The Incomparable Atuk (7 page)

‘Operator. Get me Montreal, please. Rod Murchison at the
Sun
.’ Seymour peeled a banana while he waited. ‘Hello, Rod. Bone here. I merely wish to relate how prodigiously I enjoyed your column this week. It had a telling corporeity to it. Most rare.’

‘Gee thanks, Seymour.’

‘Not in the least. Oh, I have a little item for your next column. You might say Seymour Bone, Canada’s leading critic, will be coming to Montreal for the week-end to peruse French theatre. Oh, and you could add this time he doesn’t want anybody to know he’ll be staying at the Laurentian Hotel. He will read no manuscripts by would-be playwrights.’

‘Gee, Seymour, did lots of guys bother you last time you were here?’

‘No,’ Bone said, stiffening, ‘but you can never tell, can you? Oh, one more thing. You could add that in Seymour Bone’s opinion,’ he said, finding the sentence he had just underlined in his airmail edition of the
New Statesman
, ‘the kitchen sink is sunk.’

‘Ha, ha, very good, Seymour.’

‘Thank you. See you, anon. Bye now.’

Ruthy set Seymour’s tray down on the desk.
‘You’ll be late for the studio if you don’t hurry,’ she said.

Seymour began to eat hastily.

‘Atuk, the Eskimo, is going to be on the show this week.’ Seymour grinned. ‘He’s hardly our intellectual equal, I’m afraid, but he does have a following.’

Ruthy, aware of the malice implicit in Seymour’s grin, pitied the Eskimo already. Seymour would pulverize him.

Panofsky lifted a pail off the stove and carried the still steaming stew upstairs to Leo.

‘As soon as you’re finished put on the white jacket.’

Leo looked up, his eyes glazed. ‘Uh?’

‘We’re going out,’ Panofsky said. ‘More work. Research.’

Panofsky went to the window to see if Goldie was still pacing up and down outside. He was just in time to see the black Thunderbird pull up. Atuk opened the door for Goldie, and the two of them sped off.

If Ruby only knew what I go through here, Panofsky thought. Aw, he’s probably still in bed.

But Rory Peel was in the kitchen, on the phone to his office. ‘Miss Stainsby,’ he said, ‘you can assure
Twentyman that before our campaign is done everybody, but everybody, in this country will be asking themselves what does
STICK OUT YOUR NECK
mean.’ What I’m worried about, he thought, is what happens when they find out. ‘Should be at the office in forty-two minutes.’

Rory hurried round to the back of the house to see how the workmen were getting on and was horrified to see Springhorn watching from his side of the hedge. ‘Oh, hi, Springhorn,’ he said nervously.

’‘Morning, Peel.’ Springhorn indicated the workmen with an ambiguous smile. ‘Busy, busy, eh, Peel?’

‘They’re laying the foundation for a swimming pool. So help me God they are.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Can I give you a lift into town, perhaps?’

‘Naw. I’ll just stand here and watch. Foundation runs kinda deep, doesn’t it, Peel?’

‘Sorry. I’m in a dreadful hurry.’

What could go wrong now, Rory thought, driving into town. Nothing. He was protected against all mishaps and the new Twentyman deal was his biggest yet. Personal embarrassments? Goldie, back at college, was out of harm’s way and his father had promised to cut out the crazy stuff. His research.

Nurse Tomkins, maternity ward, Protestant Temperance, started. ‘Oh, it’s you, Dr Zale.’

‘Yes,’ Panofsky said, ‘it’s only me.’

Leo grunted.

‘And how’s the little Edwards child today?’ Panofsky asked.

Nurse Tomkins handed Panofsky the chart.

‘Capital,’ Panofsky said. ‘Capital. Dr Shub …?’ He passed the chart to Leo.

Outside, Atuk geared down to second.

‘What is it?’ Goldie asked.

But Atuk was staring at the billboard. Another one, the largest he had seen.

STICK OUT YOUR NECK

‘Next time I see Buck,’ Atuk said, ‘I’ll ask him what it’s all about.’

Buck Twentyman rose with a smile.

‘Glad to have you with us,’ Twentyman said.

He had chosen Derm ‘Gabby’ Gabbard over all the other television pitchmen in Canada for the prized job of compère of
STICK OUT YOUR NECK
because of his incomparably wholesome manner: Canada trusted him.

‘Glad to
be
with you, sir,’ Derm said, smiling.

Blindfolded, Derm was led to a black limousine by Twentyman and driven off to a studio in the woods. The security guards saluted Twentyman, doublechecked Derm’s pass, unlocked the gates, the outer and inner studio doors, and finally the vault. Derm’s blindfold was removed at last.

Twentyman pulled the curtain. ‘There it is,’ he said. ‘Your equipment.’

‘Golly!’ Derm passed his hand lovingly over the ice-blue steel. ‘It’s ring-a-ding,’ he said.

