The Ann Ireland Library. Ann Ireland
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messages written in lipstick on her mirror, an idea picked up from movies.
Fools’ names and fools’ faces
Always appear in public places.
Worry crackled through their days like summer lightning. Sometimes Klaus left the house and the boys were put in charge of their mother, who usually stayed upstairs watching sitcoms while shelling ballpark peanuts, leaving termite hills of debris. Toby can still hum along to the theme songs of the decade. His mother had a true, sweet voice, and until she got sick she joined the singalong Messiah with the symphony every Christmas. She had the ears of a bat and could hear a spoon tap a glass clear across the room, then tell you the note hit was C sharp.
Toby was well into his punk phase, plaid pants tucked into combat boots, when their lives changed forever. He and Felix came home from school that Monday afternoon, and their father was already waiting in the kitchen. That was unusual. As a science teacher, he usually stayed late to give his students extra help.
“Your mother isn’t here,” Klaus said.
Felix idly picked a plum off the plate and began to eat it.
“She’s moved to a facility where she’ll be well taken care of.” Klaus waited for them to say something, and when the boys just stared, he continued, “We’re lucky to find such a wonderful place.” He kept nodding, as if he was trying to convince himself that what he was saying was true.
The brothers pounced. Whose idea was this? Did Mama really want to leave them?
Klaus raised his hands, palms up. “What did you expect me to do?”
Felix sped off to his karate class, while Toby fled to his room, to his guitar. That was the year Felix got suspended for taking a knife to school.
It took Toby a full week to screw up the courage to visit his mother at Lakeview Terrace. What was she doing with all these old people using walkers and wheelchairs? She sat on the edge of her bed, wearing her beautiful black-and-red silk kimono, looking as if she wasn’t sure what she was going to do next. When she saw him, her face lit up. She felt tiny in his embrace, and he shuddered, feeling her rib cage press against his. He’d rescue her, spirit her off, he thought, but after a moment she pushed him away.
“Don’t worry, old bean,” she said. “I’ll soon get used to it here.”
Then it came. “Soon get used to it here,” she repeated in the same sunny tone.
Don’t do that, he wanted to plead. He was certain it was repetition that had landed her here, and if she could just quit, the whole business would settle down.
She tousled his spiky hair. “You’ll come and see me often, won’t you?”
“Of course, Mama.” And he meant to.
The old lady in the next bed turned over and farted.
“That’s Mrs. Creeley,” his mother said. “Used to teach piano. You must talk to her one day, being a fellow musician.”
Toby stared in horror at the hump under bedclothes, the tufts of white hair.
“A fellow musician,” his mother added dreamily, patting him on the knee.
She was the only one who liked his punk getups, being partial to costumes herself, hence the silk kimono.
Seven
The virus has gone into hiding. No new cases since last week. The city unfolds in sections like an origami crane, and the restaurants and concert halls fill with cautious, then celebratory patrons.
Competition departure day looms, and Toby is restless as a cat. He imagines himself stepping onto the Montreal stage an hour before showtime for an acoustic check. He hears himself run through sections of his program, listening to notes bounce off empty seats and bare walls, then imagines how it will sound later, with an audience soaking up the music. Ears funnel in sound and dampen it, dermal upholstery.
Guitar Choir is in a tizzy of excitement. Toby has just broken the news that he will miss next week’s session due to the competition. Pamela bombards him with questions: “What will you play? Are you nervous? Will you come back to us?” She looks cranky; she doesn’t like being the last to know things.
The prospect of slinking back here without having made even the semifinals is so appalling that Toby tells himself that no matter what happens, he will not, cannot, return to his old life. He can hardly bear to look at them, feeling he’s already betrayed their loyalty.
Denise says, “We’re rooting for you,” and Toby catches the pensive look on her face. Maybe she’s guessed what he’s thinking.
Matthew, polishing his instrument with a special chamois, says wistfully, “Will it be folly or will it be grace?”
Is he quoting someone, or just himself?
Tristan offers, in his circumspect way, “To pray, if you think it will help.”
As they flock to the door and watch him head down the street, Toby understands that he is entering a world they can only dream of.
A day later Toby wheels his suitcase down the front steps of the townhouse, swinging his guitar over one shoulder, then pauses to look back at Jasper who stands in the doorway in his dressing gown. The streetlights are still burning off morning fog, and a feral cat mooches through the garbage.
Toby stares at the rumpled face of his lover who is making a big effort not to appear worried. Jasper seems almost old in this light, skin beginning to slacken at the chin despite a rigorous diet and exercise routine. This is the man who saved him, sorted him out.
“Got your toothbrush?” asks Jasper. It’s a joke. He’s mocking his own fussy nature.
Toby sets his luggage down and moves back to the stoop where he captures Jasper in a hug. As their bodies mesh, he feels the tick-tock of heart against heart, impossible to tell whose is whose.
“I’ll be thinking of you,” Jasper whispers in his ear.
“Of course you will.”
But will Toby be thinking of Jasper? If luck holds — no, for it is crucial that he maintain focus on performance. With perfect timing the cab draws up, thanks to Jasper’s reminder call placed fifteen minutes ago.
As Toby picks up his luggage and climbs into the taxi, Jasper can’t help saying, “I’ve got to level with you. I don’t think this adventure is wise.”
Toby pretends not to hear. They’ve been through this a dozen times.
Jasper tiptoes up to the open window. “You’re really staying in a dormitory?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Because you’re an adult and adults don’t stay in dormitories. You require a decent mattress, peace and quiet, good linen — all amenities lacking in such premises.”
“What you require,” Toby points out.
Jasper isn’t in a mood to be corrected. He passes through the open window a boxed lunch he’d prepared the night before. “Healthier than the dreck they serve in trains.”
As the vehicle pulls away, Jasper shrinks from sight in the rearview mirror. Not that Toby notices, for his eyes are already set on the road ahead. It is Jasper who watches himself disappear, a clenched figure in a blue dressing gown, waving.
Eight
Another damn leak in the plumbing. Nothing works in this godforsaken house. Manuel Juerta, a semi-patriot until three months ago, curses the decaying faucet, then the entire crumbling country that it is his misfortune to live in. He’s been jettisoned by his wife from their perfectly serviceable house — to this piece of shit with no view of the Malecón He twists the ancient faucet, and a dribble of water appears at last — un milagro! — indoor plumbing, the latest invention. He splashes his furry face,