The Memory Artists (19 page)

“Right.” Samira lifted the lid of an electric-blue box at eye-level. “And this one is …?”

“A scrotal infusion kit.”

“I’m not sure I want to know more.”

“You got your wax, your catheter, saline solution, intravenous bag. Everything you need. Well, not
you
.”

“Need for what?”

“Scrotal inflation. You dip your scrotum in hot wax several times to relax it, inject a catheter into both sides of the testicles and fill them with a dripping saline solution from an intravenous bag. You can go up to two litres if you want. That’ll give you three days of monster balls—expanding anywhere from fifteen to twenty-two inches in circumference—before the solution is absorbed into the system and things get back to normal. It’s perfectly safe.”

“But …
why
?”

“Some gentlemen like the warm heavy feeling when they’re all puffed up. And deflation is good too, because there’s a constant tugging on the scrotum. So they say—I’ve never tried it. Plus it looks hot, it looks awesome.”

“What’s this sack of powder for?” asked Norval, from a kneeling position, his nose stuck in the bag as if he were about to snort it.

“Just add water and stir. Got that from a lab in Delaware. It’s listed on my website. Very popular among university students.”

“You smoke it or snort it?”

“Neither. It’s fake excrement. You can smear it anywhere. It’s very lifelike. But completely harmless, of course.”

“I know I’m repeating myself,” said Samira, laughing, “but …”

“What’s it for? Frat parties, revenge on teachers, parents, enemies. You name it. It’s
very
big in New Hampshire. But most of this stuff is from a former life, from my misspent youth—I’ve left it all behind. I’m about to toss most of it onto the bonfire. I’m now into CAM. I’m a CAM artist.”

“You’re a cam-artist,” said Norval.

“Exactly.”

“And that would be …?”

“Complementary and alternative medicine—everything from meditation, acupuncture and herbalism to chelation, colonics and leech therapy. This, for example, is a colonic irrigation kit. You run this tube through your rectum in order to cleanse the intestines with warm water. This one’s an iridology kit. You diagnose illness by studying the iris of the eye. And this last one is for Hopi ear candling—you insert a burning candle in the ear canal to remove impurities from the brain and sinuses. And these three are for aromatherapy, this one colour therapy, this one for acupressure, this one’s Bach flowers, and these three contain the Schuessler Tissue Salts.”

“Bach flowers?” said Samira.

“Oh, I forgot one. This one here’s for magnet therapy, based on the belief that blood circulation can be improved by mounting magnets at various points on the body.”

“Haven’t all these procedures, without exception, been debunked as useless or dangerous?” said Norval. “And hasn’t the FDA banned the importation of ear candles?”

“Well, I …”

“I think,” said Samira, “that its proponents are practising religion or philosophy as much as science, isn’t that right, JJ?”

“Yes, that’s very true. The testing data on CAM suggest that there’s another dimension to human life and healing that’s not material. A lot of traditional drugs—like Prozac, for example—have been found, in study after study, to be no better than placebos. So something else is going on, in another dimension.”

“Herbal cures haven’t received much attention from pharmaceutical companies,” said Samira, as the three made their way back into the living room. “Have they, JJ?”

“If they can’t patent ’em, Big Pharma won’t touch ’em. Take Taheebo tea. It’s been around since Christ was a carpenter. Everyone knows it could eliminate cancer. So what’s the drug industry’s reaction? Not interested. Taheebo can’t be patented. It’s the bark of a tree! God made it! Pfizer and Merck can’t patent it!”

Samira picked up a cookie from a plastic bowl next to the cigar-store Indian and put it in her mouth. “Oh … what the … These taste like dog biscuits. No, these
are
dog biscuits.”

“I keep them for Merlin, and other strays. They’re herbal—made with stone mint, fennel seeds and tincture of stavesacre. A nice canine mouth detergent.”

“They aren’t too bad, actually,” said Samira, while crunching. “Would you like to try one, Noel?” she said, articulating each word, as if he were a child with learning disabilities.

“Hey Sam,” said JJ, “which animal keeps the best time?”

“I give up.”

