Standing beside the patient in the bed furthest from the door was Avery Andrews. In the bed was a very old man or, perhaps, a young one with a long, white beard. It was difficult to “read” the patient, but something about the man did not feel old. Without moving his lips or at all shifting position, the whitebeard said
— Come closer.
It was as if a statue had spoken. There was no doubt that the “statue” had spoken to him, however. So, warily, and still shaken by his vision of Andrews’ absorption by the impossible room, Baddeley approached.
— You’re interested in poetry, said the patient.
Once again, the patient’s lips did not move. It was both uncanny and fascinating.
— It is better if you don’t look at me, said the patient. I am not where you see me, but I am close.
— Look out the window, said Andrews.
And Baddeley noticed that Avery Andrews had turned away from the patient, had all the while been observing the smoke as it writhed from the chimney — bringing to Baddeley’s mind a thin, old woman struggling out of a stone boot. The world could not be as he was now experiencing it and still be the world. Therefore, he had lost his mind, or some drug — mysteriously administered — had taken it from him.
The patient said
— It wouldn’t make any difference if you did lose your mind.
Alexander Baddeley felt light-headed. The room spun 290 degrees and the floor politely rose to meet him. What met him first, however, was the laughter of the patient — the last sound he heard before he lost consciousness. No, that’s too easily said: “he lost consciousness.” As if something were taken away. In this instance, it would be truer to say that Alexander Baddeley gained a consciousness that, manifestly, was not his own. He fell to the floor, but instead of darkness there came… not voices, exactly, but a presence, something like the soundless manifestation of a collective. There on the floor with him, a knot of red ants were at work carrying off the remnants of a crust of bread, and it seemed to Baddeley that he would have given anything to be one of them. That is, he experienced the purposeful delicacy of “mindlessness.”
How long he spent both inside and beside himself, Baddeley never learned. After a time, he woke in Andrews’ house on Cowan. Judging by the light coming through the windows, hours or perhaps minutes had passed. There was sunlight but, for some reason, Baddeley imagined it was evening. He was on the living room sofa. Andrews was standing above him.
— What happened? Baddeley asked.
Avery Andrews looked down at him, all sympathy.
— Don’t look at Him, he said. And try not to speak. Look out the window or keep your eyes closed. There’s nothing to see, anyway.
— But what happened?
— You’ve been out for a while. I didn’t know where you’d gone. I found you here, because He told me you’d be here. It could have been worse. I was gone for three days the first time He spoke to me. But don’t think about that. You want to write, don’t you?
At that moment, Baddeley had no idea what he wanted and no clear idea how he felt. He was concerned for his state of mind. Had he really met “God”? Or was it, rather, that Andrews had found some way to pull him into a delusion? (What, if it came to that, did “God” mean, in this situation?) Yet, along with the fear and the mistrust, there was exhilaration. Baddeley was in thrall to the depth of feeling he’d experienced while watching the red ants carry crumbs away. If he was capable of feeling anything so deeply — and it was a revelation to him that he was capable — it might just be possible for him to write poetry as well, especially if Avery Andrews was guiding him. Insane though the man might be, Baddeley would follow him quite a ways, if it led to such depths.
— Yes, he said. I want to learn to write like you.
Andrews said
— It’ll be a short apprenticeship. There isn’t much to learn.
You have to prepare yourself, that’s all. I’ll show you how you do it, then you’ll take over from me. If I were you, I’d get my life in order. Pay off your debts. Say goodbye to your friends. Three days from now, meet me at the Western at seven a.m. If you find the room on your own, everything I have will be yours. This house, that sofa you’re lying on. Everything.
Andrews held up his hand, as if to ward off conversation.
— Three days, he said. I’ll answer the rest of your questions then. Now, please… I need to get ready.
Although, at that moment, there were a thousand questions on Baddeley’s mind, when Andrews asked him to leave, he got up from the sofa and left the house, still in shock. Nor, in the days that followed, could Baddeley grasp why it was important that he “get his life in order.” Neither why nor how, for that matter. His life amounted to so little, it was, in a sense, inevitably “in order.”
He did follow one bit of Andrews’ advice, though. He spoke with a friend. The day before he was to meet the poet, Baddeley met Gil Davidoff at The Cobourg, a bar in Cabbagetown. More than anything, he wanted to tell someone about his encounters with Avery Andrews. Davidoff would not give a damn about his experiences and Baddeley knew it. That was why he wanted to tell Davidoff everything. Davidoff’s self-regard had a way of turning even the most dire things in Baddeley’s life trivial, rendering them less painful.
They were sitting at the front of The Cobourg. Their table was in a bay, its tall windows looking out onto Parliament Street. Cabbagetown was not bustling, exactly, but it was almost lively.
— I met Avery Andrews, Baddeley said.
— You see? answered Davidoff. I told you chicks can’t lie to me.
— You’re right, said Baddeley. And he wants me to meet him at the Toronto Western tomorrow morning. He didn’t say where.
— The Western’s not that big, said Davidoff. I met a couple nurses there once. They’re pretty good, nurses. Know their stuff. But I prefer actresses. You can screw an actress for weeks without doing the same woman twice. Know what I mean?
— Not really…, said Baddeley. But what about Andrews? Do you think I should go? I felt like I was hallucinating when I was with him. I really think he might be crazy.
— So? You should meet him if you want to, said Davidoff. What’s the worst a poet can do? Throw up on your shoes? Just remember, Hemingway punched Stevens’ lights out. Not the other way ‘round. And that’s how poets should be treated.
Davidoff turned away to look out at the late-autumn world, lowered his dark-rimmed glasses to get a better look at a woman just then passing on the street.
— You think I should go, then, said Baddeley.
— What? Sure. Are we still talking about you? answered Davidoff.
— No, no, said Baddeley. I’ll figure it out.
So, despite his trepidation, he went to the hospital on the appointed day, at seven in the morning. Having no idea where in the maze of Toronto Western he was to meet Avery Andrews, he simply followed what might be called “instinct.” It was not a strong “instinct.” He wandered about for an hour before he went up to the sixth floor of the east wing. He felt a certain “curiosity” about a janitor’s closet between two wards. The closet was unnumbered. A panel on the door said “Employees Only.” When Baddeley opened the door, however, he found himself in the ward in which he had first encountered the patient, and there the patient was again. Avery Andrews stood near his “God,” looking out the windows.