The Survival Game (5 page)

Burl stared at the man. “What happened to the baron?” he asked.

“What a remarkable boyo,” said the man. “I have very adeptly adopted – say that quickly, three times – the disguise of Sir Chauncey Cakebread, eminent musicologist and rocketeer.”

“Oh,” said Burl again. This was hard to keep up with. It was also, somehow, embarrassing. Burl had never been paid so much attention in his life. He was drowning suddenly in attention. He could not look up. He ate another cookie. The pause lengthened. He stole a glance at the man, hoping he hadn't hurt his feelings, wondering if he should have clapped again.

The baron, Sir Chauncey – whoever he was – was staring at Burl, his face in repose again, but puffier, wearier than it had been only a moment earlier. He dug a pair of dark-rimmed glasses from a pocket inside his coat and looked at Burl more closely. Burl was looking towards the window where the grand piano sat.

When the man spoke again, his voice was kind and sincere sounding. “What is it,
wildeskind
,
enfant sauvage
, wild child?”

Burl cleared his throat. “Your piano,” he said. “I saw it before. Last spring. I followed it here.”

The man seemed to pierce him with his gaze. “You followed it?”

“Well, not exactly. I saw it flying – I mean, being carried by the helicopter – and I kind of started out in that direction.”

The man's eyes grew wide with wonder. Then a mosquito landed on his ear and he slapped it and grimaced.

“Ah, the joys of twilight in the north.” He clambered out of his chair and, ducking his head in his collar, he hurried to the door. He turned as he opened it. “Quick,” he said conspiratorially, waving Burl towards the door. “Inside,
mein kind
, before ze rest of his pesky friends discover us, too.”

The baron made scrambled eggs. He hummed while he cooked and waved the spatula as if he was directing a silent symphony.

The inside of the pyramid was one large room. To Burl – grown up under stained and buckled corkboard – it seemed more like a church than a dwelling. But it was not a fancy church, not like Grandma's church with the bleeding Jesus and the stained-glass windows. Only the piano was fancy. It was as long as a boat and as unlikely inside the cabin as a boat might be. A sleek black boat with curving sides.

Nothing else about the cabin looked finished. Roofing nails poked through the sloping ceiling; there were no walls except for a blanket draped across one corner to hide a composter toilet. There was scarcely any furniture to speak of. The kitchen corner consisted of a counter unit with a built-in sink, stove and mini-fridge, and shelves stocked mostly with canned food. Burl's host occasionally tapped on a can or two with his flying spatula, in rhythm to his hum.

The sink was piled high with unwashed dishes. The place was messy and yet, oddly, it did not look lived in. The floor was covered in a dull grey carpeting. There was no bed but only a mattress, the bedclothes rumpled, and several books piled or open beside a bedside lamp. There was an open suitcase from which a jumblement of clothes spilled.

There were two tables in the room, with a single chair at each. One table was for eating. The other table was being used as a desk. It was littered with writing paper, notes and an open book or two. But there were also several neater piles with a rock paperweight on each. The rocks held down large-sized music sheets on which notes had been scribbled in pencil. There were words scribbled underneath the clefs. There was a cracked black cup full of pencils.

But the room was dominated by the piano. It sat by the window which looked out over the lake. Burl touched its glossy curving side.

“Soup's on,” said Burl's host. For all his flair for performance, he flopped the food onto the plate the way one emptied something rotten into the garbage, and then he dropped the pan into the sink hurriedly. The eggs were overcooked, but there must have been several of them, and the scrambled mess looked wonderful to Burl.

“This ought to get you through to dinner,” said the man. “Or do you call it supper? I've never been entirely sure which was which.”

Burl ate a large steaming mouthful. Too large a mouthful and too hot. He needed water, but his mouth was full, and the cook seemed oblivious to his frantic gestures.

“Well?” asked the man.

Burl swallowed at last, gasping for air. “Water.”

“Oh, good,” said the man, his eyes brightening. “Word associations. I like that. Let's see…train!”

Burl fanned the air in front of his open mouth. “Train?”

