Barney's Version (19 page)

There was a pause while the desk clerk flipped through his file. “For the entire five days?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“In that case, I'm afraid you will lose your deposit, sir.”

“Why you cheap little mafioso, that doesn't surprise me,” I said, and hung up.

Boogie, my inspiration, would be proud of me. That master prankster had played far worse tricks on people, I thought, beginning to wander aimlessly. Raging. Murder in my heart. I ended up, God knows how, in a café on the rue Scribe, where I ordered a double “Johnnie Walkair.” Lighting one Gauloise off another, I was surprised to discover Terry McIver ensconced at a table in the rear of the café with an overdressed older woman who was wearing too much makeup. Take it from me, his “pleasingly pretty” Héloise was squat, a dumpling, puffy-faced, with more than a hint of moustache. Catching my eye, equally startled, Terry withdrew her multi-ringed hand from his knee, whispered something to her, and ambled over to my table. “She's Marie-Claire's boring aunt,” he said, sighing.

“Marie-Claire's affectionate aunt, I'd say.”

“Oh, she's in such a state,” he whispered. “Her Pekinese was run over this morning. Imagine. You look awful. Anything wrong?”

“Everything's wrong, but I'd rather not go into it. You're not fucking that old bag?”

“Damn you,” he hissed. “She understands English. She's Marie-Claire's aunt.”

“Okay. Right. Now beat it, McIver.”

But he did not leave without a parting shot. “And in future,” he said, “I'd take it as a kindness if you didn't follow me.”

McIver and “Marie-Claire's aunt” quit the café without finishing their drinks and drove off
not
in an Austin-Healey but in a less-than-new Ford Escort.
²⁷
Liar, liar, liar, that McIver.

I ordered another double Johnny Walkair and then went in search of Cedric. I found him in his favourite café, the one frequented by the
Paris Review
crowd as well as Richard Wright, the Café le Tournon,
high on the rue Tournon. “Cedric, old buddy of mine, we've got to talk,” I said, taking his arm, and starting to propel him out of the café.

“We can talk right here,” he said, yanking his arm free, and directing me to a table in the corner.

“Let me buy you a drink,” I said.

He ordered a
vin rouge
and I asked for a Scotch. “You know,” I said, “years ago my daddy once told me that the worst thing that could happen to a man is to lose a child. What do you think, man?”

“You've got something to say to me, spit it out, man.”

“Yes. Quite right. But I'm afraid it's bad news, Cedric. You lost a son yesterday. My wife's. And I am here to offer condolences.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“I had no idea.”

“That makes two of us.”

“What if it wasn't mine either?”

“Now there's an intriguing thought.”

“I'm sorry, Barney.”

“Me too.”

“Now do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Why in the hell did you marry Clara in the first place?”

“Because she was pregnant and I thought it was my duty to my unborn child. My turn now.”

“Go ahead.”

“Were you screwing her after as well as before? We were married, I mean.”

“What did she say?”

“I'm asking you.”

“Shit.”

“I thought we were friends.”

“What's that got to do with it?”

Then I heard myself saying, “That's where I draw the line. Fooling around with the wife of a friend. I could never do that.”

He ordered another round and this time I insisted that we click glasses. “After all,” I said, “this is an occasion, don't you think?”

“What are you going to do about Clara now?”

“How about I turn her over to you, Daddy-o?”

“Nancy wouldn't dig that. Three in a bed. Not my scene. But I do thank you for the offer.”

“It was sincerely meant.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Actually, I think it was awfully white of me to make such an offer.”

“Hey, Barney, baby, you don't want to mess with a bad nigger like me. I might pull a shiv on you.”

“Hadn't thought of that. Let's have another drink instead.”

When the
patronne
brought over our glasses, I stood up unsteadily and raised mine. “To Mrs. Panofsky,” I said, “with gratitude for the pleasure she has given both of us.”

“Sit down before you fall down.”

“Good idea.” Then I began to shake. Swallowing the boulder rising in my gorge, I said, “I honestly don't know what to do now, Cedric. Maybe I should hit you.”

“Goddamn it, Barney, I hate to tell you this, but I wasn't the only one.”

“Oh.”

“Didn't you know that much?”

