Grand Menteur Read online

  I picked up a photograph of my father from the Roundman’s cache, and held it out to where the painting was, matching the edges. It wavered in my fingers and Serge’s spectral figure touched down on the floor like a flicked-off eiderdown during a fit of nightmares, so effortlessly did he take to his corporeality. He was bedecked in Devoré velvet cut into a tailored suit, his collar button undone to let the air in, or the heat out, and he ordered a peach pie at the bar. No one seemed to take mind of him as he twirled the hair poking out from under his hat. His eyes had the calloused texture of caked mud. “Shagalagalu” was piping in hot through the jerry-rigged speakers attached to the jukebox. I placed the photograph between the conversationalists and Serge’s statuesque body seemed almost to put his arm around the Roundman and Green, who were now eating their slices of pie heartily. Serge appeared as if he were nodding in appreciation at what each man was saying, tsk-tsking at other particulars. He brought the hands of the two men together in a ritual of assent. His skin had the texture of a lenticular Jesus.

  During the middle-eight coming out of the speakers, d’Arsel’s portrait began to hum with tremulous activity, like his unrepresented hips were swaying in tempo in some nether dimension. I picked up another photograph and matched it with this painting, which began to sway more energetically, cutting a pendulous arc against the wall like a peephole cover with a screw loose. The painting was carving grooves against the wall as I moved the photograph further away from me, digging through the brickwork and making noises of a burrowing animal, until the picture frames’ edges were ringed with a holy light from an outside world. The painting became a hatch door, the luminosity filtering inside until Malbar stepped through and took his place on the floor, kneeling down with his left arm stretched out against the floor. Did he have a tummy ache or something?

  “Shoo! Shoo!” Marjorie commanded at the man who tumbled into the bar. “I told you last time, Manwell, you’re not welcome here until you pick up your tab! Don’t you dare make sick in here!”

  My father ambled up in my left hand to where Malbar was resting in my right, and declared, “Smacked on your axis!” At which point Malbar stood to attention as if that’s all it took to cure what ailed him, and the two began to cut a rug amid all the private business that needed attending at the bar, not a soul really noticing the fetching display of Manichean capers taking place along the patterns of the terrazzo floor at the tips of my outstretched hands. Feet were stomping, pirouetting nervously; arms were disentangling themselves from invisible bonds, cast off with oafish ceremony. The whole scene was only wanting the hand of God to emerge from the ceiling for the burlesque to be complete. Marjorie escorted the dancing man out of the bar with a broom in her hand. Cherelle snatched the two photographs out of my hands, waving her hands in front of my face.

  “Marjorie,” Sylvan said. “We’ll have some of your recovered pricked wine, if you’re done a-waltzing.”

  Er, bring on the muck-sweat then. This Lazarus trick was done by combining half an ounce of tartarized spirit of wine with the pricked plonk, and then setting it aside for a few days to improve its balance. I’d forgotten to do this when I was asked a few nights before, and Cherelle and I were now faced with an eyesore of a dilemma. I was having trouble concentrating, but still somehow found an opened bottle of port to combine with the pricked bottle as steadily as I could. I decanted the harmonized contents carefully. By the grace of a higher power, I remembered that the sour bottle in question was from the South of France, known for its unpolished tannins. I added a dash of granulated salt to be on the safe side, to bring some coarseness to its texture, hoping no one would spot the difference.

  “It’s a tad on the buttery side, Green,” I said, making a point not to drool. “But it will go down all the better for it.”