‘The bushel with a million bucks will be on the table over here … with the guards … and over here, the equipment with the contestant. Well?’

‘If this show doesn’t bring you the highest ratings in the country I’ll eat my chapeau,’ Derm said.

‘But you don’t look entirely convinced,’ Twentyman said.

‘Well, sir, to be frank, ah … well, there is
one
area of doubt in my mind. Where will you get a contestant?’

‘You just let me worry about that,’ Twentyman said.

Atuk was late getting to the office.

‘Any messages?’ he asked Miss Stainsby.

‘Bette Dolan phoned. Three times.’

‘Anything else?’ Atuk asked.

‘Norman Gore called. He wants to know if you’ve given up night school altogether.’

‘Ha, ha, ha.’

Professor Gore stopped Panofsky in the hall.

‘Have you seen the evening papers?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t it disgraceful?’

‘You mean Snipes asking for an import quota on American magazines?’

‘No. Certainly not. I mean our subservient, so-called government playing footsie with the FBI in the Arctic.’

‘Don’t you think we ought to co-operate with the Americans?’ Panofsky asked, bored.

‘Co-operation is one thing and domination is another. The trouble with those boys is they see commies under every bed. Surely,
you
don’t go for that cock-and-bull story about their colonel having been kidnapped by Russian agents?’

‘He did disappear, didn’t he?’

‘The man had no right investigating
our
defences in the first place. Probably he got drunk one night and fell down an ice crevice.’

‘Probably? He certainly did. So why worry?’

‘Why? Haven’t you any national pride? They step all over us.’ Professor Gore suddenly smiled. ‘There I go losing my temper again. Oh, say, you will be coming on Friday, won’t you?’

‘I’m looking forward to it immensely, sir.’

Just about anybody who was anybody was going to Professor Gore’s on Friday night. Even Atuk would be there.

The Old One took down the bar, unbolted the door, and opened the locks one by one.

‘Enter in peace,’ the Old One said.

‘Hi,’ Atuk said. ‘How’s everything?’

‘They are all gathered around the box and waiting. There is much tension among them for you
failed them yesterday. The Old One strongly recommends the magic for tonight.’

‘I told them only if they work hard. I—’

‘Of work they have done their fill. For this I give my word.’

Atuk went into the living-room and saw for himself how they all sat huddled and expectant round the box. ‘Have you been good?’ he asked.

‘We have been good.’

Only Ignak failed to reply.

‘Have you worked hard and long while Atuk, who cares not a reindeer’s knuckle for his own safety, has rushed hither and thither among the many white, washed, and unfriendly ones, always in your interest?’

‘Yes,’ they chanted. ‘Yes.’

Ti-Lucy, her eyes shining, brought Atuk the production figures. She removed his shoes and put on his slippers. Atuk grunted. Ti-Lucy poured him a snifter of brandy and lit his cigar.

‘Tonight, then,’ Atuk said, ‘I shall plead for the magic. Bring me the sheet with the craziness upon it.’

Ti-Lucy brought Atuk the
Gazette
and opened it at the page he wanted. ‘Turn off the lights,’ he said.

‘Silence,’ Ti-Lucy said.

‘Sh.’

Atuk went into his trance. Stumbling, swaying, eyes rolling, he wandered round the room. The
others watched hopefully, afraid, tears rolling down their cheeks. Except, Atuk noticed, for Ignak.

‘Oh … oh … I’m beginning to feel the power.’

Ti-Lucy cried out. Moose groaned.

‘Ai,’ Atuk called. ‘Aiii-aii.’ He backed up against the window and felt behind the curtain with his hands. ‘Aii.’ With a sudden sweep of his arm, he said, ‘Oh, Mighty One, let there be sound for my flock.’

There was sound and Atuk saw that it was good. He counted to five and called out, ‘Let there be pictures, Mighty One, for my hard workers. Let the wavy lines form moving pictures. Bring us—’

Atuk broke off, breathing heavily. He waited a little.

‘… bring us a Dupont Special with Frank Sinatra …’

‘Oh!’

‘… Dinah Shore …’

‘Zowie!’

‘… Elvis Presley, the Negro with one eye, and Joey Bishop …’

‘Ay!’

‘… bring us songs, dances, fill us with laughter.’

‘It is too much, Atuk. We burst.’

‘Give us this day many girls with long, delicious legs and leaping breasts uncovered.’

The boys began to stamp their feet. Moose stood on his head.

‘Look, it is here!’

‘Long live Atuk! Maker of miracles!’

‘Amen!’

‘It is nothing, nothing, my sweet children.’ Atuk reached for his snifter of brandy. He took a sip. ‘Why, let the Sinatra be followed by disaster pictures of foreign lands …’

‘Yowie!’

