Bat Kol

Bat Kol

What’s that exquisite word I’m looking for? Ah yes, pococurante. I am not the least bit galled when confronted with the level of accused pretension my pilgrimage garnered. It matters very little to me what others think of my packing a small bag and setting off for Montreal, Little Portugal to be precise, in honour of an artist that filled my creative life with bourne, charging the boundless aim of my capabilities. My trip, despite being in search of an idol’s final resting place, denotes a sublimely joyful and peaceable moment in time. What’s that other delicious word? The one to perfectly ascribe to the trek. Ah yes, halcyon.

Prior to my departure, I fell bored. Begrudgingly succumbing to the monotonous humdrum of waking each morning, toiling nine to five then returning home to meticulously dust bookcases. All of which are in perfect authorial alphabetical order. Creative pursuits were devilishly evasive, my appetite nil, my heart unfulfilled. It was a deep internet dive that inspired my mission. I arrived, after hours of mindless perusing, to a link hosted by CBC. It answered an unplanned prayer. The remedy to my malaise: time away. A quiet retreat. To fill the well. Browse, on foot, by way of a detailed walking tour of the earthly place a beloved and fallen artist lovingly called home.

I arrived in Montreal on an amiable flight, early dawn, an autumn morning. The cloying sun offered the city a clandestine suppleness, just before it was fully awake, and the avenues filled with bustle. I hailed a taxi to my accommodations, a charming Air B&B, spacious and bright with a private terrace. Austere with a hint of whimsy. Perfection. It suited my needs. A place to lay my hat, and a desk for writing. First order of business, coffee. Something to go with the fig-cheddar bun I purchased from a hide-away bakery for breakfast en route. The sleek galley kitchen housed a Nespresso machine. It was good in a pinch before my adventure’s official start.

That first day, ah, magnificent. One foot in front of the other, my scarf knotted ardently around my neck. Mine eyes feasted. Mine lungs exorcised by fall’s crisp waft, taking long languid breaths to exhale lazily. All at once, I felt airy and parched. I ducked inside a little bistro for a nip.  I chose a window seat, atop a narrow yet sturdy pew, and sipped a concoction made of tequila, Cointreau, agave syrup, lime, orange, and citrus salt. One glass. Two. I drank. I mused. And, because I imbibed, hunger struck. I lingered to indulge. Fresh oysters served with mignonette, michelada, and chamoy. And then, with a warm belly, I was off.

Quincaillerie Azores’ was a frequent haunt for the fallen. I stood inside and wondered what sundry things might line a receipt deep into the silk of his jacket pocket: hand-held tools, keys, locks, fasteners, hinges, clamps, thimbles, chains, utensils, plumbing provisions, paint cans, paint brushes, housewares? The possibilities endless, and then the wonder of what he’d do with his purchase, what he fixed or created or threw in a drawer for a later date. My imagination, rampant in that moment. The walking map was correct when it boasted the corner store rife with hardware, had a generous assortment of Portuguese earthenware. To preserve my visit, I bought a small piece to carry home and place as a memento on the bookcase housing works by writers whose last names begin with C. A small ornamental bowl, I knew would eventually fill up with pocket change.

I intended to pass by his homestead at the end of my visit as an official bon voyage and a thanks for the dance nod, but I found myself unable to delay. I stopped, awed, in front of his residence, 28 Rue de Vallieres. A single tear dropped and rested on my cool cheek. I envisioned the grey limestone, that sorrowful November day, converted into a place of worship, muted candles, heaps of fresh flowers, and mournful messages mounting in commemoration. I took refuge in Parc du Portugal across the street. Found a sturdy bench to sit and reflect. It has been said he preferred comfortable slippers as shoes. How many times had he tread across these pathways, scuffing toward any given Glory? Sitting to work out the poetic mechanics of gentle soliloquies full of dark humility, glorious works he left behind. The simple brilliance of the reverie swelled an emotional lump in my throat. Still, in the shadow of his genius, a tremendous blessing. The bench was the edge of the earth. I lost track of time there. A park forged to commemorate Portuguese immigrants in search of a new life. I took several photos of the quaint summer pavilion, and of the gates and fountains comprised of glamorous glazed tiles. I had a nagging desire to stay but my physical hunger championed inactivity.

