Trial of Passion (28 page)

No, this cannot, dare not be love. Love becomes physically complicated. Love must be consummated, but this could never be. I am a man disarmed, enfeebled, ineffectual, incapable. Gag me

Ah, yes, if it be any manner of love it is the passion of weakness for strength, the puerile ardour of a masochist seeking a dominatrix who castrates her own pigs and mops the courtroom floor with Arthur Beauchamp; yes, indeed, that is the kind of woman Beauchamp seeks in order to satisfy his aberrant desires.

Am I in love? I fear I am. Woe to Arthur Ramsgate Beauchamp. Weaponless, he can only want but never have.

Abed, I dream the spell is over. I am naked in the softly falling rain, my wrists and ankles bound. A slender woman haunts the shadows. Though tied and helpless, I am overcome with desire for her. Later I awake with — is it possible? is it real? — a tumescent penis? As sleep overcomes me again, I am not sure whether this
phallus erec-tus
is only a chimera sent to mock me.

Good morning, Kimberley. You look weary on this nice sunny day.

Morning, Dr. Kropinski. Ouch. Tied one on yesterday. After the show we all went to Bridge's. I guess we were celebrating.

Over the success of the show, yes?

Yeah, we're on the front page.

I saw that.

What do they call themselves? Citizens for Decency, something like that.

You do not worry the play will be closed down?

By those morons? Bunch of dweebs with their picket signs. But we drank a lot of toasts to them — we're getting sold-out houses. And guess who I keep seeing in the audience? Twice I spotted him trying to look small in one of the back rows as we were taking our bows. Professor Jonathan O'Donnell. Creepy, huh?

How odd.

Scary, kind of. Everyone else was applauding . . . but he looked … I don't know. Depressed. What kind of stuff does he think he's pulling anyway? Probably trying to put a hex on. Well, what did you think of the play?

I thought you were very good.

Thank you.

You received the best laughs.

A little racy, though, hey? What did your wife think?

I am afraid Penny found it too rich for her blood. Well, she is a little conservative, yes? An old-fashioned Jewish upbringing . . .

Oh, dear, I had one of those, too, only Catholic. All
that's left is the religious guilt, I'm afraid. Well, my significant other hasn't seen it yet, though he read that prissy review where they called it obscene — right next to our pictures. Was he ever torqued. I'm not going back to his place until he apologizes.

You have been staying in your apartment?

I don't need all the distractions. The play runs another week, and then I've only got four or five days to get ready for the trial, which I don't think I'm up for — I wish it would just go away. I'm going to come out looking like . . . I don't know.

Why?

Oh, Pat Blueman dropped on me that apparently I did some cocaine that night I was at O'Donnell's house. Cocaine . . .

I snorted some in the rec room with Egan Chornicky and that Paula woman. I must have been fairly loaded, I don't
do
coke. Maybe twice in my life. I guess I just kept quiet because I didn't dream it would come out. But Paula spilled the beans to Patricia, who gave me royal shit for not telling her, and the defence knows about it.

Did this drug affect you?

Not really. Well, maybe I got a little wild and crazy — it's after that I changed into O'Donnell's suit.

And now this may come out in court?

Remy — he'll have another wig-out. And it could make it tough to get articles. Maybe I'll become a star of stage and screen instead. There's a chance the play will move to Toronto this fall. . . . Oh, hey, we may have the goods on O'Donnell now. Pat Blueman . . . can I tell you a secret?

Everything you tell me is secret, yes?

I called her, got her to come down and join us last
night, at Bridge's. She's so lonely, you know — I try to get her out where she can meet eligibles. Well, she was in such a
good
mood. O'Donnell — she made me swear not to tell anyone — but the guy is right out of the Marquis de Sade. She has a witness under subpoena with whom Jonathan had this
ritual,
she calls it, where he tied her up
and
painted her before getting it on. In her own acrylics, or whatever — she's an artist. Dominique the dominatrix.

Oh, my. How did they find her?

