User:Pinkville/interior

Dear Claude, Here is the version of my story which I'd prefer. I've made the changes in the body of the story itself; I hope that's okay. Thanks. Colin

Interior by Colin MacWhirter Reassembling the salvaged woodwork of a tiny turn-of-the-century chapel condemned after the 1989 earthquake, Porter Duncan has created a San Francisco high-rise sanctuary ... Arched oak paneling forms a Gothic colonnade in the entrance hall, lightened by a sky-blue ceiling. Two stained glass windows color the living room with scenes of John the Baptist and Lazarus arisen from the dead. They were the only windows to survive the quake and did so, miraculously, entirely undamaged. Two other treasures rescued from the quake, a pair of hymn boards, flank the doorway to the room of Duncan's butler. Design &amp; Decoration, March 1999

There was almost no sound in the apartment ... only a bristling, brushing sound. The sound of Erickson polishing a pair of black boots. Now they were perfect for this evening. Erickson put the polishing supplies back in the bright red tool box he reserved for them, put the tool box back on the shelf of his work closet, next to the iron and the starch bottle; Mr. Duncan liked his collars crisp. There was little else to do for now. He laid the selected suit out on the bed - with a choice of two neckties - and noiselessly walked to the kitchen to finish making a pre-outing snack: two mushroom and chicken liver tarts. The tarts in the oven, he could open the letter from his mother. He still hadn't decided whether his mother was senile or merely eccentric. Nothing to do with the red whirly handwriting on the envelope nor the offhand elliptical return address: Erickson, Carlyle, Sask. It was that she persisted, in spite of his frequent corrections, in imagining him as an executive assistant. Sometimes he thought she might be mocking him, not taking his position seriously. Certainly, she couldn't understand that, for him, southern Saskatchewan was bland disorder. But neither her ignorance, if that's what it was, nor any taunting could displace him from his well-fitting niche. My dear Derek, he read, I imagine you're well, as always. I've found it a bit windy for my liking recently, giving me a bit of a sniffle, but M. Keller assures me Spring is on the way - he can tell from the way his cattle are lowing, I expect. Of course, I never did pay enough attention to such points of animal husbandry. How are you faring with that Mr. Duncan of yours? Why don't you let somebody else take over some of the paperwork you're always smothering in so you can visit for a week? We'll borrow your uncle and his car and drive out to the Cypress Hills. Well, I'll be off - mending the screen door - Spring brings flies. Drop me a note. Love, Mom. He folded the letter into its envelope and placed it next to several others in the drawer of his bedside table. The apartment door had closed behind Mr. Duncan and his footfalls echoed down the hall. Erickson poured a glass of wine, placed it next to the plate of tarts on the table. Mr. Duncan sat, pulling the napkin from its coiled silver ring. As Mr. Duncan ate, Erickson provided a selection of newspapers, turned up the lighting slightly, and refilled the wine glass - his movements circling smoothly round those of Mr. Duncan so that the two men performed a wordless choreography. This was not design but mutual proprioception, the fruit of habit and two neatly compatible demeanours. So another two hours passed without more than a word between them, while Mr. Duncan undressed, groomed himself, and dressed - Erickson helping him, fixing his collar, for example. As he closed the heavy dark door behind Mr. Duncan, Erickson saw again the reflection of his employer in the antique bedroom mirror – Mr. Duncan reviewing his own appearance, unmindful of Erickson's alert gaze. The image hung over Erickson for a minute or two as he sat in the kitchen to eat his own supper of greens, an avocado, and rice. Mr. Duncan didn't approve of vegetarianism, considering it an affectation. Erickson scanned the Examiner, his fork occasionally clinking against the plate. It was late in the party, a gathering of thirty or so friends Porter had come to know through his interest in art and collecting - he didn't have work friends. It was late in the party, a time when certain voices boomed loudly over the music, over others nearly hushed. Porter, who drank steadily but without apparent drunkenness, was deep in conversation with the only person present he'd never met before, someone he'd been warned against: "She'll eat you alive, Porter. Don't worry about it. And don't think of asking her out for 'coffee.'" He found this sort of advice insulting, not helpful. Anyway, it hardly mattered because they found each other anyway. He thought her original and delightful. Obviously, she'd been told something about him because she was grilling him about his work as a civil engineer - he was quite happy to fill her in. Then she changed her tack. "I understand you have a live-in manservant or whatever. What's the deal with that?" "Erickson is indispensable. He makes my life possible. He maintains the order I require to function. In return, I provide for him." "You couldn't just live together, pool resources. Instead, it's two men living intimately together with this unbreachable economic barrier." "Well, of course it's not just economics. I depend on his judgment- " "Like, 'which tie should I wear...?'" "He has excellent taste, sartorially." And on it went for a while, till it was clear to them both that there were no more corners worth exploring. Though, returning home, her words - it could only have been the after-effects of liquor - her words, echoing in his mind, accompanied memories of Erickson coming to him, of Erickson's well-proportioned response to the ad in the paper. Porter found himself wondering how, indeed, would a man make his way from the Canadian prairies to the Bay and deliver himself into an uncommon and presumably doubt-inspiring employment? It was not a question to which he had an answer. He was simply glad of the outcome. Looking out at the appalling, huge sky, Adele considered again her son's peculiar little life while she gripped - maybe a little too firmly - one of his letters in her hand. She understood something of his loathing for this landscape; she found it austere and suspected he found it vertiginous. But she could see he'd grown up convinced of the superiority of urban society. She could see he believed in the rightness of caste and clearly he was content to keep his place attending the Brahmins. It was, maybe, an inverted chivalry. Certainly, he'd been a fussy child, fastidious really, and now he, himself, was proof: a place for everything... The tone of his letter was a little hurt, he didn't seem to appreciate her sense of irony, but she couldn't help teasing him. Doing so diverted her from the feeling of disappointment. Now that Mr. Duncan had returned, comfort returned. The bedside clock said three a.m. Peace in the secular chapel, the sanctified penthouse.

