The Memory Artists (42 page)

“What’s the top prize worth?”

“If you go all the way, fifty g’s! And Norval has a plan, a real humdinger.
Totally
foolproof.”

“Foolproof depends on the size of the fool,” said Norval.

“Veux-tu continuer, boss?”

“A few years ago a British army major won the million-pound jackpot on the British version of
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.
It turns out he was helped by an audience member, who used a system of coughs to help him answer correctly. You must have heard about it. Well, if Noel refuses and I have to go on—assuming I qualify—then we’re going to do something along the same lines. Not with coughs, that’s hare-brained, but with a supersonic hearing device. Any questions I can’t answer will be answered by Noel, who will give me signals with a dog whistle.”

“And Norval will be wearing my watch-transponder!” said JJ. “Is that brilliant, Noel?”

But Noel was preoccupied; he was juggling coloured letters in his head, anagrammatizing
supersonic
into
percussion
.

“To proceed,” said Norval, “Noel will tell me if the answer is
a
,
b
,
c
or
d
by one, two, three or four blasts of the whistle. Very simple. So, unless there’s anything else, I move we adjourn.”

“Not so fast,” said JJ gruffly, letting seconds tick by for dramatic effect. “One last topic. Number five. Arson.”

“God, I almost forgot about that,” said Samira. “Was there much damage, Nor?”

“Some furniture, a few paintings singed—I was getting tired of them anyway. All insured—with enough to cover JJ’s place.”

“Who do you think did it?” asked Samira. “The same person that set the other one?”

“This is what we’re about to find out,” said JJ. Norval’s insurance offer had no effect on his expression, which remained detectival. “My gut tells me … that somebody in this room is responsible for both fires. And nobody’s leaving until we find out who.”

The room fell silent. Samira nodded, struck by the inherent logic of the assertion. Could it have been Noel? Tracked down by one of his lunatic research patients? Or Stella, when wandering, unaware of what she was doing? How many times has she set off smoke alarms? But that’s impossible. No, it must be Norval …

Stella looked anxiously from face to face, feeling something sinister in the air. Which one of these people lights fires? Because it’s not me, and certainly not my son. It can’t be him, he’s much too sweet a boy. Or her, she’s too sweet a girl. It must be him, the handsome one …

Noel fidgeted. Yes, he thought, JJ may be right.
It’s one of us
… He looked around the room, dismissing each candidate in turn, until he got to Norval, whose face was buried in his hands. He must be behind this. Was he about to confess? Everyone in the room was now staring at Norval, waiting.

Norval’s foot began to tap slowly. He raised his head, guilt seemingly etched on his face. “JJ, I’m struggling to put a positive construction on this. Until now, I have treated your herbally-warped ideas with benign contempt. But now I feel awe: even by your own high standards, you have outstripped yourself in pointlessness. Every day with you is like a trip to Pointless Island.”

“But I saw this murder mystery on TV about an insurance scam and—”

“Then your TV needs to be childproofed. The guy who set both fires was out to get me, a settling of accounts. He caught me
in flagrante delicto
with his girlfriend, Rainbaux. And then I caught him in my loft with a canister bomb. But there’s nothing to worry about. He won’t be setting any more fires for a while.”

JJ was in a tizzy. “Really? You caught him? What’d you do? You held him until the cops arrived, right?”

“Something like that.”

Chapter 20

Norval & Stella

Arrow removed from man’s head

Presse canadienne

MONTREAL, QUE.—A 28-year-old man is expected to be released from hospital today after doctors removed an arrow from his head.

The arrow hit the upper part of the man’s left eye socket, missing the eye, and lodged in a sinus cavity, narrowly missing the brain. The man’s name was not made public.

The victim, who is well known to police for drug-related activities, is being held as a suspect in an arson case on rue de la Commune in Old Montreal. The man claimed to be leaving a friend’s loft when an arrow, shot by an unknown assailant, lodged 10 centimetres in his head. The arrow is currently being examined for clues.