“No, no, no. Something different. I say ‘train' and you say ‘tunnel' or ‘engine' or whatever you like. Whatever comes to mind. Heavens, child, you started the game.”

“Started what?”

“When I said ‘well', you said ‘water'.”

Burl was puzzled. He looked at his plate. Took another mouthful – hot or not – afraid now that it might be snatched away from him at any moment.

“Harrumph,” said the man. “Not a sportive child, I see.” But the next thing Burl knew, the fridge was opened and the man was pouring him a glass of orange crush which he placed on the table. “Hot?” he asked.

Burl took the glass and greedily drank from it. He looked over the rim at his host, who eyed him expectantly. Burl lowered the glass.

“Cold,” he said.

His host smirked, a triumphant glint in his eye. Then he sighed, stuck his hands into the pockets of his bulky coat and walked over to the window to look out upon the lake.

Burl ate in silence. He was glad to eat, but he found the silence vaguely disturbing. At home a quiet meal was something to pray for. But this man, who seemed to turn himself on and off as if by a switch, was more interesting when he was talking. More alive. Now he seemed to be brooding. Burl swallowed, wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

“Supper,” he said. “At night it's supper.”

The man did not turn. “And you call a place like this a camp. Whereas where I come from, we'd call it a cottage.”

“It's great,” said Burl.

“Ah, well. But the important thing is, is it a great supper?”

“It's real good,” said Burl. “About this time yesterday I ate a can of cold beans. I didn't eat since.”

The man turned, leaned on the piano. “Then I take it your mother isn't going to be phoning, complaining that I've ruined your appetite.”

Burl averted his eyes, hurriedly ate another mouthful. “We don't have a phone,” he said.

“That's just as well,” said the man. “Because neither do
we
.”

He turned his back again. He held his right wrist in his left hand, and Burl could see that he was counting. He seemed to be taking his pulse.

Burl concentrated on his eggs. The man had said “we”, but it did not seem possible that another person shared this cabin with him. Unless it was the baron, or Sir Chauncey Cakebread. But there were no such people, were there? Or had “we” referred to Burl?

Alone now at the table, his attention freed from his host's penetrating gaze, Burl noticed a letter lying open. “Dear Nog,” it began. Under the letter lay an envelope addressed to Nathaniel Gow. But the letter had not been sent here. It was addressed to The Plaza Hotel in New York City. Then Burl noticed a brown cardigan hanging over the back of the chair at the desk. The initials N.O.G. were embroidered in gold on the breast.

Burl laid down his fork. Nog still had his back to him. He dared to look at the letter again. The return address was from Toronto, “R. Corngold”. Burl flipped to the end of the letter. “Take care, Reggie.”

“I propose a test,” said Nog suddenly. “I suppose it would be more appropriate to propose a toast, since it's supper time, but I don't drink, so it will have to be a test, instead.”

“Pardon?”

“If you were a body of water, what would you be?” he asked. “It's another game. Would you be a lake? The Indian Ocean? A nice hot soapy bath? What?”

Burl was at sea. Games were something you did at recess when the weather was bad. Mrs. Agnew liked word games, but Burl had never encountered a game outside of school. What were the rules here? What happened if you guessed wrong?

“Well?” said Nog. “No, wait a minute – well doesn't count, even though it is a body of water. We've had quite enough ‘wells' in this conversation. Well this and well that. I'll make a note to myself to eradicate from my vocabulary the use of the word well as an interjection from this moment on.” He paused. “What, then?”

Burl was as ready as he'd ever be. “A stream?”

Nog walked towards his guest, his fingers pressed together, looking pleased. “What kind of a stream?”

“A trout stream, fast moving but with deep pools.”

“Bravo,” said Nog.

“What would you be?”

Nog shook his head, wagged his finger. “I'm the master of ceremonies. I do the asking.” He took the chair from the work table and dragged it over to the eating table. He sat down, crossed his legs. He looked hard at Burl, until Burl turned away. When he spoke again, his voice had lost its sing-song, excited quality.

“If your father were a wild animal, what would he be?”

