“It makes you remember to live,” said Novak, raising his glass toward his hostess and thanking her. She said he was vel—welcome.
As Paul carved the glistening slab of pork, he asked if Novak was one of those guys who sat in Stanley Park on Sunday doing sketches. Novak said he was very flattered that Paul might think so but no, he was not, though maybe someday he might aspire to such heights. Failing to get a rise, Paul wondered how many Viet Cong the Americans had knocked off today?
“They say eleven,” said Novak. “Which probably means two.”
“Too bad,” she said. Communists of any race or colour were to be crushed like cockroaches. “How long you have—have you—been in Canada?” asked Cyril’s mother.
“Since ’55. The year before the Soviets paid us their little visit. I saw the tanks on the horizon and went the other way.”
“A country built on tanks and barbed wire,” said Paul, serving the roast. “And run by pigs.”
“The pig is an admirable beast,” said Novak through a mouthful of pork. “Smart. A survivor.”
“Not this one,” said Paul, spearing a piece of meat.
“I prefer the horse,” said Cyril’s mother.
This came as a surprise. She’d never expressed any interest in horses or any other animal, except to complain about the crows which haunted the cemetery and cawed raucously each morning and evening.
Novak agreed that horses were a fine and noble creature, and described once seeing a horse trotting across the Széchenyi Lánchíd—the Chain Bridge—in Budapest during the war. “It had lost its rider but his boots—tall shiny black boots—were both still in the stirrups.”
“The pigs got him,” said Paul, happily.
“One can only hope,” said Novak. He raised his glass and they drank to the pig.
Cyril studied the table. Della, a third generation Canadian of English-Scottish heritage, had long given up trying to fathom the medieval animosities that shaped her husband’s background. Paul, in spite of every intention otherwise, seemed to be warming to Novak, while their mother, Helen, was studying their guest with a wine-fueled glimmer in her eyes. Cyril envisioned life with Novak as his stepfather. Would his mother discover a respect for the arts, and in so doing a respect for Cyril’s own efforts? Would Novak become Cyril’s mentor? Or would Novak and his mother fight, divorce, and Novak walk off with half the house? The guy didn’t even own a car. Had Cyril invited the wolf in the door?
Soon they moved on to Novak’s bottle of red. Paul asked what Novak did in the war and Novak gave his shrug and frown and said he was a mouse. “I lived in walls, in basements, in closets, sometimes in the sewer, though mostly in attics. The Russians—and their pals the Ukrainians and Romanians—they didn’t like going up stairs. Too lazy. And you never know what is waiting for you. We came down after dark for the midnight buffet of frozen horse. Mwa!” He kissed his fingers. “And if the dogs or rats beat us to it we broke the teeth from the horses and ground them in a mortar and pestle and drank the powder in melted snow. Very high in calcium.”
“Ukraine had no choice.”
“Au contraire, madame,” said Novak, “we all had plenty of choice. The choice to be shot by the Germans or shot by the Russians or to shoot ourselves. And since so few of us had the grace for the latter, most of us obeyed.”
Cyril, aware that his father had participated in the Siege of Budapest, watched the faces of his mother and Paul.
“Not that there wasn’t a certain dark joy on the part of everyone seeing Hungary carved like this roast and served out to Romanians,” said Novak. “Romanians.” He pushed his plate away as if nauseated. “People who don’t even know which end of the goat to fuck.”
Cyril’s mother threw down her napkin; Della’s eyes were wide and fearful; Paul was happy, as though the real entertainment was finally beginning.
“Ukraine got nothing.”
“My Lady, other than to be left alone Ukraine deserved nothing.” Novak finished his wine, dabbed his mouth with his napkin, stood and bowed to her. “An excellent dinner and a most enchanting evening.” He turned. “You should really consider modeling,” he said to Della. “And you young sir.” He extended his hand to Paul who, not knowing what else to do, shook it. “Interesting to meet you.” To Cyril he said, “Wednesday.” And showed himself out.
No one spoke for a full minute. Then, with bitterness and bewilderment, Cyril’s mother asked, “You couldn’t do better than him?”
The next class Cyril expected some sardonic remark from Novak but there was nothing, instead he announced that it was time for a show. Everyone assumed he meant they should gather around to look at his latest work, or some comic pantomime that he’d cooked up, but he meant theirs. “The time has come, my babies. The time has come.”
Fear rocked the class like a quake followed by aftershocks of delight and confusion. Cyril clung to his easel riding out the tremor.
“I have reserved the school gallery,” said Novak, standing on the models’ dais. “For one week you will have your fifteen minutes.” Novak gazed at each of them, the solemnity of his look like a hand pressed on their shoulders in a final reassurance before sending them up and out of the trench and into the battle. Did Novak’s gaze rest a little longer on Cyril? They’d never spoken of it, but Cyril believed he was Novak’s favourite, the one with the potential, the one of whom he expected the most, the real artist among the amateurs, and the show would prove it. Admittedly, the competition was not intense. At least one student a semester took the class only because it fit their schedule, or because Tagalog or feng shui or flower arranging were full, a fact Novak accepted with impressive serenity, as if such humiliation were his due.
The show was titled The Figure in Fact and Fancy. Novak spoke an adventurous English, and was pleased with the alliteration. He had considered calling it Ass and Tits, yet Cyril and the others advised caution. The class did a poster that showed a crowd of human figures resembling tall grass sprouting from the back of a grinning toad. Cyril drew the toad; Novak was delighted with the poster. An ad ran in the college newsletter, in The Georgia Straight, and the arts page of The Sun. The opening took place on a Thursday evening in April. All were welcome.
Helen was not enthused about being in the same room as Novak again but Paul looked forward to being in the same room as a lot of naked women, even if they were only on the walls.
Cyril turned his drawings upside down and on their sides, examining his work from every angle. Did he dare call it “his work?” Certainly it involved his labour, but “his work” carried connotations implying a dizzying level of confidence and commitment. He avoided the issue by sticking to the word “drawings” instead.
Novak had encouraged them to put prices on their pictures. Cyril suspected that his mother’s reaction, as well as Paul and Gilbert’s, would depend entirely on sales, for sales equalled success while no sales equalled flop. Yet he couldn’t price them so low as to be virtually giving them away. A hundred dollars each? Would he pay a hundred for one of his own drawings? Would he pay fifty? He compromised at seventy-five. Then there was the issue of frames and glass, which meant jacking the prices back up to one hundred. A hundred was a nice round solid number suggesting concrete self-assurance on the part of the artist—though was he an artist or only some guy who drew?
Things got off to a bad start when the previous exhibition—A History of Wax—was not cleared from the gallery until just two hours before the opening. While Novak shouted at the balding candle-maker with the ponytail, Cyril and the others raced to hang their work, their pictures, amid the lingering scent of beeswax.