“A watch dog. You hear that one, Nor? A watch dog.”

“Side-splitting.”

“You’ve got some great books here,” said Samira, smiling. “Are you a writer yourself?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I started off in the entertainment industry. I used to write film teasers and taglines. After taking a creative writing course at a prestigious non-accredited university. I’ve worked on lots of films.”

“Really?” said Samira. “Which ones?”

“Well, the latest one hasn’t been released yet. There’s some legal snags. It’s called
Lord of the Rings: The Assistant Editor’s Cut
. I worked in the field for years. Freelance, like. I wrote some stuff for Sony—you know, fake reviews? And I’m the one who came up with the tagline ‘A film about blank blank and other blanks.’ It was me who started all that. And now I’m thinking of suing the companies that stole it. A film about blank blank and other blanks. That was me.”

Norval shook his head, not knowing or caring what JJ was talking about. As far as he was concerned, all conversational value had been squeezed out of the fact that JJ once worked in the entertainment industry. “So how about we start stuffing these bongs …”

“I’ve got an article about it, from the
Hartford Courant
.” JJ reached for a knob and yanked repeatedly at a blocked drawer. He pulled at a crumpled newspaper, which ripped as he extracted it. “Listen, all these are mine: ‘A film about husbands, wives, children and other natural disasters.’ ‘A film about life, love, airplanes and other bumpy rides.’ ‘A film about work, marriage and other forms of combat …’”

“We get the idea,” said Norval.

“‘A film about friends, families and other vicious animals.’ ‘A film about kidnappings, car thefts and other rituals of dating.’ All those were mine. You may have heard them. And then everybody started to steal the formula. Like
High Fidelity
: ‘A comedy about fear of commitment, hating your job, falling in love and other pop favourites.’ Which is way lame. And
Panic
: ‘A story of family lust, murder and other mid-life crises.’ And …”

“Yes, fine,” said Norval.

“
Wag the Dog
: ‘A comedy about truth, justice and other special effects.’ You see now why I want to sue?”

“Yes,” said Norval. “Got anything else in that drawer, preferably illegal—”

“I also worked in the music business. I thought up misspelled words. In fact, I’m the one who got that whole thing going. It’s huge now, eh?”

“What … exactly do you mean?” said Samira. “Like Led Zeppelin or Def Leppard or Limp Bizkit …”

“I’m the one who extended it to songs. You know, like ‘Majuk Karpit’ and ‘Toolz4Luv’ and ‘Sk8er Boi.’ That really took off. Musicians
love
misspelled words. It’s rebellious. Then I moved on to an ad agency. I wrote tons of slogans. Here’s one I did for Funds-o-Rama in Vermont. Are you ready? ‘Don’t just invest. Upvest.’ That was mine. ‘Don’t just invest. Upvest.’”

Norval looked vacantly at him. “And that would mean … what, exactly?”

“I’m not sure. Everyone liked it, though. They ended up selling it to another company for big bucks.”

Norval nodded. “How about ‘Up your Assets’?”

“Here’s another one: ‘It’s not a fridge. It’s an ideology.’ That was mine. ‘It’s not a fridge. It’s an ideology.’”

“That was big, was it?” said Norval.

“No, they never used it. I also did that vitamin-pill equation? That was a classic, eh. You know, number of pills plus x. That was mine.”

“Which … what are we talking about now?” said Samira.

“Well, you don’t get 100 pills anymore, do you. You get 90 + 10 free. You don’t get 50 pills. You get—”

“Forty plus ten.”

“Correct. It was me who started that. And then I quit the ad agency to write a novel. I got a hundred and forty-three rejections. Which I believe is a record. I sent the file to Guinness—you know, for publicity?—but they said they didn’t have that category. And weren’t planning to.
²⁴
I did get a nibble from the biggest publishing company on the Falkland Islands. Anyway, I ended up paying for the publication myself, at least a bank loan did, worth every penny too. The Laurentian Bank’s still after me.” For some reason JJ here erupted in a loud belly laugh, not the irritating kind but the infectious. He walked over to the bookshelf and got down on his hands and knees. Squeezed under the bottom shelf was an entire row of hard-cover books, of uniform colour—dun—with nothing on the spines. He extracted one of them. “Here, take a look.”

