The Greatest Lover of Last Tuesday Read online

  GREATEST LOVER

  Last Tuesday

  GREATEST LOVER

  Last Tuesday

  NEIL MCKINNON

  ©Neil McKinnon, 2015

  All rights reserved

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  Thistledown Press Ltd.

  410 2nd Avenue North

  Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, S7K 2C3

  www.thistledownpress.com

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  McKinnon, Neil, 1941–, author

  The greatest lover of last Tuesday / Neil McKinnon.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77187-062-7 (pbk.).–ISBN 978-1-77187-072-6 (html).–

  ISBN 978-1-77187-073-3 (pdf)

  I. Title.

  PS8625.K556G74 2015 C813’.6 C2015-900488-8

  C2015-900489-6

  Cover and book design by Jackie Forrie

  Printed and bound in Canada

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Thistledown Press gratefully acknowledges the financial assistance of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Saskatchewan Arts Board, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund for its publishing program.

  GREATEST LOVER

  Last Tuesday

  For Ren and Callum

  CONTENTS

  Drinks with Dinner

  Feasting on Passion Mountain

  My Albatross

  School Days

  Lilacs Have That Effect

  In the Navy

  In Business

  Dear Loveworn

  Bingo

  A Sluggish Motor

  Adriana’s Story

  Praying for a Relationship

  Words Can Make You Happy

  A Lazy Busboy

  A Sexual Primer

  Deadbeats, Philanderers, and Lowlifes

  A Morning Walk

  Love Under the Boardwalk

  Melting Schnauzer’s Cataracts

  Flying Avocados

  Author’s Note

  I FIRST MET ALBERTO CAMELO IN THE city of Xalapa in the Mexican State of Veracruz where I had gone to be alone as my marriage was suffering its first frost. We struck up a conversation in a restaurant and I warmed to him immediately. He took an understated pleasure in his own existence — a pleasure which I found to be an enticing antidote to the cynicism that surrounds much of everyday life. He was then in his nineties and his long-time companion, Adriana had died a few years before.

  Alberto was not a resident of Xalapa, nor was he Mexican although he now lived in Guadalajara. He was on his way to the port city of Veracruz which he tried to visit as often as possible because, in his view, it was the most romantic city in the world and he retained fond memories of many pleasurable entanglements that had their genesis in the city’s music-filled evenings.

  He took an interest in the plight of my marriage, offering his story in the hope that I would find a remedy for the malaise that was currently smothering my happiness. I found his tales compelling and suggested publication. He agreed on the condition that it not happen until he had left this world to go to what he called, “a less than inspiring place.” We kept in touch and because I visited Mexico frequently we were able to meet a number of times.

  Alberto had started to record his life when he was eighty and I have made use of his many notebooks in recreating the most salient episodes. As he aged it became difficult for him to write and I began taping our conversations for later transcription.

  He confessed that for a time after Adriana’s death he had considered dying himself. However, death was not an option as he was addicted to life, his health was good, and he had no violent enemies. So he determined to accelerate his remaining time in this world by finding joy one day at a time. He said that those who deny their age with trite phrases such as, “you are only as old as you feel,” are simply fools who rebuff reality in order to delude themselves. The key is to embrace the journey to old age and like any other journey, to enjoy the diversions and detours along the way. “The trip itself is exciting,” he said, “while the destination is no doubt vastly overrated.”

  The story that you are about to read is as faithful a reproduction of Alberto’s and Adriana’s lives as I can make it. I have taken liberties in only two ways: (1) In accordance with Alberto’s wishes, I have altered the text where it was necessary to hide identities, and (2) Alberto recounted his stories as they occurred to him. I have attempted to put everything down in the correct chronology. Near the end, he was little help in this respect as his memory sometimes confused the order of things. One exception is the opening chapter, located first at Alberto’s request. He felt it important that the reader be aware, from the outset, of some of his personal difficulties. However, though the order may be imperfect, extensive checking has tended to confirm the details of events exactly as he recalled them.

  Neil McKinnon

  Lake Chapala, Mexico

  November 13, 2014

  Drinks with Dinner

  THE SETTING WAS TRANQUIL BUT ADRIANA was in a bad mood. We were drinking our morning coffee on the second floor balcony at Don Emilio’s. The mountains on the far shore of Lake Albatross created a murky backdrop for blue water, and treetops between us and the lake made a green carpet broken only by occasional white cupolas and patches of purple jacaranda.

  Twice that morning we had been disturbed by individuals who were collecting signatures that they needed to force others to alter their behaviour. “They make me angry,” she said. “I detest those who want to impose their morality on everyone else. It’s offensive. Why don’t you write about that?”

  “You’re out of touch as usual, my titillating tyro of turpitude. I have written about it.”

