Loddy-Dah Page 14

  “This is so humiliating!” She attacked his sculpture and hurled it, sending a thud of clay onto the hardwood flooring. Loddy had everyone’s attention now. She brushed by Fury, covering her face with her hands as though she were protecting herself from the sting of bees. And then she was gone.

  “Actually I think they’re rather wonderful,” Ulu said.

  “Try convincing her, okay.” He picked up a section of the damaged figure and rubbed it like a magic lamp hoping for a genie to appear and bring her back. “I better see where she went before she does something silly and gets hurt.”

  Loddy had just passed by the table of refreshments on her way out when Dormer, the gallery owner, barged out of his office. “They’ve bombed the Stock Exchange! The FLQ, they’ve bombed the Montreal Stock Exchange! Now they’ve gone too far!”

  No! A chorus of disbelief in the room.

  “Just got a call from a friend who works nearby,” Dormer said.

  The party chatter devolved into a low panicky grumble as guests gathered their coats: I get the message. It’ll be my house next. I’m getting out of this damn province before they kill us all off. I’ve had enough! I lived through the holocaust. Rumour circulated that the FLQ were on a rampage throughout the city and The Gallery Den, being in the English enclave of Westmount, was on their hit list. Dewey’s camera captured the baffled faces, just a phone call away from a moving van — frightened European faces, recollecting another time, passports always current. Just in case.

  “Loddy!” Fury was by her side again.

  She swayed in the bottleneck at the entrance while Dormer tried to shoo everyone back into the gallery. “People, people, please come back. Please!” But only Loddy, Ulu, Dewey and Fury remained with Dormer, who was wolfing down the Brie and lowering his anxiety level with glasses of wine.

  “Come on you guys, no point in wasting a good evening,” Fury said. “Don’t want the wine to go sour.”

  “Like, I can’t believe this is happening. It’s scary.”

  “It’ll be fine, Loddy,” Fury said. “People jump to conclusions. I mean look at old man Dormer over there, drunk as a monk. How can anyone believe anything the guy says?”

  “And what about you?” Loddy was still indignant over the display of her nudity without her permission.

  “What about me?” Fury seemed perplexed.

  “How can I ever trust you? You could have at least told me.”

  “What? The paintings? They weren’t yours to begin with, but my students’ and to their credit, they should be exhibited. Don’t take it personally. You were just the model.”

  “Personally? Just the model? It’s my fat body that everyone is looking at.”

  “You see yourself that way, but art lovers see it differently.”

  “You think? I feel so embarrassed.”

  “Why? You were okay with it in class.”

  “The class was private. This ... this is different. I might as well slit my wrists.”

  Fury laughed. “Ah come on now. Let’s get us some drinks and we’ll all feel better, okay?”

  Those crinkly eyes, that combustive laugh, tender touch. Fury placed his arm around her shoulders and led her to the wine table. Loddy felt herself being seduced, but this time she didn’t have the strength to fight it.

  SCENE 16:

  Adult Games

  The next day, the media exploded with news coverage of the Front Liberation du Québec (FLQ) bombing the Montreal Stock Exchange. Twenty-seven injured. The eyes of the world were once again on Montreal.

  “Those terrorists! What do they want? Not enough they bomb mailboxes and rob banks. No, they have to go for the Stock Exchange. Next thing you know, they’ll want to get rid of all the English signs.” Percy plopped a cigarillo between his teeth to sedate himself.

  “They’re trying to tell us they want their own country,” Marvel said. “I wouldn’t take them seriously, sweetie. After all this is Canada.”

  Percy cleared his throat, and coughed several times, a nervous habit that indicated a return to the important business of putting a show into production. Everyone just wanted to survive the first reading of Evil Ed, a made-in-Canada play by a bored, wealthy, suburban housewife from the West Island who thrashed out dialogue in between folding laundry and taking out the garbage. Samuel could afford the script. It was free, and he handed it to Percy for his directorial debut.

