slightly more muscular.
"It's finally summer," Charlotte said.
"Yes. You should take your lunch outside. Come and look."
As Jacqueline unzipped the garment bag, the colour yellow spilled out. She held the hanger in her left hand, and with her right, presented the dress to Charlotte. It was a pale yellow, buttery, feathery, lemony. Charlotte reached out and let the folds of fabric roll through her fingers.
"Silk," she said.
"Yes. Chiffon."
Charlotte mouthed the word chiffon, pushing her lips forward to achieve Jacqueline's French pronunciation. She tried it a couple times then whispered the word in English, drawing out the second vowel long and languid, southern.
"It's like a cake," Charlotte said. "Like a lemon chiffon cake."
"I haven't seen one of those since I first came to this godforsaken country. Bridge parties and chiffon cakes, that is what I came to." Jacqueline hooked the dress over the mirror.
Charlotte always thought it funny the way Jacqueline complained about this godforsaken country deprived of all things good — cheese, wine, culture, taste — and yet stayed. Half her life she'd stayed.
Jacqueline opened the closet door and surveyed the rows of shoes. She selected a pair of silver sandals and placed them at the foot of the mirror. Perfect, Charlotte thought.
"You don't like it?" Jacqueline asked.
"No, I do. I do."
When Jacqueline was gone, Charlotte sat down on the edge of the bed. It was undeniable. The dress was gorgeous. She should try it on. Later. She'd try it on later.
She watched the silver shoes play tricks in the mirror. When she closed one eye, the shoes winked double. She sat knowing she was just sitting, not waiting for anything, no person, no job, no deadline, no call, no obligation. Just herself. A person could sit a long time like this.
The squirrel was back in the chestnut tree. Charlotte could hear the scuttle of claws.
CHAPTER 3The only light in Theo's room came from the screen of his phone. A makeshift curtain kept out the daylight: three old towels tacked up and held together with bull clips. This was temporary, Theo assured himself, until he could find the right thing. At one time the window had been covered with a shimmering sari, but the girlfriend who had put it there took it with her when she left. That, along with the kettle. She used to make tea, Theo reminisced. Every morning, tea. He could really go for a cup of tea right now.
He flipped through his messages. There were five texts and two emails just from Curtis, begging him to call. Theo typed a reply: Bring me a coffee.
He waited a few seconds then chuckled as he read the response: @#$%&! Curtis swore like a comic book and only relayed important information in person. Whatever he had to say wouldn't be said by text.
The phone vibrated in Theo's hand, giving him a start.
"Curtis man, what's the emergency? Where are you? What? You're in the living room? All morning? You've been up all morning? Why don't you just knock on the fucking door?"
The phone went dead, then ... a knock. Four slow, deliberate raps.
Curtis walked into the room without a word. He moved with precision, transferring a pile of clothes from the chair to the dresser, sitting down on the chair, and crossing one leg over the other as was his habit.
Theo noticed an envelope in Curtis' hand.
"That doesn't look like my coffee," Theo said.
Curtis just smiled.
"You know I can't do anything until I have my coffee. I need to wake up."
Curtis stood and went to the window, and with one swift magician's hand, tore the towels down. Sunlight rushed. Tacks sprayed. Theo yelled and covered his eyes. And the dust from the towels tumbled and churned against the backdrop of the day.
"Are you awake now?" Curtis asked calmly.
Sadistic, Theo thought. It reminded him of something. What was that movie, that voice? The nurse.
"Ratched!" he said. "You're my Nurse Ratched. Aren't you supposed to be at work?"
"Flex day."
He had taken up his position on the chair again, still holding the envelope, tapping it on his thigh, rhythmically. Then he raised the envelope and tapped it against the air.
"This," he said, "this is what I'm talking about. This is what we've been looking for."
"You say that every time. You said that last night, and it was shit. You know who I talked to most of the night? A Kool-Aid jug."
He grinned, knowing that Curtis was growing more and more impatient with him. "That's right. The jug and I, we had a heart to heart. We shared. We laughed. The jug was pleased. I could tell by the expression on its face. But the rest of them ..." He shook his head.