For dinner, as per the walking tour map, I sidled into Moishe’s Steakhouse. According to local lure, it’s a Montreal institution. The meal I enjoyed cost almost as much as a night’s stay at my Air B&B. Alas, it had to be part of itinerary, so I did not deviate nor dissuade myself by worrying about vacation economics. As there were so many to choose from on the extensive wine list, I asked my server to surprise me, something red. He did not disappoint. There were hints of rich chocolate and deep plum. I sat languorously, legs crossed with a crisp napkin across my lap so as not to spill the delivered hors d’oeuvre, succulent shrimp cocktail, on my wool slacks. A steakhouse it was but I am not one for red meat, so I opted for Alaskan Black Cod with grilled oyster mushrooms, spinach, and potato latkes. Sinfully delicious. While I digested both my meal and my surroundings, I nursed a hellishly fragrant cup of coffee. The scene then begged for the accompaniment of a cigar. One that would impart a creamy, buttery flavor with notes of cocoa, wood, and toasted bread. I had one such after a poetry reading with friends. The memory of its slow burn and deliberate upward smoke curl, made my mouth water.

I shuffled back to my Air B&B, feeling abundant and melancholic. Inside, I shrugged off the coldness that infiltrated the evening’s wind, hung my hat, and sat at the desk to write. Wholly inspired by the day. This is the poem that materialized before I retired for the evening:

All Possible Calm

I mulled

gazing the skylight

all hours I gathered

& steadied myself

elegant

& intent

pen poised

notebook open

page blank

in all possible calm

determined

to compose a

dust

jacket proclamation

worthy of discussing

with you over wine

in a five-star hotel bar

for first rate writers

            shy to admit I

require your sublime

assurance before I am

able to write another

                        word

I awoke with purpose. Sunrise lush and radiant with autumn’s gilded palette. The city enveloped me as one of its own the second my black patent shoes clipped the sidewalk stone. It was too late for breakfast, too early for lunch, so I acceded to the lure of decadent confections. An extravagant storefront display enticed me in with the pledge of sugar. It did not disappoint although it took far longer than it should have to choose. I, in the end, opted for a generous share of grapefruit pistachio layer cake. It towered sumptuously over the mille-feuilles and eclairs, tasted twice as good. I required something of heft in my belly before finding my way to Mt. Royal Boulevard to Shaar Hashomayim Congregation Cemetery; the final resting place of my idol, the sole intent for my excursion. I found myself stood before a handsome stone, befit for a mensch. A visitor before me placed an impeccable bushel of mini mums in esteem, a beautiful cushion of seasonal colors in shades of deep red, burnt orange, vivid yellow, pallid peach, and snow white. I knelt, in respect for the man inside of the earth, buried humbly in an unadorned pine box close to family, laid to rest in a traditional Jewish rite. From my pocket, I pulled out a prayer in the form of one of his very own poems. One, I hope, wherever in the vastness of the universe his enlightened spirit roamed, he stopped to hear. Paused to smile at my offering:

I lost my way.

I forgot to call your name.

The raw heartbeat against the world

And the tears were for my lost victory.

But, you are here.

you have always been here.

The world is all-forgetting,

and the heart is a rage of directions,

but your name unifies the heart,

and the world is lifted up into its place.

Blessed is the one who waits in the

travelers heart for his turning.