Burl wrapped his arms more tightly around himself. He was still shirtless and the room was cooling down as evening advanced.

Nog's eyes narrowed. “That scar on your shoulder, the bruise on your lower rib cage, the burn marks – cigarette? – on your arm… I think some kind of ferocious animal did this.”

Burl stared at his empty plate. With his finger he wiped up a smear of grease, tasted it.

“Is there room here, just for tonight?” he asked.

Nog dragged his hand down the length of his face, distorting his features. The whites of his eyes were veined in red.

Burl could see No written all over his face. He had heard the word enough times to recognize the signs, the shape the face takes on just before saying No.

“I don't think that would be a practical idea,” said Nog. He got up a little unsteadily from his chair and padded in his stocking feet over to the piano stool on which he perched, his legs folded, looking out at the lake.

Burl slumped in his chair. He had allowed himself to relax, allowed the tiredness to climb up his limbs from his aching feet. Somehow he would have to push that aching weariness back down now, regain what strength he could muster. But where would he go?

“Now don't get all puppy-dog-eyed,” said Nog, though he did not turn to see if there was any expression on Burl's face at all.

“I just hoped –”

“What did you hope?”

“Just for tonight. I'll go first thing in the morning.”

“Where?”

“It doesn't matter.”

Nog didn't speak for a moment. “Who are you?” he said at last.

“Burl.”

“Burl who?”

“Burl…Burl Crow.” There, he had told him.

“Look at me, Burl Crow.”

Burl looked up.

“You don't know who I am?”

Burl's eyes wandered to the envelope that lay between them on the table.

“I guess you're him,” he said, pointing at the name on the address.

“But you've never heard of Nathaniel Orlando Gow?”

Burl shook his head.

“Did you or did you not follow me here to pry into my private life?” His voice was raised, like a prosecutor in some movie bearing down on an evasive witness.

“No! I don't even know where
here
is.”

There was a long pause. Burl didn't dare look up. Next, he thought, he'll ask me to leave. He got up from his chair. His shirt hung on a hook by the door. He took it down and began to put it on.

Nog turned on the table lamp at his desk. He took a pencil from the cup and held it poised above a blank page. Then he put it down and started patting his chest pockets, inside and out, looking for his glasses. They were on the kitchen counter. Burl picked them up and took them to him. The lenses were greasy. He cleaned them off on his shirt.

“Thank you,” said Nog.

“Thanks for supper,” said Burl.

Nog was bent over his work. “It was nothing.”

At the door Burl stopped. “Say goodbye to the baron and Sir Chauncey for me,” he said.

Nog smiled, even though he didn't look up. Then he put down his pencil firmly on the table and leaned back in his chair, sticking out his long legs in front of him.

“In my business,” he said, “we have a little something called ‘Take two'. Do you know what that is?”

Burl found himself thinking of supper at home where he was usually told to take just one. “No.”

“When you are on stage playing the piano, if you make a mistake – then you make a mistake and nothing can be done about it. Perfection is not possible on the concert stage. I'm rather keen on perfection, myself. And that's why I don't play live any more. Are you following me so far?”

Burl nodded. He even dared to inch back into the room away from the door. Nog's voice was all sing-song again and sociable.

“In the recording studio, however, if you're playing a sonata, let's say, and you get to a sticky part and play a bad note or a note that's too loud or just plain wonky, you can simply stop. And then do you know what you do?”

“You take two?”

“Absolutely. You take two. You play the difficult passage over again and plunk it in the sonata and there it is. Perfection – thanks to the miracle of the recording studio.”

Burl thought about this a moment. “Isn't that kind of cheating?” he asked.

“Argh!” said Nog, throwing his hands up in torment. “Even the woods are filled with critics! Do you really think, Master Burl, that art is like a game of football? That the dropped pass must for ever remain dropped? That the fumbled ball cannot be scooped up and placed back in the hands of the otherwise competent fullback? Nonsense. And that, you see, is the problem with live concerts. They are like some dreadful sports event: the noisy crowd, the fumbles, having to play when you're sick as a dog. That's not art.”