The Door to Lost Pages (15 page)

“But I thought you wanted her to save you?”

“No . . . I was wrong about that. I’ve got my own life. And I’ve got Russet. We do well together.” Aydee laughs, opening her arms to let Sandra in. “And we have each other too, now, right?”

In Sandra’s dream, she and Aydee are playing with her child—she’s not sure if it’s a boy or a girl—in a big park full of dogs, including Russet. Everyone is happy and playful. Russet rushes up to her and licks her face. He steps back and barks, then licks her again. He does this several times until Sandra wakes up to the real Russet’s tongue on her face.

In the dark, she reaches out to pet him, and her hand falls on something sticky. Sandra immediately thinks of the dog stabber and knows that this is blood. She shouts, “Aydee! Russet is hurt! Aydee!” Where is she? The last thing Sandra remembers before going to sleep is resting her head in Aydee’s lap right here next to the dumpster.

The dog starts running; Sandra has no choice but to follow. She’s not fast enough for him, so he keeps having to stop and run back to her to make sure she’s following.

Russet reaches Aydee, who’s on the ground, leaning against the wall of an alley. He whines desperately, kissing her face, darting quick, worried glances at Sandra. She realizes that Russet isn’t covered in his own blood.

There’s blood pooling around Aydee; she’s holding a hand against her ribs. She holds Sandra’s gaze and says, “Take me to her.”

“Her? Who? . . . That other Aydee? No! I have to get you to a hospital.”

Aydee coughs blood. “Too weak to argue. Do as I say. Please. She knows we’re coming. Knows what to do.”

Sandra is anxious to get Aydee looked at by a doctor, but she doesn’t dare betray her friend’s wishes again. As Sandra kneels down to wrap Aydee’s right arm around her shoulders, she sees a man lying face up on the ground next to the opposite wall.

There’s just enough light for her to see that his throat is ripped open. Next to his chewed-up right hand, there’s a bloody dagger.

Weakly, Aydee says, “Russet had run off. I found him—” Aydee coughs again, and Sandra winces at the pain on her friend’s face. Aydee continues in a whisper: “Guy was giving him steak while pulling a knife on him. I screamed. Ran to save Russet. Guy stabbed me. Then Russet got him.”

The other Aydee is waiting for them outside the door to Lost Pages. When she sees them, she rushes over and helps Sandra carry the wounded and barely conscious Aydee into the shop.

Russet sniffs the other Aydee. His tail perks up, wagging enthusiastically, and he runs rings around the three women.

Inside, the other Aydee says, “This is my fault. If only I’d . . .”

Sandra doesn’t trust this Aydee. Her Aydee is going to die, and she’s powerless to prevent it. Unable to keep the anger out her voice she says, “So, how are you going to save her? She always told me you were a hero. But you’re just a coward.”

Before the Lost Pages Aydee can reply, the wounded Aydee opens her eyes and says, “It’s you. It’s really you.” Blood gurgles out of her mouth; she coughs, spitting out more blood.

The other Aydee says, “Yes.” Tears stream down her face.

The blood-stained Russet sniffs both Aydees intently.

The Lost Pages Aydee pulls a pendant from under her shirt. The palm-sized jewel reflects shades of green, blue, and brown. She clasps it in the wounded Aydee’s hand, then enfolds that hand with both of hers. She bends down, brushing her face against her doppelganger’s. She opens her mouth and kisses her double’s bloody lips and . . .

. . . green, blue, and brown light explodes into the bookshop.

Sandra loses all sense of herself; she experiences life—simultaneously, chaotically, blissfully—through the bodies of countless creatures: flying in strange skies, swimming through primordial oceans, worshipping monstrous deities, smelling alien flowers, hunting elusive prey, hiding from ravenous predators, giving birth to a litter of exotic animals . . .

As the Godlight fades, Sandra feels that a lifetime of ignored wounds have been healed. With calm joy she looks at Russet licking the other Aydee’s hand. But panic rises within her when she notices that her Aydee has disappeared.

Sandra screams, “Where is she? What have you done to her?”

There are tears on Aydee’s face. She moves closer and opens her mouth, but she seems unable to speak.

Baring her teeth in fury, Sandra pushes her away. Then Aydee erupts with laughter, crying even harder. “Sandra, it’s me! It’s both of us. We’re one person again. Finally.”

Aydee lifts her shirt, and there are fading scars where she’d been stabbed. Sandra looks at her face, and it’s true: the new Aydee’s face is a composite of both their faces, not as worn as the one, not as smooth as the other.

Aydee says it’s good to have a dog in the bookshop again. It amuses her when Russet intimidates customers by following them around.

These strange books about secret histories, lost worlds, and weird gods; the otherwordly clientele; the tenuous connection with any one reality—Sandra’s fascinated by it all, and amazed that she’s really working at Lost Pages.

As Sandra leafs through the book whose cover painting bears a curious resemblance to her tattoos—admiring the ornate hand-drawn illuminations but still unable to decipher the writing—she hears Russet snore from the foot of the bed. She yawns, puts the heavy tome aside, and gently presses her hands against the not-so-subtle bulge of her belly.

Sandra blows out the candle. She lies down and spoons Aydee.

