Combat Journal for Place d'Armes. Scott Symons

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СКАЧАТЬ go better with Coca-Cola …” — no good! I’d better do the Christian Soldiers. “Onwaaard Chrissstyenn Sooo-olldyerse …” Ok — enuff. The main truth is out now — I’ve got to pay homage, or I’m done. Real homage — call it “hommage” — fealty to my Liege Man. So be it. But who will bless my God-damned soul?

      Clock tolls 2 a.m. I feel immense relief now. An immense cleansing.

      Surely that can’t be right — “cleansing”? … my dear Hugh, you are out of your mind! …

      Yes, but I’m back in my skin — I’ve jumped back into my skin … back into my wits….

      So it is a cleansing. That is it … exactly what I do feel. Even more precisely — a purification: now explain that one — no I don’t want to — I’d only explain it away. And then I could write a little essay about it — a tract for the times.

      Purification — and the need, the intense need now to live again; all because of that accomplished deconstipation … that’s it — a deconstipation — blew twenty years of shit out of me … opened me up again — tore the veil aside … and left me whole again, made me whole … holy: has made a man out of me again.

      But you’ve just slept with two teenage male prostitutes! You are beneath contempt, defiled … a lifetime of honourable chastity sold for tripe….

      No no no — that is not so — and my whole body shines now in the face of my mobilized accusation. What is it then? Have I simply accepted Hell — simply (good Protestant) reassured myself of it … my holy life-insurance? And is this apparent defilement now the prerequisite of Heaven?

      And the Place d’Armes … I ran from it … just as I was about to see it again, with ferocious clarity — see it as it has always been, latent in me … Why did I run — just as I was about to repossess it? Why?

      Idiot — because it looked you in the eye the way Yvon looked you in the eye. It wanted you … and had you returned its gaze you would have been dismantled again. La Place is a voyeur … it hunts you as you it.

      But I couldn’t give me again. Not to La Place. Not that way.

      Then you will never see….

      As I turn to bed I see IT — that map — that goddam tourist map … the fatal flaw … the moment of lack of faith, when I looked at it, instead of the reality, instead of the Object itself. Throw it out. Throw it out! Too late. Pick it up … and those abject postcards I wanton bought — I see it now — as substitutes, as mediators between me, and the Object Incarnate. Notre Dame Church, the old Bonsecours Market, La Place Ville Marie, Nelson’s Monument, the Bank of Montreal…. Throw them out! No — insert them into Combat Journal. They are part of the Evidence … for and against. Ah — traitors! You betrayed me….You led me down the garden path — to smash, against Eden Rock. Well — you can stay now, to stand trial. Stick you in with the rest … over my marbleized face.

      Asleep. It is 3 a.m. Preparing me again for my novel. I lunch with Luc Raymond tomorrow which is today. I will begin, right after Luc. These first days simply a false start. Completely wrong — the very opposite of what I wanted. Must eliminate them from the Novel.

DAY THREE

      COMBAT JOURNAL

      … slowly awake to the clangour of my body … I’m a brass band conducted by … by the Little Square below my window … my entire body is trumpet and thrum and fife and flute…. blares me. Now I recognize that it is the Petite Place that is the band, and I the conductor … my body the conductor. Or is my body being conducted? Listen with care — no, my first response was right: I am the band, and the square conducts me. My cock tells me that…. I waken more — am properly awake, because I hear with ears as well as cock … sounds funnels direct in instead of steeping me.

      Sit up … into the decisive sense of physical accretion — I’ve grown a cubit. My whole being distended. Savour this increment. A sudden coming of age. My God — of course — Yvon! No wonder my body is back now. My whole being shimmers. I want to sing again … my gut is a mouth organ. Nature calls — honour it … and am sudden bereft of my extension.

      At 1 p.m. still expecting Luc at the hotel for our noon engagement … curse his lateness. I could have sortied out to La Grande Place — La Place d’Armes — am ready for it … opened to it now. Maudits Frangluches … they have no sense of time (but a wonderful sense of timing!) — and I sit in the lobby awaiting him … flogging myself with the delay. Watching the old hens at the front desk, going through the motions of running the hotel. And then watch more closely … no — they’re not running it … they’re running with it, responding to it — they are a mirror of the inner rhythm of the hotel … responding like live-wired marionettes as the hotel runs around them. Their bodies dance the comings-and-goings…. Mouthing their own mime of the events that swirl us. How does a place like this operate? Now the black-haired maman bobs and twitches with an extra flibbertigibbetery and Luc is all around me bobolarking too and when I finally net him down we have already crossed la Petite Place, past Nelson’s Monument and down Notre Dame Street to Le Petit Havre, a block towards La Place d’Armes. Barely in the restaurant and Luc pirouettes with indefatigable grace at the second table … kissing the hands of two demoiselles … “de la Galerie Ste-Geneviève … rue St. Paul …” while I am engaged in evading the glance of two Anglo-Canadian acquaintances of TV-days at the table beyond. “You must visit their gallery….”

      “Bien entendu” — I acquiesce, still evading, and in the act caught by the corner of my eye on his young brunette both of us unwilling but instantly invaded by our glance…. And introductions done and a luncheon engagement made for the sake of my Novel, with the brunette, we ensconce ourselves in the next dining room, unobserved — seated across the compulsory French Canadian red-checked tablecloth. I await his first move. It doesn’t come. Luc arrived in orbit, he remains in orbit, and while I patiently attend his play on the chess-board tablecloth afront me he is all over me….

      “Comment vas-tu?” — he is hovering in front of my nose now, having negotiated every nook of my well-vested corporation. “Comment vas-tu, Hugh?” His eyes pilfer mine with their solidity and unwitting I am aflight in our crazy dance now…. Aflight because I instinctively know that his “Comment vas-tu?” really means “Who are you … who are you now, Hugh? … it has been four years since I’ve seen us … who are you, who are we … let us be these now, right now … who, who, who, WHO?” With this, all my whats are filed, and for five hours we are launched in lunchtide … lunch à la française, en française. Eating, laughing, gesticulating, talking, alive in French. And I am all my French Canadianité again … c’est ma Francité. Now I take on, chameleon, all those additional forgotten attributes that are mine by right as a Canadian de langue française.

      Luc — “… wonderful you are back with us … you will stay now?”

      Me — “I had to come back … I couldn’t stand it any more.”

      Luc — “stand what….”

      Me — “us — my own people … English Canada … Toronto…. I was finally fired … I triggered my own firing squad.”

      Luc — “bravo!”

      Somewhere in the midst of this conversation that is the converse of a dialogue … that is more truly duet … we pinion lunch. Luc pinions lunch….

      “Madamoiselle СКАЧАТЬ