  “Tell me,” she demanded.

  “Certainly, but keep your interruptions to a minimum.”

  “You can trust me,” she said.

  “Very well. It occurred to me, that while my primary intent is to expound on the various permutations and combinations of love, and on the types of individuals who search for, find, and participate in that commodity, I should also be completely honest about some of the roadblocks that I’ve encountered on my own path to romance.”

  “What roadblocks?”

  “I’m thinking about personal imperfections.”

  “Writing about your faults could take forever.”

  “Not so. I don’t propose to discuss all of my transgressions. Rather, my exposition will deal only with those behaviours that are intrinsic to my character and which some have labelled as indecent, immoral, or decadent. These characteristics have contributed considerably to my life’s enjoyment. There is much to be said for decadence, although, at times, it restricted my progress toward my main goal — perfecting the art of love.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re pulling my foot.”

  “No, I’m not. Our society not only raises obstacles to the enjoyment of love, it tries to keep us from the pleasures of profligacy. We’re surrounded by plagues of militant prudes and fitness extremists who are hell-bent on constructing an antiseptic world that exhibits about as much
charm as flatulence in a crowded room. The objective of these insipid rule-makers is to enact enough restrictions so that they and others of their ilk will never be vexed, whereas being vexed is a major part of life.”

  She smiled. “Now you’re scratching my elbow. Do you expect others to constantly aggravate you?”

  “Yes I do and I expect to aggravate others. For instance, I’m not fond of garlic breath, women who volunteer their medical history, children who whine, men with a perm and anyone who allows a dog to defecate where I plan to step. God’s sense of irony constantly puts me in the path of these people.”

  “I understand. Given your personality, that train runs in two directions.”

  “Of course it does. Scripturally, it could be said that, thou offends me and methinks I, thee.”

  “I see. So what is the point … to be perpetually offensive and offended?”

  “No, to use a cliché, it is to live and let live. The rule-makers think that the whole purpose of existence is to gossip, petition and engage in lawsuits … and they are winning. Their targets are now little more than trees condemned to stand uncomplaining as they are urinated on by the puritanical dogs of self-improvement.”

  “But things don’t stay the same. How do we ever keep up with the changing nature of what behaviour is correct and what is incorrect?”

  “We can’t; it is useless to try to keep pace with current moral imperatives. Everything we yearn for today will eventually become verboten. Reprobates are always the first to be deleted when evolution deals with human desires — think of tobacco. Without new transgressors the world might be uncomplicated and sanitary, but it would also be bland, colourless and unappetizing.”

  “I agree with everything you say, though you sound like those you preach against. Enlighten me further, my dissolute do-gooder. What sins do you recommend?”

  I thought for a moment. “Much has been written about the various modes of unacceptable pleasure. I will, however, confine my discourse to those that are known as temptations of the flesh. The most fashionable and enjoyable of these are intemperance and lust.”

  “Very well,” Adriana said. “Tell me your perversions. Have you ever descended from your moral mountain long enough to experience that of which you speak?”

  “Of course, like all who are young, I experimented with different forms of depravity.”

  “Name one … and spitting on the street doesn’t count.”

  “If I must. One of the activities most frowned upon is over indulgence in strong drink.”

  “I have already detected that you are not unfamiliar with Uncle Brandy. Did you have more than a passing acquaintance with some of his relatives?”

  “Yes, I did … a very close relationship — so close that one particular episode caused me to examine my life and vow to control my intake — a vow that I failed to keep. There was a time when my mind did not properly supervise my behaviour.”

  Adriana ordered a refill for her coffee. “This I must hear,” she said.

  “What I’m about to say is appropriate for two reasons. First, it illustrates how a character flaw came near to derailing my search for true love, and second, part of it happened in this very establishment.”

  One day I arose at three o’clock in the afternoon nursing a terrible hangover that I had acquired at a formal dinner party thrown by our mayor, Carlos Windsock, to honour the new Bishop of Aguas Profundas, a dinner to which I was invited because of my late father’s friendship with the mayor. I had wakened earlier but each time I tried to get up, the ceiling descended and pinned me to the bed. My head felt like a terminal disease and my teeth had torn ligaments. The room looked as if an army had conducted war games, but I had no memory of the events of the previous evening. I hung my skull over the sink and poured pots of cold water over it to comfort my temples. Then I dressed and made my way to Don Emilio’s to try and eat, walking with small steps so as to not jar my throbbing cranium.

  As I entered the restaurant I spotted Eloisa Garza, a woman who, by the time she was twenty, had already spoken all of the words that the Lord had allotted for her lifetime. Her voice is easily mistaken for the bray of a sick burro. She has a personality that curdles milk and her face resembles homemade soap. Long ago, Eloisa had decided that only she could save me from my own imperfections.

