Anna Purna sits majestically at her desk. She is so beautiful, a statue ought to be erected in her honour. She chuckles at the twists and turns in the discussion, and her blond hair bounces on her shoulders in time with her impish giggles.
Nihil emerges from the haven of his daydream:
“Why are you laughing, miss?”
Anna is not easily put off.
“I find this debate amusing, Mr. Nihil. There’s never a dull moment in your courses. The point is, I simply think that injustice and oppression inevitably give rise to violence. The issue is not so much whether it’s justified or not, but rather to ascertain if it brings about a change in the status quo. To my mind, the answer is yes, clearly. Is the change good or bad? I wouldn’t presume to voice an opinion. I’m not a moralist, and you are certainly better qualified in that area. I don’t mean to offend you, but, being an atheist, I believe that values and morality are human inventions, and that life per se, as a phenomenon, can’t be bothered with human values. Life, death, the universe, time, all these things are somewhat beyond our grasp, don’t you find?”
She speaks confidently, since she prides herself on having experienced life, on having seen the universe, which of course places these Gentlemen in a fairly embarrassing situation. True, hardly anything will embarrass them. By the time she was twenty-four she had travelled the world as an air hostess, before resuming her education at an age when most others have completed theirs. This gives her some authority over her fellow students, who are all younger and in awe of her for having already lived so much. She is suspected of morals in keeping with her wide experience, and, as of the first day of classes, her angelic beauty and a figure worthy of Venus set her at the centre of every boy’s lewdest fantasies. The Suspicians, Thomist or otherwise, are not safe from her charms, a source of profound torment for them. Especially since she has a sharp mind, which makes it all the more awkward for advocates of a doctrine that, until quite recently, still refused to grant a soul to the female of the species.
Anna Puma’s diatribe wrenched Nihil from his cloud in no time. Perched atop his skinniness, the old ascetic hardly appreciates being sent back to his metaphysical investigations. In general, he’s not vindictive, but this time he ended the class by hitting us with a five-page essay assignment on the subject for the following week. That was, no doubt, the only way he could save face in the presence of the cold assurance, the staunch materialism, and the immeasurable beauty of his eldest student.
There are no classes at 3 p.m. on Thursday. I go down to the second floor lounge, the only place in the school where dim lighting and rock music are tolerated. Oscar is already ensconced there with Anna by one of the large windows facing the wooded slope that charges up toward Côte-des-Neiges Road. Zed Leprous’s “Wholottalove” is playing pretty loudly and it won’t be long before Pelvisius – the Suspician in charge of maintaining a semblance of decorum in these quarters and so dubbed due to his habit of settling his shifty little eyes near the crotch of the person he’s addressing – arrives to turn the volume down.
I join Oscar and Anna, whose mini-skirt discloses a fine pair of long thighs sheathed in dark nylon stockings. I sit down in front of her, where I can better admire them. Beside her, in a patent effort to be conspicuous, Oscar is stuffing a tiny chillum full of hashish. Anna is wearing yellow panties that I gawk at every time she crosses and uncrosses her legs, which she does often, since what’s the point of having something if you won’t show it. The pipe has been lit. Outside, the sun is about to set and the shadows of the trees stretch until they break against the old stables, used now only to store the gardeners’ paraphernalia. The smell of kif floods the lounge and a few cattle-heads swing our way, their eyes full of reproach and apprehension.
As expected, the door opens and there’s Pelvisius dashing straight for the loudspeaker. Head down so he doesn’t have to look at anyone, with that perpetual unctuous smile on his lips, he turns the volume down before scurrying away, his eyes focused between his legs, paying no attention to the jeers of two or three brave souls - he believes in freedom of expression – or the sweet vapours which he no doubt ascribes to some incense that the young scholars, in their craving for the exotic, must be burning in order to fulfill that deep desire for communion so typical of adolescence.
I drag on the pipe one more time before taking my turn at the music machine. Pelvisius won’t have the last word, not here. I pump up Zed Leprous to the limit and go sit down again. The speakers start moving along the floor; people next to them levitate above their chairs. Oscar nearly swallows the chillum, and Anna has flattened her hands over her ears with an awful grimace that makes her even prettier. The door flies open again, Pelvisius is back. His hand on the doorknob, he absorbs the blast, eyes squinting from the din and the faint lighting as they sweep across the room from one person to the next at bellybutton level. Or lower, because he’s not very bold. At this point, since I’m standing next to the amplifier, he approaches me and, addressing my thighs, signals to me to turn down the volume. I comply. Now we can hear ourselves.
“The machine went berserk, sir. I was just about to take care of it.”
Pelvisius attempts a smile, squirming even more than he normally does, in his black suit and clerical collar. I grin back at him.
“Japanese equipment, sir. You can never depend on those Orientals. You know, the Yellow Peril, these days, it’s industrial. Just think, this machine was probably made out of my father’s old ’63 Chevy…”
He lifts his eyes almost to my shoulders.
“You’re very good at derision, Mr. Tremblay. Or may I call you Larry?”
“For goodness’ sake, Arnold, I don’t see why not. I promise to take a look at your Japanese gizmo when I have five minutes to spare. I dabble in electronics. There’s no reason to fret, really, so don’t lose any sleep over it, if I may say so…”
And I amiably walk him back to the door. This time Pelvisius ventures to look into my eyes for a split second.
“Thank you, Mr. Tremblay.”
He turns on his heels and vanishes down the hall. I go back to the amp. A shudder runs through the apprehensive herd.
“Don’t be an idiot, Larry. You’re going to demolish our eardrums.”
His name is Ricky Rashid, a.k.a. Rickets, for obvious reasons. We’re in the same literature class. He’s one of the only males in the class, not counting myself, who genuinely like it – literature, that is. The others are more interested in the teacher because she’s young, a laywoman, and damn well-built.
I motion with my chin at the ten or so sheep around him.
“Well, my dear Rickets, try plugging your sensitive ears. I want to see how the animals react when the sound jumps. Apparently, it makes cows produce more milk.”
Rashid shrugs. At the other end of the lounge, Anna and Oscar have long forgotten me and are pursuing dubious contacts under cover of sharing their enchantment with the poetry of Rimbaud that Oscar is reading in a rare copy he managed to find by skimming through the old stacks of blacklisted books in the Gentlemen’s library. Yes, Oscar at times acquires a fondness for poetry.
I go back to the amp. Rickets squeezes his hands over his ears. I turn the sound all the way up. You’d think it was Pearl Harbor.
Take Larry Volt’s word for it – absolute junk, this Japanese stuff!
Chapter Two
Cam Ramh, 66-67
We have done so much for so long for so little, that now we can do anything for nothing forever.
Inscription on a Zippo lighter,
Unknown G.I.
There