Head Games, page 4
She pursed her lips in reply, picked up the wrapping Lisa had left on the upholstered bench in the hall and went into the kitchen to put the flowers into a vase. “Don’t forget to take off your shoes, Lisa,” she said. “I just had the carpets cleaned.”
Jorge put an arm around Lisa’s shoulders and steered her to the pristine living room.
“How’s life, chica?” he said with a conspiratorial grin and sat down in the recliner, keeping away from the freshly plumped sofa cushions. “Give your old father a kiss.”
Jorge was okay. Lisa just couldn’t think of him as her father.
They navigated the birthday dinner without running into any submerged icebergs. Lisa let Jorge do most of the talking. He handled her mother well, moved deftly between gallant and jocular, humoured her by eating voraciously. Maria took his show of appetite as an unspoken compliment to her cooking. She didn’t mind cooking dinner on her own birthday as long as everyone ate heartily.
After dinner they moved back into the living room. Jorge lit a Derby and took the ashtray with him, holding it under his cigarette to avoid any accidental dropping of ashes on the carpet. He told his ancient after-dinner jokes to please Maria. In a pas de deux of mutual good will, she gave him a tinkling laugh of appreciation.
“You know about the Thousand Dollar cure they’ve come up with – guaranteed to get rid of your homesickness?” he said. “This is what you do: you sell your car and your appliances and buy a plane ticket. You get to Argentina. There are no jobs. The inflation is in the double digits. The government is as corrupt as ever. You return to Canada and buy a new car and new appliances. You lose a thousand dollars in the transaction, but you are cured of homesickness.”
He laughed, hacking like a failing car engine.
“I don’t know why you are so down on the old country, George,” Lisa’s mother said, smiling delicately.
Lisa ducked into the bathroom. Safely out of her mother’s reach, she relaxed the smile muscles and exacted revenge for her unhappiness by dropping a sticky wad of chewing gum into the wicker basket. She tried a skit with her mother fighting off wads of gum sticking to her hands, webbing her fingers, but she didn’t have enough time to develop the theme, and the bathroom was too glossy. It made her thoughts slip off the wall and crash on the tiled floor.
When Lisa returned to the living room with a fresh layer of camouflage smile on her face, she saw that Jorge was taking his cafecito over to the sofa.
Her mother said nervously: “George, please, don’t. You’ll spill coffee on the upholstery.”
He looked at Lisa, and she gave him a secret smile. Her mother turned and caught her out. “Making fun of me?” she said. “You are just like your father.”
“Like me?” Jorge said, with an exaggerated question mark, as if he, too, was questioning his paternity.
“You are both mockers. You can take that mocking smile off your face, Lisa. It doesn’t look pretty, you know.”
Lisa tucked in her smile and exchanged it for a pout.
Jorge studied her face. “Now she looks just like you, Maria,” he said. “Like you on that photo I took of you at the beach, when you absolutely refused to smile.” He did a perfect imitation of Maria’s whine: “‘I don’t feel like smiling,’ you said, ‘and I’m not posing for the camera.’ Where is the album? Lisa, bring the carton with the photo albums.”
She knew they would get to that point sooner or later. Reminiscing about the old country was part of the ritual, a birthday present from Jorge to her mother, a special half hour of memories just for her, because Jorge wasn’t a nostalgic man. For him the best part of life was now.
Lisa brought the carton.
Jorge picked out a photo of Lisa’s mother in a onepiece bathing suit, blinking into the sun. “See?” he said. The large pores in his skin deepened and his little military moustache curved over his lips. “See? Same expression.”
Lisa looked through the pile of loose photos at the bottom of the box and pulled out a group photo: two tiers of solemn men standing on rising bleachers, and a sprinkle of women in their Sunday best, sitting on a row of chairs in front, a precise configuration, a ziggurat pattern. Above the top tier, a blue and white banner, tacked to the wall: Soriano Máquinas De Oficina. And, in a bracket of golden laurels, the anniversary date: 50 años. Fifty years of Soriano Office Equipment.
Jorge leaned over. “Haven’t seen that one in a while.” He pointed out a head in the front row: “That’s the boss,” he said to Lisa. “Soriano.”