O, I wept. I guarded my inexorable tears with my chin tucked into my chest, the wide brim of my hat tugged tight enough to protect mine eyes. I could not linger; I was overcome with emotion. I did not expect to be taken over in such a deep and profound way. And so, I bid him adieu. Regretfully. I just couldn’t bear the thought of being found on bended knee, bawling like a baby. I required comfort. Food of some sort. Something of note. I took the advice of a passerby to take a late lunch at Schwartz’s, the oldest deli in Canada. I hailed a taxi to the famed Montreal landmark since 1928. The passerby alerted me that I may have to wait in line for an extended period of time to be served but I walked straight in, took a seat at the counter, and before I knew it, there was a towering smoked meat sandwich teetering in front of me complete with a gargantuan dill pickle and heaping dish of coleslaw. Between doleful sips of Coke and bites of lunch, I continued to flick rogue tears from mine eyes before they had cause to fall. He is in every atom of the city. Every breath of air. And what’s more, while I paid the kind folk for their abundance, ‘So Long Marianne’ sounded on the radio. One of my fellow white-haired counter patrons perked up at the song. His shoulders straightened, a smile formed, and between bites of his meal, he hummed along to the treasured lyrics. Proudly. A purr of honour. It wasn’t too long after, I was back at my Air B&B, equal parts full of food and flounder. I dove under the covers for a siesta. Rest was necessary to regain my composure for an evening of live music. I hoped.

I arose after only an hour or so, had a long shower, ironed my favorite shirt, dressed in my finest outfit and hopped into a taxi. In very broken French, asked the driver where I might find a bit of good live music. He replied in English blanketed it with a thick French strum, “I know jus’ ze place! You will need to wear your coat though.” He let me off in front of Jardin Nelson, a few days shy of closing for winter. A seasonal garden style bistro-type spot. Like nothing I’ve ever seen. I was in the mood for a hot drink and rhythmic jazz and ended up with a pitcher of melon sangria and a meal I won’t soon forget. Jackfruit Poke.  Green jackfruit, marinated in spicy sesame and soy sauce, with avocado, edamame beans, cucumber, lettuce, jasmine rice, vegetables, nori, wakame, gari, spicy vegan mayo, and peas – a direct quote from their menu. I wrote it down on a scrap of paper for blogging purposes. I first chose the brie fondue with pesto and pine nuts, then changed my mind to the duck leg confit but I have a soft spot for jackfruit. It was divine. I missed out on the jazz trio. They were late for their gig and my hands started to go numb from the cool temps and the sangria. Tipsy, I stumbled out onto the street in search anything else. A busker, a dead ringer for a young Tom Waits, with his battered guitar case open and a spray of pocket change across the fuzzy purple interior asked if I had any requests. “First We Take Manhattan”, I cooed, the scent of melon wafting from my tongue. Tom Waits grinned, “Ooo la la, Monsieur Cohen, ah?” He leaned closer, “Don’t tell anyone … but I prefer version Jennifer Warrens do.” And with that, he broke into song. I joined tentatively at first, but the liquor found its way to all of my cortexes and soon my voice was soaring with his in unison, “I’m guided by a signal in the Heavens/I’m guided by this birthmark on my skin/I’m guided by the beauty of our weapons/First we take Manhattan, then we take Berlin …”

I woke the next morning with no knowledge of how I made it back to my Air B&B. My head, akin to a kick drum sufficiently rocked, threatened to roll. I accosted the Nespresso machine as if we the last thing I’d ever do. I sat out on the private terrace, overlooking the sweep of the city, mid-morning, balled up in a bulky sweater, and sipped. The fresh air slowly started to make me feel more human than human. As the cobwebs cleared, so did my memory. My recall revealed an extended performance with Tom Waits – Dylan’s ‘Like A Rolling Stone’, Bowie’s ‘Heroes’, anyone’s version of ‘Stand by Me’, Morrison’s ‘Brown Eyed Girl’. It all came flooding back. My customary posturing did not prevail. I, uncharacteristically, let loose, as they say. That had to be remedied. It is not that I’d ever see Tom Waits again so my perfected reputation was not in peril, it’s the simple fact I allowed my very tailored and restrained self to run amok. I confess, it felt extraordinary. Alas, I feel more comfortable in my skin buttoned up and discreet. Reserve. Ostentatious. Thus, on my last day in Montreal city, I bent back into my true self, and set off for home.

