Lady Oracle (32 page)

“What do you think of it?” asked the Royal Porcupine when we’d made the rounds.

“Well,” I said, “I don’t know.… I guess I don’t know much about art.”

“It’s not art, it’s poetry,” the Royal Porcupine said, slightly offended. “Con-create poetry, I’m the man who put the creativity back in concrete.”

“I don’t know much about that either.”

“That’s obvious from the stuff you write,” he said. “I could write that stuff with my toes. The only reason you’re so famous is your stuff is obsolete, man, they buy it because they haven’t caught up with the present yet. Rearview mirror, like McLuhan says. The new
poetry is the poetry of
things.
Like, this has never been done before,” said the Royal Porcupine, looking morosely over towards the front door of the gallery, where another bunch of queasy first-nighters was making a green-faced exit. “Do you realize that?”

“Have you sold anything?” I asked brightly.

“No,” he said, “but I will. I should take this show to the States, people up here are so cautious, they’re unwilling to take a chance. That’s how come Alexander Graham Bell had to go south.”

“That’s what my husband says,” I offered.

The Royal Porcupine looked at me with new interest. “You’re married,” he said. “I didn’t know that. You’ve got the sexiest elbows I’ve ever seen. I’m thinking of doing a show on elbows, it’s a very unappreciated part of the body.”

“Where would you get them?” I asked.

“Around,” he said. He took me by the elbow. “Let’s get out of here.”

As we went past the group of SPCA picketers outside the front door, he muttered, “They missed the
point.
I don’t squash them, I just recycle them, what’s wrong with that?”

“Where are we going?” I asked the Royal Porcupine, who still had hold of my elbow.

“My place,” he said.

“I’m hungry,” I said evasively.

So we went to Mr. Zums on Bloor Street, where I had a Zumburger with the works and the Royal Porcupine had a chocolate milk shake. I paid – he didn’t have any money – and we debated the pros and cons of going back to his place.

“I want to make love to your elbow,” he said. “With fringe benefits.”

“But I’m married,” I said, chewing thoughtfully on my Zumburger. I was resisting temptation, and it was a temptation. Arthur had frozen me out; as far as he was concerned I might as well have been a
turnip. I’d been finding myself attracted to the most inappropriate men lately: CBC news commentators, bus conductors, typewriter repairmen. In my fantasies I wasn’t even bothering with the sets and costumes, I was going straight to the heavy breathing. Things must have been bad.

“That’s okay,” said the Royal Porcupine, “I prefer married women.”

“My husband might not prefer it,” I said.

“He doesn’t have to know, does he?”

“He’d know. He has intuition.” This wasn’t true; what was really worrying me was: even if Arthur did know, would he care? And what if he didn’t care, what then? “He’d think you’re decadent, he’d think you were bad for my ideology.”

“He can have your ideology, I’ll take the rest, fair enough? Come on, let me sweep you off your feet. You’re the type, I can tell.”

I finished my Zumburger. “It’s impossible,” I said.

“Have it your way,” he said, “you win one, you lose one. You’re missing something though.”

“I don’t have the energy,” I said.

He said he’d walk me home, and we set off along Bloor, heading west toward the street of old three-story red-brick houses, with porches and gables, where Arthur and I were living at that time, temporarily as ever. The Royal Porcupine seemed to have forgotten about his proposition already. He was worrying about the success of his show. “The last one I did, there was only one review. The old fart said it was an unsuccessful attempt to be disgusting. You can’t even shock the bourgeoisie any more; you could put on a show of amputated orphans’ feet and someone would ask you to sign them.”

We passed the Museum and the Varsity Stadium and continued west, through a region of tiny, grubby old stores which were turning into boutiques, past a wholesale truss concern. On Brunswick we turned north, but after several houses the Royal Porcupine stopped
and shouted. He’d found a dead dog, quite a large one; it looked like a husky.

“Help me get it into the bag,” he said, for he’d taken a green plastic garbage bag out from under his cloak. He jotted down the location in a notebook he carried for the purpose. Then he lifted the hind end and I slid the garbage bag over it. The bag wasn’t big enough and the dog’s head stuck out the top, its tongue lolling.

“Well, goodnight,” I said, “it was nice meeting you.”

“Just a minute,” he said, “I can’t get this thing back by myself.”