  The Green and the Roundman took their glasses and returned to the other end of the bar to resume their conference of equal parts worry and excitement. They discussed Sergent mostly, while I tried to stay standing, given how terrible I was starting to feel. The Roundman beamed at being taken into Green’s confidence, whereas Green seemed relieved that Michel wasn’t the obstreperous bastard he could have been when he was holding so much over the gang’s heads in his portfolio, notwithstanding Darlo’s threatening presence during the meeting. This wasn’t the Green’s area of expertise, after all, but it was technically an accounting issue of missing paraphernalia, so it fell to him anyways. I was reminded of old days as they glossed over events in the Soustyricon on specific dates for what felt like an eternity: specifically, the theft of the Derwish’s 1962 red Wandre Tri-Lam, on which he had penned the 1969 Sous classic “Dire moi ene coup (ki qualite couillion sa).” The tune had charted better than anyone expected and only two spots behind my father’s celebrated torch song “Ti Zom” on the Sous Hit Parade, a monthly tabulation of singles shifted through their own distribution system, Sousse Pouce Records:

  1 (3) ROTIN BAZAR ............................................................ Inaam Haq

  2 (2) OLD FAITHFUL ........................................................... Doctor of Old School

  3 (-) CHAMAREL ................................................................. Stegosaur Gang

  4 (1) TI ZOM ....................................................................... Grand Menteur

  5 (4) CAPAVE CROIRE MO CODEX ..................................... Blue Star

  6 (5) DIRE MOI ENE COUP (KI QUALITE COUILLION SA) .. Black Derwish

  7 (7) MO POU ALLE GRIS GRIS .......................................... Silver Tent Gang

  8 (6) PISTACHE POURRI ...................................................... Sintok

  9 (11) TI MOMENT ................................................................ Ti Pete

  10 (9) GROS BOUDOUF, GROS BOYO .................................. Gros Boudouf

  11 (10) BOUSSE TO LIKI ....................................................... Aux Contraires

  12 (15) SATURDAY NIGHT SYPHILIS .................................... The Batchwhips

  13 (-) GUELARD ..................................................................... The Tollivers

  14 (20) MOUSSE TO NEZNEZ ................................................ Pourri & the Potpans

  15 (12) CARAILLE CHAUD ..................................................... Teen Torpor

  16 (17) PERSONALIZE ........................................................... Personality

  17 (13) SOUS MEETING MINUTES FALL 1965 ...................... Sous Gang

  18 (14) BOURIQUE ................................................................ Crosscuss Gang

  19 (-) NEE PU MANZER .......................................................... Outworlder

  20 (16) DEBARDERE LOR LA RADE ....................................... Back Rubble

  21 (9) SAVATE MARIPOSA ..................................................... Soutireuse

  22 (18) GABLOO GALOUPE DERRIERE MOI .......................... Alain Renaux

  23 (-) MARCHAND SALETE ................................................... Addy Streeter

  25 (23) CARO CANNE BRILEE ............................................... Simone de Aurevoir

  Darlo noticed that I was glued to the documents scattered along the bar, trying to read them from upside down. He placed his hand at the centre of the hit parade so that his palm was hovering a few inches over the clipping, then rotated it that I could see better. He gave me a silent nod of approval, as he pointed to chart position seventeen with a tapping finger. As I was reading through these details of Serge’s life, of which I previously knew nothing, the Roundman caught on to my immersion. I was scanning over announcements alerting changes in secret handshakes, giving fair warning against narcs who were using outdated variations of finger curling; agony aunt columns written to Pourri in which he dished out unhelpful advice concerning where to best conceal contraband; and a weekly list of the best crimes perpetrated per season, graded along categories of their bouquet, b
ody, balance, and finish.

  “Mind yourself,” the Roundman said harshly, slamming his fist over the documents. “Ca c ene discussion bien confidentiel. Or don’t you know the difference?”

  “There’s something off about these song titles,” I muttered half to myself.

  “Yes, and you would know. Your English has come along considerably since we started.”

  “No, this is the first I’ve ever heard anything about them.”

  “Then shut your trap.”

  Darlo and Green exchanged a knowing look between themselves, but made no effort to come to my defence otherwise.

  “Where’s the washroom?” the Roundman asked, zipping his head around like a vulture.

  “It’s members only,” Marjorie said looking sensitively at me. “You’ll have to take it outside . . . somewhere inconvenient. Like behind a tree.”

  The Roundman stepped out grumpily, collecting his portfolio in his teeth again, and making loud bumps on the floor with his sticks. Darlo ordered another drink, while the Green lit a cigarette.

