a Union Jack. Your father?”
“Um, well –”
Ivy looked amused. Her breath, hot and alcoholic, hung in the air between them. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. I don’t care what he does. Why, is your family poor, like mine? I would have thought your mother makes a bundle!”
“Well, ah –” Robbie said.
“Or maybe you’re rich, but subscribe to the idea that it’s cool to be poor and have a bad attitude.”
“Well, no, I –”
“I do, and I’m not ashamed of it. It’s ‘necessity’s sharp pinch’ that got me where I am – my excuse for a father certainly couldn’t afford to send me to Blanchemains. As far as I’m concerned,getting on a special educational program like I did – because I’m
smart –
mostly means I can be as bad as I like.”
“Right,” Robbie said. “Exactly.”
“Hey look!” She gripped his arm. “That woman in the fur coat. She’s a whore.”
“How do you know? Wow. Do you know that person?”
“God, no. What do you think she’s doing, waiting for a parade?”
They walked and walked until the sky and the snow beneath it turned purple and the street lights flickered on. Robbie couldn’t think of a thing to say. Ivy had clammed up, too. They walked. He was feeling grim. They obviously had nothing in common after all.
“Time to go,” she said at last. And embraced him violently. Their noses bonked, but he barely felt a thing. He heard his frozen parka crunch, and smelled warm beeswax and brandy escape from her Afghan coat. She opened that wide mouth, so full of crooked teeth the thought struck him that she must have an appetite for things he’d never even heard of yet. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to be devoured. It was hot and wet in there, and his entire being was engulfed in the kiss. His soul slithered down a dark-red, ribbed tunnel, and when they lost their balance together on the ice, he was surprised to find it was rush hour all around them. She finally released him. He watched her climb onto a bus. Then he turned and raced all the way home, knees buckling and the breath in his throat rasping so cold it barely made steam.
Ivy worked most evenings behind the candy counter at the old Roxy Cinema. That alone would have been enough reason to go out with her, for Robbie got to see
Woodstock
seven times in twoweeks, all for free. But over lunch one day she told him the cinema had acquired an uncut 35mm copy of
She Stoops to Conquer
. “And I don’t mean Oliver Goldsmith,” she whispered, with a confidential smirk.
“No, of course not,” Robbie replied, pushing his lower lip up and nodding his head like he knew
exactly
what she was talking about.
Back in the forties, the Roxy had been the home of the Empire Burlesque Follies of Montreal – he’d heard stories of his grandfather going there to see Les Girls de Montmartre for only twenty cents. Now, an electric marquee was bolted over friezes of the theatre’s original Egyptian motif, that once depicted Osiris and Horas and Thoth ogling bare-breasted, feather-topped dancers; the city atmosphere had smudged and disfigured them, but Robbie preferred them that way; history seemed to lurk there.
He lined up to say hi at the candy counter, his heart turning over like an egg in boiling water. Ivy was up to her chest in carob bars and packages of Trail Mix. Her breath was heavy and sweet. “Oh,
hello,”
she said. “Don’t you look groovy.” Surreptitiously, she showed him a brown-bagged bottle she had stowed under the counter beside an Ayn Rand novel. She smiled with her mouth all full of teeth like a stuffed pocket, and Robbie was in heaven.
It was hot in the cinema, and the crowd was as quiet as if they were watching a thriller. The music was jaunty, like an ad for a holiday resort, but it was a great leaning tower of Penis that was projected on the screen. Robbie had never seen anything like it. And who was it up there also, but the one and only Kiki Van Garterbelt, star centrefold
“Um, well –”
Ivy looked amused. Her breath, hot and alcoholic, hung in the air between them. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. I don’t care what he does. Why, is your family poor, like mine? I would have thought your mother makes a bundle!”
“Well, ah –” Robbie said.
“Or maybe you’re rich, but subscribe to the idea that it’s cool to be poor and have a bad attitude.”
“Well, no, I –”
“I do, and I’m not ashamed of it. It’s ‘necessity’s sharp pinch’ that got me where I am – my excuse for a father certainly couldn’t afford to send me to Blanchemains. As far as I’m concerned,getting on a special educational program like I did – because I’m
smart –
mostly means I can be as bad as I like.”
“Right,” Robbie said. “Exactly.”
“Hey look!” She gripped his arm. “That woman in the fur coat. She’s a whore.”
“How do you know? Wow. Do you know that person?”
“God, no. What do you think she’s doing, waiting for a parade?”
They walked and walked until the sky and the snow beneath it turned purple and the street lights flickered on. Robbie couldn’t think of a thing to say. Ivy had clammed up, too. They walked. He was feeling grim. They obviously had nothing in common after all.
“Time to go,” she said at last. And embraced him violently. Their noses bonked, but he barely felt a thing. He heard his frozen parka crunch, and smelled warm beeswax and brandy escape from her Afghan coat. She opened that wide mouth, so full of crooked teeth the thought struck him that she must have an appetite for things he’d never even heard of yet. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to be devoured. It was hot and wet in there, and his entire being was engulfed in the kiss. His soul slithered down a dark-red, ribbed tunnel, and when they lost their balance together on the ice, he was surprised to find it was rush hour all around them. She finally released him. He watched her climb onto a bus. Then he turned and raced all the way home, knees buckling and the breath in his throat rasping so cold it barely made steam.
Ivy worked most evenings behind the candy counter at the old Roxy Cinema. That alone would have been enough reason to go out with her, for Robbie got to see
Woodstock
seven times in twoweeks, all for free. But over lunch one day she told him the cinema had acquired an uncut 35mm copy of
She Stoops to Conquer
. “And I don’t mean Oliver Goldsmith,” she whispered, with a confidential smirk.
“No, of course not,” Robbie replied, pushing his lower lip up and nodding his head like he knew
exactly
what she was talking about.
Back in the forties, the Roxy had been the home of the Empire Burlesque Follies of Montreal – he’d heard stories of his grandfather going there to see Les Girls de Montmartre for only twenty cents. Now, an electric marquee was bolted over friezes of the theatre’s original Egyptian motif, that once depicted Osiris and Horas and Thoth ogling bare-breasted, feather-topped dancers; the city atmosphere had smudged and disfigured them, but Robbie preferred them that way; history seemed to lurk there.
He lined up to say hi at the candy counter, his heart turning over like an egg in boiling water. Ivy was up to her chest in carob bars and packages of Trail Mix. Her breath was heavy and sweet. “Oh,
hello,”
she said. “Don’t you look groovy.” Surreptitiously, she showed him a brown-bagged bottle she had stowed under the counter beside an Ayn Rand novel. She smiled with her mouth all full of teeth like a stuffed pocket, and Robbie was in heaven.
It was hot in the cinema, and the crowd was as quiet as if they were watching a thriller. The music was jaunty, like an ad for a holiday resort, but it was a great leaning tower of Penis that was projected on the screen. Robbie had never seen anything like it. And who was it up there also, but the one and only Kiki Van Garterbelt, star centrefold
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