“This is Tiny,” Jimmy said. “He’s going with you.”
Rose looked at Tiny. He looked like a gangster, not a bohemian, like the rest of the men traveling with her. She took hold of the front pocket on his jacket and in a swift motion tore it off. Then she mussed up his hair.
“Here,” she said.
She handed him a book of poems by Baudelaire for him to peruse on the train. He needed some practice in introspection in order to pass as a tormented clown.
Tiny opened the book at random and read out a line. “An artist is an artist only because of his exquisite sense of beauty, a sense which shows him intoxicating pleasures, but which at the same time implies and contains an equally exquisite sense of all deformities and all disproportion.”
His delivery was awkward and the words came out sounding stilted and rough, like those of a tough guy.
“Very nice,” Jimmy said.
After Tiny stepped onto the train, Jimmy and Rose both laughed. And in that moment Jimmy was glad that Rose was leaving town. His feelings for her frightened him. If she stayed in New York any longer, he would end up wanting to see her every day. She would end up owning him. Jimmy saw what Rose had done to Tiny. She had turned him into a clown.
They stared at each other and then blinked. For a second each imagined the other completely naked. And then they blinked again and they were both fully dressed. And it was all over.
A gray poodle that had a bandage on its head where it had lost its ear walked up to the train.
“Hello there, Treacherous Storm Cloud,” Rose said.
When Rose had mustered up the courage to look into the dog-fighting ring, to her absolute shock, she saw that it was the boxer that lay on the ground. Sitting woeful in the corner was the poodle, very much alive. The poodle now looked up at Rose hopefully, as though making sure she hadn’t changed her mind about it coming.
“We’ll have to change your name to Trix.”
Rose nodded to the dog and it jumped on board, wagging its tail joyfully.
67
POSTCARDS OF THE HANGING
McMahon had been drinking since five o’clock that afternoon. The last shot of whiskey seemed to swim around his belly like an eel. The air was heavy, and time slowed down. He couldn’t hear what anyone was saying to him. For a moment he thought he might faint. He was waiting to receive word that Rose had been shot, and it was making him nervous. He decided that he’d better go home and wait for the news. Who knew how he would react, and he didn’t like other men seeing his emotions.
He stepped out onto the street and waved to his driver.
As the car headed toward Westmount, the downtown lights receded behind him. It was as though he were departing from the Milky Way. He stepped out of the car and told the driver he could go home for the night. He stood outside his house for a moment, watching the few snowflakes come down, like bits of confetti falling to a ballroom floor.
He knew the big house would be empty. His children had gone to live with his wife’s parents. The servants would have gone to their own homes. He no longer liked having people living full-time in the house.
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ROSE’S TRAIN came to a rest in Old Montreal. The trip back had been so much longer than the way there. She had stayed alone in her compartment, looking out the window. She felt lost and terrified leaving Pierrot behind in New York City. Every mile seemed so long.
When the troupe stepped off the train, the clowns and chorus girls fastened the top buttons of their coats and tightened their scarves. The air was so much colder here. You always forgot how cold Montreal was until the minute you arrived. Everyone kept yelling how tiny the city looked to them after coming back from New York. It looked like a row of dollhouses!
She walked home to the Valentine Hotel, with the gray dog hopping behind her. The street was more beautiful than she remembered it. She noticed all the details on the outside of the hotel with such affection. It was hers.
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WHEN MCMAHON OPENED THE DOOR to his house, he was taken aback by its eeriness. The house was so dark and quiet that he felt as if he were in his coffin. The darkness in the houses in Westmount was lush, like velvet. It never got this dark in houses downtown. Lights from the streets always got in. There was always the noise from the cars and the people passing by. The streetlights made it so that you could always see the naked body of the person whom you were sleeping with. Nobody could sneak up to you in the dark.
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