The Favourite Game. Leonard Cohen
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of foreign materials in the decoration of snowmen. No woollen mufflers, hats, spectacles. In the same vein he does not approve of inserting carrots in the mouths of carved pumpkins or pinning on cucumber ears.
His mother regarded her whole body as a scar grown over some earlier perfection which she sought in mirrors and windows and hub-caps.
Children show scars like medals. Lovers use them as secrets to reveal. A scar is what happens when the word is made flesh.
It is easy to display a wound, the proud scars of combat. It is hard to show a pimple.
Breavman’s young mother hunted wrinkles with two hands and a magnifying mirror.
When she found one she consulted a fortress of oils and creams arrayed on a glass tray and she sighed. Without faith the wrinkle was anointed.
‘This isn’t my face, not my real face.’
‘Where is your real face, Mother?’
‘Look at me. Is this what I look like?’
‘Where is it, where’s your real face?’
‘I don’t know, in Russia, when I was a girl.’
He pulled the huge atlas out of the shelf and fell with it. He sifted pages like a goldminer until he found it, the whole of Russia, pale and vast. He kneeled over the distances until his eyes blurred and he made the lakes and rivers and names become an incredible face, dim and beautiful and easily lost.
The maid had to drag him to supper. A lady’s face floated over the silver and the food.
His father lived mostly in bed or a tent in the hospital. When he was up and walking he lied.
He took his cane without the silver band and led his son over Mount Royal. Here was the ancient crater. Two iron and stone cannon rested in the gentle grassy scoop which was once a pit of boiling lava. Breavman wanted to dwell on the violence.
‘We’ll come back here when I’m better.’
One lie.
Breavman learned to pat the noses of horses tethered beside the Chalet, how to offer them sugar cubes from a flat palm.
‘One day we’ll go riding.’
‘But you can hardly breathe.’
His father collapsed that evening over his map of flags on which he plotted the war, fumbling for the capsules to break and inhale.
Here is a movie filled with the bodies of his family.
His father aims the camera at his uncles, tall and serious, boutonnières in their dark lapels, who walk too close and enter into blurdom.
Their wives look formal and sad. His mother steps back, urging aunts to get into the picture. At the back of the screen her smile and shoulders go limp. She thinks she is out of focus.
Breavman stops the film to study her and her face is eaten by a spreading orange-rimmed stain as the film melts.
His grandmother sits in the shadows of the stone balcony and aunts present her with babies. A silver tea-set glows richly in early Technicolor.
His grandfather reviews a line of children but is stopped in the midst of an approving nod and ravaged by a technical orange flame.
Breavman is mutilating the film in his efforts at history.
Breavman and his cousins fight small gentlemanly battles. The girls curtsy. All the children are invited to leap one at a time across the flagstone path.
A gardener is led shy and grateful into the sunlight to be preserved with his betters.
A battalion of wives is squeezed abreast, is decimated by the edge of the screen. His mother is one of the first to go.
Suddenly the picture is shoes and blurred grass as his father staggers under another attack.
‘Help!’
Coils of celluloid are burning around his feet. He dances until he is saved by Nursie and the maid and punished by his mother.
The movie runs night and day. Be careful, blood, be careful.
The Breavmans founded and presided over most of the institutions which make the Montreal Jewish community one of the most powerful in the world today.
The joke around the city is: The Jews are the conscience of the world and the Breavmans are the conscience of the Jews. ‘And I am the conscience of the Breavmans,’ adds Lawrence Breavman. ‘Actually we are the only Jews left; that is, super-Christians, first citizens with cut prongs.’
The feeling today, if anyone troubles himself to articulate it, is that the Breavmans are in a decline. ‘Be careful,’ Lawrence Breavman warns his executive cousins, ‘or your children will speak with accents.’
Ten years ago Breavman compiled the Code of Breavman:
We are Victorian gentlemen of Hebraic persuasion.
We cannot be positive, but we are fairly certain that any other Jews with money got it on the black market.
We do not wish to join Christian clubs or weaken our blood through inter-marriage. We wish to be regarded as peers, united by class, education, power, differentiated by home rituals.
We refuse to pass the circumcision line.
We were civilized first and drink less, you lousy bunch of bloodthirsty drunks.
A rat is more alive than a turtle.
A turtle is slow, cold, mechanical, nearly a toy, a shell with legs. Their deaths didn’t count. But a white rat is quick and warm in its envelope of skin.
Krantz kept his in an empty radio. Breavman kept his in a deep honey tin. Krantz went away for the holidays and asked Breavman to take care of his. Breavman dropped it in with his.
Feeding rats is work. You have to go down to the basement. He forgot for a while. Soon he didn’t want to think about the honey tin and avoided the basement stairs.
He went down at last and there was an awful smell coming from the tin. He wished it were still full of honey. He looked inside and one rat had eaten most of the stomach of the other rat. He didn’t care which was his. The alive rat jumped at him and then he knew it was crazy.
He held the tin way in front because of the stink and filled it with water. The dead one floated on top with the hole between its ribs and hind legs showing. The alive one scratched the side.
He was called for lunch which began with marrow. His father tapped it out of a bone. It came from inside an animal.
When he went down again both were floating. He emptied the can in the driveway and covered it with snow. He vomited and covered that with snow.
Krantz was mad. He wanted to have a funeral at least, but they couldn’t find the bodies because of some heavy snowfalls.
When Spring began they attacked islands