FOUR
As Clara walked through Ogilvy’s she wasn’t sure what was worse, the stink of the wretched bum or the cloying smell of the perfumeries in the department store. After about the fifth time some slim young thing had sprayed her Clara had her answer. She was offending even herself.
‘It’s about fuckin’ time.’ Ruth Zardo limped over to Clara. ‘You look like a bag lady.’ She gave and received a kiss on each cheek. ‘And you stink.’
‘It’s not me, it’s Myrna,’ Clara whispered and nodded to her friend nearby, waving her hand under her nose. It was actually a warmer reception than she generally got from the poet.
‘Here, buy that.’ Ruth handed her a copy of her new book, I’m FINE. ‘I’ll even sign it for you. But you have to buy it first.’
Tall and dignified, leaning on her cane for support, Ruth Zardo limped back to her small desk in a corner of the huge store, to wait for someone to ask her to sign her book.
Clara went off and paid for the book then had it signed. She recognized everyone in the room. There were Gabri Dubeau and his partner Olivier Brulé. Gabri large and soft and clearly going to pot and loving every mouthful of it. He was in his mid-thirties and had decided he’d had enough of being young and buff and gay. Well, not really enough of being gay. Beside him stood Olivier, handsome and slim and elegant. Blond to his partner’s dark, he was picking a distressing strand of hair from his silk turtleneck, clearly wishing he could stick it back in.
Ruth needn’t have bothered coming all the way to Montreal for the launch. The only people who showed up were from Three Pines.
‘This’s a waste of time,’ she said, her short-cropped white head bending over Clara’s book. ‘No one from Montreal came, not a goddamned person. Just you lot. What a bore.’
‘Well, thank you very much, you old hack,’ said Gabri, holding a couple of books in his large hands.
‘Great.’ Ruth looked up. ‘This is a bookstore,’ she said, very slowly and loudly. ‘It’s for people who can read. It’s not a public bath.’
‘Too bad, really.’ Gabri looked at Clara.
‘It’s Myrna,’ she said, but since Myrna was across the way chatting with émilie Longpré her credibility was lost.
‘At least you drown out the stink of Ruth’s poetry,’ said Gabri, holding I’m FINE away from him.
‘Fag,’ snapped Ruth.
‘Hag,’ snapped Gabri, winking at Clara. ‘Salut, ma chère.’
‘Salut, mon amour. What’s that other book you have?’ Clara asked.
‘CC de Poitiers’s. Did you know our new neighbor’s written a book?’
‘God, that means she’s written more books than she’s read,’ said Ruth.
‘I got it over there.’ He pointed to a pile of white books in the remainder bin. Ruth snorted then stopped herself, realizing it was probably just a matter of days before her small collection of exquisitely crafted poems joined CC’s shit in that literary coffin.
A few people were standing there including the Three Graces from Three Pines: émilie Longpré, tiny and elegant in a slim skirt, shirt and silk scarf; Kaye Thompson, at over ninety years of age the oldest of the three friends, wizened and shriveled, smelling of Vapo-rub and looking like a potato; and Beatrice Mayer, her hair red and wild, her body soft and plump, and ill-concealed beneath a voluminous amber caftan with chunky jewelry about the neck. Mother Bea, as she was known, held a copy of CC’s book. She turned and glanced in Clara’s direction, only for a moment. But it was enough.
Mother Bea looked overtaken by some emotion Clara couldn’t quite identify. Fury? Fear? Extreme concern of some sort, that much Clara was sure of. And then it was gone, replaced by Mother’s peaceful, cheery face, all pink and wrinkled and open.
‘Come on, let’s go over.’ Ruth struggled to her feet and took Gabri’s offered arm. ‘There’s nothing much happening here. When the inevitable hordes arrive, desperate for great poetry, I’ll race back to the table.’
‘Bonjour, dear.’ Tiny émilie Longpré kissed Clara on both cheeks. In winter, when most Québecois looked like cartoon characters, wrapped in wool and parkas, Em managed to look both elegant and gracious. Her hair was dyed a tasteful light brown and was beautifully coiffed. Her clothes and make-up were subtle and appropriate. At eighty-two she was one of the matriarchs of the village.
‘Have you seen this?’ Olivier handed Clara a book. CC stared back, cruel and cold.
Be Calm.
Clara looked over at Mother. Now she understood why Mother Bea was in such a state.
‘Listen to this.’ Gabri started reading the back. ‘Ms de Poitiers has officially declared feng shui a thing of the past.’
‘Of course it is, it’s ancient Chinese teaching,’ said Kaye.
‘In its stead,’ Gabri persevered, ‘this new doyenne of design has brought us a much richer, much more meaningful philosophy which will inform and indeed color not just our homes but our very souls, our every moment, our every decision, our every breath. Make way for Li Bien, the way of light.’
‘What is Li Bien?’ Olivier asked no one in particular. Clara thought she saw Mother open her mouth, then shut it again.
‘Mother?’ she asked.
‘Me? No, dear, I don’t know. Why do you ask?’
‘I thought since you have a yoga and meditation center you might be familiar with Li Bien.’ Clara tried to put it gently.
‘I’m familiar with all spiritual paths,’ she said, exaggerating slightly, Clara thought. ‘But not this one.’ The implication was clear.
‘But still,’ said Gabri, ‘it’s a strange coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘What is?’ Mother asked, her voice and face serene, but her shoulders up round her ears.
‘Well, that CC should call her book Be Calm. That’s the name of your meditation center.’
There was silence.
‘What?’ said Gabri, knowing he’d somehow put his foot into it.
‘It must be a coincidence,’ said émilie, evenly. ‘And it’s probably a tribute to you, ma belle.’ She turned to Mother, laying a thin hand on her friend’s plump arm. ‘She’s been in the old Hadley place for about a year now; she’s no doubt been inspired by the work you do. It’s a homage to your spirit.’
‘And her pile of crap is probably higher than yours,’ Kaye reassured her. ‘That must be a comfort. I didn’t think it was possible,’ she said to Ruth, who looked at her hero with delight.
‘Nice hair.’ Olivier turned to Clara, hoping to break the tension.
‘Thank you.’ Clara ran her hands through it, making it stand on end as though she’d just had a scare.
‘You’re right.’ Olivier turned to Myrna. ‘She looks like a frightened doughboy from the trenches of Vimy. Not many people could carry off that look. Very bold, very new millennium. I salute you.’
Clara narrowed her eyes and glared at Myrna whose smile went from ear to ear.
‘Fuck the Pope,’ said Kaye.