Colin MacWhirter									1186 words 3644 av du Musée #21						©2001 Colin MacWhirter Montréal, Québec Canada H3G 2C9 514-288-9135 rosa@generation.net

Interior by Colin MacWhirter

Reassembling the salvaged woodwork of a tiny turn-of-the-century chapel condemned after the 1989 earthquake, Porter Duncan has created a San Francisco high-rise sanctuary.... Arched oak paneling forms a Gothic colonnade in the entrance hall, lightened by a sky-blue ceiling. Two stained glass windows color the living room with scenes of John the Baptist and Lazarus arisen from the dead. They were the only windows to survive the quake and did so, miraculously, entirely undamaged. Two other treasures rescued from the quake, a pair of hymn boards, flank the doorway to Duncan’s butler’s room.

Design & Decoration, Mar ‘99

There was almost no sound in the apartment... but a bristling, brushing sound. The sound of Erickson polishing a pair of black boots. Now they’re perfect for this evening. Erickson put the polishing supplies back in their designated bright red tool box, put the tool box back on the shelf of his work closet, next to the iron and the starch bottle – Mr. Duncan liked his collars crisp. There was little else to do for now. He laid the selected suit out on the bed with a choice of two neckties beside and noiselessly walked to the kitchen to finish making a pre-outing snack: two mushroom and chicken liver tarts. The tarts in the oven, he could open the letter from his mother. He still hadn’t decided whether his mother was senile or merely eccentric. Nothing to do with the red whirly handwriting on the envelope nor the offhand elliptical return address: Erickson, Carlyle, Sask. It was that she persisted, in spite of his frequent corrections, in imagining him as an executive assistant. Sometimes he thought she might be mocking him, not taking his position seriously. Certainly, she couldn’t understand that, for him, southern Saskatchewan was bland disorder. But neither her ignorance, if that’s what it was, nor any taunting could displace him from his well-fitting niche. My dear Derek, he read, I imagine you’re well, as always. I’ve found it a bit windy for my liking recently, giving me a bit of a sniffle, but M. Keller assures me Spring is on the way – he can tell from the way his cattle are lowing, I expect. Of course, I never did pay enough attention to such points of animal husbandry. How are you faring with that Mr. Duncan of yours? Why don’t you let somebody else take over some of the paperwork you’re always smothering in so you can visit for a week? We’ll borrow your uncle and his car and drive out to the Cypress Hills. Well, I’ll be off – mending the screen door – Spring brings flies. Drop me a note. Love, Mom. He folded the letter into its envelope and placed it next to several others in the drawer of his bed-side table.

