The Man Game (30 page)

While Pisk, a solitary man, tumbled home, Litz, now separated from his partner by a mile, nursed his hairline where he'd taken a knuckle. A pipe was brought out and a plug of tobacco was laced with hashish and a daub of opium. A fire was lit inside the bowl. Litz's expert puffs stoked the embers of slow-burning tobacco before he passed the pipe to Clough, who ignored the sucking hollow pain in his stomach requesting alcoholic remedy and tried to substitute the offered inhalant. It made his mouth dry out as if clogged with cotton.

The more Clough had learned about the man game, the more curious he'd become. Now he wanted to know everything there was to know. With amply fungal halitosis, he asked pointblank questions that took Litz aback.

Why naked?

Keeps a player honest.

Well, how often do you practise?

Almost every day.

Almost every day, why, who's your coach, eh?

I, uh …

You make a living off this?

Hope to.

So you want some competition?

We'll seek out some players, yeah, when the time's right. We got to know friend from foe. That's the thing. We got to be cautious with new players.

These were not questions that Litz felt deserved a straight answer but he was flattered to hear them asked nonetheless. As they traipsed through the underbrush over clumps of snow and avoided the deeper mud, Litz thought about the questions Clough asked him and grew agitated at not knowing what to disclose and what to reveal. As politely as possible, Litz said: You want to pass
the pipe or do I have to come over there and—

At a certain point, in a valley of silver ferns, Litz admitted he was lost. Clough said: Follow me. They weren't far off the trail, but they'd reached an unlit patch of undergrowth in a cave of cedar trees. The moon was far gone. The blackness was bubonic and utter and wet. Couldn't even see his one hand before his face. It wasn't the first time a man got lost in Vancouver. They just kept walking, like the walking of voyageurs, fur traders, gold diggers, werewolves into the barbed nest of a black nightmare.

Clough was the first to catch a spot of yellowish light: what turned out to be the letters of the
BAR RÚSTICO MONTAÑASO
sign, lit by whale candles. The sign's font was made of logs suspended above the bar countertop by two log columns. They walked towards it.

Miguel Calderón had set up his Bar Rústico beside the roots of one of the most paleolithic tree trunks ever seen on the West Coast, a magnificent timber that once rose over two hundred-fifty feet in the air with a thirty-seven-foot diameter. After the tree was cut down and shivered up into wood and shipped away to the Emperor of China, the remaining stump made for a perfect dance floor, which was exactly how it was being used tonight, the last evening of the year 1886. A tree stump beside it measuring fifteen feet in diameter was used as a bandstand, where a few po-lice, coroner McGuigan, and Red and Rosy from Red & Rosy's General Store played tunes on the fiddle accompanied by a rhythm section of thumped-on hollow logs. The beat was as steady as a trance, heavy and true, leavened by the free-floating old-world nostalgia of Rosy the fiddlist, a melancholy optimist. Lanterns swayed all around, and bonfires on either side kept the party-goers warm. Opium smoke was lithe on the air, smelling like coca.

After his saloon burned down in the Great Fire Miguel Calderón had disappeared for a while into a pool of tears, but recently he'd re-emerged with an idea. He decided to build the first portable bar. It came apart and reassembled and had
wheels. With help from an ox and carriage he was able to take his saloon on the road to wherever a drink was needed. Calderón's goat had a little bell on his collar, and when men heard that jingle at night they snuck out of their homes for a quick nip of whisky and a smoke of hashish before returning to the safety of their stubborn wives. He served drinks to fishermen at the docks, Indians in the peninsular woods, and he was always busy over lunch at Hastings Mill. All in all, Calderón was doing very well, and the po-lice didn't give him a hard time so long as he didn't park out front of a hotel, billiard hall, saloon, or any churches. For the record, he still had a liquor licence, under a registered address that no longer existed. This seemed to satisfy the city councillors, all good customers with long lines of interest-free credit. And as in any bar, Miguel served Indians or Chinamen only when no Whitemans were around to see him do it.