  A two-character drama, Evil Ed was part of a trilogy of one-act plays under the umbrella title Adult Games, subtitled Three Sides to Violence. In the Age of Aquarius when the media depicted long-haired hippies plugging up rifles with flowers at peace rallies, Samuel played against the grain.

  Percy, true to his word, cast Loddy as the victimized female — timid, catatonic, abused and terrified — held hostage by a psychopathic boyfriend, Ed, in a cheap motel off the Trans-Canada highway, somewhere on the godforsaken outskirts of Sault Ste. Marie. Not a word of dialogue. Without lines, Loddy believed her role inferior.

  “Are you typecasting me, Percy?”

  “You’ve got the hardest part in the play,” Marvel, acting as Percy’s production assistant, said as she rustled the pages of the script.

  “Like, how do you figure that?”

  “Because you have to listen, sweetie, to everything Ed says and then you have to react, and sometimes even improvise.”

  “I’m not sure I’m ready.”

  Percy removed the cigarillo from his mouth and gripped it like a pencil against his cheek. “I know you can do it, babe, or I wouldn’t have given the part to you.”

  “Like I think Aretha would have been a better choice. She has more experience.”

  “She can’t act her way out of a bean bag,” Marvel said, laughing with her usual sarcastic ha-ha.

  Evil Ed, however, belonged to Conrad, a recent new recruit who had played a secondary role in Robbie Rabbit. Samuel had been impressed with how this young drama student could engage an entire audience with a credible performance as a rabbit and convince them of his humanity if not humility.

  However, at the Christmas party, in a yuletide spirit of generosity and inebriation, Samuel had promised the role to Stanley, who now sulked around the city dropping off his portfolio to agents and casting directors.

  “I thought we were family and now you bring in this creep? I can play Ed, Samuel. Let me audition for you. Please.”

  Stanley came from a well-to-do Jewish family in Hampstead, so could bide his time, sponge off his parents and, unlike the other members of the company, never have to worry about being the proverbial starving actor. Indeed, his father had allowed him a year to tap into his ambition of becoming the next Laurence Olivier, but then back to the family business on Chabanel Street, the schmatte factory, manufacturing garments for size two models. The general consensus was that Stanley had a flare for fashion design and should stick with the rag trade, but no one dared destroy his illusion. He had failed the audition at the National Theatre School, but Samuel, as a favour to Stanley’s father, who had gifted a one-time substantial donation to The Garage Theatre, accepted him and made it his mission to extract whatever talent lay dormant, however miniscule. Samuel took advantage of Stanley’s rugged good looks and let him prance and pose around the stage like so much human decoration. To Samuel, everything and everyone had potential with good lighting, and to his credit, he could indeed mould anyone into a semblance of a performer.

  xxx

  The afternoon sagged into tedium as everyone awaited the arrival of the playwright, Dora Whitman who, according to Percy, was also a regular and generous bene­factor.

  “Bet he’s sleeping with her,” Percy whispered in Loddy’s ear. “She needs her little moment under the Canadian theatrical spotlight. Samuel can be bought.”

  “That’s not true,” Loddy said.

  “All right. We’ll start rehearsals in five minu
tes, with or without the prima donna,” Marvel announced.

  More and more, Samuel was becoming an absentee creative force and so Marvel assumed control of the theatre’s management. The Garage Theatre, like the city, drunk on past successes, was heading in a downward spiral looking for a saviour. For several months, some of the company had been meeting at Ben’s and complained about bounced cheques, the quality of the productions, and broken verbal agreements.

  Kiddies, we’re taking the show on the road — Toronto, Halifax, New York. So be ready.

  When Samuel? When?

  In the Spring. When the snow melts.

  And when the alcohol dried up, like the city sidewalks, a sober but exasperated Samuel would plead amnesia.

  Nothing is guaranteed in this life, kiddies, Samuel would bark, jacking up his beltless pants for emphasis, and then he’d strut away as though his word was God and no one should question him. Some of the company still believed in his creative genius.