Patricia wouldn't say. I always knew there was a sicko psyche hiding inside Jonathan. I could tell it just looking into his eyes. They were always so sad. Hiding some deep, dark, horrible secret. I mean, I'm sort of modern sexually, I like to do different things. I like a little theatre with it, maybe, but not
kink
— we're talking pre-Remy here, he's pretty traditional about sex. God, I just thought — maybe his defence is going to be that he was so drunk he thought I was Dominique.

I think that is not likely.

I want to see his expression when she walks into court. What's the deal with this bondage stuff, Dr. Kropinski? Why do people do it?

I have not seen much of the material on this. But involved I think are scripted rituals of whipping, spanking, and so on, interspersed with episodes of tenderness and loving. It is clearly so that some people — mostly men, I think — seek their sexual stimulation that way. An unhealthy compulsion either to dominate or play the slave. I have seen reports about normal persons, intelligent, well born, who have gone into therapy for this. Significant antecedents like childhood trauma will play some role, yes? But it is not always easy to trace the connection. It may have something to do with the buttock
fetish:
Gesässerotik,
it is called. Fetishes usually come from a submerged sexual impression from early childhood, and so I think there is a similar root for bondage practices.

It's basically a form of play, though, right? Theatre. I mean, you see all these ads. Women who offer a service — discipline care providers. So there must be this
need. I
guess it's better some bozo gets his rocks off by paddling someone's bum than going home all repressed and knocking his wife's teeth out. Anyway . . .

Why are you laughing?

Oh, I was just remembering last night. Patricia had a few, and did this hilarious imitation of Arthur Beauchamp. Snapping his suspenders and reciting from the
Merchant of Venice,
trying to wring tears from the jury. “Mercy falleth as the gentle rain from heaven.” Something like that. I guess we should get to work.

All right.

I've had more dreams. I just wish they'd stop.

I would prefer to see them come out.

I know. Healthier for me if I could just spew it out. I get this gaggy feeling, this nausea, I'm afraid that if I think about it I'll throw up.

All your dreams seem to end with you cowering against a wall, then feeling . . .

I can't talk about it. I can't.

Okay. Tell me, have you thought any more about being hypnotized?

I guess I'm afraid of losing control, getting hysterical. Do you not think you need to remember? After the play is over, you have a four-day period before the trial?

Yes.

And when do you take the witness stand?

Next Wednesday, I think.

What about this weekend? You could come for dinner on Saturday — I find evenings are better, and you will be more relaxed in a home setting.

And I'm to get hypnotized? Do you put me to sleep?

Actually, I may bring you awake.

The charter flutters into Beauchamp Bay and chugs towards the little dock where I stand with Margaret, who is smiling but tense. She is smartly dressed, a fawn suit, her skirt hemmed daringly high. I am more casual, the more bohemian of the two in my denim and sandals. All my suits are at the cleaners in Vancouver, so I am accepting Wally Sprogue at his word there will be no dress code. And why not make a statement? Why not say I am no longer a slave to the conventions of the city?

“You're sure he can get that machine up off the water again?” says Margaret, who has admitted to a fear of flying. She has never been in a small airplane.

I am still too unnerved to confess my feelings for her. There exists an abiding fear of rejection. And I simply do not know how to start: I do not remember how to do this. Assuming I once knew.

And I so fear the shame of failure if I try.

Margaret grips my wrist as the aircraft groans from the water. I thrill at the fierceness of her touch. I tell the pilot to circle Garibaldi, and I enjoy Margaret's enjoyment, drink deeply of her experience, her eagle's view of her farm, our rustic island, the evil Evergreen Estates. Then the inlets, other islands, the cold green waters of Georgia Strait, the approaching city spires.

She turns from the window and blesses me with a smile that causes my inner core to melt.

I remember our first encounter, on the ferry: Margaret thrusting a petition at me, expecting a rebuff.
I don't suppose you'd care to sign this.
I recall the scorn on her face as she sized me up for precisely what I was — a rube from the city, still reeking of it, a transgressor upon the fair soil of Garibaldi Island. I found her somewhat attractive — lissome and lean, peppy, intense of eye — but she has been transformed in my mesmerized mind into a person of measureless beauty: handsomely wrinkled by the sun, dirt often under the fingernails, hands toughened by honest work, no false eyelashes, no painted toes, no false heart — earthy and elegant, and real.