Miguel Soriano’s face refused to come clear. He was stuck in the nebulous past of the group portrait, a tiny face, maddeningly unfocused but mysteriously illuminated in Lisa’s mind.
“He was a clever fellow, Soriano,” Jorge said. He pulled at his trouser leg. He had a habit of plucking at the crease of his right trouser leg, hitching it up and letting it go again. “Si, señor. Muy vivo.”
“What do you mean, vivo?” Maria said. A frown appeared on her forehead. “He had brains, if that’s what you mean.”
“He was an operator.”
There was a stand-off. Maria couldn’t give full rein to her admiration for Miguel Soriano in Jorge’s presence.
“I’m not sorry I quit that place,” he said. “There was no future for me in Soriano’s company. There was no future in Argentina. Period.”
Jorge always said the same thing, used exactly the same words when he talked about that time in his life. And now it was Lisa’s turn to say her lines. They each knew their part in the play, but today she couldn’t be bothered with the chronology, going through one thing after another. She took a shortcut, impatient to get to the part that needed clarification. “So you came here,” she said, speeding the narrative along. “And next thing, I am born.”
Jorge winked. “Good things come from fast weddings, eh-he, young lady?”
“George,” her mother said, “you are embarrassing Lisa.”
“Perdóneme,” he said. “I didn’t mean to embarrass anyone.” But there was a mischievous glint in his eye.
Lisa turned back to the group photo. The festive banner was a sign, beckoning her, pointing to something crucial. She bent forward and scrutinized the faces, one by one.
“Who is the kid in the front row?” she asked.
“That’s Hetta Soriano,” Jorge said. “And the woman beside her is Soriano’s wife, Paula. She was a crazy bitch. Before she caught her golden boy, she was one of the girls in the typing pool. Not especially good-looking, not in my book anyway, but she strutted her stuff every chance she got. Large hips, fat ass.” His hands moved in curves. “Well, everybody knew: she was crazy. They had to put her away. She’s in a sanatorium now, Higinio says.”
“Your cousin has the dirt on everyone,” Maria said. “He tells it like it is.”
“I don’t even want to read his letters,” Maria said.
“They are full of mean gossip. I never heard anything bad about the Sorianos when I worked for them. They were popular. ”
“Oh, sure. Especially him. He was popular with the ladies. Half the women in the typing pool were in love with him. He knew how to lay it on. He was flashing money at them. That always impresses the girls.”
Maria compressed her lips. She refused to be baited.
“He could afford to be generous with the ladies. He was filthy rich. Got rich on the backs of his workers, of course. Paid us minimum wage. But he didn’t live to enjoy his money. He packed it in when he was what? Fifty-five? Stroke. Or was it a heart attack?”
He dropped the news on Lisa just like that, without warning. Miguel Soriano was dead. No discreet leading up. No black-rimmed announcement. It was another case of misleading signs, like the certificates in Dr. Lerner’s office that left Lisa without counsel, like the red roses that left her without love. The golden laurels in the anniversary picture belied their promise. Miguel Soriano was dead. Lisa was lost in grief, and not allowed to show it. There were no condolences for the orphan.
“It was cancer,” her mother said. “Hetta came back from Buenos Aires to take care of her father during the last year of his life. She was a devoted daughter.” She looked in Lisa’s direction, and Lisa knew what that look meant: I wish you were like Hetta.
“A devoted daughter maybe,” Jorge said, “but what about her husband? She looks after her father in Catamarca. Great. Wonderful. Meanwhile her husband sits in Buenos Aires, in an empty house. So he finds himself another woman. Can you blame him? They should legalize divorce in Argentina, you know.”
“The church will never permit it,” Maria said primly.
It was too late for Lisa to go to Argentina and find Miguel Soriano, too late to ask him the crucial question and get – get what? His blessing? A biblical laying on of hands? No, just an answer to the question: “Who is my father?” Now there was only Hetta to ask, the angelic child, the last tenuous link to Miguel Soriano.
“I’d like to visit Catamarca someday,” Lisa said, pushing down the choking sob, the trembling, crampinducing sorrow.