‘… singing soap-boxes … tobacco-sticks that taste like tobacco-sticks should … dancing beer bottles … empty girdles …’

Mush-Mush rolled over on the floor and kicked his legs.

‘… and will you work even harder tomorrow, children?’

‘Yes! Yes! Yes!’

‘… and the Jack Paar Show, then, to be followed by … the late, late movie …’

‘And the lady with the funny fur hat on the horse. Please, Atuk.’

‘Yes, and that too, for Atuk will not be with you until the sun sets twice. For he must make long and dangerous journey over the week-end.’

‘I will pack the little white balloons for him,’ Ti-Lucy said.

‘They are
not
balloons,’ Atuk said. ‘Who’s been blowing those things up again?’

Mush-Mush hid behind a chair. Ignak rose to leave the room.

‘What’s ailing you?’ Atuk asked.

‘I’m tired,
miracle-maker
. Good night.’

‘Don’t look for trouble, kid.’ ‘I’m not.

I’m too bright for that.’

‘Stay that way.’

‘Conning tower to pilot, conning tower to pilot.’

‘All right. Come in, conning tower.’

‘Like I’m going to the movies with Freda tomorrow. I think maybe I’ll stay the night with her.’

Mush-Mush stared at his favourite commercial, the one that showed the amazing transformation in the white man after he had taken the little white pill. How his head opened to reveal pounding hammers and his transparent stomach filled with quick action relief arrows. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Oh.’

Atuk poured himself another brandy. When the third news item came on he started. Suddenly, he was very alert. The hunter. Three FBI agents hurried up the steps to a building in Ottawa. Not far behind came Sgt Jock Wilson.

Sgt Jock Wilson felt bad about what he had done, for he had been inordinately fond of Atuk, and yet, and yet, how he had yearned for the fleshpots of Toronto.

The truth was Jock was still a young fellow and he had had his fill of handing out rough justice in
fifty below zero weather. What he had dreamt of out on the Bay, what he had lusted for during the endless night, was the warmth and type of work available in Toronto. So he was delighted, actually tingling with excitement, when Col Smith-Williams summoned him to his office for, Jock dared to hope, his reward.

‘Jocko, you’re not going back to the Bay. We need you here. Anti-subversive work.’

‘Good show,’ Jock said at once.

But when the Colonel went on to outline the nature of Jock’s new assignment the young man’s shoulders slumped, his cheeks reddened, he began to stammer. ‘Damn it all,’ he said at last, ‘not really up my street, is it, sir?’

Jock reminded the Colonel of his many manly achievements. He alluded to his marksmanship medal and his ability as a horseman. But Col Smith-Williams was not impressed. He cut Jock short.

‘I’m going to give it to you straight from the shoulder,’ the Colonel said. ‘Things aren’t what they used to be.’ He went on to explain how all the services must now adjust to the challenge of the nuclear age. When he, Col Smith-Williams, had first served his country, actually as a Captain in the Black Watch during World War I, the military life had been straightforward. At Vimy, by George, you got your orders to go over the top, shot the first enlisted man through the head, and over the top everybody else went. Today things were different.
Mighty different. The RCAF was almost entirely without aeroplanes and men who had once ruled the skies of Malta were now working as night watchmen at American-run missile bases. The only active duty the army had seen in donkey’s years was when two divisions were hired out to one Hymie Slotnick to make a Western in Alberta. How many citizens knew that the Royal Canadian Navy’s fighting ships were only taken out of mothballs once in the last five years, and that was for a
Vogue
magazine feature on Canadian fashions that was never even published. The RCMP, if it was to survive, would have to adjust too.

‘The FBI,’ Colonel Smith-Williams said, ‘has just outfoxed us in our own back yard. I don’t mind telling you, Jocko, the Dew line thing sticks like a bone in my throat. I want some action. I want it right here in Toronto. Go to it, man.’

And that’s how come Sgt Jock Wilson, disguised in feminine attire, began to seek out subversives in Toronto’s more stylish bars and clubs, bohemian coffee rooms, jazz cellars, and parks. Jock was, to begin with, uncomfortable, even awkward, in his new role. But it wasn’t long before he learned to answer to his code name – Jane – with a bewitching toss of his gorgeous blonde wig. There were compensations too. Long used to leaky tents, sleeping bags, and the itch of Penman’s long winter woollies, he understandably came to adore his new silk lingerie, lacy panties, cashmeres, shantungs, nylons
and – above all – his candy–striped pink sheets. No doubt about it. Arpège smelled sweeter than Man–tan, Lanvin was easier on the skin than Snap, and it was nice to have others pay for your drinks, open doors for you, and sometimes even whistle as you passed. Only one thing bothered Jock. He had decided to join the RCMP after he had seen Gary Cooper in
Northwest Mounted Police
and somehow it was difficult for him to reconcile his present mission with the initial inspiration.