The Memory Artists (5 page)

Memoirs of an amnesiac
. January (or maybe December). I was at a party in Villeray, and then suddenly I wasn’t. Things went dark & turning & I woke up with a hole in my brain & vomit in my boot. Then Dr. Ravenscroft was there, and Dr. Rhéaume, who drove me to the police. And then home. And told me to come to see her on

Here Samira put her pen down because it had run dry. She rummaged in her bag for another, unsuccessfully, then looked from side to side. Recessed into the wall, just above the bed frame, were three small drawers, painted the same colour as the wall, barely visible. She pried open the first with her fingernails and found what looked like lenses— telescope and camera lenses.

The second contained thick beige writing paper, a postcard of a church with a sketched portrait on the back, a small jewellery box and … a gold-nibbed fountain pen. She glanced sideward and rearward, lest by some infernal magic Norval could see her, before taking the pen out. And then the postcard. And then the jewellery case.

Again she looked in all directions before opening the case, whose miniature golden key was in the lock. Inside was a silver ring, a three-part gimbal ring. Closed, the clasped hands formed a traditional friendship ring; opened, the hidden inner ring revealed two hearts, along with an engraved inscription:

Nor,

Love always,

Terry

Terry? Is Norval gay? She examined the sketch on the postcard:

She restored each item, carefully, trusting her memory for their exact positions. Still burning with curiosity, not to mention guilt, she quickly pried open the third drawer. And closed it just as quickly. You don’t want to go there, she said to herself. She counted to three and then reopened it: Rakehell condoms, black silk rope and a Zorro mask. And a vial of … white powder. With only a black “K” on the label. She re-closed the drawer.

Pen in hand, she began flipping through the pages of her diary, to a section called “MEN, or MISTAKES I have made,” and added, in royal purple ink:

January/02

Norval.
Met two strange men in the Psych elevator today, within minutes of each other—one on the way up, one on the way down. They had a strange resemblance, as if they were brothers. One, cute but possibly a strayed lunatic, uttered barely a word; the other, absurdly good-looking, talked the entire time. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Who
was
he? A decadently dandified baron on his way home from the opera? A brooding count with a bloodstained past? Certainly a smug bastard, with a
martial
tone that could freeze nitrogen—and a strong, virile, almost animal beauty which was, quite simply,
irresistible
. The type that entangle me in their sticky little webs, that draw me crashwards. Is that exquisitely ravaged face my fate, I wonder?
Why
am I so predictable?
Why
do I always go for beautiful brutes and bastards? Every society, I once read, must be wary of the unattached male, especially the attractive one, for he is universally the cause of countless social ills

She set down Norval’s fountain pen and leafed backwards:

Claude.
Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just attracted to borderline lunatics. I meet them wherever I go—bars , bookstores, parties, movies, museums. Yet whether they’re young or old, rich or poor, the scenario is always the same: After we “get involved,” they go blitzoid on me. Sometimes this takes the form of them smacking me around. Other times it’s screaming about how I won’t “commit.” Both of these things happened today. So I’ve reached a decision—I’m taking the veil. A vow of chastity. That’s it, it’s over. No more sex, no more relationships . . .

Pietro.
Sat beside me on the train—in a completely empty car. Forty-five minutes with a pawing Pithecanthropus bog-man with merging eyebrows and barf breath …

Nick.
Why do men do this? He started by slobbering all over me, his spinning tongue car-washing my face. He ended by chomping on my clitoris. I screamed, and the moron thought I was climaxing …

Max.
A tad effeminate, not usually my style, but a nice face, nice skin. And besides, I was
very
drunk. We quickly, much too quickly, arrived at the moment of truth, the nervy moment in every one-night stand: the unveiling. Peewee or panther—what’s it going to be? Max was not a peewee, Max was not a panther. Max was a she.

Howard.
Yet another man on a quest for permanent youth, fiercely resisting responsibilities of adulthood, living in his parents’ basement. One of those no-life “adultescents” who, when they aren’t playing with their video toys, are playing with themselves.

Jérome.
A blind date. After which I severed my relationship with the matchmaker. Forever. First thing I noticed was his expensive Armani suit and strange dominating attitude, as though he’d crushed thousands in real estate deals. Next thing I noticed was his pony tail. Men, write this down: what this says is pimp, pornmaker or disturbed offender. After listening politely to twenty minutes of self-hero worship, I edgewised that I was going to the bathroom. “You’re going the wrong way, girl,” he said. “No I’m not, boy,” I said and walked to my bathroom at home.

Samira flipped back to her latest entry, Norval, and wrote:

Muslims believe that 2 angels sit on our shoulders, one tallying our good deeds, the other our bad. The good deeds are called hasanna—the gifts we give others without thinking about the cost or benefit to ourselves. Now, although I’m a lapsed Muslim, it’s time for some hasanna. I will
not
make love with Norval, even though I’m overpoweringly attracted to him. I’ve got my reasons. First and foremost, because of his ‘Alpha Bet’ hit list, which he was stupid enough to tell me about. It reminds me of the emperor in The 1001 Nights who vows to marry a woman every day and have her executed the next morning. But not only am I going to resist Norval, but somehow I’m going to get him to stop this foul enterprise, an insult to all women …

On the other hand, maybe if we make love he’ll like it so much that he’ll want to do it again—which will be against the rules and his Alpha Bet will be off. Yes, maybe it’s my
duty
to make love with him. My good deed.

