Hands to shake? Eyes to meet with stern defiance? Bruschetta to devour? He scanned the room, but he discovered no one from the Arts Faculty. Where was Dean Kesterman, the wimp? After the announcement that the Garneau Block would live forever, and a few modest comments to the media, two bruschetta, and perhaps a devilled egg, Raymond planned to knee Dean Kesterman in the t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es. In fact, any of his former colleagues would do. His knee, covered in black Italian wool, was itching to knee some wimp's t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es. Whose would it be?

Most of his neighbours were already seated in the front row, with nametag stickers on their chests. The woman at the door, whom he recognized from the public affairs department, smiled and attempted to give him a nametag. But he would not have it. If you do not know Dr. Raymond Terletsky now, you will. Oh yes. When The Great Spirit is unleashed, you shall know me.

Raymond took a seat behind Shirley and greeted his neighbours. He winked at Rajinder. "We did it, pal. We did it."

"I hope so, Raymond."

The smell of his wife's perfume briefly inflamed him. He leaned forward. "Shirley Wong," he said, in her ear, "you are one of the world's great beauties. I was a fool to forget it. A d.a.m.n fool. Let's go to Machu Picchu."

Shirley Wong reached back and pushed his head away. "Shush it."

At the front of the room, with large windows behind him, the chair of the university's board of governors tapped the microphone. Behind the man, wind moved the boughs of tall spruce trees on Saskatchewan Drive. It was a romantic scene. Perhaps there would be a tall spruce tree in the direct middle of The Great Spirit, Raymond thought, and pulled his African cave art notepad from his jacket pocket.

Spruce tree. Fake wind. Romance.

The man introduced the university president, stuttering slightly and fumbling words. He said "um" several times, and Raymond shook his head. Who writes these speeches? Why is rhetoric a lost art? "I'm already bored," he wanted to say, out loud.

The new president, a woman from Seattle, acknowledged the dignitaries and spoke in detail about Edmonton and Alberta being vigorous and diverse and powerful and progressive, not just a rich oil region but a centre of academic excellence with real tentacles out into the local community, the country, and the world.

"We've heard this one before, Madame President," said Raymond, into Shirley's ear.

The president looked down at her notes. A camera flashed. "Cultural excellence is just as important as scientific, mathematic, and critical excellence. And we recognize the Garneau Block Foundation's splendidly creative efforts to build a...bison head on property under the university's control."

There was a sudden pain in Raymond's abdomen. This boring speech was not so boring anymore. He wanted the president to pause, to change her tone. He wanted her to start over, give it another try.

"However, since the plan is still in its initial stages, and since we are not convinced the geographical location of the museumis it a museum?is essential to its success, the University of Alberta, in concert with the City of Edmonton, has decided not to grant cultural status to the property on 10 Garneau."

Raymond had to get to the microphone, deliver a counterargument. Without excusing himself he started out from the seats, crashing into his neighbours' legs and stepping on their feet. Raymond careened out from the audience while the president continued.

"For several years, the university has been planning to build its own museum. And, as you all know, we received a generous donation of ancient and exotic textiles from Asia this spring. Therefore, we extend a hand to the Garneau Block Foundation even as we move forward in our plans to build a centre for veterinary research on the land. We..."

Raymond tripped on the small pile of black cords handling the public address system. In the process of falling, he didn't just tackle the president of the University of Alberta, he also knocked the podium to the floor with his forehead, which sent a piercing squeal through the room. On top of the president, who writhed and shrieked on the floor of the Faculty Club, Raymond couldn't recall what he had intended to say. His head hurt. It wasn't crucial, as the president didn't seem prepared to debate at the moment.

"Madman! Madman!"

Several men pulled him off the president and pinned him to the floor. As they did, Raymond found himself looking around for a madman. How did a madman get past the public affairs representative? And really, what is a madman? One woman's madman is another woman's husband or father.

The new black suit was in danger of sustaining a rip in the underarm, so Raymond stopped squirming. The president righted herself and throughout the room people exclaimed, moaned, laughed. The laughter sounded as though it belonged to Jonas Pond.

"Jonas," he said, "where are you?"

"We're with you, professor! You crazy son of a b.i.t.c.h!"

