Minotaur

I had to backtrack before I could find the street named on the mimeographed invitation. Then I drove down narrow winding corridors (one could hardly call them streets) with numbers on signposts and arrows pointing haphazardly as though placed there by some playfully malicious spirit. It must have been a lunatic who planned the layout. Some latter-day Hephaestus, I cursed, as I stumbled on a curb in the darkness, after parking the car. Then I began limping cautiously up walkways to the various warrens, peering at numbers.

Finally, the right one ... where a tall bearded man with a beaming face welcomed me like an old friend into a brightly-lit vestibule, took my coat and directed me downstairs. There, in the uh, well, cellar, stood a semi-circle of a dozen-odd chairs arranged neatly around an executive-size desk. Bookshelves ranged the walls and above them photographs, certificates and crucifixes. Crucifixes everywhere. At first, I found their presence encouraging, re-assuring. Over a table groaning under piles of booklets, papers, pamphlets, hung framed Aubrey Beardsley prints. At the end opposite to the desk, above double washtubs hung a cheap tapestry of Leonardo's 'Last Supper'. Tacked up at the corners, the tapestry hung limply; the faces of the disciples appeared twisted in mortal agony.

"This is our director, Marcel Brisbois", the bearded, genial one said, from behind, having clattered down the steps right after me.

"Yes, of course", I said brightly and stepped briskly toward a handsome dark man, my hand outstretched. "Your name is on the letterhead ... of my invitation, that is." Flattered that I'm meeting the director, himself. Wondering vaguely where everyone else is ... the invitation spoke of an 'introduction' to a writer's workshop.

"And me, of course", the tall one chuckled, stopping me in my forward motion. "I'm Claude Rampal." Almost self-effacingly.

"Ah, yes. You're ...?"

"Editor. I'm the editor of our Canadian Poetry and World News magazine."

A moment of awkwardness. What to do with myself, after having pressed palms with these two, after the usual comments on this fall's unusually brisk weather? I take off my jacket and sit down. We talk desultorily, feeling one another out. It is obvious that we are waiting for others to show up. Other invitations, I am told, have been circulated among this town's thriving literati. No one does, however, show up. My eyes begin to glaze over; straying against my will toward the small coloured television set playing a silent farce on top of some filing cabinets - cowboys or something, lots of action.

Then he begins, Claude, to describe to me their purpose. I am trying to appear calm, yet cannot help wondering at this point what I have let myself in for. A small dark woman; that's me. And here I am, sitting in someone's basement, for God's sake, in the middle of a labyrinth that no one in their right mind would enter to begin with.

"What remains to be done of course", Claude is saying, "is that we seek out other people like ourselves, interested in good literature, the arts in general, who will want to join our little group".

I nod brightly. It is only polite to appear interested. After all, that is why I came ... an interest in things literary?

Marcel sits in silence, permitting Claude to talk. Marcel listens. Almost broodingly, it seems to me. I momentarily panic; wonder fleetingly if anyone would hear my screams, wonder where my poor broken body will be discovered, come the morn....

But then someone stumbles down the wooden steps, catching herself at the bottom, and stiffly rights herself. A slight woman whose clothing envelope her oddly, like a dishevelled moth preparing for the chrysalis state.

"And this is Madeleine, my wife", Claude tells me, beaming benignly at the woman. I relax and look with relief at the other two. They appear harmless now, my newfound literary confreres. Madeline has brought us coffee, bless her. She clinks about, arranging cups, spoons and other paraphernalia on a low table, then leaves quietly, casting shy smiles at us.

Claude asks to see some of my work. While he is looking, reading my awkwardly proffered poetry, passing them on to Marcel, I walk self-consciously about the room, looking at everything. There are photographs of Claude in what I'm uneasily certain must be a bishop's vestments. Was that a ruby ring on his hand? I stroll to the long table where letters addressed to 'Archbishop Rampal' are ostentatiously pinned on the wall. I feel as though I am prying, although they are obviously placed there to be seen. However, I balk at reading them, edge past them as one might an embarrassing nudity. And on the table there are copies of stapled, stencilled broadsheets with the acronym CP&WN and below that heading a large photograph of a hieratical Claude Rampal, a medallion hanging heavily on his robed breast. It is embarrassing, but I don't ask myself why and just shy away.