“No.”

“She's insatiable.”

“Not with me she wasn't.”

“Maybe we ought to order a couple of coffees, then you can hit me if it will make you feel better.”

“I need another Scotch.”

“Okay. Now listen to your Uncle Remus. You're only twenty-three years old and she's a nut case. Shake her loose. Divorce her.”

“You ought to see her. She's lost lots of blood. She looks awful.”

“So do you.”

“I'm afraid of what she might do to herself.”

“Clara's a lot tougher than you think.”

“Was it you who made those scratches on her back?”

“What?”

“Somebody else then.”

“It's over.
Finito
. Give her a week to get her shit together and then tell her.”

“Cedric,” I said, breaking into a sweat, “everything's spinning. I'm going to be sick. Get me into the john. Quick.”

The intense, hennaed Solange Renault, who once played Catherine in
Henry
V
at our Stratford, was obliged to settle long ago for the continuing role of the French-Canadian settlement nurse in my
McIver of the RCMP
series.

(Private joke. I often request the weekly script that's to be sent to Solange, and rewrite some of her lines for her amusement.

NURSE SIMARD
: By Gar, de wind she blow lak 'ell out dere tonight. Be careful de h'ice, everybody.

Or,
NURSE SIMARD
: Look dere, h'it's Fadder St-Pierre 'oo comes 'ere. Better lock up de alcool and mind your h'arses, guys.)

Actually, I have made it my business to find work for Solange in just about everything done by Totally Unnecessary Productions Ltd., going back to the seventies. Sixty-something years old now, still nervously thin, she persists in dressing like an ingenue but otherwise is the most admirable of women. Her husband, a gifted set designer, was taken out by a massive heart attack in his early thirties, and Solange has brought up, and seen to the education of, her daughter, the indomitable Chantal, my personal assistant. Saturday nights, providing the new, improved, no-talent, chickenshit Canadiens are in town, each one a multimillionaire, Solange and I eat an early dinner at Pauzé's, and then repair to the Forum, where once
nos glorieux
were just about invincible. My God, I remember when all they had to do was to leap over the boards in those red-and-white sweaters and the visiting team was a goner. Those, those were the days. Fire-wagon hockey. Soft but accurate passes. Fast-as-lightning wrist shots. Defencemen who could hit. And no ear-piercing rock music played at 10,000 decibels while a face-off was held up for a
TV
commercial.

Anyway, it now seems that my traditional if increasingly exasperating Saturday night out with Solange is threatened. I'm told I behaved like a hooligan again last Saturday night, embarrassing her. My alleged offence happened during the third period. The effete Canadiens, already down 4–1 to the Ottawa Senators, for Christ's sake, were on their so-called power play, scrambly, a minute gone and yet to manage a shot on the nets. Savage, that idiot, passed to an open wing, enabling a slo-mo Ottawa defenceman, a journeyman who would have been lucky to make the
QSHL
in the old days, to ice the puck. Turgeon collected it, glided to centre ice, and golfed it into the corner, Damphouse and Savage scrambling after, throwing up snow just short of the mêlée. “Goddamn that Turgeon,” I hollered, “with his contract, he's earning something like a hundred thousand a goal. Beliveau was never paid more than fifty thousand dollars
²⁸
for the whole season and he wasn't afraid to carry the puck over the blue line.”

“Yes, I know,” said Solange, rolling her eyes. “And Doug Harvey never made more than fifteen a year here.”

“I told you that. You didn't know it.”

“I'm not denying you told me that, I don't know how many times. Now will you please be quiet and stop making an exhibition of yourself.”

“Look at that! Nobody parked in front of the net, because he might have to take an elbow. We'll be lucky if Ottawa doesn't score another short-handed goal. Shit! Fuck!”

“Barney, please.”

“They ought to trade Koivu for another Finnish midget,” I said, joining in the chorus of boos.

A no-name Senator hopped out of the penalty box, gathered in the puck, skated in all alone on our petrified goalie, who naturally went down too soon, and lifted one over his blocker arm. Five–one Ottawa. Disgusted fans began to cheer the visitors. Programs were thrown on the ice. I yanked off my rubbers and aimed them at Turgeon.