One last thing. What
is
that white powder? I had a dreadful feeling when I saw it, I hope it’s not what I think it is. This whole place is starting to give me the creeps—especially the paintings on the walls—gloomy and depraved and fetishistic. God, now I wonder if he’s going to kill me. What’s in that vial? I can’t get it out of my mind. K … Am I paranoid? Not surprising, after what happened. But what happened? Attempted date-rape? It’s all a thick bloody fog, I
can’t remember
. Should I try hypnosis? In the métro this morning, I picked up a soiled Maclean’s magazine with footprints and read an article on Wayne Gretzky’s father. Apparently when he woke up in a hospital bed after a stroke ten years ago, he couldn’t remember a thing. Like the names and faces of his wife and five children—or their achievements, including those of Wayne, the greatest hockey player in history. Today, everything from the mid-seventies to the mid-nineties, he admits, “doesn’t exist”. Is this what’s happening to me, on a smaller scale? That the last week of my life doesn’t exist? Or am I just

A musical sound came from one of the partitioned rooms. The sound of a phone with a melodic phrase, a funeral dirge, then a muffled voice with no discernible words.

Chapter 4

Noel & Norval

“
I
know you’ve been calling me for the last twenty-four hours,” said Norval into his cell phone, calmly. “I’m perfectly aware of that. You left
six
messages.”

“Can we meet?” said Noel. “I have something to tell you. It’s about … well, the woman in the elevator. I mean the woman you introduced me to, in Dr. Vorta’s office …”

“What about her?” said Norval, distractedly. He was sitting at his desk, a pillar-and-claw library table inlaid with satinwood. After examining his image in a dressing-glass, and straightening the collar of a soft-blue cotton-gauze shirt, he returned his attention to the screen of an azurine laptop.

“Do you realise who she is? You’ll never guess in a million years.”

Norval pressed a translucent key. “Astonish me.”

“I recognised her voice images. The funny thing is I actually saw her once before, I mean in person, in New York. She was coming out of a hotel. We never spoke, but she smiled at me as she got in a taxi. The next time I saw her was on the screen. She’s an actress!”

“No she’s not.”

“She was in Zappavigna’s
The Bride and Three Bridegrooms
. You remember? Her name is …”

“Samira.”

“Heliodora Locke. Do you remember in the opening credits, it said ‘And Introducing Heliodora—’”

“Her name, I repeat, is Samira. She’s an
S
—otherwise she wouldn’t be here. She’s a woman of the East—and not an actress.”

“I never expected to see her again, at least not in person, so you can imagine my surprise when I saw her in Dr. Vorta’s office. And … well, in bad shape.”

“Noel, I want you to focus very hard on what I’m saying. I’ve been speaking to you and you’ve not been listening.”

“I think we should probably help her … I mean, she’s obviously in some sort of trouble—”

“Not any more. Come over and meet her.”

“Meet who?”

“Samira.”

“Samira?” Here Noel paused to visualise the colour of her voice. And eyes! How would you describe that mix, that merger as rare as radium?

“Noel, stop the colour-wheel. I’m talking to you.”

“Sorry, I … It’s because of the actress, her eyes, her voice—”

“Noel, listen to me. She is
not
an actress. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Noel took a deep breath, refocused, let his friend’s words sink in. Why do I keep
doing
this? he asked himself. Getting carried away like this, putting the cart before the horse … The strange thing is that the two are a match, their sound colours match. Perfectly. What are the odds on that? Mind you, I’ve made mistakes before. I’ve made one again. No wonder I’ve got no friends. Well, one. “I know that, Nor, I was just … pulling your leg. Of course she’s not the famous actress. How could she be, here in Montreal? But she … sort of looks like her. I mean, a bit.”

“She
does
look like her, now that I think of it. Like her homely sister. An honest mistake.”

“Thanks, but I wouldn’t say that she—”

“It’s Tuesday, Noel. Shall we meet outside the theatre?”

“I thought you … had a guest.”

Norval folded down the top of his computer. Noel could hear his footsteps as he walked into another room. “I’ll see if she’s conscious. Let’s see … Samira? Sam? No, doesn’t look like it.”

“But how did she … end up at your place?”

“Because she’s an
S
.”

Noel closed his eyes. “Shit.”

“She had a power-outage. At a party. Someone drugged her ass.”

“Oh God … are you serious? When? With what?”

“She doesn’t remember a thing. Special K, I think.”

“Shit. So the cops referred her to Vorta?”

“No, I did. She had an appointment with Rhéaume. But I recommended Vorta.”

Noel was thinking of Samira, about how terrible she looked. That would certainly explain it. Norval’s commanding voice, like a judo-chop, cut the air before his eyes. He played back the tape in his head. “You
recommended
Vorta? I thought you couldn’t stand him.”

“I can’t, but I owe him a favour.”

Noel nodded. “For all the free drugs?”

“No, because I cuckolded the poor sod.
⁹
See you at four. Don’t be late.”

Outside the theatre, Norval was crushing an Arrow cigarette beneath his heel when he saw Noel approaching on a skidding, side-slipping bicycle. A woman’s bicycle, and old, with a shredded wicker carrier. He watched Noel tether it to a No Parking sign, gave an economical nod of recognition, then ignored his friend’s outstretched hand.