"Hey, you're good!" voices Claude enthusiastically, holding out a sheet of my paper. And now, I do blush. "Eh?" he says, turning to Marcel. "Isn't she, Marcel!"

And from him, soft-voiced, grudgingly optimistic: "She shows promise." I warm to them both.

Claude calls up to his wife who appears tentatively, blinking, down the steps. He tells her to show me around the house, while they discuss 'business'. Madeline is very willing, and me, what can I say? I must, after all, follow her up the stairs and about their three-story dwelling, listening to her chatter.

Downstairs - the first floor that is - a typically middle-class living room, a notional dining room. Upstairs, three bedrooms, only one with a bed, the other two host desks, bookshelves, photographs of Claude on walls. And on the third floor another bedroom-cum-den and a tiny 'library' flanking a sewing room. Everywhere on the upper two levels schlock art; abstracts poorly executed drip from the walls.

Madeleine natters edgily on about how they've just moved in, about their recent marriage (something previous to that about having 'lived together' for some seven years) and his, Claude's, grand function in the church. Oh yes, there'd been a pastel, a good one, of Cardinal Spellman, in one of the 'offices'. What this all means, all these conflicting observations, I don't quite know but I do know that I will not ask for details, explanations of any kind. This woman strikes me as very fragile with an eggshell-delicate equilibrium; short on the kind of sanity I've been accustomed to. She twitters like an addled bird, throwing anxious glances my way time and again, but not breaking off her high-pitched, yet drawling monologue; and shows me a satin-bound wedding album, herself in a hand-made dress she's proud of with 'frog' fastenings she'd made herself. She tells me breathlessly that she looked pale in the photograph because she'd just gotten over a miscarriage, at the time.

Everything points to classical Catholicism ... but marriage? Ah yes, my historical voice tells me, counterpoint to her hysterical one; but wasn't Cesare Borgia born of a Pope? Another throwback. We may be entering a new Renaissance. The Church has always been accommodating to its clerics, and perhaps I haven't been aware of certain changes...? My head by now, is spinning.

************************************************************

Next week I bring some more of my poetry, rejects from literary magazines. Claude and Marcel had selected two of my poems for publication in Canadian Poetry and World News and had wanted a few more to select from. I'd continued during the week to muse on the paradox of a prelate in the Catholic Church married, living in a condominium, setting up a poetry workshop. A most um, unorthodox yet appealing, in a bizarre way, mystery. I felt compelled to return.

"My dear Rhonda! Do come in ... we have recruited a few additional members. Come right on down!" Claude greeted me effusively again, like a cherished friend.

Introductions then, to two new people, inductees into this literary temple of confused priorities. Now there was me, one lone woman, and four men. One, Red Blondin, is introduced as a sculptor. The other is younger. He looks like a university kid, but is not. He is an engineer.

I am handed the sculptor's album of his works. It is explained to him that I work in an art gallery and write poetry 'on the side'. Flipping through his book, I recognize the influences of Rodin, Picasso, Moore. His work is heavily derivative, devoid of personal creativity. I murmur recognition of some similarities.

"Yes", he acknowledges, a wry look wrinkling his broad face. "I learned from studying their work. But my work is uniquely my own now", he adds hastily. And goes on to tell us that his 'original' ideas have been pilfered by unscrupulous artists, copying and selling his creations. He tells us that because of his unswerving devotion to his art, his poor business acumen, an unwillingness to prostitute himself, his work languishes in obscurity. He talks bitterly about the Canada Council, the Ontario Arts Council, even this city's Arts Grants Committee and its parochial failure to recognize his genius. Boring. I've heard it all before.

Soon we are taking turns reading our poetry. No one criticizes. There are supportive murmurs of gentle appreciation. Again Madeleine serves coffee, renders her tenuous smiles.

The other, younger man, Paul, shyly tells me he likes my poetry. His was very good too, I tell him obligingly, willing enough to reciprocate.

Wandering during a brief talk session to the table with my coffee, I see a familiar face looking back at me from a poetry book cover and over it, a discreet little sign: "Special to members of Canadian Poetry and World News - $3.95!" A booklet of Claude's poetry. Beside it, another sign: "Give what you can", hoisted over a deep dish with a five-dollar bill nestled cozily in its bottom. Beside that, a stack of fibreboard squares with oil paint drizzled imaginatively over them: "Original oils by Claude Rampal - special to members - $5.00!