“I’m not going to carry it,” I said. The blood was still wet.

“Then take my cane.”

He hoisted the dog and concealed it under his cloak. We smuggled it into a taxi, for which I ended up paying, and went to the Royal Porcupine’s lair. It was in a downtown warehouse that had been converted into artists’ studios. “I’m the only one who lives here though,” he said. “I can’t afford not to. The others have real houses.”

We went up the heavy industrial elevator to the third floor. The Royal Porcupine didn’t have very much furniture, but he did have a large freezer, and he took the dog over to it immediately and lowered it in. Then he tied the limbs so the corpse would freeze in the position in which we’d found it.

While he was doing this, I explored. Most of the space was empty. In one corner was his bed, a mattress on the floor, no sheets; on top of it were several mangy sheep-skin rugs, and over it hung a tattered red velvet canopy with tassels. He had a card table and two card chairs; on both the table and the chairs there were used plates and cups. On one wall was a blow-up of himself, in costume, holding a dead mouse by the tail. Beside it was a formal portrait of the Queen and Prince Philip, with decorations and tiaras, in a heavy gilt frame like the kind in the principal’s office at high school. Against the other wall stood a kitchen counter, with none of the plumbing installed. It held a collection of stuffed animals. Some were toys, teddy bears and
tigers and bunnies. Some were real animals, expertly finished and mounted, birds mostly: a loon, an owl, a bluejay. Then there were a few chipmunks and squirrels, not done well at all. The stitches were visible, they had no bead eyes, and they were long and fat, like liver-wursts, their legs sticking straight out.

“I tried taxidermy first,” said the Royal Porcupine, “but I wasn’t any good at it. Freezing’s a lot better, that way they don’t get moths.”

He had taken off his cloak, and as I turned I saw that he was now taking off his shirt as well. The dog blood left red stains as he unbuttoned; his chest emerged, covered with auburn hair.

His green eyes lit up like a lynx’s, and he walked towards me, growling softly. The backs of my knees were weak with lust, and I felt a curious tingling sensation in my elbows.

“Well, I guess I’d better be going now,” I said. He said nothing. “How do you work the elevator?”

“For Christ’s sake,” I said a minute later, “wash your hands!”

“I’ve always wanted to know what it was like to fuck a cult figure,” the Royal Porcupine said reflectively. He was lying on his mattress, watching me as I scrubbed the dog blood off my belly with a corner of his shirt, dipped in the toilet. He didn’t have a sink.

“Well,” I said a little sharply, “what’s it like?”

“You have a nice ass,” he said. “But it’s not that different from anyone else’s ass.”

“What were you expecting?” I said. Three buttocks. Nine tits. I felt like a moron for wanting to get the dog blood off, I felt I was violating one of his rituals, I was letting him down. I hadn’t risen to the occasion, and already I was feeling guilty about Arthur.

“It’s not what there is,” he said, “it’s what you do with it.”

He didn’t say whether what I did with it would pass his standards or not, and at that moment I didn’t care. I just wanted to go home.

T
his was the beginning of my double life. But hadn’t my life always been double? There was always that shadowy twin, thin when I was fat, fat when I was thin, myself in silvery negative, with dark teeth and shining white pupils glowing in the black sunlight of that other world. While I watched, locked in the actual flesh, the uninteresting dust and never-emptied ashtrays of daily life. It was never-never land she wanted, that reckless twin. But not twin even, for I was more than double, I was triple, multiple, and now I could see that there was more than one life to come, there were many. The Royal Porcupine had opened a time-space door to the fifth dimension, cleverly disguised as a freight elevator, and one of my selves plunged recklessly through.

Not the others, though. “When can I see you again?” he asked.

“Soon,” I said. “Don’t call me, though, I’ll call you. Okay?”

“I’m not applying for a job, you know,” he said.

“I know. Please understand.” I kissed him goodnight. Already I was beginning to feel that I couldn’t see him again. It would be too dangerous.