The bar itself was made from scavenged wood. He'd taken this old cedar, cut it in half like a meat pie, hollowed it out leaving a thick crust, and set down to business. Half of the trunk was used as a bartop, wide enough around to fit five men and thick enough to work as a countertop, where Litz and Clough now bent their elbows. On the bark exterior, Calderón had smoothed flat the tops of five lopped-off branches into readymade barstools. The other half of the tree trunk Calderón used to shelve all his liquor bottles. Miguel stood inside the two halves of the tree and served drinks, although he'd yet to serve any to Clough or Litz. In fact, Miguel wouldn't uncross his arms.

Hello, goat, said Clough, and scratched the goat's forehead. I don't have any food, I'm sorry. He turned to Calderón and said, But what aboot a drink, man?

The goat clacked his wide yellow teeth and then turned himself around and noodled his way around looking for grub.

I don't even think by the looks you need a drink, Clough, said Miguel with musical diplomacy in his voice.

When has looks meant anything? What aboot the substance a the man himself? What a you say to fraternity? Bonds.

It took Clough a while longer to persuade Miguel that he
owed him a favour and that a drink would call it even. Pour old Litz here a drink too while you're at it, and, Miguel, then I owe
you
one, eh. Clough, needing a quick change of subject, pointed his index finger at Litz. You got mud all down your neck, eh? No, other side. That's right.

Litz wiped his neck. Is it gone now?

Yeah, mostly. Well, cheers.

Cheers.

They clinked tin cups.

Litz had nothing to say. He glugged his beer, watching the couples on the dance floor.

There's a lot a talented people in the jails, eh. I've met a lot a talented people in my years, and if I had my way I'd hire them all up and give them all homes and wives. But that's not reality, Litz. Oh, yeah, I meet a lot a men in there who know my reputation. People exposed to my legacy, yeah, that's true, but that kind a wears off after the first two or three weeks, eh. Then you're stripped down to the man. Every day I got to act like a man.

Litz checked across the dance floor for any sign of Molly. There were tradesmen, real estate agents, scriveners, and bookkeepers, so many capitalists in view, he was sure she'd be among them. Mayor McLean was here with his whole obese family. RH Alexander and his stout wife were dancing gaily across the tree trunk. The butcher George Black was stomping along and hooting low notes across the lip of his moonshine bottle. So many men, so many young eager men, new landowners, new capitalists mortgaging their family fortunes on Vancouver, they all watched from the sides of the dance floor inside the warm embrace of beaver caps and fur coats, eager for their turn. Every man had an oiled moustache and combed hair. Underneath they all wore the same fine black suits with long tails, cotton shirts, and trim slacks that fit inside shining leather boots with shining buckles. Plenty of these men stiffly escorted their feminine partners across the tree trunk to the informal rhythm of the wooden instruments. The ladies were all blushing old hens from New Westminster with elbow-length kid gloves and fur stoles to
keep their shoulders warm. They had expansive waistlines and thick, clumsy legs. No Mollys. Where was she if she wasn't here? Not at home. Wouldn't her crippled husband want to attend? Litz shook his head, then looked at Clough, who was staring at him as if he'd lost his senses.

Mind I ask what you're looking at, man?

Sorry, what?

Clough flung his arm in the air. I give up. Why do it? A all the things, man, why this?

Litz didn't answer all at once. He said: I kumtuks how you mean. I do. It looks crazy.

It's seems like a fool's way to waste the days, yes.

No, it isn't. No, see. The man game's more important than logging, or fishing, or any job. For me. The man game's the test. Even taking down a tree don't compare. When I'm out there in the game, alls that's going to save my skin is my own strength. Strength in my body and in my mind, eh. My stealth. My strength and my stealth. I never even thought aboot it until I started to play. If it weren't for the man game, Clough, I wouldn't be standing here with you right now. Probably be dead. Or in Alberta. Me and Pisk risk our lives every time we play. Because this is what we're meant to do in Vancouver. But right now we don't know who's going to come after us. Furry and Daggett want to tan and hide us like bisons.