  Tired with the waiting, they began the reading of Evil Ed without Dora. Loddy couldn’t focus on her character and, instead, popped a wad of chewing gum into her mouth to stifle the hunger as she listened to Conrad’s baritone voice bounce off the back wall with such emotional fervour that it almost made her weep. She expelled a steady stream of air, creating a bubble until it burst like an overblown balloon, the gum coating her nose and mouth.

  “Loddy-Dah!” Percy snapped. “Listen, babe, you want to do this or not?”

  “Sorry. What was the question again?”

  “I was asking how you would react to Ed when he flies off the handle about your leaving the hotel room without asking his permission.”

  “Don’t know.”

  Just then, Dora walked in with the nonchalance of a celebrity expecting applause. A short, stout bull of a woman with large breasts that equalled the size of her belly, she rolled in without apologies, her sienna brown waist-length hair translucent and parted in the middle like Joan Baez’s. She tottered in stylish black leather boots, which stretched to the middle of her thighs, giving her stumpy legs the impression of an elf wading through a flooded stream. Percy motioned Dora with his cigarillo to enter and to not interrupt the reading. She deposited her rump brusquely in the seat beside Conrad. Her boots were so high she was unable to bend her knees and kept her legs splayed in front of her as though awaiting a pedicure.

  Dora applauded Conrad with a zestful bravo after each reading and enthused over his feral talent. Percy rolled his eyes skyward. Conrad had an irregular face, reminiscent of a young Tony Curtis in The Defiant Ones, but he was short with an overdeveloped upper body and underdeveloped legs, giving the impression of a walking box on sticks. His voice, however, a musical basso profundo, redeemed any physical flaws. He was sought after in TV commercials and film voice-overs. At twenty-five he already was typecast as a tough guy, usually in the role of a mean cop in every low-budget Canadian movie — and they were all low budget.

  They paused for notes. Dora nuzzled close to Conrad when the clickety, clack of heels announced Rita’s wiggled entrance for the reading of the next play in the series, Monologues on Monogamy. The klieg lights would be on Rita and only Rita. All those years of lessons, breathing from the diaphragm, lowering her voice an octave, would culminate into this one role of a lifetime.

  She took the unoccupied seat next to Loddy, crossed her pristine shaved legs, and plopped The Montreal Star on Loddy’s lap.

  “Here. Did anyone see today’s paper?” Rita, with her usual ticks, puckered her lips, patted down the sides of her stiff bouffant, and sniffed as though she had been inhaling cocaine all day.

  “Why, are you in it?” Loddy checked the front page.

  “Almost, darlink. Section D, Arts and Entertainment, page 2. Miss Stern wrote a lively piece about Samuel and Percy.”

  “Let me see that.” Marvel yanked the paper away from Rita and ruffled through the pages until she came to the article and read aloud:

  Play, Director Debut At The Garage Theatre.

  Samuel ... always treated The Garage Theatre as a

  training ground for actors, directors and playwrights.

  His search for new and relevant plays in the community

  led him to Dora Whitman’s work ...

  Now Dora wanted a look-see, but Marvel brushed her aside. The reporter, a friend of Dewey’s, ended the interview asking Samuel: How far can you take progressive theatre in Montreal?

  “As far as he can.” There was a slight hesitation in Marvel’s voice as she hurled the newspaper over to Percy, who clumsily flipped through the pages, then stopped.

  “Hey Loddy, could this possibly be you? Looks like you made the Arts section.”

  She leaned over his shoulder and read the caption: “Gallery Den, a Den of Nudity.” There she was full blown in all her corpulent splendour, and below her photo, one of Ulu in a more modest pose among the Apostles at the Last Supper. The art critic called the exhibition daring, offensive yet modern, and gave high praise to both Dewey and Fury for their provocative ideas. “One of a kind, these two Montreal artists ... to be watched.”

  The bombing of the Stock Exchange had trumped any other news and consumed the media the following day. Loddy had thought the art exhibit was a forgotten non-event and Dormer was prepared to close it down. Now here she was on the front page of the Arts Section. “Oh God! Oh God!”

  “Really, sweetie, let me see.”

