The Memory Artists (43 page)

“Yes, because I’m the one who told you.”

“‘Stay away from doctors, never take any medicines.’ They all say the same thing.”

“But in my mom’s case—”

“The French Revolution,” Mrs. Burun interrupted, but let the words hang in the air.

An awkward patch of silence followed. Noel held his breath. Mrs. Burun took a long drag on her cigarette.

“What about the French Revolution, Stella?” said Norval.

“Norval, please leave her—”

“Changes in health philosophy,” Mrs. Burun replied, dropping her cigarette butt into her glass and watching it sizzle.

“Really? What kind of changes?”

A look of doubt began to creep into Stella’s face. Is this relevant? Or have we moved on? What was the last topic? Coercive health, or over-medication? “Nothing,” she said. “I think I … I think we’ve moved on … we’re talking about something different …”

“We were talking about health philosophy. What happened during the French Revolution?”

“Norval,” said Noel under his breath. “I suggest we—”

“Changes,” said Stella, “based on the idea that proper diet and lifestyle were the best ways to make people obedient, compliant … And in Germany, around the same time, the merchant and upper classes got more or less the same idea. That the best way to keep things running smoothly, to prevent unrest or change, was to make sure that workers were healthy, fit.”

“Like feeding the galley slaves to keep the boat moving,” said Norval.

“They even had terms like ‘medicine police’ and ‘health police’. And then of course the eugenics movement came along, suggesting that only the ‘superior’ variety of people should propagate.”

“Not a bad idea, actually …”

“So then poor health, which was previously seen as unavoidable, as bad luck, was seen to be the result of bad habits, or bad lifestyles. And from there it was a short leap to a new theory—that control of breeding and lifestyles was the legitimate business of governments.”

“The philosophy of the Third Reich,” said Norval.

“Exactly,” said Stella.

Norval reached over, clinked glasses with Stella. “Noel, we
need
bad habits, for Christ’s sake. We need risky lifestyles, dangerous lifestyles. You know why? Because with all the boomers going into retirement, the state is not going to be able to pay these people to hang around doing bugger-all— apart from pumping iron and prancing around in gyms. Soon we’ll need fleets of vans that cruise around all day picking up joggers and taking them home—they’ll be in great shape but won’t remember where they live. So the healthists have got it all backwards. Smokers and alcoholics should be thanked, saluted, for selflessly chopping years off their life. Binge-hogs who scarf down Big Whoppers and fries sitting on their whopping asses, knocking back beer in front of the box, should be canonized for cashing in early.”

Stella laughed, a deep belly laugh, one Noel hadn’t heard in a while. “My mother used to feel the same way,” she said. “She had every bad habit in the book—and told her doctors to go to the devil.”

Noel was now smiling, delighted at his mother’s new coherency—and the latest drug responsible for it. “All right, Mom, I give in. If cigarettes and alcohol are a pleasure, go for it.” He could hardly wait to tell JJ—it must be the A-1001. He should make more. “Listen, I’ve got some things to do in the lab, and a couple ideas I want to work out. You two’ll be all right? Got everything you need?”

Norval gave a slight nod, then waited for the basement door to close. “Let me light that, Stella.”

As she leaned over the match Norval caught a glimpse of the cleft of her breasts and black lace bra. When she resumed her position, he studied her swept-back salt-and-pepper hair, her patrician face, her upper lip the shape of an archery bow. More like Lauren Hutton, he decided, than Catherine Deneuve. About the same age and with that seductive incisor gap that a tongue might just slide its way through. And that luscious Scottish accent …

“Stella, in the interests of art, I was wondering if you’d help me out with this project I’m working on …”

Chapter 21

Stella’s Diary (II)

20 April 2002. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. Jackdaws love my big sphinx of quartz.

Well, that feels better. My fingers feel better, my mind feels better. I’m not all the way there but I feel like I can finish sentences now. And I can remember what I had for breakfast this morning.

If the sword of Damocles fell, it missed.

21 April. Touch wood. I remembered something else today. When Noel reads to me at bedtime -– as I read to him aeons ago -– he often mumbles something before starting, almost like a prayer. Which sometimes makes me cry. But no matter how hard I tried, I could never remember what it was, until today: ‘To you mother I will read these lines, for love of unforgotten times.’

