CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The freight elevator ponderously descended. I imagined the Royal Porcupine pounding down three flights of stairs, shedding his clothes, to confront me on the ground floor, stark naked; but when the door grated open he wasn’t there. I ran three blocks to the Kentucky Fried Chicken, ducked inside and ordered a Family Bucket. Then I took a taxi back to the apartment. I would tell all, I would cry. I would be forgiven, I would never do it again, if only Arthur would pardon me and take me back to safety.

I climbed the stairs to the apartment and flung open the door, breathing hard. I was ready for the scene. It wouldn’t be just a confession, it would be an accusation too: why had Arthur driven me to it, what did he propose to do about it, shouldn’t we discuss our relationship to find out what had gone wrong? For some complicated and possibly sadistic reason of his own he’d allowed me to become involved with a homicidal maniac, and it was time he knew about it. I didn’t ask much, I only wanted to be loved. I only wanted some human consideration. Was that so terrible, was that so impossible, was I some kind of mutation?

Arthur was watching television. His back was toward me, and the nape of his neck was vulnerable. I noticed that he needed a haircut, and this hurt me. He was like a child, whole in his beliefs and trusts. What was I doing?

“Arthur,” I said, “there’s something I have to discuss with you.”

He said, without turning, “Could you wait till it’s over?”

I sat down on the floor beside his chair and opened the Family Bucket. Silently I offered it to him. “How can you eat that American crap?” he said, but he took a breast and began to chew. He was watching the Olympic doubles figure-skating championships; once he would watch only the news, but now it was anything he could get, situation comedies, hockey games, police series, talk shows. The television set had vertical foldover on the lower third of the screen, so that the people on the talk shows had four hands, like Indian gods and goddesses, and the chase sequences on the police shows appeared upside down, with two sets of cops and two sets of robbers; but Arthur wouldn’t get it fixed because of the expense. He said he knew someone who could fix it.

The Austrian skaters, in long white sleeves, the girl in a dark bodice, glided backwards around the rink at incredible speed, completely synchronized. Each of them had four legs. They turned and the girl flew up into the air and posed, upside down, two-headed, while the man held her with one arm. Down she came – “Her right foot touched,” said the commentator – and they both fell, multiplying as they hit the ice. They got up and continued their routine, but it wasn’t quite the same. Canada’s pair fell down too, although they were daring at first.

The Fat Lady skated out onto the ice. I couldn’t help myself. It was one of the most important moments in my life, I should have been able to keep her away, but out she came in a pink skating costume, her head ornamented with swan’s-down. With her was the thinnest man in the world. She smiled at the crowd, nobody smiled back, they didn’t believe what they were seeing because she was whirling around the rink with exceptional grace, spinning like a top on her tiny feet, then the thin man lifted her and threw her and she floated up, up, she hung suspended … her secret was that although she was so large, she was very light, she was hollow, like a helium balloon, they had to keep her tethered to her bed or she’d drift away, all night she strained at the ropes.…

There’s something I have to tell you, I thought of saying during the commercial. But Arthur was rooting through the Family Bucket for an unconsumed piece, his fingers were covered with grease, and he had a little piece of chicken on his chin. Tenderly I wiped it off. This was a defenseless moment: how could I violate it? Arthur would need dignity.

A famous figure-skater praised margarine, unconvincingly, her eyes hypnotized by the cue cards. Then the competition came back on. The Fat Lady was still there, bobbing against the ceiling. The U.S. team scooted across the bottom of the screen like a centipede, but no one paid any attention, they were all distracted by the huge pink balloon that bobbed with such poor taste above their heads The Fat Lady kicked her skates feebly; her tights and the huge moon of her rump were visible. Really it was an outrage. “They’ve gone for the harpoon gun,” I heard the commentator say. They were going to shoot her down in cold blood, explode her, despite the fact that she had now burst into song.…

Why am I doing this? I thought, Who’s doing this to me? “I’m going to bed,” I told Arthur. I couldn’t act, I couldn’t even think straight; at any moment the Royal Porcupine might come hammering at the door, or scream some terrible message over the phone, the moment before he jumped, and I was paralyzed, there was nothing I could do. I could only wait for the ax to fall and, knowing him, it wouldn’t even be an ax, it would be a rubber turkey from some joke shop; that or a huge explosion. He had no sense of proportion. Russia won the title, again.