  Loddy saw nothing redeeming in the photos as she handed the section back to Marvel who, after a quick glimpse, suggested perhaps hanging some of the work around the mezzanine during Adult Games.

  Then Loddy remembered Fury’s words: Don’t take it personally. You were just the model.

  “Actually, like that’s a perfect painting. I mean Lucien Freud’s models were huge, bigger than me, and besides, Fury likes me that way.”

  “Well, sweetie, he might, but if you want to make a living as a performer, you have to lose the weight or you’ll be limiting yourself to character parts.”

  “That wouldn’t be so bad.”

  The newspaper circulated among them like a newborn baby getting passed around after a christening. Titters from Dora, loud guffaws from Conrad. Loddy paid no attention. The exterior door squeaked, swung open and the thump of boots beat the floor with a one-two, one-two rhythm as though someone were sloughing off dirt. Marvel yelled: “Who’s there?” Fury poked his head into the theatre looking sheepish and cold. “I think your door needs fixing. Hope I’m not in the middle of anything.”

  “No, I’m done.” Loddy, with great speed, gathered her script, bag and red poncho and raced towards him, waved a desultory goodbye to everyone while Percy shouted: “Tomorrow five o’clock! Be here!”

  Outside, before Loddy could pull herself together, Fury overtook her with kisses. She shook her head, no, pushing him away. But her mouth kept saying, yes, pulling him closer.

  “Fury, stop. Did you see The Star today?”

  “Yeah, great for Dewey and me, don’t you think?” His lips once again found her mouth.

  “Stop it, Fury. Now all of Montreal will see ...”

  “... how gorgeous you are.” He muted her mouth with his and there was nothing she could say or do. “Come on, I’ll get you home. I have the bike.”

  “The bike? Isn’t it like early for bikes? There’s still some snow on the ground.”

  “Yeah, but the streets are clear. I usually store my old Omni in the garage as soon as the weather begins to warm up.”

  “I think we’re expecting a thunderstorm with flurries tonight.”

  “Hey, they’ve been wrong before. Come on, put this on.” He handed her a helmet and pointed to the Harley parked between The Garage Theatre and the Athletic Club.

  “You have a motorcycle?”

  “What were you thinking? A bicycle built for two? Have you ever been on one
before?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing to it. Just hang on.”

  Loddy clambered up shakily, and hooked her arms around his waist, hoping to use his back as a wall to shield her fears. The speed and noise of the motorcycle disconcerted her and the force of air whipping her face made her gasp. Whenever the bike rounded corners, she would bend her body against the turn and Fury would glance back and yell at her. This continued for several blocks until he finally stopped and dismounted.

  “Are you trying to kill us?” he shouted.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “You have to lean into the bike at the corners. Go with it, not against it.”

  “Oh, like, I didn’t know that. It felt like we were going to topple over so I was just straightening things out. Balancing, you know.”

  His eyes softened. “Ah, Loddy, you are so sweet. That’s what I like most about you. Don’t ever lose that innocence.”

  I’m not sweet and innocent. Don’t you dare.

  Having already revved up the engine, Fury didn’t hear a word. The chill numbed Loddy’s gloveless hands. She tucked her fingers down the back of his neck, her thumbs gripping the edge of his jacket. His shoulders tightened at the unexpectedness of her cold fingers, sending an orgasmic-like shudder down his spine. She caught him in profile smiling, nodding, and when they turned the corners, this time Loddy leaned with him into the curves as though they were one.

  SCENE 17:

  Saving Loddy

  Loddy changed her position from the divan to the cast-off La-Z-Boy recliner to distance herself from Fury.

  “Guess you better go now,” she said and turned her head towards the living room window to avoid his disapproval.

  He had assaulted her with kisses outside The Garage Theatre and it scared her that she hadn’t resisted; it scared her that he might try it again; it scared her that she might surrender and be taken for a fool. While Loddy gave off mixed messages, Fury remained resolute. She kept testing him to see how far she could goad him before he abandoned her. She was good at that. Only some creep, someone sick, would want me, she had told Dewey on one of their eating jaunts.