The Daily Star,
November 15

News Briefs, page A7

The body of the heavily tattooed young Caucasian woman discovered wrapped in a quilt on Green Avenue in the aftermath of the freak snow storm that hit the city in late October has still not been identified. The coroner’s office has found no evidence of foul play and has concluded that hypothermia was the cause of death. The young woman was pregnant.

Phone rings. It’s Jasper. Says he wants a Montreal story for a new anthology he’s preparing, something about cities. Go crazy, he says.

Big money, he says. Hard/soft deal with Knopf/Vintage. HBO planning mini-series based on his concept, adapting stories from his book for TV. Put in all the sex you want, he tells me. It’s cable TV. Money, he says again.

Right. Money. But any of it for me? I ask.

Tell Jasper about Bestial Acts deal. The first story about my fictional bookshop, Lost Pages. Haynes bought the rights, made a film with Depp playing Lucas. Big indie hit. Didn’t see a dime. Not even a penny. Pringle took it all. Read your contract, he said. Fucking publishers.

Tell Jasper I’ll think about it.

Money sounds like a good thing. No story ideas, though.

Take the dog out for a walk. Look around. Maybe something in the neighbourhood will spark an idea or two.

Girlfriend always says I never notice anything. Always in my head. Stores go out of business. New buildings go up. And I’m just clueless.

I’m not really that bad. But she’s not wrong, either.

Walk around with the dog, look at stuff. But I get no story ideas.

Long walk, though. Makes the dog happy, at least.

Girlfriend says, Take that camera I got you for your birthday last year. You know, the one you never use. Take pictures of the neighbourhood. It’ll rev up your imagination. You’ll think up a story in no time.

Yeah, right.

I go out with the dog again. And the camera.

Meet lots of people from the neighbourhood. Portuguese grandmothers who can speak neither French nor English. Cute McGill students. Other dog walkers. Clerks from the neighbourhood bakeries, the newsstand, the used bookstores. People who know me ‘cause they see me walk the dog all the time.

They all fuss over the dog. They always do.

Dog just soaks it all in. Wags his tail. Smiles. Pants.

I don’t manage to shoot any pictures. No inspiration. Getting depressed. Go to the park to play with the dog.

Betcha Jasper never thought about how happy his stupid anthology would make my dog.

Lots of dogs in the park. Dog loves it. Humps a bunch of them.

Fuck it, I’m too depressed. Can’t play anymore. Head back home. Dog’s not too happy about leaving the park.

Girlfriend gives me a good pep talk. We gab about Montreal. What’s fun about it. What’s special about it.

All the different kinds of people. Culturally diverse. No violence. People holding hands and kissing in public. Gay. Straight. Whatever. Lots of sexy girls. Great city to walk around in twenty-four hours a day. Easy to make friends. And the food. People love eating. All kinds of food. And bakeries everywhere. Bagels. Croissants. Baguettes. More.

Then, bad stuff. The paranoid Anglos who think their culture is threatened. Yeah, right. The gullible Francophones who believe all that tripe about being oppressed. Yeah, right.

Nowhere near as many people like that as the media makes it appear. Most people just like to get along. Québécois. Anglos. Jews. Arabs. Blacks. Asians. Latinos. Whatever.

More bad stuff. Everyone fucking smokes. Well, not everyone, but, fuck, it sure feels like it sometimes. And everyone’s always late. Always. Montreal custom. Hate that.

Well, so what. Still no ideas for a story.

Fuck.

Temperature shoots up ten degrees today. The sky is clear, and the sun is hot. It’s just a few degrees above freezing, but, for us Montrealers, so eager to leave winter behind, it’s like the first taste of summer.

Go out to Rue St-Denis with the girlfriend.

Same as every year on the first day with even a hint of spring. All the terraces are open for business. Everyone eating outside, everyone underdressed, everyone checking each other out, everyone happy and chatty.

Fuck, there’s a lot of beautiful girls in this city. And it’s nice to see a bit of flesh again, after months of winter.

Girlfriend notices me noticing.

She laughs. She always does.

I love it when she laughs.

She gives me that look. I love that look.

We go home and fuck. We have so much fun we can’t stop laughing, even while we’re cumming.

Still no idea for a story, though.

I decide to try again with the camera. I don’t bring the dog this time. I give him a cookie instead. He takes it in his mouth and plops himself on the couch.

Okay. I’m outside. I’ve got the camera.

Take pictures. Lots of pictures. Old school. With film.

Buildings. Skylines. People. Dogs. Trees. Stuff on the ground.

Run out of film pretty fast. Fun, though.

Dunno if it’ll help me with the story or not.

I go buy more rolls of film. Lots more. What the hell.

I feel good.

I go home and write.

I write a whole story in one sitting. But it has nothing to do with Jasper’s anthology.

I reread my new story. I’m pretty happy with it. Needs only a bit of editing. A big turning point in my Lost Pages mythology. I send it off to Klima at
Electric Velocipede
.

I try the camera thing again. Use up another whole roll. Fun.

But no new story ideas today. Not for Jasper, and not for anything else.

I do the camera thing every day now. Sometimes I bring the dog, but it’s too distracting.

I end up taking lots of walks. Camera walks; and dog walks. I try to leave enough time for writing.