When I got back to the apartment Arthur wasn’t there, although it was almost twelve o’clock. I threw myself on the bed, stuck my head under the pillow, and began to cry. I felt I’d ruined my life, again. I would repent, I would turn over a new leaf, I wouldn’t call the Royal Porcupine, although I was longing to. What could I do to make it up to Arthur? Perhaps I could write a Costume Gothic, just for him, putting his message into a form that the people could understand. Nobody, I knew, read
Resurgence
except the editors, some university professors, and all the rival radical groups who edited magazines of their own and spent a third of each issue attacking each other. But at least a hundred thousand people read my books, and among them were the mothers of the nation.
Terror at Casa Loma
, I’d call it, I would get in the evils of the Family Compact, the martyrdom of Louis Riel, the horrors of colonialism, both English and American, the struggle of the workers, the Winnipeg General Strike

But it would never work. In order for Arthur to appreciate me I’d have to reveal the identity of Louisa K., and I knew I couldn’t do that. No matter what I did, Arthur was bound to despise me. I could never be what he wanted. I could never be Marlene.

It was two in the morning when Arthur came back.

“Where have you been?” I asked, snuffling.

“At Marlene’s place,” Arthur said, and my heart dropped. He’d gone for consolation, and.…

“Was Don there?” I asked in a small voice.

It turned out that Marlene had told Don about Sam, and Don had hit her in the eye. Marlene had called up the entire editorial staff of
Resurgence
, including Sam. They’d come over to Marlene’s house, where they’d had a heated discussion about whether or not Don had been justified. Those in favor said the workers often hit their wives in the eye, it was an open and direct method of expressing your feelings. Those against it said it was degrading to women. Marlene had announced she was moving out. Sam said she couldn’t
move in with him, and another debate began. Some said he was a prick for not letting Marlene move in with him, others felt that if he didn’t really want her to he was right to say so. In the middle of this, Don, who’d been out getting drunk at Grossman’s Tavern, came back and told them all to get the hell out of his house.

I was secretly glad of this uproar. Arthur could no longer consider Marlene the paragon he once had, and it took some of the heat off me.

“What about Marlene?” I said, with false concern. “Was she all right?”

“She’s outside the door,” Arthur said heavily, “sitting on the stairs. I thought I should check with you first. I couldn’t just leave her there, not with him in that condition.”

He didn’t say anything about the television interview though, and for this I was grateful. Perhaps he hadn’t seen it. It would have been a terrible humiliation to him. I hoped no one would tell him about it.

Marlene slept on the chesterfield that night, and the next night, and the next. It appeared she’d moved in with us. I couldn’t do anything about it, for wasn’t she in trouble, wasn’t she a political refugee? That was how she saw it, and Arthur did too.

During the days she negotiated over the phone with Don and, strangely enough, with Sam. Between these conversations she sat at my kitchen table, chain-smoking and drinking my coffee and asking me what she should do. She was no longer neat and tidy; her eyes were dark-circled, her hair stringy, her nails ragged from biting. Should she keep on seeing Sam, should she go back to Don? Don had the children, temporarily. As soon as she got a place of her own, she’d get them away from him if she had to go to court to do it.

I refrained from asking her when she was going to get a place of her own. “I don’t know,” I said, “which of them do you love?” I sounded exactly like the friendly housekeepers in my own Costume Gothics, I thought, but what else could I say?

“Love,” Marlene snorted. “Love isn’t
the point.
The point is, which of them is up to having a truly equal relationship. The point is, which is the least exploitive.”

“Well,” I said, “offhand I’d say Sam was.” He was my friend, Don wasn’t, so I was putting in my plug for Sam. On the other hand, I still didn’t like Marlene very much, so why was I wishing her on my friend? “But I’m sure Don’s very nice, too,” I added.

“Sam is a swine,” Marlene said. When Women’s Lib had appeared, Marlene had dismissed it as bourgeois; now she was a convert. “It takes a personal experience to really open your eyes,” she told me. She kept implying I hadn’t suffered enough; in this too I was deficient. I knew I shouldn’t feel defensive about it, but I did.

When Marlene was off visiting Sam, Don would drop by to consult me. “Well, maybe you should move to another city,” I said. That was what I would have done.

“That would be running away,” Don said. “She’s my wife. I want her back.”

Then, in the evenings, when Marlene was seeing her children, Sam would come over and I’d make him a drink. “God, it’s driving me crazy,” he’d say. “I’m in love with her, I just don’t want to live with her all the time. I tell her we can spend
important
time together, significant time, much better if we live in separate houses. And I don’t see why we can’t have other relationships, as long as ours is the main one, but she can’t see it. I mean, I’m not the jealous type.”