“You really should go,” Jorge said. “I’ll write to my cousin. Higinio will show you around Catamarca. Introduce you to the family.”
No, Lisa wanted to meet the other side of the family. Hetta. She turned away from the photo, avoiding the child in the first row. She was afraid of giving away her itinerary by looking at Hetta.
“But it’s an expensive trip,” she said.
“If you want to go, Lisa, we’ll chip in,” Jorge said.
“How are the sessions with Dr. Lerner going?” Maria said. She meant: We are already paying for your therapy, and now you talk about a trip to Argentina.
Lisa wanted to say: But I didn’t ask you to pay for my therapy, mother. It was your idea. You made the arrangements. You said I needed professional help, that there was something wrong with me, something I needed to get out of my system. You meant: Let’s sweep out your mind, Lisa, I want it suburban clean like this house.
“The sessions are going okay,” she said. “Maybe I won’t need them much longer.” She didn’t want to get into an argument for which she had no come-back.
“A holiday in Argentina will do more for you than the sessions with the shrink,” Jorge said. “They are a waste of time and money, if you ask me.”
The anniversary photo was lying on the table. Lisa secretly put her finger on Soriano’s face, bonding with the laminated surface of his skin. Afterwards when no one was watching, she held her hand up to the reading lamp and let the light play on the tip of her index finger to see whether Soriano’s face had entered the grooves and taken hold, whether they were one in the flesh. She thought of Santos’ offer to do a séance with her. It was the only way now to talk to Miguel Soriano, through the Saint.
She got up. “I have to go,” she said.
“Already?” her mother said.
“I have to prepare things for tomorrow,” she said. She could feel the Saint rising up inside her, like a gathering storm, blowing away all doubts. He will enter you. He will look through your eyes.
IT STARTED WITH A SELF-CORRECTING shuffle, Jim thought, a conga line to escape the flatness of his life. That was the lead-in. Then came the buildup, Lisa’s mewling kitten act. Then her apartment, like a Dixie whorehouse, dirty and exciting at the same time. He wanted to explore the dark corners, open drawers, and get into Lisa’s secret places even though he was afraid of what he might find there – a fantasy life too rich for him, a cure for his ennui too strong to stomach. There was a moment when he hesitated, when he could have escaped and gone back to his straight and narrow life, but he lost his way in the chaos of Lisa’s bedroom and couldn’t find the exit. He stayed and played Lisa’s game of make-belief. It was a mistake to get so close, to let her enter his bloodstream. It could take a lifetime to oust her, to filter her out of his system. The thought of Lisa’s witchy black hair set a vein pulsing in his neck. The solution, he thought, was turning Lisa into a project. He could do anything with a project, shape it, handle it, turn it around, terminate it. He was an expert on project management. Let’s define the scope: a make-over for Lisa. She wasn’t a woman one could bring to a company dinner or brag about to friends. The light in her eyes was too crazy, her laughter had an airborne suggestiveness, her stories were too offbeat. Let’s say the project was to shift Lisa from crazy to eccentric. With a few modifications she could be charming. All he had to do was develop a blueprint for a New Lisa and hire a crew to engineer the transformation. Or subcontract the job. To Don, for example, a man with proven skills in the makeover field. Don had transformed himself from contract man to real estate agent and converted a run-down house into an investor’s dream. And he was willing to take on the job. He had said as much. So why not hand the project over to Don, or rather hand it back to him? The whole Rescue-Lisa mission was really Don’s idea.
On Friday, Jim sloughed off invitations from colleagues at head office. He wanted to spend his last evening with Don and Lisa at the hotel, away from the Parrot, their smoky, down-at-heel home turf. The Park Plaza provided the right ambience to play genial host, show that he wasn’t abandoning Lisa, that he had a therapeutic plan for her. He was putting her into good hands, and there was no reason why they couldn’t remain friends.
Don said yes, he’d join Jim for dinner, but at the last moment he cancelled. He got an offer on a house, he said. He needed to shuffle back and forth between buyer and seller to clinch the deal. It could take all night. “That’s the problem with being in real estate,” he said. “You can’t have a social life.” Jim thought he detected an undercurrent of relief, as if Don was glad to escape the invitation, as if he had decided that their friendship had run its course, that they had exhausted all conversation topics. Everything that could be said had been said.
