Days by moonlight Read online

  Canadian.’ Which is to say that, to some extent, I excluded

  myself, too. In Schomberg, I ended up feeling inadequate, shamed,

  cancelled out, as if I only precariously belonged anywhere. So, it

  was a relief when Professor Bruno finished his camomile and we

  left the Scruffy Dog, heading (at last) for Feversham.

  As if Schomberg itself were pleased by our departure, I discov-

  ered a wide patch of silk locket ( Carcere Canadensis) as the professor

  and I walked back to the car. And I was reminded of how rich in

  small wonders Canada is, how rich my country is.

  It’s true that silk lockets are common – and classified as a

  weed – but I’ve always thought they were a fascinating variant

  of the “flytrap” plants that exist around the world. To begin with,

  the locket’s appearance when open is like a circular clump of

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  reddish-blond hair, in the middle of which there is a circular

  depression, in the middle of which there is a circular blue speck

  that smells of butter in the morning and of rotten chicken in the

  afternoon. The blue is attractive to flies. But when a fly – or any

  insect – touches the speck, the strands of hair knit themselves

  into what, when the plant is closed, looks like a small locket.

  The remarkable thing is that it takes silk locket .227 of a second

  to close the trap, about the same time as it takes someone to

  blink, so it’s virtually impossible for the human eye to see the

  plant in action.

  As with any carnivorous plant, there is something terribly

  cruel about silk locket. But when I was a child, it was considered

  good luck to find one that had just closed. You could hear the fly

  inside the plant, buzzing for some time before it died. And though

  I hadn’t done this in years, I searched among the lockets to see if

  I could find a noisy one, wasting a few minutes before giving up.

  Having lost the morning, we should have headed straight to

  Feversham, but the day seemed intent on driving us off course.

  As we got into the car and fastened our seat belts, there was a

  knock on the passenger-side window. A short, stocky Black man,

  his Afro greying in a small circle on his head, repeatedly made

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  the sign for “hitchhike” – fist held sideways, thumb out and point-

  ing in the direction of the road. No sooner was he in the back of

  car than he began to talk.

  – Malky Jenkins, he said. Good to meet you.

  – Oh, said Professor Bruno. You’re talking!

  – Course I’m talking, said Malky. I can’t be Black twenty-four

  hours a day. Besides, I like Schomberg but I love to talk. I’d croak

  if I lived here. You guys going anywhere near New Tecumseth?

  Malky’s voice was pleasant and he himself was good company.

  – What’s a Caucasian individual like you doing in Schomberg?

  he asked Professor Bruno.

  – Well, said Professor Bruno, Alfred and I were curious about

  the town Carson Michaels came from. Do you know her?

  – Sure I know her, said Malky. What about it?

  – We heard a story about her and …

  Malky interrupted him.

  – You heard she’s the most beautiful woman around here,

  didn’t you? But it’s not true! Carson was okay in her day, but her

  sister Kate’s the one. That’s a fine woman! Carson’s one of those

  who believes they’re beautiful, and when a person believes them-

  self strong enough, they get others to believe them, too. Without

  trying! That’s the kind of beautiful Carson was. I just don’t believe

  her, is what I’m saying. You can see for yourself, you know. She

  works in Coulson’s Hill.

  – We were just in Coulson’s Hill, said the professor. I found

  her quite lovely.

  – Man, I’m not arguing with you, said Malky. What a person

  finds beautiful is their own business. I’ll just say, we don’t go to

  the same church. But I am observant, where beauty’s concerned.

  In the half-hour it took to reach New Tecumseth, Malky must

  have talked about a hundred things, but what stuck with me,

  distracted as I was with the driving, were his words about Carson

  Michaels’s beauty and his talk about the Museum of Canadian

  Sexuality in New Tecumseth. The two things were related. At

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  least, they were for Malky, physical beauty being a hidden aspect

  of the museum, as far as he was concerned.

  Had we been to the Museum of Canadian Sexuality?

  No? Neither of us? How wonderful that we could see it for

  the first time today!

  He highly recommended the place. And, it just so happened,

  he worked at the museum. He was a ticket taker and it would

  be his pleasure to give us each an employee discount on the

  entrance fee.

  The thought of visiting a museum devoted to sexuality didn’t

  appeal to me at all. I’m not prudish, but I’ve begun to think my

  father was right about the “publicizing” of sex.

  – What’s the point, he’d ask, of surrendering the most wonder-

  ful thing humans have to businessmen and carnies? I just don’t

  understand this need to abase the sacred.

  The older I am, the more I understand my father’s scruples.

  But Professor Bruno’s curiosity was piqued. He couldn’t imagine

  what a museum devoted to “Canadian sexuality” would look like.

  And, to be fair, neither could I. So, when we got to New Tecum-

  seth, the professor decided we should see the place for ourselves.