That's all I'm talking aboot. Why don't you skedaddle, leave town?

Leave town? Who should leave town? Who's a menace? Furry and Daggett come after us with saws and axes—and us, what do we have? Nothing, not even our skivvies. I don't wonder who deserves this town. Who do you think?

This was Furry and Daggett's town before you could spit. Leave and be done with it, I'm
beseeching
you, eh?

Who you think's got more courage? We'll stand up to them, or anybody else, any day. Try us in the man game and see what I mean. Pretty soon you can bet me and Pisk will be sitting in their seats at the Sunnyside. Believe me.

Believe you, eh.

Alls I got are my nuts and my word, said Litz, hunched over his drink, elbows splayed across Miguel's conveyable bartop.

Clough chewed at the inner skin of his cheek, meditating on the hypnotic drums of the celebration. The dancers trotting along four-legged like prize ponies to the rhythm of the log band. Such hopeless pleasure was good for the soul of a new town. Clough said: I respect you, Litz. For a kid, you work hard. I just don't like to see you in trouble.

Trouble's the easy part, said Litz.

Okay, I can tell your ears work as good as my right arm here invisibly choking you, so you know what? said Clough. One sip a this beer and I forgot all aboot how badly I need to piss. Save my branch.

While Clough was away, Litz returned his attention to the dance floor in hopes of seeing her face, her olive green eyes, that softly sexual, sarcastic smile, her thick black hair, her stiffbacked rump, the heaven of her somewhere waiting for him among other men. He straightened his tie, dusted off his shoulders, rubbed his hair flat, and checked again for mud. Crazy to play a man game before meeting Molly this way. He listened to the music and studied all the shoes travelling in time to the rhythm, watching patterns of skirts and pants coalesce, cede, and transform. The atmosphere was perfectly frivolous.

A part of him still held out hope that when she arrived she'd come straight to him and that would be it, they'd get married. There the fantasy abruptly ended, as if forecasting beyond that moment was more absurd than even he would allow himself permission to explore.

Clough said: Now I'm freezing. Miguel, a whisky. You in pain, Litz? Looks like a good cut on your forehead.

Litz found the long cruddy spot, dabbed it curiously with his thumb, and brushed some crumbs of dried blood off his cheek. No, he said. No pain. The opium and hashish … Finally he caught sight of her. Before he thought to keep it to himself, he said:
There
she is.

Who?

… Oh, well …

Who, you mean Mrs. Erwagen?

Hm.

What aboot her?

Nothing, I, only I … think she's, I mean, ain't she
be
autiful?

Sure, Mrs. Erwagen is, hell, why … Are you … say now, do you mean you …

No, what? No.

She's the—. Your—. Is she your
coach
? Litz?

Litz looked in his glass of beer at the bubbles on the head slowly popping out of existence.

Are you a fool?

You tell a living soul aboot her—

'The fuck, I—

—and I'll personally tie you a noose with your own gizzard like a chicken, hang you, then axe your head off.

Molly Erwagen?

Was her whole idea.

You
talk
to her?

Said it yourself, she's our coach.

How often do you see her?

Look, I shouldn't a opened my smacker in the first place, it was dumb as fuck and I don't know why I told you, and I can't tell you any more, so let's drop the subject and carry on with our drinks, I got to—

Clough put his hand on Litz's shoulder: You tell her this has got to stop.

You come to see every time we play. Why should I tell her to stop?

A lady shouldn't be involved in such activities—

Clough, it was her whole idea.

Fine, so it was. I suppose we all took the bait. That's a lady's beguiling skills. Her powers a persuasion. For women, men are all marks. Have no confidence in her. But what she's invented, this is a man's domain. A lady like her does not belong involved in this kind a sport. She knows she's trespassing. She's not invited. I don't like her for it. It being her idea. I don't approve.
She's never even seen a game you played, has she?