  “You know your father don’t want you here, ‘Roundelay,’” the Green said. “He wanted you to find work outside of the Sous. He was adamant.”

  “I know that,” I said. “But he’s long gone and not here to tell me that to my face.”

  “He has his reasons for not wanting you here. He wants something better for you and knows the Derwish is not going to give you up so easily.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Cherelle can’t handle the rough stuff like you. You’re hairy at the heel. His words, not mine.”

  “You’re some messenger.”

  “Yes, but don’t you like a challenge? There is a certain charm to this tucked-away little dive . . .”

  It had taken time, but I had finally managed to escape the grip of fascination with these villainous dunderheads. My time at the Kadadac had spared me from any interaction with the Sous, but now they came back into my life with a roaring, soaring vengeance, spurred on by their need to meet the Roundman on neutral territory. The Green stirred some baseborn sentiment within me, molded it into a solicitude I was wont to dole out in meaty proportions. I had listened to the Roundman as he bestowed on my father the dignity demanded of a diplomat; Serge became a veritable Man of the Moment delegate accompanied with an ontological whisper of the cosmos, which touched on my own incipient affinities in an odd way. I couldn’t help but feel pity for this pathetic todger though, who lapped up everything the Sous had lied through their teeth to make into reality, while also at the same time appreciating its erstwhile effects on myself. Sergent this, Sergent that – the Roundman sounded more like his old woman than the president of his fan club.

  The interloper returned in much the same fashion as when he first entered the bar, drawing us into the catastrophe of his movements with no better understanding if he had been able to relieve himself. This time he sauntered in with only a single walking stick. If anyone else noticed, they said nothing. The Roundman unlatched his portfolio open again, but made sure to use his arms to obscure my view of the documents, forming a ring around the edges of his papers, his middle and ring fingers of both hands clasping tightly, but leaving an opening for the Green to see if he did not slouch.

  “Hey, Roundman,” I called, picking up on Darlo’s cue. “Your song titles are a bust. There were no Sous minutes in the fall of 1965. Out of respect. Death in the family.”

  “What? I have no idea what you’re talking about. I haven’t even seen that clipping in detail,” the Roundman countered.

  “Which one is it?” Marjorie put it to him.

  “It’s a clipping. I didn’t make the clipping, or what was put on there. I just have the clipping. Ask the clipping, don’t ask me.”

  The Green made a whistling sound through his nostrils that sounded like a pneumatic dentist’s drill. Darlo stood up and produced a garotte made of a miniaturized volute spring he’d pinched from a garage somewhere. The garotte was quietly placed on the bar over all the artifacts laid on the table.

  “Do you know what that is?” the Green asked. “Use your imagination.”

  The Roundman could not think of anything to say except for this hollow-sounding gargling. He had become a gargarism, if you will.

  “Speak up.”

  Marjorie picked up a butcher’s cleaver. I found in my hand a corkscrew that I had shakily made a fist around. The Green pulled out the same notebook he had fiddled with earlier and leafed through the pages. He flexed the spine of the book repeatedly, and placed it flat in front of the Roundman.

  “I want you to think about how you answer this next question very carefully. Why does it say we released a cut of our minutes in the fall of ’65 if there were no minutes to be taken at a meeting that never happened officially? How would you know about that? Is the clipping a fabrication meant to draw us out? What’s your affiliation? Because normally, we’d just have the Derwish’s daughter over there slip you a few sugarlumps before dropping you off for a nighttime stroll by the McQuesten Bridge. We wouldn’t even bother with asking.”

  I cut Cherelle a contaminated look of a double-cross at the mention of her drink-lacing on command.

  The Roundman shuddered to look at me. His mouth overproduced saliva, bubbling out over his lips, impeding his ability to speak. He placed a soiled hanky over his mouth to dry its fetid corners.

  “L-listen Green, the Derwish’s daughter. I have no idea, none at all. You produced the hit list, maybe someone within your r-ranks would know more. What do you want from me to believe me? What do I have to do?”