The next morning I got the first of the phone calls. No voice, nothing, though I said hello three times. Just some breathing and a click. I knew it had to be him, but I was surprised by his lack of originality. The second phone call came at six, and the third one at nine. The next day I got a letter from him, or I felt it had to be from him. It was just a blank sheet of paper with a little woodcut of Death, holding a scythe, and the caption, MAY I HAVE THIS WALTZ? The letters and words had been cut from the Yellow Pages and pasted on; Death was from a magazine. I crumpled it up and threw it into the garbage. He’d certainly gone to work fast, but I wasn’t going to let him see he was getting to me.

What I really expected was an anonymous letter to Arthur. I started censoring his mail, though to do it I had to get up early and make it to the downstairs hallway in time to snatch the mail as it came through the letter slot. I’d ponder the envelopes, and if the contents weren’t obvious I would save them to steam open later. I did this for five days, but nothing happened. The phone calls continued. I didn’t know whether Arthur got any; if so, he didn’t mention it.

Everything depended on whether the Royal Porcupine wanted me back – if so, he wouldn’t tell Arthur – whether he wanted to kill me, which I doubted, or whether he just wanted revenge. I thought of phoning to ask him; he might tell me the truth if I got him at the right moment. I should never have given him this power, the power to ruin my life; for it wasn’t yet completely ruined, something could still be salvaged. I hinted to Arthur that it might be a nice change for us to move to another city.

On the sixth day I got another letter. The address was typewritten; there was no stamp, it must’ve been delivered by hand. Inside there was another cut-out message: OPEN THE DOOR. I waited half an hour and opened it. On the doorstep there was a dead porcupine with an arrow stuck into it. A label attached to the arrow read JOAN.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” I said. If the landlord, or Arthur, had found it first there would have been an uproar or at least an inquisition. I had to get rid of it in a hurry. It was a large porcupine, with extensive wounds, and it was already beginning to rot. I pulled it to the side of the porch and dumped it among the hydrangeas, hoping that none of the neighbors was watching. Then I went upstairs, got a green plastic Glad Bag, stuffed the porcupine into it, and managed to get it into the garbage can labeled “Tenants” in the hinged bin at the back. I pictured the Royal Porcupine unfreezing all his animals, one by one, and leaving them on my doorstep. He had a lot of them, they’d last for weeks.

I felt he was going too far. In the afternoon I went out to a pay phone and called him. “Chuck, is that you?” I said when he answered.

“Who is this,” he said, “Myrna?”

“You know bloody well it’s not Myrna, whoever she may be,” I said. “It’s Joan, and I want you to know I don’t think you’re funny at all.”

“What do you mean?” he said. He really did sound surprised.

“You know,” I said. “Your little notes. I suppose you thought you were being very clever, cutting the letters out of the Yellow Pages like that so I wouldn’t know it was you.”

“No, I didn’t,” he said. “I mean, what notes? I’ve never sent you any notes.”

“What about that thing you left on my doorstep this morning? I suppose that wasn’t one of your precious mangled animals.”

“What are you talking about?” he said. “You must be crazy. I haven’t done a thing.”

“And you can stop phoning and breathing at me over the phone, too.”

“I swear to God I haven’t called you once. Has someone been calling you?”

I felt defeated. If he was lying, that meant he was going to continue. If he wasn’t, then who was doing it? “Chuck, be honest,” I said.

“I thought I asked you not to call me that,” he said coldly. “I haven’t done anything to you. Why should I? You told me it’s over. Okay, I was mad at the time, but I thought about it, and if you say it’s over, it’s over. You know me, here today, gone tomorrow. Easy come, easy go. Why should I worry?”

I was hurt that he was taking it so calmly. “So that’s really all I meant to you,” I said.

“Look, you were the one who backed out, not me. If you don’t want to live with me, what do you expect me to do? Stick my head in the oven?”

“Maybe I was wrong,” I said, “maybe we should talk about it.”

“Why prolong the agony?” he said. “Besides, I’ve got company.”

Then he hung up on me. I slammed down the phone and jiggled the coin return; I felt I should definitely get my dime back, he owed me that. But from the black machine, no satisfaction.