  I retreated immediately but she saw me and called my name. I do not believe that I was yet driving sober mental transportation or I would have kept walking. Instead, I went to her table. She was seated alone. “Yes, Eloisa, what do you want?”

  “Hello Alberto. You don’t look so good. Are you okay?”

  She’s perceptive, I thought. She senses my previous night’s debauchery. Out loud I asked, “Do I look that bad?”

  “You’re acceptable. We should have a drink.”

  “God no, I couldn’t look at a drink.”

  “You didn’t say that last night.”

  “Don’t tell me you were at the dinner. Did I behave?”

  “Of course you did. Can’t you remember?”

  “That’s a relief. No, I don’t recall anything.”

  “You don’t remember the bishop?”

  “What about the bishop?”

  “Well, there was a small incident.”

  “What kind of an incident?”

  “Just minor. The bishop was a little displeased when you recited poetry while he was trying to give thanks for the meal.”

  “That must have been delightful. What poetry?”

  “It was a poem about a lady with tattoos.”

  “I recited ‘The Tattooed Lady’ during the blessing! My God, everyone must hate me.”

  “Well not quite during the blessing. You started another poem … about a girl from Nantucket. To get you to stop, the bishop asked you to say grace.”

  “Me! I don’t know any prayers. What did I say?”

  “I don’t remember your exact words … you proposed a toast to the Holy Ghost. Then you knocked back three for the Trinity.”

  My stomach limped toward my throat and the room swung to starboard. I reached for a chair and sat down. “I’m going to be sick. What else happened?”

  “There was another very tiny incident during the meal.”

  “More bad news … what was it?”

  “It was nothing really. The Bishop had been talking about the miracle of the loaves and the fishes. You announced that anybody could turn water into wine, but only you could perform a real miracle — turn a chicken into a fruit. Then you put a drumstick in your pocket, walked over to the governor’s mother and told her that if she felt in your pants she would find a real peach.”

  “Is that when they threw me out? Surely they didn’t let me stay.”

  “No, some suggested it but the mayor talked them out of it. Later, the mayor himself got a little miffed but the bishop calmed him down.”

  “Oh no, what else did I do?”

  “You didn’t do anything. His wife should have handled it herself.”

  “Please say I didn’t do anything lewd.”

  “No, you didn’t. She found you funny … until the cigarette.”

  “Cigarette? Did I burn her?”

  “No, she was never in any real danger.”

  “Tell me … what happened?”

  “You insisted that she have a cigarette even though she doesn’t smoke. You used a candle from the table to light it and somehow the table cloth caught fire. It flared quickly because of the brandy you had spilled.”

  “What next? Did I put out the fire?”

  “Not exactly. A lady screamed and two men ran to get water but they hesitated when you commanded everyone to stay seated. Then you stood on your chair and prayed for wet weather. The room remained dry so you descended from the chair and did a rain dance. The tablecloth was still burning so you also took some precautionary action.”

  “What kind of precautionary action?”

  “You kept the mayor’s wife from catching on fire.”

  “You
mean I did something right.”

  “You certainly did and they should thank you. You created a firewall by pouring red wine over her.”

  “Thank God she didn’t get burned. She was okay, wasn’t she?”

  “Well, not exactly. A spark landed on her dress and started to smoulder. You tried to rip away the burning part but unfortunately the whole dress came off.”

  “Oh no, they threw me out then, right?”

  “No they didn’t. Everyone seemed in a trance, but you took charge. You said that a gentleman shouldn’t allow a lady to be half-naked in public. Then you took off your pants and gave them to her.”

  “Oh God, what next?”

  “I don’t know. That’s when I took you to another room to find you some trousers.”

  “Then what, did I get sick?”

  “I took you home. You were so sweet, telling me that I’m the only one, revealing the crush you had on me in school and saying it wasn’t necessary to wait until we got married. It was my first time and I’ll always treasure it. It was also my second, third and fourth time — the most marvellous night of my life”.

  “It … it … it … was?”

  “We’re so fortunate,” she said. “We’ll raise a wonderful family. I can hardly wait to tell the whole world … but first we’ll have to do something about your drinking.”

  Adriana chortled into her cup. “You haven’t told me about that part of your life,” she said. “Did you stop drinking? Did you and Eloisa get married? What happened?”

  “I became Eloisa’s project. She made it her goal to turn me into a teetotaller.”

  “A project, what did she do?”

  “Ultimately she had marriage in mind, but I never intended to trade my freedom for sobriety. I knew that the path to alcoholic bliss was the same trail that led away from Eloisa’s grasp. To paraphrase Socrates, at that age I firmly believed that, an un-sodden life was not worth living.”

  “How did Eloisa deal with that reality?”