A tragic dilemma arises from my state of rapture; one of its prongs is of course my own peculiar fear of flying — performance anxiety is how George Rimbold put it. The other problem is that Margaret is also in love. To her honour and my chagrin, she remains bound to the memory of her husband, a man about whom she incessantly speaks. I am playing second fiddle to a ghost.

So, sadly — but perhaps for the better — it appears obvious that Margaret does not return my feelings. I expect she sees me as an avuncular figure, an older friendly adviser with whom she can freely talk of past love and flush her system of pent-up sorrow.

My mind awash with these thoughts, I suddenly realize we are enshrouded within the city's walls. We dip between two container ships, plough across the turbid waters of Burrard Inlet, and taxi to the dock.

I extend a hand to help Margaret from the plane, and again at her touch feel a wilting sensation. Our eyes meet: Can she read the horrible truth in my adoring puppy eyes? Or does she just regard me as that friendly old fellow Arthur Beauchamp, her pal, her neighbour, her sharer of fences and secrets?

How do I win her from her husband?

Our taxi takes us first to the downtown shopping complexes, where Margaret alights — she will spend the morning buying household goods. I remind her that we are to meet for lunch at Chez Forget before attending the matinée performance of
Switch.

“I'll be there.” She takes a deep breath, blows me a kiss, and melts into the crowds.

Switch.
How crass of me to invite her to a bawdy farce. But George Rimbold eventually teased me into asking her. “You wouldn't be interested, would you?” I said. “Well, I might be,” she replied.

My taxi drops me off at the Nelson Street entrance of the law courts. Here in this building — more greenhouse than courthouse, a vast atrium with potted trees and a roof of glass — will unfold the final chapter of the Queen versus Jonathan Shaun O'Donnell. Only two weeks to the start of the trial: How well prepared am I? My powers of concentration seem decimated. I must focus on this trial or, befuddled by my emotions, I may end up sacrificing a client. I must will myself to keep my thoughts from the woman who lives next door.

In the lobby, court staff stare at me in puzzlement, as persons might who aren't quite sure they know this old fellow, this rumpled, bearded beatnik. Friends wave from a distance, but avoid coming closer, perhaps fearful I will ask for spare change.

In the barristers' lounge, Augustina Sage is having coffee with Patricia Blueman, who looks me over as I sit beside her.

“You here for the farmers' convention, Arthur?”

“My suits are at the cleaners. Wally won't mind, I'm sure”

“Patricia has some new witnesses,” says Augustina, looking a little dour. She passes me a photocopied statement.

Patricia explains, “Dominique Lander is a former
UBC
art instructor who had an affair with your client. She's a bondage freak. It's evidence of previous consistent behaviour. Proves he has a history of tying up his partners.”

I quickly glance through the brief handwritten statement of this Dominique Lander. I try to hide both my surprise and my dismay. A line draws my attention:
Pain is after all just another aspect of love.
I recall the dream of a few nights ago, the bound wrists, the risen phallus.

“And when did Dominique Lander crawl from the woodwork?”

But then I notice the signature of the witness to her statement: Francisco Sierra, a person known to me, a private detective with a reputation for artfulness.

“Who hired Mr. Sierra?”

“We didn't.”

“Who, then?”

“Mr. Sierra refuses to say.”

The possibilities do not seem limitless. I catch Augustina's eye and can tell she shares my thought: One senses the heavy hand of the wealthy fiancé at work. Would he stoop to buying a witness?

“We will want to interview Miss Lander, of course.”

“Yes, I'll set it up.”

“And what are the other late additions to the cast?”

“Paula Yi. Whom you've talked to, so you don't need her statement.”

“You'll be calling her, I presume, to say Kimberley was severely intoxicated on cocaine?”

“I'll be ready for it.” There is a firm edge to her voice. “And we also have Dr. Hawthorne's housekeeper — the police really did a raggedy-ass job, they didn't interview everyone they should have. Mrs. McIntosh called to tell me she heard screams from the adjoining house.”