And Pierrot smiled as the drugs ran through his veins—they seemed to course with honey rather than blood. Poppy had left him. He felt rather relieved about this. Perhaps he didn’t have a right to feel this way. He chose to believe that perhaps Poppy had found someone else to live with and love. This new gentleman would surely do better for her. He did have a rather alarming appearance, but who was Pierrot to judge a book by its cover?
By espousing this train of thought, Pierrot was willfully choosing to be ignorant. He found himself at a sort of psychic crossroads. He could choose the truthful path, with all its regrets and guilt and responsibilities. Or the other, which is what Pierrot did. Because deep down he knew that all the vicious-looking man could do was enable Poppy’s descent into stranger and stranger realms of prostitution.
? ? ?
WHEN THE CASTS CAME OFF, Pierrot went back to work at the movie theater, anxious to test out his fingers. He wanted to see if a miracle had occurred. The owner was angry at Pierrot for missing work but told him to give it a try at the break in the film. After the cowboys had been making threats for an hour, the screen lit up with the word Intermission. Pierrot made himself comfortable at the piano, flexing his shoulders, stretching his arms, rolling his head from side to side and wiggling his fingers in the air above the keys.
He had become quite fond of this piano. It had a lot of character. The keys were so light, he felt he really didn’t even have to touch them. He would just put his fingers on the keys and imagine the tune and it would begin to play as if by itself. There was a love affair between the piano and Pierrot’s imagination.
It kept him company. Some pianos had nothing to say. But this piano wanted to converse. This piano wanted to complain to Pierrot as much as Pierrot wanted to complain to the piano. The piano was his support group. It was his advocate. It was the only one that had tried to talk him out of being a drug addict over the past years.
His fingers ached when he placed them on the keys. He pushed the keys tentatively, so that his fingers were like the legs of a girl playing hopscotch. His whole body was in pain, racked with guilt and sorrow and loneliness. And then he let himself begin to play quickly, wildly, expertly. He played for having lost Rose. He played the tune he thought of as hers, but in a more grievous and sorrowful way. The tune now wove the frivolity of youth with the gravitas of maturity.
When he was finished, there was absolute quiet and Pierrot was confused. Where had everyone in the audience disappeared to, and shouldn’t they be done with the washroom by now? He looked toward the seats. The cinema was completely full. No one had left their seats during intermission. They were weeping silently.
And so it was that Pierrot played better now that his fingers had been broken. It made the notes sadder. There were people who came to the theater to hear Pierrot rather than to see the movie. The owner gave him a two-penny raise. He stayed at a men’s hotel and slept in a room with twenty-five other men. He spent his pay on getting high enough to prevent his body from going through withdrawal in the evenings.
31
PORTRAIT OF LADY AS ALLEY CAT
Rose had filled her pockets with the jewelry McMahon had bought for her. The necklace had a pearl that looked like a seed you were supposed to plant, which would grow into a real moon. The diamond earrings were like tiny stars far, far, far away in other galaxies. There was a ring with a giant red stone that was like Mars, all poisonous and angry in the black sky.
She took the trolley from the Darling Hotel down Saint Catherine Street to the red-light district. The narrow streets perpendicular to Saint Catherine were lined with lazy buildings that had let themselves go. They needed new windows and new steps and new paint jobs. They were cantankerous and moody. They refused to open or shut their windows. They let the cold in through the cracks in the doors, and mice into those in the walls. They acted as though they had been awoken from deep sleep when you turned on the faucet or tried to use the stove.
On the front arch of an old abandoned bank there was a gargoyle of an angel lying on its back, looking up at the clouds in the sky, having completely lost interest in the world.
Rose was moving to the area where girls like Poppy plied their trades. But she didn’t mind. She was tired of pretending she was anything other than an unfortunate young woman without a penny to her name—who fucked for a living.