The president stood over Raymond and fixed her dress. She turned to one of her a.s.sistants. "Who is this Frankenstein's monster?"

Raymond clenched his teeth and closed his eyes.

83.

the doc.u.mentary Jonas found the balance between talking too little and talking too much, being too jokey and too serious, supergay and super-straight. He enunciated, but not so much that he sounded like Cary Grant.

In short, he was perfect.

"Where do you want us to go?" Madison stood in the middle of the Garneau Block. They were already rolling and she had already been warned not to address the camera directly. But that's exactly what Madison did, again.

So Jonas sighed, took her arm, and led the way. "In Edmonton, you can either live downtown or in Old Strathcona. A lot of people say downtown is the way to go but there just aren't quite enough restaurants yet. Oh, and by the way, why can't the university build its veterinary thing somewhere else? Huh? Like in Leduc."

"Um," said Madison.

The producer, a tall woman from Toronto in a tiny jean jacket and scarf that weren't nearly warm enough, asked the cameraman to stop rolling. Jonas had delivered several clever lines, and he worried they would be lost. "Focus, Maddy, focus."

"Just be natural, you guys," said the producer. "Please, no speeches. Just talk to each other, not to the camera, the way you normally would while strolling through your neighbourhood. Pretend we aren't here."

"I'm not good at pretending." Madison pointed at Jonas. "And he isn't being himself."

"There is no self in acting."

The producer drooped slightly. "Remember, this isn't acting."

"Sweetheart, everything is acting."

"So act like you're not acting. Act like you're Jonas, the guy who's getting kicked out of his neighbourhood. The guy who needs to find a new apartment."

Jonas engaged in some mouth exercises, as it was around zero and his lips could freeze up at any time. Drooling on The National was not ideal. "Map of Indonesia. Look, looters. In Paris, people portent pantaloons." He shadow-boxed for a few seconds. "All right, I'm ready."

"Action," said the producer.

Jonas led Madison toward the eastern edge of the block. "You have to be a few blocks north of Whyte, or the kids'll get drunk on the weekends and throw up on your peonies."

Madison smiled and shook her head. "I'm not so worried about that."

"I am, because stupid people irk me."

"Jonas."

"All right, compromising irks me. The Garneau Block is perfect, which is why all this is so tragic. You're close to the university, close to Whyte, close to downtown, yet far from vomit."

"That isn't true, Jonas. In September, at the frat houses? When it's hot out, all you can smell is puke."

"Either way, I don't want to move away."

Madison paused and looked around. "It won't be home."

"Home, which is something we have for another..." Jonas looked at his watch. "Twenty-nine days."

"They said we could take an extra week in January, on account of the holidays."

Jonas broke the rule and addressed the camera. "If only every university were as compa.s.sionate as ours."

The producer allowed a moment to pa.s.s and clapped her hands. "Now, please, if you guys could just back up to the corner again and do the same walk."

"You said you wanted natural," said Madison.

"No talking this time. We just want to shoot you from behind. Then you're done."

The cameraman set up and Jonas and Madison walked, gesturing with their hands while they imitated themselves talking. After two takes, the producer released them and walked deeper into Garneau to find B-roll.

Alone with Madison, Jonas had trouble easing out of character. In front of 10 Garneau, he remembered what he had meant to ask her. "Why does David want to take me out for a drink?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe he's confused after that hug in Manulife Place when we were drunk."

"My dad's not really the confused type."

Jonas had to agree. David Weiss seemed rather staunch about his heteros.e.xuality. "I've been taking St. John's Wort, for the career-related depression. So far it hasn't done sweet jack nuts. There's an ad in the paper every day for call centre jobs, with benefits and holidays, and I dream about the ad. The ad is an emotional prison."

"Emotional prison."

"You're getting fat, hey?"

"I can't fit into anything. My top b.u.t.ton is always undone." Madison looked down. "Maybe it's the hormones, but I really, really don't want to move. Where's my baby supposed to"

"Can you not? The St. John's Wort hasn't really kicked in."

Rajinder Chana came out his front door, wearing an old brown business suit and work gloves. He waved and addressed himself to a pile of sunflower carca.s.ses. Madison began to veer home so Jonas took her hand and dragged her toward 13 Garneau.

