I get up. Normally, I would go jogging, but I’m too fed up with the rain.
Andrei never worked. But money never seemed to be a problem. I was curious, but I knew better than to enquire. Whatever he wanted to share, he would tell me.
Actually, it’s not fair to say that he never worked.
He wrote. He wrote for hours every day, the words pouring out of him with the relentless flow of a waterfall. He never tried to publish. He disdained the very idea of publication; nevertheless, he was supportive of my futile efforts at getting my own work into print.
He wrote poetry, fiction, philosophical ramblings and other prose that segued from genre to genre. All of it was brilliant. Yes, I envied his way with women, but what inspired my jealousy was his prodigious literary talent. It often took me months to finish a short story, while he would write several of them a week, in addition to countless other pieces. And he worked on a number of long Proustian novels simultaneously, each of them accumulating wordage but never seeming to reach any kind of conclusion.
We’d spend sleepless nights poring over each other’s work with a harsh and unforgiving love. We questioned every word, every comma, every idea. We revised and reread and rearranged. He was unfailingly generous with his talent and editorial acumen. His input imbued my feeble scribblings with a depth of allusion and empathy I could never have achieved on my own.
If he was aware of my jealousy, he never showed any sign of it. He considered me his only friend and let no one but me read his work. And so my jealousy was tempered by exclusivity. Although I urged him time and again to seek publication, I secretly thrilled like a teenage girl who, magically, knew that she – and no one else – had the privilege of sucking the cock of her favourite rock star.
Tamara and I rarely talk, rarely spend any time together, save for the night-time in bed. Our lives are separate, save for that nightly communion. We are strangers.
Occasionally, she walks in on me, whether I’m in my study or in the living room or taking a nap, and asks, “Read to me.”
What she means is, “Read me something of Andrei’s.” And I always do. Sometimes I grab a book, sometimes an unpublished manuscript. Andrei left so much behind. She nestles into my lap and chest, and I enfold her as best I can, breathing in the heady blend of sweat, perfume, shampoo and lotions, wishing for the weight of her body to leave permanent impressions in my flesh.
When I stop reading, we neck like teenagers, fondle each other tenderly, hungrily, with unfeigned clumsiness.
Before, she used to read voraciously. Now, all she desires of the world of literature is to hear me read Andrei’s words.
During most of my years-long friendship with Andrei, I never had a lover, never seriously pursued anyone. Andrei had awakened the writer in me, and that was all that mattered. I’d quit school. I supported myself with a string of meaningless jobs, and devoted all my spare energies to, inseparably, my writing and my friendship with Andrei.
I met Tamara one late afternoon coming home from work. I had noticed her further down the line at the bus stop: dark wavy hair to below her shoulders; complex features that managed to be both softly round and strongly aquiline; a large mouth; full lips; a brownish-olive tint to her skin; tall and svelte, yet with a pronounced curve at the waist. I thought, she’s Andrei’s type. Gorgeous. Glamourous.
The bus was crowded. She sat down next to me. My throat dried up. I was suddenly overwhelmed with desire for this woman. I knew that Andrei would have no problem initiating contact with this beautiful stranger, but I lacked his grace and confidence.
As the bus took off, each of us dug a book out of our bags.
We were reading the same book, Bestial Acts. Probably buoyed by the film’s cult celebrity, the author had written a sequel to The Door to Lost Pages, expanding on the events and characters emphasized in the film, but this new volume wasn’t very good.
We looked up at each other, and we both laughed. I don’t remember who started talking to whom, but we fell into an easy, friendly conversation and ended up eating veggie burgers and gourmet fries on St-Laurent, and then walked down to a cocktail bar in the Gay Village that played postmodern lounge music in a colourful high-kitsch decor.
We laughed easily with each other, and she frequently touched me, letting her hands linger just long enough for me to know she meant it.
It was nearly two in the morning when I walked her home. She gave me a firm hug; I felt her breasts press against my chest, and she surely felt my erection. She grinned as she disengaged, and, while holding both my hands, she kissed my cheek – the contact with her lips made me shiver.
I watched her climb the stairs to her second-storey apartment. I stood there for a couple of minutes after she closed the door behind her.
I don’t remember walking home, so lost was I in my reveries of seeing her again.
Next thing I knew, I was lying naked in bed, prudishly fighting the impulse to masturbate while replaying moments of my evening with Tamara.
And then I remembered that I had promised to meet Andrei that evening.
Ten years after Andrei’s death, I still have no other friends. I have no lovers but Tamara.
My days are always the same.
I wake up at six. I work until noon. Often that consists of editing Andrei’s large inventory of unpublished manuscripts. Sometimes, I work on my own writing.
I go out for lunch. There’s a wonderful pressed-sandwich shop on St-Denis. If it’s too crowded, I go for noodles. These days, there’s a noodle shop on almost every corner.
In the afternoon, I catch a matinee movie, then I go shopping – books, CDs, DVDs, clothes, food – hoping that something, anything, will bring me pleasure or elicit any kind of reaction. Nothing ever does.
I drop my purchases at home. I check for messages. Then I go out for dinner. Usually Indian. Sometimes Thai. Or something new I read about in the newspaper.
I come back home around eight in the evening, put on some music, make some tea. I read until I hear Tamara come home. Then I get ready for bed.
If the weather’s bad, I just stay in all day.
It’s the middle of the afternoon, and it’s still raining. It’s as dark as dusk. It’s been like this for five days straight, and it’s been having a languorous effect on me. I’ve noticed that Tamara, usually less sensitive than I to the weather and light, has been somewhat morose of late. I do not pry. We never pry into each other’s affairs or emotions.
But today I’m feeling a bit better. I’m just off the phone with my agent. She had good news for me. Dardick Press had made a six-figure offer for my new novel. Not that I really need the money, but they want the book. My book.
To the outside world, I’m the author of a wildly successful thematic trilogy of Proustian ambitions; of an allegorical fantasy novel the Washington Post welcomed by trumpeting: “Finally, an English-language writer whose depths of empathy and imagination surpass Márquez”; of an immense thousand-page short-story collection praised for its cross-genre audacity, the precision and beauty of its language, and its parade of heartbreaking characters; of a poetry collection that stayed for more than a year on the bestseller lists; and of a blockbuster philosophical novel – adapted once as a film and once as a television mini-series.
Although all of these appeared under my byline, none of them are mine (well, I snuck two of my own short stories into the collection; I still feel guilty about that). I did edit the manuscripts into their final format – I was certainly familiar enough with much of the material from my years with Andrei – but they were his works, not mine.