"Oh, and I do some acting", Claude is addressing the others as I drift back and take my seat. "T.V., and some stage." He points overhead to piles of dust covers colourfully hanging from the rafters. "Freelance writing as well, but most of my income is from book reviews." Everyone is silent, impressed by this embarrassment of talents.

"Here are a few of my early books", he says off-handedly, pulling two volumes of religious history books off the shelf behind him, handing them around. They're published in French, beautifully illustrated. They look impressive. I am impressed. This is obviously a very gifted and complex personality.

He turns the talk in the direction of the future of 'our' magazine. We will publish in languages other than English, he says; eventually accept poetry from other countries. Translations, we'll do those too. He canvasses the group for translation potential. Essays and short stories. His book reviews, of course. and we'll run a book-of-the-month award of a hundred dollars to the best book submitted for review during any month. We will all judge.

*************************************************************

By the next meeting, another two literary hopefuls fill in the ranks of empty chairs. We read our poetry aloud. A few tentatively critical remarks pass around at one point and are serenely passed over by the reader; myself.

Claude, meanwhile, calls a temporary halt to the poetry reading. He has a few things to announce. Claude has probed our lifestyles subtly, is aware of our other interests. He knows things about all of us now, told him during unguarded coffee-break chumminess.

"For the next meeting we'll have a special poetry reading", he announces. "In fact, it will be a rehearsal, so bring your best work. A friend of mine" --, he expands, beaming his avuncular smile which assures us that 'Uncle Claude' thinks of everything -- "is a television producer on a local station and he is dropping by. We are planning to tape a program revolving about our workshop. My friend says the idea has tremendous potential ... next week will be the uh, dress rehearsal", he concludes with a fat satisfaction buttering his face. Everyone by now looks to him as the literary patriarch and excited questions blossom in the stale cellar air. He airily ignores them and continues.

"And you, Rhonda", he says, "are going to perform for us!"

"Me?" I repeat stupidly, briefly envisioning a mad moment of poetic strip tease.

"Ha! You're modest! I like a talented person with modesty: Paul has agreed to work on a duet with you - how's that?"

***************************************************************

Paul, the ersatz university student, comes up to my apartment during the week, with his violin. I said I would pick something suitable for us, but he has brought along his own music; all the literature of Paganini, Tartini, including the "Devil's Trill" of both. Trying to psyche me out, I figure. There's no part for me and finally he agrees that a Telemann trio sonata for flute and violin that I had transcribed for recorder and violin would 'have to do'. I am to play my alto recorder and he his violin; we ignore the continuo.

He's rusty, obviously hasn't played for a while, despite his attempt at flashiness. His tone is not bad, but his timing is sadly out and he keeps trying to get in tune, fooling with the tuning pegs, stalling for time.

"Paul", I tell him when we finally start, "try a little less vibrato? Remember, this is a baroque piece" I tell him starchily, fed up with his dickering around.

"You're going too fast", he flicks his wrist at me. "Slow down, would you?" He's behaving like a superior little jerk. That was the correct tempo.

I mean what the hell has this got to do with a poetry workshop anyhow? I feel trapped, want to get some help with my writing; don't want to antagonize anyone. It is, after all, obvious that Claude is someone with connections. I tell myself: have patience, Rhonda. Grit my teeth and smile at Paul.

**********************************************************

At the next meeting, we play, Paul and me, for the visiting television producer. He nods amiably at our efforts, has brought along a camera-man, has told us where to position ourselves. Then the readings, everyone emoting their favourite pieces, woodenly, performing to camera. Paul tells me sotto voce, that ours are the only good ones and congratulates me also, on my playing. Trying, obviously, to redeem himself in my estimation. Little twit.

Later, after the television producer and his sidekick have departed, Claude tells us he has received submission from other area poets who were unable to attend, but plan to, in future. Our ranks are growing. As well, he had made contact with a poet in Montreal and another in Buenos Aires who will become associate members ... if that is all right with everyone here? He calls Madeleine down to read a selection of poetry from the person in Buenos Aires. She reads the poems in a halting Spanish. We all clap when she is finished; relieved.