"h.e.l.lo, Indian neighbour!"

Rajinder turned and smiled. "h.e.l.lo. You two."

Madison had stopped squirming so Jonas released her. "d.a.m.n. That is a fine outfit, Raj."

"I understand it is ridiculous." Rajinder looked down at himself. The brown suit seemed two sizes too big. "It was my father's favourite and I could not throw it away. So it is my work suit."

"And the shirt and tie?"

Rajinder pulled at his blue silk tie and concentrated on it for a few moments.

An airplane pa.s.sed overhead, and all three of them looked up to watch it pa.s.s. Jonas wanted to be on it, wherever it was going. When Rajinder stopped looking at the sky, his eyes went directly to Madison's swollen belly. Her swallow was audible.

"I am tired of this." Rajinder pulled his gloves off and dropped his shovel. "I waited too long and now the ground is frozen. It was only a cure for boredom. Can I invite you in for a piece of wild blueberry pie? Last night I made the pie to cure insomnia. All these cures. It is not an abominable pie."

Before she could bolt, Jonas took a handful of Madison's jacket. "We'd be delighted," he said.

84.

surrounded by bizet Rajinder Chana's wild blueberry pie was better than not abominable, but not much better. A couple of the blueberries were still frozen, most were sour, and the crust was chewy. If Rajinder asked for her opinion, Madison vowed to be honest. But she doubted she would get the chance to speak.

Jonas was running his mouth about the university, same-s.e.x marriage, the PC leadership race, Raymond Terletsky's a.s.sault charge, the overall smelliness of live buffalo, the healing powers of a nice gla.s.s of Scotch, and the inevitability of his career as a phone solicitor.

This went on for some time, and Jonas seemed prepared to talk all day long. He allowed comments but Madison didn't feel inspired or provoked by anything Jonas said. In Rajinder's house, in the earthy smell of Rajinder's house, all she really wanted to do was throw a couple of pillows around and bawl.

Rajinder didn't seem to have much to say either. Every few minutes, he would offer more Scotch for Jonas and more chamomile tea for Madison. The Garneau Block, once his chief pa.s.sion, seemed lost to him. When Jonas asked about Jeanne Perlitz, how she took the news of the university's plan, Rajinder just shrugged.

"My mouth is getting dry, you a.s.sholes," Jonas said, finally, after a monologue about melting polar ice caps. "Please. Please say something."

"Global warming is a concern of mine as well." Rajinder looked into his tea.

Madison nodded. "Eco...systems."

"Oh Jesus, you two." Jonas approached the stereo. He inspected a Bizet jewel case, opened the slot, and put the disk inside. The music began far too loudly, so Jonas turned it down. "If you don't stop this I'm going to urinate on the coffee table."

"Oh," said Rajinder.

Madison wanted to clang both men over the head with the stone Krishna and Radha statue. Yes, she wanted to be with Rajinder. Of course she did. But not if he was the sort of man who threw temper tantrums simply because, for example, he discovered his girlfriend had been impregnated by a smelly Quebecois hiker. Then again, in the past couple of weeks Madison had wondered whether it was Rajinder's reaction or her own shame that had kept her from answering the door when he arrived with flowers. Like him, she wished they could enjoy a traditional courtship, without a remnant of the past growing inside her. But her shame had diminished. Madison no longer wished the baby would go away. The little thing was all hers now. Jean-something became more and more remote every day. If Rajinder couldn't accept it, she didn't want him.

But she did want him.

Madison understood she was being stubborn, immature, and self-destructive. Yet there was comfort in allowing herself to be the cloistered victim.

Surrounded by the earthy smell and Georges Bizet, she decided not to clang anyone over the head with a statue.

"Can you leave us alone please?" said Madison.

Jonas pointed to himself and Rajinder. "Me or him?"

"You, Jonas."

"I'm not done my Scotch. Why do I have to go? There aren't any secrets here."

"Please."

Rajinder nodded. "It would be simpatico."

"This is a rip-off. I didn't mean you had to have a talk right now. Wait until tomorrow, when I'm out looking for a call centre job or maybe something in used mattress sales. At the moment I'm really digging this Scotch."