  The Museum of Canadian Sexuality was in an old-style

  theatre. It looked like the Victoria playhouse in Petrolia but with-

  out the clock tower. The building was brick, but it had been

  recently painted white, with black trim around the windows and

  doors. It looked elegant and compact, almost Quaker-built. Inside,

  it was more colourful. Once you got beyond the box office, some

  of the walls had brightly coloured images projected on them. For

  instance, in the antechamber where we waited for our guide, a

  single scarlet tanager feather was projected on our left: bright

  red and imposing, about four feet long from tip to crown. On

  the wall to our right, directly opposite the feather, there was a

  green maple tree in leaf, also about four feet tall.

  For five minutes or so, we were alone in the antechamber, the

  professor and me. The only sound was the drone of a distant fan.

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  We were eventually joined by a person in a royal-blue pantsuit, a

  necklace of thick, false pearls, and dark shoes whose soles were

  so high you could have said the person was perched when they

  weren’t in motion.

  – Is it just you two? the person asked.

  – Dear madam, I think it is, answered the professor.

  The person looked at him for a moment.

  – Are you heterosexual? they asked.

  Embarrassed, the professor said

  – Well, in general, yes.

  – Oh, no judgment, they said. Is your partner also heterosexual?

  They both looked at me.

  – Yes, I’m hetero, I said.

  Though it felt strange having to admit it.

>   – I don’t like to ask, said our guide. It’s a bit of an invasion.

  And you may not feel comfortable in any of the usual categories.

  But I find it useful to know when I’m leading heterosexuals

  through the museum. You see, here we don’t pretend heterosex-

  uality is the only or most interesting approach to the movable

  feast that is sex. But neither do we judge. Your inclinations are

  your own affair. You should know, though, that Canadian sexu-

  ality includes any number of gratifications. So, if you think you’re

  likely to be offended, you can get a full refund at this stage and

  we’ll go no further. Are you both okay to proceed?

  I nodded to show my assent, but Professor Bruno asked

  – What kind of gratifications?

  – I don’t want to tell you before we see the exhibits, answered

  our guide. It would spoil your surprise. But all the acts depicted

  are within the norms of Canadian conduct, if not approval.

  Which didn’t exactly put the professor at ease.

  – Well, he said, if they’re within the norms …

  – Wonderful, said our guide. Now, if you’ll just follow me.

  We went through a door, from the quiet antechamber into a

  large, darkened room. The ceiling was some thirty feet up, satin-

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  black with dozens of illuminated specks on it, as if fluorescent

  rice had been thrown at it and stuck. Around us were four brightly

  lit dioramas in glass showcases. But our guide, who introduced

  themself as Michael, first pointed to what I took to be a person

  standing in the centre of the room and looking up at the ceiling,

  as if up at a night sky.

  – We’re a country of erotic distances, said Michael. The statue

  you see over there represents this, and it stands for all Canadians.

  On looking closer, I could see how it stood for many of us. It

  was like a sculpture done by Evan Penny, lifelike. But it repre-

  sented neither man nor woman or it represented both. The figure

  was in a long coat that descended past its knees. The coat was

  navy blue and seemed heavy. Beneath the coat the statue, which

  had cleavage and notable breasts, was unclothed – or looked as

  though it were. It had silky blond hair that fell past its clavicles,

  and along its narrow back. But it also had a prominent Adam’s

  apple and a tidy black moustache.

  Taking me aside, Michael said in a low voice

  – This is, of course, our Caucasian model. We have a number

  of others, different ages and races. If you’d come yesterday, we

  had the older Negro out. I hope you’re not offended. I’m able to

  refund your entrance fee, if you are.

  I assured Michael that I wasn’t offended, and, reassured,

  Michael took us to the first of the dioramas.

  I found the first diorama – maybe because it was first – the

  most disturbing. In a glass showcase was a hotel room, its walls

  light blue. At its centre was a queen-sized bed, well made, its

  bedclothes cream-coloured. The floor was a pale, grainy wood and,

  to the left of the bed, there was a door. Stencilled on the glass

  between the spectators and the diorama were some twenty columns

  of numerals and letters neatly organized and clearly legible.

  As I was looking at the diorama, Michael gave Professor

  Bruno a square of paper and quietly spoke words that I didn’t

  catch. The professor’s face reddened and, as if food had gone

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  down his throat the wrong way, he coughed wildly. Making sooth-

  ing sounds, Michael patted the professor’s back until he recov-

  ered. Michael then came to where I was standing and said

  – The most interesting thing about Canadian sexuality is the

  theatre of it, don’t you think?

  Michael then gave me a square of paper like the one they’d

  given the professor.

  – These are the permutations, Michael said.

