Goya'S Dog by Damian Tarnopolsky Page B

pastels in his breast pocket but that time was long ago. I didn’t expect a bloody audition, he was on the cusp of saying.
    The paper was bright and white and empty.
    Or he could say, I can’t perform on demand, I’m not a blasted monkey.
    But he knew it was at the same time an opportunity.
    He stared at the bright sheets. Burner flicked a fountain pen across the desk and it flew into Dacres’s lap. He smiled encouragingly, thumbs up, but was already deep in conversation about pressure gauges.
    Dacres got up and walked out of the room without looking back.
    There was a lunatic on the streetcar. He was a young man with happily crossed eyes and a fuzzy black moustache and every few seconds he checked the buttons of his coat. He leered at women but kept away from them. When men tried to get onto the car, however, he stood in their way and tried to outface them. They brushed past him. He could find nowhere to sit and threw himself onto the floor at Dacres’s feet, stood up again, checked his buttons, threw himself down. None of the Canadians did or said anything.
    Dacres got off “downtown” and walked, seething, not knowing where he was going, until he found himself in the pitiful excuse for a town square. Now the city looked empty and tiny and grim. All he could see were the etched black wires, electricity and streetcar, clottingthe sky. He felt as if he’d been slapped in the face by the hatcheck girl and had suddenly sobered up. Even the air was cooler around him. He sat on a hard bench and the wind found new weak points in his clothes. A page of newspaper blew into his feet: he saw a giant black arrow pointing at France and another aimed across the Channel.
    He felt his personality starting to return.
    Walking again, he compared everything to London. He knew his life in London was a farce but, nonetheless he compared at every step. None of what was important to him could be found here, he mused. Where were the great museums? Where were the ancient cathedrals? Where was there anything approaching intelligent conversation? Yes, he was warming up now, building up a nice rhythm, step by step: he had got off the train, he thought, in Belfast or Leeds. It wasn’t even Canada’s largest city. Montreal had a dapper look, why hadn’t he gone to ground there? Ah, because of the threat of a criminal case, he remembered. But still.
    By the time he got back to the hotel that evening, he felt almost cheerful.
    Edelweiss had worked at the Savoy for a year.
    â€œNo!” said Dacres. “When? I had a studio on John Adam Street.”
    â€œWe were neighbours,” Edelweiss said, rueful. And then looking down at his crossed knee: “Perhaps we passed one another in the road.”
    Dacres admired Edelweiss’s beautiful shoes. “Perhaps we had a pint in the same pub,” he said. “I had one of the worst experiences of my life there, you know.”
    Edelweiss burst out laughing.
    â€œWith my wife for lunch. Well she wasn’t my wife then. And we were meeting her family too. Not a pretty sight.”
    Edelweiss grinned. “One of the worst experiences of your life. In my profession, this is what you long to hear.” He stretched forward for a cigarette from the case on the desk.
    â€œYou should apologize, on behalf of the Savoy.”
    â€œI do, I do.”
    The hotel was hosting a banquet and, now that the main course had been served, Edelweiss could rest briefly. Dacres leaned back into his leather chair.
    â€œFunny story, in fact. I was preparing an exhibition. I needed to finish four canvases by the end of the week. But Evie’s family, my wife’s parents, wanted to see her and we’d spent months avoiding them so down we trotted. Bosie had every meal at the club when he was in town, but once in a while he decided to air Lavinia out. I remember there were perambulators all over Charing Cross, it was like walking through the jungle. And I was