The following day Norval was reading a newspaper, comfortably asprawl a Murphy bed in his chosen quarters, a secret and sacred lair that a younger Noel had cunningly carved out of the attic. A knock on the door distracted him from an article of interest.

“Enter,” Norval commanded. He was facing away from the door, and did not turn round to see who entered.

“Norval, I was wondering if you … if you’d like a drink.”

“I would, yes. Just set it on the table.”

“I mean, downstairs, with my mom. I was wondering if you could … you know, keep her company for a while. Until JJ and Samira get back. She’s all alone and I’ve got some things brewing in the basement …”

Norval had still not turned his head toward his visitor. A cigarette smouldered from the fingers that also turned the page of his newspaper. He now stopped to listen, not to what his friend was saying, but to Herman’s Hermits’ “Mrs. Brown You’ve Got A Lovely Daughter,” which was wafting from Mrs. Burun’s room below.

“Not too many people know this,” said Norval, “but Herman recorded another version of that song. A gay version.”

Noel listened. “He did? What was it called?”

“‘Mr. Brown You’ve Got a Lovely Pecker.’”

Noel paused, then straight-faced began to sing the rising echo-line, “Love-ly pe-cker …”

Norval laughed, uncharacteristically.

“So what are you reading?” Noel asked. He walked closer to the bed, the sprung floorboards undulating under his feet, and peered over Norval’s shoulder.

Norval frowned, put the paper down. “Noel, I can’t stand people reading over my shoulder. Especially during sex, because that means I’m getting buggered.”

“I’m not reading over your shoulder. I’m trying to see the cover of that book beside you.” Noel craned his neck to read the title:
In Praise of Older Women
. A fuse began to crackle inside his brain, lit by a letter from the word
Praise
, a writhing scarlet
S
. “Norval, surely you’re not planning on … you know …”

“Spit it out, Noel. On seducing your mother? Not in the least. But I
am
fond of older women …”

You can’t
still
be on
S,
thought Noel. What happened to red-haired Simone?

“… and in fact I’ve adopted Byron as my model. He had sex with the Countess of Benzoni of Verona when she was sixty-one.”

“She was from Venice.”

“He then upped the ante with Lady Melbourne, who was sixty-two, and a few days later seduced Lady Oxford’s daughter, who was eleven.”

“He raped her and was caught in the act by her mother. With whom he was having an affair.”

“Really? I did something similar with a mother-daughter duo. The age gap, though, wasn’t as great, and it was a consensual three-way.”

“Is this one of your fabrications for Dr. Vorta?”

“Hardly. It involved his wife and daughter.”
⁵⁶

“High-end port you have here, Burun. How
odd
that you should serve it in a claret glass.” Norval held the crystal up to the light.

“Screw off.”

“I noticed a pipe on the mantelpiece. A Comoy’s, I believe. You wouldn’t have any tobacco for it, would you?”

“Yes, I’ve got some Latakia.”

“Don’t know it. What’s it like?”

“Middle Eastern, dark and aromatic.”

“Perfect.”

“But I’m not giving it to you. Or the pipe. Smoking a used pipe is like wearing another man’s underwear, my father used to say.”

“Quite rightly. Noel, your mother needs a refill. So do I, for that matter. Is there a bell I can pull?”

“My mother’s already had a glass. I think that’s enough.”

Mrs. Burun was sitting calmly in her favourite blue armchair, silently observing the two men.

“Of course it’s not enough,” said Norval. “You’re not up on the latest research. Alcohol is good for Alzheimer’s. It breaks up, or frees up … well, doesn’t matter what. Something that needs breaking and freeing up.”

“It breaks up blood platelets. And frees up acetylcholine in the hippocampus.”

“Exactly. Which is good for learning and memory,
n’est-ce pas
?”

“Yes. Aromatic alcohols with intact phenolic groups act as neuroprotectants, guarding against oxidative damage and cell death.”