"Madeleine also has two pieces which she has written herself", Claude says proudly. I look at her, surprised. One of the things she had mumbled to me previously was that she couldn't write worth a damn herself. She hangs back but he insists and although it is obvious that she is reluctant, she reads her poetry. In French. No one else beside Marcel understands French but Claude, and he is positively entranced. They are, he says, love poems dedicated to him. Her voice is halting, she stumbles continually, says par-dahn, and continues her painful elocution.

The whole thing is somehow unreal. The only reality seems to be that Marcel, quiet and brooding Marcel, who sits silently through most of the meeting is the only 'mature' poet present. His poems are really polished. By comparison we others are rank dilettantes, even Claude. Marcel takes the rest of us aside from time to time, individually, and offers us gentle direction, encouragement.

************************************************************

Our discussions are expanding. We are beginning to talk of visual art and science, as well as philosophy. Hesitantly dipping our conversational feet into the areas of religion and politics, too. We discover hidden talents among more newly-recruited members ... and exotic lifestyles. One, a Lebanese, shyly tells us he has just been married by proxy. His bride, whom he has never met, is coming to Toronto the coming month. She is ten years younger than him; fifteen years of age. He has a photograph of her, which he glowingly permits us to see. Dark eyes, large and deep enough to drown in, and long black tresses; an Eastern gown, bare feet.

Oh, although nothing is said at first, a common thought seems to go the rounds: will she find this cold climate congenial to her warm Levantine blood? Will he, our Lebanese literary friend, repeat Eastern custom and treat her as chattel? Immediately impregnate this woman-child, then secure her forever to a cycle of childbirth? Will that fragile butterfly become a stolid moth in too-short years? The questions hover on curious lips, then die a cold and instant death before the young man's obvious pleasure, in avid anticipation of the approach of his new 'partner'.

The talk turns to other matters, but not so 'other'; those questions still lingering, refusing to be spoken, or to die. We discuss morality in marriage, outside marriage. And although that, per se, has nothing to do with Mahmoud, he appears embarrassed by it all.

Ordinarily, though, all this talk, these verbal explorations are good. Exhilarating, stimulating, nothing less. From such a tentative beginning, dare we hope ... who knows? From time to time each of us grows a dreamy look on his face. Thinking perhaps, like me, that we may evolve a worthwhile association of ideas, a cross-fertilization of talents. Is it too much to hope for a modern day Lunar Society? Like the one that Erasmus Darwin fondly named 'The Lunatic Club'? Might Claude be our catalyst, the one to propel us into world renown as a highly talented group? Remember the Bloomsburys? Only time would tell.

************************************************************

I open my door to find Claude there, filling the space with his bulk. Rakish, in a turtle-neck sweater, a medallion, a Harris tweed jacket, hands busy with his pipe. He exhibits an air of casual surprise when I open the door. As though he belongs there, on my lintel, and I'm some strange, unexpected intruder. He half embraces me, then sets me aside and walks in. He looks about my place, walking from one corner of my living room to the other.

All this while I am blushing. I am garbed in a dressing gown. I feel invaded, vulnerable. But he appears to almost ignore my physical presence, is more interested in my possessions.

"Have you got insurance?" he asks, briskly, businesslike.

"Insurance?" I respond, blankly.

"On these things", he says impatiently, sweeping his arm expansively. My mother's silver which I detest, which I polish guiltily, really aching sometimes to throw out, but cannot. My own pride, a semi-reclining fifth-size carrera marble nude. Nineteenth-Century. Italian. Signed.

He sits comfortably across from me, talking. Stuffing himself with chocolate chip cookies, like a kid. I pour him another cup of tea. He makes sly allusion to my living alone, in luxury, winks.

"That your bedroom?" he asks pointedly, then insists on seeing the whole apartment.

I show him around, reluctantly. He appraises everything minutely, with the most intense interest. At any other time I might feel flattered. I would talk about my books, my objets d'art, my paintings. Nothing modern; everything in traditional fine-art style.

Finally, he is seated on the sofa again. "Madeleine was just saying we've got to get a better coffeepot for our guests. You know, when I left my parish, we left so much behind ..."

