MIZ LITERATURE arrives just in time with a cheesecake in a white box tied with a pink ribbon. Bouba produces some wine dregs he’s been hiding in one of the folds of the couch. We wash it down. Miz Literature can’t stay too long. She has a class tonight. I like these whirlwind visits.
Miz Literature takes a little wine. Two fingers. She’s one of these giddy drunks. She dances across the room with all the grace of an albatross, running into the couch, the table, the fridge and the Japanese screen. She takes off her shoes and throws them at the ceiling. Then it’s on with the dance, with awkward strength and transparent joy. She is wearing a white dress with a black collar and charcoal tights. The floor is littered with butts and stained with drying puddles of beer. Miz Literature dances on, unaware of the filth. She’s a flower on a dung-heap. Then she slows down and collapses on the couch next to Bouba, with her arms crossed.
“You know what, Bouba,” she says, “I mentioned you to my friend Valery and she doesn’t believe me.”
“What doesn’t she believe?”
“She doesn’t believe you exist.”
Miz Literature looks at Bouba with the eyes of a Bodhisattva.
“I told her you were Montreal’s only living saint. I told her you live like a monk, that you hardly eat and that you only drink tea.”
“Is that the low-down on me?”
“Your life is clarity. You spend it sleeping on this couch when you’re not reading the Koran.”
“Is she ugly at least, this rare pearl of yours?”
“Oh, no! She’s beautiful!”
“Then you might as well forget it.”
MIZ LITERATURE wasn’t expecting that. She stood there open-mouthed a minute. I was busy at my machine, correcting the chapter I had just finished. It was a mild afternoon. The shoebox, belly exposed, was on the table. A fly landed on the cake like a raisin. Miz Literature looked to me for an explanation.
“Didn’t you know?”
“Know what?” she asked.
“Didn’t you know Bouba is scared stiff of Beauty?”
“Oh, God! When Valery hears that she’ll go crazy. She’s always dreamed of meeting someone who cared about more than her looks.”
Miz Literature pours herself more wine. She’s in a great mood today. I love the gaiety of serious girls. There’s a knock on the door. Miz Literature smiles mischievously.
“I asked Valery to pick me up here.”
THREE DISCREET little knocks. McGill code, it would seem. Miz Literature opens the door and a magnificent girl walks in. The kind of girl who leaves you breathless. Her smile is warm. Not that she needed it to set this room on fire. Bouba remains impassive. Miz Literature does the introductions. Bouba looks out the window. The evening shimmers. He takes down his old hunting hat. It’s his day to go out.
I swear by the Exordium (“Praise be to Allah, Lord of the Creation”) that was the most electrifying cruise I have ever witnessed. Once Bouba’s out the door, Valery literally goes into convulsions. She’s one of those girls, not a snob or anything, whom everyone cruises but who refuses to go out with anyone. I’m sure McGill is full of very rich, very handsome and very intelligent fools whose only dream is to marry her. To meet Valery is to understand the dilemma: she despises herself, her beauty, wealth and intelligence—the classic situation! Her beauty stands between her and Truth, so she thinks. When you come down to it, Valery is looking for a guru. Bouba the Guru. Wouldn’t you know it: to get the most beautiful girl at McGill, you have to stay at home and do nothing. Cruising in place.