“I rest my case.”

“But other research suggests that it’s not alcohol, but the red grape. And the same research indicates that too much alcohol leads straight to dementia. Which, judging by the amount you’ve had since breakfast, is where you’re headed.”

Norval inspected his nails. “Noel, does that sort of thing pass for wit back in Scotland?”

“And why is my mother chewing gum?”

“JJ gave it to her. He says studies at Northumbria University—”

“Suggest that it improves the memory.”

“Well, yes. Thirty-five per cent improvement, in fact. JJ will tell you all about this, and more, if you’re not careful.”

“And you’ve got my mother smoking again, I see. She hasn’t smoked in twenty-five years. Those cigarettes are for guests.”

“She asked for one, said she always liked a good smoke. Didn’t you, Stella. And besides, tobacco’s good for the memory.
⁵⁷
And especially Alzheimer’s.”

“It more than doubles the risk of getting it.”

“Rubbish. My grandfather’s ninety-three. Smokes like a bonfire. And clear as a mountain stream. Who’s the oldest living North American? A tobaccoholic named John McMorran, who’s 113. And besides, I’m putting my foot down. I’m limiting your mum to a pack a day.”

“I don’t want her smoking.”

“Let her have some fun, for God’s sake. Let her eat, drink and remarry.”

“No. Alcohol doesn’t interact well with the new compounds I’m giving her. Nor does nicotine.”

“Let’s drink and be jolly and drown melancholy,” said Stella, lifting her glass in a Scottish toast. Tipsily, thought Noel. “
Slàinte mhath!
”

“There you go,” said Norval. “You can’t disobey your own mother.”

“You heard me,” said Noel.

“What is it with everybody around here? I’m surrounded by pleasure police. Sam’s a prissy-ass vegetarian, JJ’s a homeopathic e-quack, and you’re a … factualist. Blinded by science. ‘Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob Joy of its alchemy …’
⁵⁸
What is it with today’s society?”

Noel looked at his watch. This, he knew, was the preamble to a long lecture. “Look, Norval, I’ve got to go down—”

“Today’s healthism fanatics, nutrition cheerleaders, lifestyle correctors—they’re ruling people’s lives the way the Church used to. They want us all in a perennial state of Lent. Instead of conspicuous consumption, they want conspicuous self-denial. If it’s pleasurable, let’s do some studies and find something wrong with it. Let’s get everybody believing that if they eat the food we tell them to, they’ll be leading the ‘good life’, will live forever, be beautiful forever, paragons of morality. And anybody who smokes or drinks, anybody who eats a hamburger or a fried onion ring, will be excommunicated, cast off as undesirables, untouchables.”

Norval was speaking slowly, to give the impression this was unscripted, an old trick of his.

“OK, Norval, you’ve made your point, so now—”

“The world has become
afraid.
Worriers and hypochondriacs. Candy-asses and bores, the bland leading the bland. Parents are the worst. ‘Put your helmet on, Bobby, you’re opening a can of Coke.’ Where’d you say the liquor cabinet was?”

“I just finished saying that I don’t want you—”

“Keep everyone afraid and they’ll consume—it’s the new corporate motto. The drug companies in particular—they’re the real fear factories, the scaremongerers, along with the doctors of course, who can cram more patients into their schedules by prescribing the drug-of-the-month. But do we need all this shit? There are fifteen thousand new drugs a year. We don’t have enough diseases to go around. So what do the drug companies do? They hire psychiatrists to invent more. What was it Oliver Wendell Holmes said? You with me, Noel?”

“Said about what? He said a lot of things.”

“Well, what are we talking about? Drugs.”

Noel heaved a tired sigh. “That if the world’s entire pharmacopoeia were thrown into the sea, it would be better for mankind, but worse for the fish.”

“Exactly.”

“But he said that in the nineteenth century.”

“And do you know what old people say—
really
old people—when they’re asked about the secret of longevity?”