“What’s it about?” said Samira.

“Lost love united. Getting a second chance. It’s not a novel of traditional form. It has no plot—it’s symphonic in design. I composed it in eight weeks at white heat. It didn’t get great reviews, but I tried to put a positive spin on things. That’s what my mom used to tell me. Look for the silver lining. I Fed-Exed a copy to Oprah.”

Apart from his eyes, which were rolling reflexively, Norval was keeping his natural sarcasm and vehemence in check. Not because he cared about hurting JJ’s feelings—the man was shatterproof—but because he was too easy a target: he’d been wearing a self-hung “Kick Me” sign for years. It was like ridiculing Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber or Sir Elton John. Besides, Norval had something else on his mind: the promise of ecstatic herbs. Feigning interest, he picked up one of the books and read the back cover: “This is a joke, right?” said Norval.

“It’s PR parody—and self-parody. It’s postmodernism squared. And those are real quotes—I didn’t make them up!”

“It … it works,” said Samira, tentatively. “I like it.”

“I learned lots of things in my creative writing course. Like how you should use similes whenever you can. Because critics and jury members like them. I’ve got thousands: ‘… like a vine clinging to a dead tree,’ ‘… like being shaven by a drunken barber,’ ‘… like broken kites in an attic …’”

“OK,” said Norval, “we get the—”

“‘… like an idle race car,’ ‘… like an asterisk for a missing footnote,’ ‘… like birds entering the mouths of crocodiles and cleaning their teeth,’ et cetera, et cetera. I’ve got them all on floppies, in alphabetical order. I just have to find the bits that go before.”

So far, Noel had not understood everything. Not only because of his aural visions, but because Samira’s presence made him dumbstruck, his lips numb and stuck. Whenever her eyes—those midnight eyes of the East!—gleamed into his he could feel his legs soften and melt like a cheap candle. Inside he was a mess too, his ears taking pictures his mind couldn’t develop. He mimed attention.

“But you know what? The book flopping was the best thing that ever happened to me. Because I know now that I’m no writer. But I had to give it a shot, you know what I mean? I still do it as a hobby. But now I’ve found something I really enjoy. That I’m good at. And can make money at.”

“I’m afraid to ask,” said Norval, “what that might be.”

“CAM.”

“Right.”

“But I seem to be fielding all the questions!” said JJ. “What are
you
guys up to these days? Who wants to start? Put up your hand.”

“Norval,” said Samira, “why don’t you tell JJ about your latest project. Your performance art.”

“Why don’t
you
?” said Norval.

“All right. Norval has set himself the challenge, the considerable artistic challenge, of making love to twenty-six women in twenty-six weeks. In alphabetical order.”

“Get out of town!” said JJ. “You scurvy knave! Hey, I might be able to get you a condom sponsor. How far have you got? On target?”

“Ahead of schedule, actually,” said Norval. “I started in the middle of last semester, so I just went through my student lists.”

JJ nodded. “But isn’t that against … regulations? And ethics?”

“That’s the point. The guiding theme of French Symbolism is that objectivity, particularly in morals, is a sham. Morality is devised by human beings with no ground or sanction in reason or nature.”

“But aren’t morals there to prevent people from hurting each other, hurting themselves, or to prevent us from falling—”

“No one was ever hurt by a fall—it’s the halt at the end that does all the damage. In fact, since the invention of sky-diving and bungee and BASE-jumping, free-falling has become a sport, a kind of suicide practice, where you can savour the aesthetics of descent. Metaphorically, that’s what I’m doing.”

JJ scratched his head. “I guess that makes sense. Don’t get me wrong. I’d love to take on the alphabet project myself, but it’d take me a bit longer than twenty-six weeks. In fact, unless I paid for it, I don’t think twentysix years would be enough. I’ve never been much of a horndog, a babe magnet. But isn’t anyone, you know, protesting? Isn’t the word getting around?”