“Did you see the movie All the Pretty Girls Live in Paris? I thought it was so stupid. You would have laughed so much at it. I wish we could have laughed about it together.”
“Remember those pink cupcakes with silver balls on them we ate at that mansion? Those were so delicious. I keep trying pink cupcakes to find ones that taste just like them. But I never can.”
“Do you still read books? I wish you could tell me about all the things that depressed ladies in books are saying.”
“Do you still play piano? I’ve never heard anyone play the way you do. There was a recording by a Hungarian pianist. There was something about the way she played that reminded me of you.”
“I saw a kitten trying to catch the bottom of a curtain and it reminded me of you dancing.”
“Did you fall in love with somebody?” Rose asked.
“Does your sweetheart look like me?” Pierrot asked.
“Do you like coffee? Or ice cream? Are you able to afford ice cream?”
“Are you having a hard time these days, like everybody else?”
“Do you remember when we used to pretend to be on a train next to each other?”
“Do you remember how you told me that unicorns were absolutely real?” Rose asked. “And that you thought you saw one out by the chicken coop?”
“Did you ever love me? You don’t have to say. It’s an embarrassing question. I’m just curious.”
Rose sighed and turned around and walked back home. Pierrot sighed and decided to return to his room. Rose climbed up the stairs slowly. Pierrot stepped over someone sleeping in the hallway. Rose pulled her key out of her purse. Pierrot fumbled with the lock. Rose took off her hat. Pierrot shrugged off his jacket and left it behind him on the chair. Rose kicked off her shoes. Pierrot unlaced his boots and pulled them off. There were holes in the heels of Rose’s tights. One of Pierrot’s big toes was sticking out of its sock. Rose turned on the radio. Pierrot turned the dial to Late Night Music for Restless Moonlight Listeners. If she could, Rose never missed an episode of it. It was Pierrot’s favorite show by far.
Rose clapped her hands when a song called “You’re Not My Sweetheart” came on. Pierrot forgot about his problems when he heard this song. Rose felt the singer’s voice sounded so familiar. Pierrot thought he himself could have written the words to the song. When the words came on, Rose began to sing along. Pierrot couldn’t help but join in:
I don’t like the way you wear your hat.
I can’t stand the way you hum to tunes.
I don’t like the way you laugh.
I never liked the way you sing.
So how come I get all crazy when you come around?
All over the city, in living rooms and kitchens and bedrooms, and on factory floors, people burst out into the chorus:
Boom, boom, boom goes my heart, boom, boom, boom.
Boom, boom, boom goes my heart, boom, boom, boom.
Boom, boom, boom goes my heart, boom, boom, boom.
25
THE CAT THIEF IN THE NURSERY
Poppy always paid for the heroin. By the time he was twenty-one, Pierrot couldn’t afford to get high every night with the pittance he was making being an usher and playing the piano on random nights. Poppy knew this too. The more he was dependent on heroin, the more he was dependent on her. Poppy’s pet projects and prostitution alone certainly couldn’t support Pierrot’s growing addiction. She sometimes had trouble making any money at all. Men preferred the brothels. There was something about Poppy that made them all feel a little bit sad. They couldn’t forget that they were paying for sex. She never seemed to have repeat customers. Whoever made love to her always seemed overcome by guilt that lasted, like a hangover, for three days.
Pierrot decided he would be a thief. He didn’t have an elaborate inner debate over whether it was right or wrong. He had spent the last few years up in the mansions in Westmount, and he knew very well that they were loaded with fantastic items, most of which the owners didn’t have a need for. There was such an enormous discrepancy between the rich and the poor that he felt he was in some ways providing society with a much-needed redistribution of wealth. He ought to be thanked for his actions. Of course, it was only he and Poppy who benefited from this redistribution, but that seemed like a rather minor hole in his economic theory. He had never been to university, so nobody could expect him to be Friedrich Engels.
Pierrot would leave his shoes outside the windows of the houses before he crawled inside. He preferred to creep into the houses while the occupants were at home, as they were less likely to have locked up. He would stand in his stocking feet, looking at the paintings in the long hallways as though he were a connoisseur in a museum appraising a traveling exhibition.