"This is different." Curtis held up the envelope again, "This is one hundred percent champagne."
The envelope landed on the bed. Theo saw Curtis' name written in slanted black loops. It looked awfully like a wedding invitation. He picked it up, drew out a white card. Apparently, a Madame Jacqueline Day had the pleasure of inviting Curtis to a summer soirée.
"You've got to be kidding me," Theo said. "Who sends stuff like this? It's ridiculous." He looked more closely. "And it's this weekend."
"Just in the nick of time. Do you know how hard it is to get one of these invitations?"
"No. I don't."
"You're coming."
"I'm working."
"You're coming."
"I'm not even invited."
But Curtis wouldn't let it go. While Theo lay on his back and shielded his eyes with the invitation, Curtis talked. He talked about opera, opportunity, jazz, glamour, filmmakers, designers, this lady who gathered it all together, surrounding herself with talent and beauty. It was the place to be, Curtis explained, the place where Theo really ought to be.
"Look at the invitation," Curtis said. "Feel the weight of it. It's gorgeous."
Theo removed the card from the bridge of his nose and looked at it. "Posers," he said. "Nothing but posers. How did you get it?"
"Grigore."
"The old Romanian?"
"Yes. And no, I'm not sleeping with him." Curtis uncrossed his legs and leaned in. "Look, I know it's not your scene. But there's something there, something more. Something ..."
Theo looked out at the beautiful day, perfect for tennis. If he got up now, he could get some tennis in before going to work. He'd call Kenji. He thought about the Romanian, the something more, the thing that Curtis was trying to describe. It wasn't the money. Or the glamour. That's not what he was talking about. No, it was the way people lived, the idea that somehow these people lived with more intensity. It's bullshit, Theo thought. An illusion. He ran his thumbs over the smooth card. God, he wanted a coffee. Maybe he could convince Curtis to get him a coffee. And he was out of cigarettes. The sunshine was stunning.
"This party," Theo said. "Which one of us is the talent and which one of us is the beauty?"
"You're both, darling. You're both."
Theo tossed the invitation to the foot of the bed.
"I'm not going."
CHAPTER 4Theo didn't know that by the end of the day his name would appear next to Curtis' on a guest list on the desk of Jacqueline Day. It was not unusual for the two twenty-two-year-olds to be regarded as a couple. People were so used to seeing them together that they just assumed.
Charlotte wasn't paying much attention to the listmaking. She'd collected some white daisies from the garden and was rearranging the stems in her hand.
"Ma chérie," Jacqueline said. "You'll be happy to hear that your favourite photographer will not be attending."
"Jacob?"
"Yes, Jacob."
Charlotte was relieved. Jacob was a letch.
"Apparently," Jacqueline said, "he has a prior commitment that he'd forgotten about. A wife."
"Why doesn't he bring her?"
"I think he likes to keep things separate." Jacqueline put down her pen and turned to her laptop, glancing sideways at Charlotte for a moment. "Those flowers won't last long out of water."
"I know." Charlotte looked at the bouquet. "Did you ever make daisy chains when you were a child?"
"Daisy chains?"
"Where you string them together to make a chain, not with big ones like these, but with the tiny ones you find in the grass. See, you make a split in the middle of the stem, like this, and then you feed another stem all the way through to the head. See." She held up the two linked flowers. "And then you keep going until you have a chain long enough for a crown or a necklace."
"Now I know why I never had a child of my own. I have you. Alors, what are you singing on Saturday?"
"We're working something new with the Purcell. We thought we'd start with that."
"No. I've already talked to Olivier."
"Oh." Charlotte said. She tugged at the two linked daisies. They were stronger than the little ones. They held fast.
"Here, pass me those flowers." Jacqueline came around the desk and took the daisies from Charlotte. "I'll have Joy put them in water."