  The Roundman became agitated and inexplicably began removing his clothes. He started by unfastening his tie, then unbuttoning his collar. He tore at his belt and threw it at the back of the bar, where it knocked a few glasses over. He kicked off his pants, which got caught on one of his ankles. Somehow, defying the very basic laws of physics, he then went on to remove his underwear without moving from his stationary position atop one of the barstools. Imaginary children went home weeping at the sight. I gagged uncontrollably. Then I began to laugh hysterically. I could not contain myself. Looking at this naked man prostrate himself in a desperate gamble for his life was suddenly much too much, much too much for me to handle.

  “My goodness, you’re eager,” the Green joked. “Eager as a dormouse. Ha ha ha ha! Which is a good thing. You present a unique opportunity to us, believe me? Your knowledge of rulings of exemption for one. Does it extend to those of this country? I should hope it does.”

  “Let’s welcome the next contestant on ‘Die for Nothing!’” I hollered.

  “Hush you!” Darlo exclaimed. He was huddled over some papers scratching away and just barely took his eyes off his work to address me.

  The Roundman began to weep into his hands, sobbing and sniffing like a whipped poodle.

  “We mean to do well by your wits,” Green continued. “Good, you understand me. Smashing, in fact. A little bird told us that some religions are free to renovate properties with little to no interference in this country, taxation being minimal in other respects as well. We’ll start there. That’s what we have an eye towards. We’ll need a solicitor for that. We want to expand our operations, starting with the Kadadac. Make a hostel for weary travellers, a stop along the way. In exchange for your services, you can meet the Menteur himself. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? He’ll do birthday parties, you know. Now then, Michel, doesn’t that sound nice? What do you say?”

  “Wwaaaaah,” the Roundman assented.

  “I’m so pleased we’ve come to an agreement!” the Green said, clasping his hands demonstratively. “You must have some ideas about how to build this on up yourself. We have our own as well. Here are some stories we’d like to build this new venture around, a hagiography of the Sous. And look, with matching lobby cards! Can you see our names in lights? We can.”

  “Whatever you want, whatever you . . . Just for the love of God, and merciful Jesus, let me leave in one piec
e. Please, I don’t know what you think I’ve done . . . or will do. But I will work to your guiding hand, this much I can promise.” The Roundman tightened a grip around the Green’s wrist. The Green gave a brief yelp and pulled his hand away.

  “A whelp-hunting we will go, a whelp-hunting we will go,” I sung to myself.

  “Here, Michel,” Darlo interposed, putting away his pen in his breast pocket. “Tell me what you think of this mock-up. Nothing set in stone.”

  Darlo handed out the lobby cards he’d hastily designed. The Roundman wept bitter tears over the caricatures of his “heroes.”

  It was a spectacle to see the Green and Darlo go to work. They were an efficient pair, a marvel to watch rain violence from the clouds as if it was a passing system moving through a jerkwater town. Green began a rain dance with one leg in the air to distract the Roundman’s attention, while Darlo knocked the gawping fool a firebolt on his chin while he was still half-engrossed with the documents before him. Mr. Records didn’t see it coming. He toppled over his stool on to the ground, taking a few drinks and his walker down with him. I leaned over the bar to see if he had broken anything. He stared dumbfoundedly into the ceiling. I threw some limes onto his forehead to see if he was conscious. He picked himself up off the ground and struggled to regain his footing, resting his arm on a low-backed stool.

  “Go on, you can squeeze in a left hook if you’re quick.” Darlo looked to me imploringly.

  “Go on,” the Green said. “It’s tradition around these parts.”

  I raised my fist in the air over my head and the Roundman’s enfeebled eyes stared at me over the edge of the bar, the rest of his face obscured behind it. I let my fist drop at my side.

  “He’s already assented. No need to belabour it.”

  Marjorie helped the man up, putting some ice on a napkin for him. Staunching a trickle of blood from his nose with his index finger held horizontally beneath it, he looked at the Green with an abject look of retrenchment.