The apartment door had closed behind Mr. Duncan and his footfalls echoed down the hall to the dining room. Erickson poured a glass of wine, placed it next to the plate of tarts on the table. Mr. Duncan sat, pulling the napkin from its coiled silver ring. As Mr. Duncan ate, Erickson provided a selection of newspapers, turned up the lighting slightly and refilled the wine glass – his movements circling smoothly round those of Mr. Duncan so that the two men performed a wordless choreography. This was not design but mutual proprioception, the fruit of habit and two neatly compatible demeanors. So another two hours passed without more than a word between them as Mr. Duncan undressed, groomed himself and dressed – Erickson helping him, fixing his collar, for example. As he closed the heavy dark door behind Mr. Duncan, Erickson saw again the reflection of his employer in the antique bedroom mirror. Mr. Duncan reviewing his own appearance, unmindful of Erickson’s alert gaze. The image hung over him for a minute or two as he sat in the kitchen to eat his own supper of greens, an avocado and rice. Mr. Duncan didn’t approve of vegetarianism, considering it an affectation. He scanned the Examiner, with his fork occasionally clinking against the plate.

It was late in the party, a gathering of thirty or so friends Porter Duncan had come to know through his interest in art and collecting – he didn’t have work friends. It was late in the party, a time when certain voices boomed loudly over the music, over others nearly hushed. Porter, who drank steadily but without apparent drunkenness, was deep in conversation with the only person present he’d never met before, someone he’d been warned against. “She’ll eat you alive, Porter. Don’t worry about it. And don’t think of asking her out for ‘coffee’.” He found this sort of advice insulting, not helpful. Anyway, it hardly mattered because they found each other anyway. He thought her original and delightful. Obviously, she’d been told something about him because she was grilling him about his work as a civil engineer – he was quite happy to fill her in. Then she changed her tack. “I understand you have a live-in manservant or whatever. What’s the deal with that?” “Erickson is indispensable. He makes my life possible. He maintains the order I require to function. In return, I provide for him.” “You couldn’t just live together, pool resources. Instead, it’s two men living intimately together with this unbreachable economic barrier.” “Well, of course it’s not just economics. I depend on his judgment – ” “Like, ‘which tie should I wear...?’” “He has excellent taste, sartorially.” And on it went for a while, till they were both clear there were no more corners worth exploring. And so ended the threat.

Though, returning home, her words – it could only have been the aftereffects of liquor – her words, echoing in his mind, accompanied memories of Erickson coming to him, of Erickson’s well-tailored letter in response to the ad in the paper. He found himself wondering, how indeed would a man make his way from the Canadian prairies to the Bay and deliver himself into an uncommon and presumably doubt-inspiring employment? It was not a question to which he had an answer. He was simply glad of the outcome.

Looking out at the appalling, huge sky, Adele considered again her son’s peculiar little life, while she gripped – maybe a little too firmly – one of his letters in her hand. She understood something of his loathing for this landscape, she found it austere and suspected he found it vertiginous. But she could see he’d grown up convinced of the superiority of urban society. She could see he believed in the rightness of caste and clearly he was content to keep his place attending the Brahmins. It was, maybe, an inverted chivalry. Certainly, he’d been a fussy child, fastidious really, and now he, himself, fulfilled his rule: a place for everything... The tone of his letter suggested he was hurt, he didn’t seem to appreciate her sense of irony, but she couldn’t help teasing him. Doing so diverted her from the feeling of disappointment.

Now that Mr. Duncan had returned, comfort returned. The bed-side clock said three a.m. Peace in the secular chapel, the sanctified penthouse.

The End