Lisa was apologetic. She couldn’t make it for dinner. It was her mother’s birthday. “She’ll make a fuss if I don’t stay for dinner,” she said. “I’ll join you for drinks afterwards, okay?”
So now Jim was stuck with Lisa, after-dinner, on her own. He consoled himself with the thought that she had made no cooing noises over the phone, had not even mentioned the night at her apartment. Perhaps he needn’t worry about getting her out of his system. Perhaps Lisa had already demoted their affair to the level of just-friendship.
He had a moody dinner by himself, trying to figure out why he was in a funk. Was he in love with Lisa and not wanting to be in love with Lisa? Or was it the other way round? Was he upset because she had been cool on the phone, as if she didn’t care for his company, as if he wasn’t hot enough, didn’t turn her on? That was probably it. Lisa had no time for his type, the uninspiring management type with an officeslackened physique, with a white smile and mousy brown hair – the hue peculiar to the once-blond. Jim’s thoughts ran to seed after that. The Lisa-project was getting away from him.
He was left eating dinner with his morose self, eating too fast. He always ate too fast when he was on his own and had no conversation to slow down the chewing.
By nine, he felt like a zoo animal kept in lifelong confinement. Where was Lisa? What was he waiting for? He was wasting a perfect summer evening in a perfect romantic setting, the rooftop terrace of the Park Plaza. He looked at the stone balustrade surrounding the terrace, and thought bleakly: it’s meant to keep suicidal people from jumping into the Bloor Street traffic below.
Nine-fifteen: no Lisa. He began to relax, hoping she wouldn’t show. He would be off the hook. He could go and have a nightcap in the bar downstairs. Not a bad ending, he thought – when she arrived, wearing a faux-leather mini dress that jarred with the elegant surroundings of the terrace, the white tablecloths and the tuxedoed waiters.
“I can’t stay, Jim,” she said as soon as she was seated. She looked windblown, breathless, jumpy.
“What’s the hurry?” he said, annoyed that she was jerking him around like that.
“I’m going to a séance with Santos. We need to do it tonight. Something about the moon phase and the fact that it’s my mother’s birthday.”
When he didn’t answer, she gave him a faint smile and said: “I was hoping you’d come along.” Her eyes were wide, childlike. She had the jitters. She wanted to lay her head on someone’s shoulder.
“Somebody has to protect you from yourself, Lisa,” Jim said. “But I’m not the right man for the job.”
Her expression changed, from nervous to helpless. “Please, Jim,” she said. Her voice was a sugar-spun plea. “I’m scared to go on my own.” She looked at him with moist Bambi eyes. Jim was afraid she’d start crying. To stop her he said: “Okay, I’ll come along.”
The Lisa-project was going badly. He was no longer in charge.
THEY MOVED FROM THE INCESSANT traffic of Bloor Street to the silence of Balmuto, where their footfall was audible. The block started out respectable with a small office building and a boutique, but after that it became seedy. The store fronts had a collective air of failure. They passed an unlit alley with discarded pieces of furniture looking like the flats of a forgotten stage production.
“That’s the place,” Lisa said and pointed at a shop window. “Botanica” was painted on the glass pane in a wavy line of red letters bordered by swirling leaves, a jungle suggesting hot stuff. The purple frame of the window was peeling. An old chocolate brown layer showed through the cracks.
Jim saw Santos in the neon-lit interior of the shop. His coarse black hair was dishevelled. He was sitting behind the counter, moving his shoulders to the sound of an inaudible beat, casting a brooding shadow like an apparition in a chaotic dream. He was looking out at Lisa and Jim, keeping them in his peripheral vision as they moved past the window and entered the shop.
“You bring him?” he said to Lisa in lieu of a greeting and without missing a beat of the music playing in his head.
She nodded. “I asked Jim to come along,” she said. Her voice was thin with tension.
Santos looked at Jim darkly, considering the possibilities of reeling him in and landing him on the taboo coast. “I don’t know,” he said. “He don’t believe in the Saint.”