“Barney, control yourself.”

“Shettup.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How am I supposed to concentrate on the game with your nonstop chattering?”

The game was almost over before I noticed that a touchy Solange had quit her seat. Ottawa won, seven–three. I retreated to Dink's, grieving over a couple of Macallans before I called Solange. But it was Chantal who answered the phone. “I want to speak to your mother,” I said.

“She doesn't want to speak to you.”

“She behaved childishly tonight. Walking out on me. I lost my rubbers, and tripped on the ice outside, and almost broke a leg before I found a taxi. Did you watch the game on
TV
?”

“Yes.”

“That prick Savard never should have traded Chelios. If your mother won't come to the phone, I'm getting into a taxi and I'll be at your place in five minutes. She owes me an apology.”

“We won't answer the door.”

“You make me sick, both of you.”

Guilt-ridden, and late as it was, there was nothing for it but to phone Kate to tell her how badly I had behaved. “What do I do now?” I asked.

“Send flowers first thing tomorrow morning.”

But flowers were for Miriam, and to send them to anybody else, Solange included, would amount to a betrayal. “I think not,” I said.

“Chocolates?”

“Kate, are you busy tomorrow?”

“Not especially. Why?”

“What if I flew in for the day and the two of us went out for a bang-up lunch.”

“In the Prince Arthur Room?”

Even after all these years, I choked up.

“Daddy, are you there?”

“Book us a table at Prego's.”

“May I bring Gavin?”

Damn damn damn. “Sure,” I said, but early Sunday morning I cancelled out. “I'm not up to it today, darling. Maybe next week.”

Monday morning, if only to demonstrate to my employees that I'm not yet totally dispensable, and can still do more than sign cheques, I went into the office, where Chantal immediately greeted me with bad news. Our latest, godawful expensive pilot was rich in meaningful, life-enhancing action: gay smooching, visible-minority nice guys, car chases ending in mayhem, rape, murder, a soupçon of
S&M
, and a dab of New Age idiocies. I had hoped it would fill
CBC
-
TV
's nine p.m. Thursday slot. But we had lost out to an even more appalling series to be produced by The Amigos Three bunch in Toronto. It was the second time this year that
goniff
Bobby Tarlis, chief honcho of Amigos Three, had done us in. Worse news. Suddenly the once puissant
McIver of the RCMP
series was slipping in the ratings, and
CBC
was threatening to drop it. This prompted a visit to my office by my Trinity of Twits: Gabe Orlansky, story editor, accompanied by executive producer Marty Klein, and director Serge Lacroix. An apprehensive Chantal trailed after them, notebook in hand. The Trinity agreed we had to goose up the cast for openers. Case in point: Solange Renault, who had played the settlement nurse since the beginning of the series eight years earlier, was now far too old. “She could be killed off,” said Gabe.

“Then what?” I asked, coming to the boil.

“Do you ever take in
Baywatch
?”

“You mean we're going to have bimbos in handkerchief-size bikinis frolicking in the snow North of Sixty?”

“I think we've got a consensus here, among your creative people, that we need a new nurse,” said Gabe. “So I want you to look at these.”

“I hope you're not screwing her, Gabe. Three months after a triple bypass. Shame on you.”

“We've got to shake things up, Barney. Get rid of the deadwood. I had a focus group look at two new episodes and the character they found least
simpatico
was played by Solange.”

“Speaking of deadwood, before Solange goes, all of you get the chop. Furthermore, I'm going to ask Solange to direct at least two episodes this season.”

“What are her qualifications?” asked Serge.

“She's literate. And, unlike any of you here, suffers from good
taste. So, arguably, she's overqualified, but my mind's made up. Now look here, our problem is not Solange, but hackneyed story lines. How about something unpredictable for a change? Say, an ignoble Eskimo. Or an ostensibly sage Indian medicine man who makes his predictions based on
The Farmer's Almanack
? Hey, I've got it. Now that Sikh
RCMP
recruits are allowed to wear turbans, how about a new
RCMP
corporal, a Jew who wears a yarmulke, accepts bribes, and bargains at the Hudson's Bay store? Now scoot, all of you, and I want to see some fresh scripts soon. Like yesterday.”