Charlotte rubbed her hands together and smelled her nails where they had split the stem — a green smell, fresh, bitter. She wondered how old she'd been when she'd learned to make daisy chains. Six? Seven? Was it her mother who'd taught her? A friend? A friend's mother maybe? She squinted at the memory, but it was tangled up with another of when she was a teenager, in love. The pictures were unclear, overlapping. Grass. Warm sun. Blue sky. The shade of a tree. So perfect it was hard to imagine any of it was real.
That's a shame, she thought. The Purcell was just starting to get interesting.
* * *
Olivier put down his coffee and greeted Charlotte with a kiss on each cheek. "So," he said matter-of-factly, "no more One Charming Night."
"No more," Charlotte said, noticing that her daisies were already in a vase. Joy, the housecleaner, must have done it.
"Our charming night has been vetoed," Olivier said. "It's just as well. It's heating up out there, and she wants jazz."
"Was she more specific?"
"No. She said to surprise her."
Charlotte and Olivier stood side by side, looking out through the open terrace doors. Charlotte's eyes wandered to the tops of the trees in the forest behind the garden, where the trees met the sky, dark green on light blue, like paper cut-outs pasted on, like the daisy-chain memories, too good to be true. She could tell that Olivier was not happy about the music, the way he fidgeted with his watch, shifting it back and forth, centring the watch face on his wrist repeatedly.
Over the years she'd come to know his habits, his little ways. He'd begun spending more and more time visiting Jacqueline and much less time in France until finally he was living in Vancouver ten out of twelve months. He had an apartment downtown but was at the house most of the time. Charlotte had learned to read his silent cues. When he was displeased, he fiddled, often with his watch. When he was turned on, the tips of his ears went red. When he was sad, he stared at his shoes. He wasn't staring at his shoes right now, but as usual, they were polished, and his black hair was combed.
"I have an idea," Charlotte said.
"Good," Olivier turned away from the open doors and went over to the piano. "We need an idea."
CHAPTER 5Theo wasn't as good a tennis player as Kenji, but he could keep up. Today's game was going well. Yesterday had been a scramble after all that stuff with the invitation and Curtis ripping down the towels. Today Theo's head was clear. The air was clear. It was another quiet weekday in the park. And each clean crack on the racket resonated.
They took a break, and Kenji went to refill his bottle at the drinking fountain. Theo sat on the asphalt, his back against the cage, gulped down some water, and didn't smoke. He was stunned by the fresh air. Too much time in bars and basements — he had forgotten how much he liked being outside. Why didn't he do this more often? he wondered. Why did he waste so many mornings? Why couldn't he just do the things that were good for him? Maybe he'd start running again, maybe start lifting weights. He hated the gym, though. Maybe he could convince Curtis to chip in for some weights for the house. He should really go back to his acting workshop too, although he hated that scene almost as much as the gym. Maybe he'd look for a new group.
Kenji was back. He squeezed water into his mouth from the bottle, letting some of it trickle down his chin, then he squeezed some on his head and shook it out like a dog.
"We certainly don't need a ball boy today," he said.
"Nope." Theo took another swig. It was the perfect drink, he thought. That was another thing — he should cut down on the booze. "When I was a kid, I used to be my dad's ball boy, when he played with his friends."
"Did he pay you?"
"Pay me? No man, I was just a kid. I was having fun. And I liked to see how fast I could get the balls." Theo smiled at the memory then jumped to his feet. "Come on. I'm warmed up now. Let's play."
* * *
Theo went home feeling motivated. After his shower, he was going to get a coffee and make a plan.
His phone rang. It must be Curtis again, hounding him about that swank party. But when he looked at the number, he didn't recognize it.
"Hello?" It was his father. "Dad? Hi. Wow, long time." Theo struggled to get the words out.
His dad started talking. He was in town for the weekend with Sylvie. That was Theo's step-mom, although he'd never really thought of her as a mom. By the time she and his dad had gotten married, Theo had moved out. She was nice enough.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Tacet"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Suzanne Chiasson and Guernica Editions Inc..
Excerpted by permission of Guernica Editions.
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