24 April. Finally met Noel’s best friend, a Frenchman named Norval Blaquière. He’s what my students would have called ‘hot’. I never thought I’d use that word. He’s handsome (almost looks like a Burun!) and his clothes -tailor-made by the look of them –- are exquisite: white muslin shirt with metal snaps, leather jacket of the deepest green, black wool trousers with grosgrain trim ... But all on the well-worn, genteel-shabby side, as if picked up at an aristocrat’s jumble sale.

And he can be quite charming, despite his air of selfsatisfied superiority in all matters of taste and intellect, and this cold, cutting tone he has (he wears his hatchet on his sleeve). Still, he makes me laugh -- even more than JJ. The strangest part of it all is that, from the way he looks at me so piercingly, I almost think he’s attracted to me, that he’s ‘making love to me’ (in the old-fashioned sense). Is that a figment of my imagination? Wishful thinking? A faded beauty’s yearning for attention? But I did feel
something
–unless, like so many other things, my woman’s intuition is failing me.

25 April. After my husband died my relationship with men seemed to die as well -– apart from two or three unhappy skirmishes. The chemistry was never quite right. Or perhaps it was the past that got in the way. I’ve often thought about Shelley’s wife in this respect, his first wife, whose name escapes me. She drowned herself in the Serpentine, leaving her husband ‘a prey to the reproaches of memory’. For years this is what I felt, and it must have affected my interactions with men. I may be wrong. In any case, I had enough trouble making a living, bringing up a son –- romantic turmoil was all I needed! Teaching and Noel (in reverse order) –- those were my passions. But when Noel moved out, and seemed to be doing well, I started thinking about men again, about relationships. I was very fond of a colleague in the history department, who shall remain nameless, and he seemed to be fond of me. He asked me out several times over the years, but I always declined, for one reason or another. And then, just when I had changed my mind, just when I was about to ask
him
out, well, that’s when I began to lose my memory!

Harriet Westbrook. (Thank you, Noel.)

26 April. I scarcely know where to begin. I thought this sort of thing was over for me. Norval, this friend of my son’s ... modesty forbids me to finish the sentence. Suffice it to say that I was right -– Norval
was
attracted to me. Will wonders never cease! It was an ‘art project’ of some sort -– I have to admit I can’t remember all the details (an alcoholic mist, nothing more) and I couldn’t tell whether he was kidding or not -- but who cares? It was incredible. And shocking. Doubts, inhibitions, fears somehow disappeared, and for the first time I didn’t go back in time, into heaviness, I just stayed in the present, in lightness.

I know this won’t happen again, and that’s perhaps for the best. Norval’s heart belongs to another, although he didn’t actually come out and say it –- but I could tell by the way he didn’t actually come out and say it.

Probably not a good idea to tell Noel, we both agreed. At least for now.

27 April. One last thing about yesterday. In the morning, as my head gradually cleared, I asked Norval why he chose me and not another S, someone younger, more beautiful ... like Samira, for instance. ‘It takes two to tango,’ he replied, with no shilly-shallying, no false compliments. ‘When I was interested she wasn’t, and when she was interested I wasn’t.’ ‘And why weren’t you ... interested?’ I asked. ‘None of your business,’ he answered, his words riding a stream of smoke. ‘With all due respect.’ I nodded, watching a wobbly ring dissolve, knowing the answer. Because of Noel.

Sunday, 28 April 2002. I know what day it is today. And the year. All week long I’ve known. I’m not quite there, but almost. (ALZ well that ends well, as Norval says. Let’s hope he’s right.) On Monday I see a neuropharmacologist or neuropathologist (I’ve forgotten her name but I only heard it once!) who’s apparently working with AD compounds similar to the ones Noel is using with me or that target similar brain functions, I’m not sure which. I do hope all this leads somewhere, not only for me but for the whole world. Could this get me back to teaching? Could I go back to Scotland one more time! Assuming I survive the tests and treatments ...

Norval came over this evening. With a bouquet of flowers, which he handed to me not sheepishly, not secretly, but matter-of-factly –- right in front of Noel! ‘Here. These are for you, Stella,’ he said.

‘How lovely!’ I exclaimed. ‘Yellow roses -– that means something, doesn’t it, Noel? Friendship?’

Noel gazed at the petals, with a bit of a scowl. ‘Yellow symbolises jealousy,’ he replied. ‘Or it can mean guilt or treason or depraved passions ...’