"Oh, well ... look! You can borrow this one. It's been in my family ... I'd be glad to let you use it." I say this desperately, wanting him to leave, buying him off....

He is gracious in his acceptance. I feel strangely flattered by his attention, his acceptance, yet want him to leave. I squirm on the tub chair, pleating the skirt of my dressing gown in my fingers. He exudes confidence. Smiles beatifically at me, tucks the pot under his arm. But I take it from him firmly and place it into a paper bag. Don't want anyone stopping him.

************************************************************

Next meeting we are all more comfortable with one another. We read poetry, discuss some more philosophy. Everyone has decided to stay clear away from politics and religion. Claude discusses the literary market in Canada. He talks about what a hack Peter Benton is, but he is, he says, a good businessman, with great contacts.

"That's where the money is", he puffs knowledgeably. "The whole publishing industry in Canada is sick, incestuous. I could tell you stories...."

But he does not. He does though go on to tell us about some of his future plans for our little group. Poetry readings at the University of Toronto, at city hall, that kind of thing. Canada Council grants. Ontario Arts Council grants.

"So we've got to have some kind of concrete structure here; order. Something to show them, to place in front of them. That's why I want you to be secretary, Rhonda, to take notes of all our meetings. And Paul, you're going to be our marketing manager." He laughs at our confusion. "Red, you're our resident artist, okay?" I look over at Marcel. He has a sour look on his face, looks uncomfortable. But then, he always does, even to that twitch in his cheek.

Claude hands out printed forms. Signing over our work to him for publishing. "Just a formality", he laughs. "Everyone sign, and we'll have them witnessed."

"Just a minute, please", Marcel says, and reads one of the forms. Then he takes out a pen and prints in: "Publication rights to revert to author"; collects each one and prints it in, then hands them back out to us. All this time, Claude is watching indulgently, puffing his pipe, saying nothing further.

****************************************************************

Marcel walks in hesitantly, looks around my apartment. He appears agitated; smaller than he appears, at our meetings. He hands me a hard-cover book of poetry and ducks his head in a courtly, old-fashioned manner; a gift for me. Then he paces the living room until I say please sit down, he is making me nervous. Not nervous in the way that Claude did, however.

"Look", he says finally, running thin fingers through his hair. "I don't know how to say this ...."

"What? What is it?"

"Claude. Look, I really feel responsible for all of you ...."

"Well, look ... I don't understand."

Claude unzips his briefcase and pulls out a pile of papers. I recognize the Canadian Poetry and World News broadsheet, and Claude's photograph. Then out with the little poetry book I had seen on that table.

"Have you ever read any of this?"

"Why, no", I say, shamefaced. I had meant to read some of it, but somehow never got around to it. "I did mean to, though."

"This book" Marcel said, indicating the slim volume with unconcealed contempt, "he had it printed himself. No publisher would touch it."

"Oh." I glanced down at the one he had given me; his own, itched to see who had published it. He noticed and smiled wryly.

"It's like this: I didn't really know the guy. I just answered an advertisement in a literary magazine. I thought it would be great to get something going like, for example, 'Toronto Poetry Workshops'. First meeting I had with him, he showed me some dummy credentials. I was impressed."

"So what's wrong?" I pressed, impatiently.

"Have a look at these", throwing me two of the CP & WN publications. On the front page of each, under the photograph, a rambling pastoral message inveighing against our permissive society. I leafed through the pages, blinked at some entries, dated, like a diary. Leafed the little poetry book. Awkward poetry, misspellings. Every other page a photograph of Claude, smiling, scowling, gowned, displaying a copy of his broadsheet.

"What do you think it stands for, that CP & WN?" Marcel challenged me.

"What? Why, Canadian Poetry and ...."

"Wrong. It's Claudius Patriarch - His World News."

"It's what? Who is Claudius Patriarch?"

"Our friend."

"Oh, come on now, Marcel ...."


"No, really! Listen, he is Archbishop Claudius I, Patriarch of the Church of Byzantium."

"Well, what the hell is that?"

"Some Mickey-Mouse religious sect with a following of one. His wife. I called the Catholic Archdiocese here and they don't know the guy. That wouldn't bother me so much maybe, but he intends to publish our work in that rag. That's not what he told me at first. He said we would start a poetry magazine. What this is, is garbage. A proselytizing rag and an outlet for his frustrated clerical ambitions. Have another look! Read the parts I've circled. And by the way, that hundred dollar book award - he forgot to mention that all entrants have to pay a twenty-dollar consideration fee."