  The paper was thick, the size of a playing card, and on it, in

  fluorescent ink, were printed the meanings of the symbols and

  numbers that were on the glass of the dioramas. I immediately

  understood the professor’s embarrassment. Most of the symbols

  stood for “protrusions” or “declivities.’ The rest of them stood for

  types of motion. Equipped with this chart, it was possible to

  translate the “notations” on the glass, if you wished. So, I could

  now see that a previously indecipherable string of symbols –

  α × 2 non-m, 3 × χ non-m – represented what is called “soixante-

  neuf.’ In this way – that is, by way of symbols and numbers – the

  geometry of penetration and accommodation was dealt with as

  exhaustively as possible. This desire for completion – which was

  a desire for inclusion – accounted for the sheer number of “nota-

  tions” stencilled on the glass. Meanwhile, penetrations and accom-

  modations accounted for, the theatre of the Canadian sexual

  imagination could be given its due with the dioramas.

  Knowing the meanings of the symbols did not ease my discom-

  fort. If anything, it made things worse. From the moment Michael

  gave me the “chart of correspondences,’ I wanted out of the

  museum. I stayed for Professor Bruno’s sake. Having overcome

  his embarrassment, he seemed intrigued by the exhibits.

  The second diorama in the room was a representation of a

  historical scene, a botanical one. It was a faithfully rendered

  field of fire-lions ( Taraxacum angustifolium), among the most beau-

  tiful plants native to our country. The fire-lions seemed to go

  on for miles in all directions with, in the distance facing the

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  spectator, a border of willows whose light green crest was like a

  small, kind idea.

  – This field, said Michael, represents a field of fire-lions from

  the 1500s. It’s here, not far from Saguenay, that Jacques Cartier

  and a handful of his men are rumoured to have engaged in a

  spontaneous orgy amongst themselves, under the influence of

  what we now know to be the aphrodisiac contained in fire-lions.

  After writing a discreet account of what happened, Cartier wrote

  in his diary: “Nous ne sommes pas sortis indemnes”.

  Michael here looked at Professor Bruno and, as if anticipating

  some learnèd reproach, said

  – There are other accounts of this incident. One of Cartier’s

  own men wrote that the Iroquois had warned them about the

  field and had told them in the plainest way what would happen.

  I’d never heard of this orgy among Jacques Cartier and his

  men, but if they’d wandered into a field of fire-lions, they would

  not have been able to help themselves. And you’d have thought

  this episode would, at least among botanists, be known. It isn’t.

  But the professor asked no questions about the fact of Cartier’s

  predicament. Instead, he and our guide discussed Cartier’s diary

  entry, its vagueness. As far as Professor Bruno was concerned,

  “ne pas sortir indemne” – to not get away without consequences

  – could mean any number of things, not necessarily an orgy, as

  we in the twenty-first century understood the term.
Michael’s

  counter-argument was that, knowing what we do about the effects

  of fire-lions, it would be unusual if Jacques Cartier and his men

  had not engaged in some form of drastic sensuality. Besides, the

  explorers were young Europeans whose very idea of a “new world”

  would have included the notion of unchecked sensuality. When

  you added to that the explorers’ own accounts, however vague

  they sometimes were, it tilted the argument in the museum’s

  favour, although, admittedly, there were historians who disagreed.

  Professor Bruno seemed more interested than convinced.

  – Well, I suppose that’s a viable argument, he said.

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  I was not interested in either side of the argument, not inter-

  ested in the historical record, not interested in the sexual activity

  of men who’d been dead for centuries. My thoughts were uniquely

  – maybe desperately – about the fire-lions. I was grateful for

  them. They were, ironically, a distraction from the museum.

  I’d never seen a field of fire-lions – I still haven’t – but

  whoever did the diorama must have been something of a botanist,

  so accurately were the plants made.

  Though I appreciate how unlikely and wonderful it is that a

  plant should be both an herbal ecstasy and a natural Viagra, what

  caught my imagination, where the fire-lions were concerned, was

  the fact that a plant should evolve to look as if it were on fire: its

  leaves flame-red and streaked with yellow, its floating tufts (like

  dandelion seeds) rising black and grey from hidden seed heads.

  It’s with plants like this (fire-lion, royal candles, bee balm, butterfly

  weed …) that I feel the land’s desire for joy, its willingness to play

  with us, to frustrate, to fool, to delight, to leave perplexed. Profes-

  sor Bruno and Michael had moved on to the next diorama, but I

  stood for some time before the field of fire-lions, admiring the

  plants themselves and the willows in the distance.

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  After that, I looked over at the third diorama – a white icefield

  with a jagged white cliff for background and a full-sized orange

  tent in the foreground – and decided I didn’t want to see any

  more. Professor Bruno and Michael were waiting for me in front

  of the showcase. Each seemed pleased with the other’s company.

  Not that the professor was happy per se. When I’d caught up to