‘It means,’ said Norval, ‘that they didn’t have any red ones.’

1 May. Very clearheaded with fewer and fewer fuzzy areas -– a miracle? Is it possible that I never had AD? Noel, JJ assures me, is becoming a brilliant neuropharmacologist. Or is Émile behind all this? Noel’s last concoction, in any case, seems to have worked wonders. But it has side-effects, unbelievable side-effects! I felt like I was floating near the ceiling, looking down on my own body, like a soul freed of its earthly bonds! Or maybe I was near death and this was a dress rehearsal ...

11 May. Noel is in love with Samira, and I hardly needed Norval to plant that seed in my mind. Although I should probably stay out of it, I’m going to try to bring them together, if I can.

14 May. Hope I’m not being a drama queen or nag, but for the past couple of weeks I’ve been asking (pestering?) Noel about his health. He says he’s just lost a bit of weight, but he doesn’t look at all well to me. I’ve asked Norval to talk to him about it.

15 May. Strange coincidence. A few days ago we talked about trying to get on this quiz show (which Noel hates) and this afternoon JJ and I watched an episode of The Honeymooners, the one where Ralph goes on a TV show called The $99,000 Answer. He chooses the category Popular Songs. We were laughing like lunatics, but I have to admit I find it painful to watch when Ralph, who knows the category backwards, can’t name the composer of ‘Swanee River’ in the very first question. I know it’s silly but I’m getting so nervous about Norval’s appearance. It’s in two days! Fingers crossed.

Chapter 22

The Arabian Nightmare

(Noel’s Diary III)

May 17. The applause sign flashed and a handful of people obeyed it, including a frenetic JJ on one side and the fumbling ghostwriter on the other, who was trying to balance a clipboard and a Memorex CD-R on his lap at the same time. My mother and Samira were smiling at each other as they clapped; I was frozen with nervousness but understood every word, or almost.

“Welcome to CBC4’s Tip of Your Tongue! Brought to you by … Memorex! And now, please welcome your master of ceremonies, Jack Lafontaine!”

From the entrance of the studio, Jack Lafontaine came trotting down the aisle, high-fiving people who weren’t high-fiving back, waving to a crowd that seemed unsure of who he was.

“Cut!” said the director, a fuzzy-haired boy with a pre-pubescent voice. “We need more noise than that, people. When the applause sign flashes, please, everybody—”

“We can juice it later,” offered the soundman, sniffing badly from a cold, or line of cocaine.

“I don’t want to juice it up later. We’ve been criticised for that—how are we going to sell this show to the States if it sounds like a home video? And for the audience shot, can we get that dog out of the aisle? Yes, that dog. How many dogs are there in the studio? What are we doing, 101 Dalmatians? Let’s take it from the top, after the intro. Three, two, one …”

Jack came running down the aisle again, with dyed black wind-resistant hair that seemed to have been glued on, and a tight tuxedo that made his movements slightly penguinish. He hopped up the stairs to the makeshift stage. The applause was only marginally louder.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for that warm welcome. Glad to have you aboard for Tip of Your Tongue! Let me just catch my breath. All right, tonight’s theme is … poetry! This is show number seventy-seven and so far no one has gone all the way to the top. Let’s hope the double sevens will be lucky for someone tonight! So without further ado, let’s meet a new group of contestants in search of … fifty thousand dollars!”

APPLAUSE sign.

“Tonight’s questions have been prepared by Dr. Émile Vorta, the distinguished neurologist from the University of Quebec—and a poet in his own right!—who will also be acting as tonight’s referee. Thank you, Dr. Vorta, it’s an honour to have you here. All right contestants, are we ready to roll? It’s time to put on your thinking caps—because here comes the quick-digit query. Using the buttons in front of you, I want you to put the following poems in chronological order, according to year of publication:

(1)  In Memoriam—Lord Tennyson

(2)  Remember—Christina Rossetti

(3)  Much madness is divinest sense—Emily Dickinson

(4)  I Remember, I Remember—Thomas Hood

(5)  The Old Fools—Philip Larkin

“Time’s up. The correct answer is 4, 2, 1, 3, 5. Let’s see who got it right. Sylvie Viau and Ronald Sheldrake. Sylvie’s time was 8.7 seconds and Ronald’s … 9.3! Good for you, Ronald, I mean Sylvie. Step up here, please! No, not you, Ronald.”