I ran back to the apartment, closed myself into the bedroom, got out my typewriter, and shut my eyes. A tall man in a cloak, that was what I needed. All the time I’d been with the Royal Porcupine I hadn’t written a word. Was this why my creatures seemed more real than usual, nearer to me, charged with an energy greater than I gave them?

But it was no good; I couldn’t stop time, I could shut nothing out.

That night there was another call, and the next day another note: COME INTO THE FUNERAL PARLOR, with a picture of a spider glued to it. The day after that, a dead bluejay on the doorstep. That night I thought I heard someone climbing the fire escape.

I began to hesitate before picking up the phone. I thought of getting a shrill whistle, the kind you were supposed to use on obscene phone callers. Once I screamed “Stop it!” into the phone before realizing it was only Sam. I wasn’t afraid, exactly; I still thought of it as a prolonged and revengeful practical joke, and the Royal Porcupine – for I was still convinced he was the one – probably thought of it as a work of art. Maybe he was taking pictures of me opening the door and finding his smelly little tokens of esteem, maybe he’d put the prints on exhibition. I thought about going over to his warehouse and trying to reason with him.…

The phone rang. I let it ring three times, then picked it up, prepared for the breathing and maybe even a threatening laugh. “Hello,” I said.

“This is Joan Delacourt?” A man’s voice, thick and odd somehow.

“Yes,” I said automatically, before I’d had time to think about this use of my maiden name. Everyone called me Joan Foster now.

“Joan. At last I have founded you.”

“Who is this?” I said.

“You cannot guess?” the voice said coyly. Now it was sounding familiar. “This is your friend Mavis.” A flirtatious laugh.

“Paul,” I said. “Oh, my God.”

“I have read about you in the newspaper,” Paul said, undaunted by my dismay, “I have recognized the picture, though it is not so beautiful as you. I have been so happy about your success, you do not need to write the Gothic Romance any more, you are a true writer. I have read your book. It is promising, I think, for a first book, by a woman.”

Behind me I could hear Arthur coming in the door. I had to get Paul off the phone, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “Paul,” I said, “I must see you. I’d like to see you.”

“This, too, is what I desire,” said Paul. “I know of a good restaurant.…”

I met him at it the next day, for a late lunch. Zerdo’s, the restaurant was called. There never used to be restaurants in Toronto with names like Zerdo’s, but now there were many. It was like Paul to pick a restaurant with a name like some sort of drain cleaner, I thought as I opened the door. It was a narrow darkened room with tables covered with checked cloths and lamps in the shape of candles. Artificial grapevines festooned the walls. At the back of the room was a pass-through hatchway covered with fake brick wallpaper and hung with copper pans.… The maître d’ bustled toward me, short and alert, gold-tasseled menus under his arm.

“John,” I said involuntarily. I’d know that soft moustache anywhere.…

“I beg your pardon, madame,” he said. “My name is Zerdo.”

Paul was already walking toward me. Ceremoniously he kissed my hand and led me with gentle melancholy towards a table. When we were seated he did not speak, but gazed at me with reproachful eyes from behind his glasses, which were now, I noticed, tinted: a pale mauve.

“This used to be called the Bite-A-Bit,” I said. I didn’t say I’d been the cashier, but there was my double behind the cash register, a heavy woman with bunned hair, wearing a black dress which showed her rippling elbows but not her bosom. One of my once-potential futures, in the flesh; Mrs. Zerdo, no doubt. At this moment I envied her.

“Joan,” said Paul. “Why have you fleed from me?” He’d taken the plastic rose out of its vase and was twirling it between his fingers, apparently unaware that it wasn’t real. What could I say that would be appropriate?

“It was all for the best,” I said.

“No, Joan,” he said sadly. “It was not. You know I have loved you. I have wished to marry you, once you were older; I planned that, I should have told you. Yet you run away from me. You have made me very unhappy.” He said this, yet I didn’t altogether believe him. I noticed his suit, which was certainly a more expensive one than he’d once been able to afford; and he had an air of confidence that was new to him. The bitter, threadbare aristocrat had been blurred a little; superimposed on that was a layer of successful businessman.