"Oh." And I read about how the R.C.M.P. had waged a vicious campaign against Claudius I. I read an offer to send (for a mere $5 fee) a copy of Claudius's 'Vindication Papers to the Canadian Parliament'. I read of the corruption of the Ontario Provincial Police, responsible for a three-year prison term for fraud; the loss of his wife and five children. I read that Madeleine was a hopeless alcoholic, his one true and sweet 'convert'. I read about a law suit pending for defamation of character. Of another law suit, brought against Claudius, for assault causing bodily harm. He would, however, rise above his detractors, his tormentors. He would prevail; God on his side.

"He's crazy!" I said, turning to Marcel, my head spinning. "Why would anyone write all this personal stuff in an organ he sends out to all kinds of people? And he wants to put our work in here?"

"That is correct. The man is a raving lunatic. He has a persecution complex. And even before I read those things I thought so, from his poetry. I want to get out. That's why I've come to see you. I felt I owed you that much."

"What about the others?" I asked, not really caring, my head reeling.

"I'll tell them too", he promised.

"He's got my silver coffeepot", I wailed.

"I'll go with you to get it back", he said reassuringly. "He's got some of my folding chairs."

*************************************************************

When we sat ourselves down, Claude behind his impressive desk, beaming, his photographs behind him, the coloured television set hysterically blinking its wonders in silence, I began.

"We ... I can't let myself be published in ... that C.P. & W.N."

"Rhonda dear ... what's brought this on?" Lifted eyebrows, a wondering smile of genuine concern.

"I ... just don't, uh, agree with some of your, um, philosophy."

"Really? And just what is it you don't agree with?"

"It's not the kind of publication to host literary work", Marcel interposed, a worried look on his face.

"Really?" Claude turned his scorn on Marcel; the smile he'd had for me transformed into a wintry sneer. "And just who are you to judge?" Marcel shrugged, shrank back into his seat, was silent. "I don't see why we cannot part amicably", Marcel began again, apologetically, into the silent, simmering room. "I ... I have simply come to the realization that I don't have time to uh, devote myself to this kind of endeavour ...."

"Fine!" Claude snapped. "Now let us see about Rhonda. You've obviously turned her against me. I can see that."

"No", Marcel objected weakly, spreading his hands blamelessly.

Claude worried the issue back and forth, questioning my motives for leaving. His voice took on by turns, a wheedling cast, a biting, sarcastic edge. Finally, he shrugged, called Madeleine downstairs. She had been listening anyway, I was certain. She smiled her vacant wavering smile, and sat beside me. Began to talk in her quavering voice. Poor thing, I thought; brain's all mush. I edged away from her breath.

The only Claudius I knew anything about was a first-Century Roman Emperor, a buffoon whose reign had been bracketed by those of two madmen; his nephew Caligula-the-horse-lover, and his stepson, fiddling-Nero. That Claudius had been fed Amanita Caesaria through the loving auspices of his doting wife so that her own son would ascend the Imperial throne. Here this poor soul was, imprisoned by her need, a slave to Claudius I, Patriarch of the Church of Byzantium. I wondered if I could interest her in mycology as a hobby. My eyes, however, kept straying to that damned television set. Her voice mesmerized me, as did that silent action, and I began to feel nauseated.

"I'd like my pot", I finally said firmly, breaking the deadly spell.

"Pot?" She turned a muddled gaze on her husband. He became his jovial self. Told her where she would find it, upstairs. "No hard feelings at all! If you've read my work Rhonda, you know I don't hold grudges", he said, hugging me. Grudges?

"And I want to tell you as a friend Rhonda, that you need help. You will never get anywhere in the world of letters without it. Remember, I'll be here and willing to help you. All you have to do is ask."

**********************************************************

I'm toying with the idea of moving. Every time I hear a knock on a distant door ... a door slams from somewhere in the building, I jump. I keep the door locked now, all the time. I keep looking over my shoulder, whenever I'm out. At work, Mrs. Bowles asked me if I need a rest, a short vacation. She says I look terrible.