Zerdo appeared with the wine list. He was deferential to Paul, who ordered flawlessly. Paul took out a Gauloise, offered me one, and inserted one for himself in his cigarette holder, which was new and sumptuous.

“I am pleased I have discovered you,” Paul said, as we sipped our lemon soup. “Now we will have to think what to do, as I see you have married.”

“Paul,” I said to change the subject, “do you live here now? Have you moved to Canada?”

“No,” he said, “but I am here often. On business. I am no longer with the bank since six years, I have another business. I am -” he hesitated “- importer.”

“What do you import?” I asked.

“Many things,” he said vaguely. “Wood carvings, the chess sets and the boxes for cigarettes, from Czechoslovakia; garments from India, they are popular now, and from Mexico. It is helpful to have a knowledge of many languages. I do not speak all myself, but one can always arrange.” He didn’t really want to talk about it. I remembered the revolver. Was that a slight bulge under his arm, could he possibly be wearing a shoulder holster? I thought, in rapid succession, of heroin, opium, atomic weapons, jewels and state secrets.

“I have extracted my mother,” he said, “from Poland, but she has died.”

We talked about that, and about his daughter, during the moussaka.

“I read in the paper that your husband is some sort of a Communist,” he said when we’d reached the baklava. “Joan, how could you marry a man like this? I have told you what they are like.”

“He’s not exactly a Communist,” I said. “It’s hard to explain, but it’s different here. Besides, it doesn’t mean anything here, it’s respectable, sort of. They don’t do anything; they just have meetings and talk a lot, sort of like the Theosophists.”

“Talk is dangerous,” said Paul darkly. “All such things begin by talk. They are good at talk, they are like the Jesuits. Poor child, this is how he made you marry him. You have had your brain washed out by him.”

“No,” I said, “it wasn’t like that,” but Paul was convinced.

“I can tell you are very unhappy,” he said.

This was true enough, and I didn’t deny it. In fact I was enjoying the sensation of all this sympathy lapping around me, like warm washcloths. I’d thought Paul would be angry with me, but he was being so nice. I drank another glass of wine and Paul ordered brandy.

“You can trust me,” he said, patting my hand. “You were a child, you did not know your own mind. Now you are a woman. You will leave this man, you will divorce, we will be happy.”

“Paul, I can’t leave,” I said. He swam before me in a haze of nostalgia. Was this my lost love, my rescuer? My eyes filled with tears, and so did my nose. I blotted myself with the table napkin. Any minute now I was really going to cry.

Paul’s jaw tightened. “He will not let you. I see,” he said. “They are like that. If you tell him it is I you love, he will.… But I have friends. If necessary I shall steal you.”

“No,” I said, “Paul, you can’t do that. That would be dangerous. Besides, people don’t do things like that here.”

Paul patted my hand. “Do not worry,” he said. “I know what I am doing. I will wait, and then, at the right moment, I will strike.” His eyes gleamed; it was a challenge, he wanted to win.

I couldn’t tell him I didn’t want to be stolen; that would be too rude, and painful for him as well, “Well,” I said, “it’s important that you don’t tell anyone you’ve seen me. And you shouldn’t phone.… Paul, did you phone me before, without saying anything?”

“Maybe once,” he said. “I thought it was wrong number.” So it wasn’t him.

We got up to leave. Paul took my arm. “Do you still write Mavis Quilps?” I said, remembering. “I guess you don’t have to any more.”

“I continue to write them, as a recreation,” Paul said. “It is soothing to the mind, after a hard day’s work.” He paused for a moment, searched an inside pocket. “Here,” he said. “I have brought a gift, for you. You are a specialty. I am alone in my life, no one else would care. But I know you would like it.”

He handed me the book. Nurse of the High Arctic, it said on the cover. By Mavis Quilp. The pink-cheeked nurse smiled winsomely from the nimbus of her parka.

“Oh, Paul,” I said, “thank you so much.” I was touched, ludicrously; it was like the end of the whale movie, he was so sad, so trusting, so hopeless, consolation was so impossible. I threw my arms around his neck and burst into tears.

Now you’ve done it, I thought as I sobbed against his shoulder. I had to stoop a little to do this. He was wearing Hai Karate shaving lotion, which made me cry even harder. How could I get out of it? I had been too encouraging, again.