My morning flight was delayed so after a quick stop for a few extra cups of coffee, and osso bucco breakfast poutine with cheddar biscuits, I spent the rest of my wait at the Montreal Holocaust Museum. I was quite taken with Edith Gluck’s story. She donated an object of note in 2010, what is titled ‘A Clandestine Cookbook’. During her imprisonment in the Lippstadt concentration camp in Germany, she compiled two hundred recipes, all written in pencil on beige and pink paper that came from the munitions factory she forced to work in 12 hours per day. From memory she recorded many of the meals she prepared before the war and called on her fellow inmates to contribute. Together, they used this act of resistance to maintain their humanity and preserve their cultural history. The booklet, written in Hungarian, bound together with orange thread also from the factory, had to be hidden under the ground. And, since it was written in Hungarian, if found by the German soldiers, it would be deemed a diary and elicit a severe beating. Her bold efforts took my breath away. I stared at the aged pages for a long time, imagining these brave women whispering ingredients and instructions to Edith who scratched them quietly into the pilfered paper. A guide called Vilma in the museum shared the most horrendous fact, music was used to admonish prisoners. Nazis consistently directed captives to sing while marching or exercising. It was done as to mock, humiliate, and discipline. Inmates who dared disobey or didn’t know the song demanded only gave the SS an excuse for severe arbitrary lashings. Vilma told me, “If you did not know song, beaten. If you sang too soft, beaten. If you sang too loud, beaten. SS, ack, savages!” Luckily, the conversation ended on a positive note. Vilma, while straightening her name tag on the lapel of her tweed coat told me, “As you well know from Edith’s book, the prisoners were resourceful. They also composed and performed songs written inside of the camps, a survival technique as a means of psychological resistance, you see. Music then, was a means of survival and an instrument of terror for the SS. Some good, but mostly bad.” In that instant, I knew the second I arrived home, I’d order everything Amazon sold about this dreadful period of history. More knowledge, necessary. I became transfixed with their very human stories in the face of such adversity. I berated myself for knowing so little. Vilma’s parting words were, “No worry, you don’t deny Holocaust happened. If you did, then we have problem.”

All the way to the airport, with courageous holocaust survivors on my mind, I could hear my idol’s voice inside, still circling me in his city, caroling, “And let the Heavens hear it/The penitential hymn/Come healing of the spirit/Come healing of the limb …” And, I didn’t mention the mural of him, or me standing street level, craning my neck at his artful greatness nine stories high on the Cooper Building. That happened somewhere between my repentant hangover and Edith Gluck. And the, in the heart of the city, another piece of public artwork in the form of a handsome mural on Crescent Street, 1,000 square meters. I saw both, photographed them, tipped my hat, and bid him farewell. I arrived in a city I’d never been to before in search of his resting place, to pay my respects, and I departed with an indescribable yen. A strange ache. As if I were leaving something or someone precious behind. And then, I suppose I was. It also occurred to me that perhaps it wasn’t something being left behind but a reminder that in my years, I’ve not done anything of note, surely nothing to warrant a universe size mural to lord over an entire city or to have moved other human beings so much they’d pack a small bag and set off on a whim just to sit grave-side, to be near. The experience only rivaled that of seeing him perform live. Once. In a whole lifetime of worship. The man, aged like a fine wine, had more energy than I’ll ever have. He was sharp and witty and prolific, performed encore after encore. Jaw-dropping competence. I aspire to be so Zen, as fertile, agile. At any age.

Many friends, assorted colleagues, and select family members scoffed at my indulgent jaunt. As I mentioned, I am in no way incensed by their assessment. I can’t expect them to understand. I am an Artist. I use unscented soap. I like everything in their right place. I enjoy the elegant curve of exquisitely formed flowers. I drink bourbon before bed. I shine my shoes. I often sport a pocket square in my breast pocket. I do not wear my heart on my sleeve. But I feel. And ache. Love. Suffer. And then, it all goes on a canvas, into a song, or on blank page. While I hold most of them dear, dull accountants and soccer moms cannot comprehend the artistic temperament, the need, the appreciation of others who have come before. I need not have to explain further.

It was hell, it was swell, it was fun.

And, who am I fooling? Surely not myself. I love pretension. I am pretension personified. Proudly. Except, for those few drunken tunes with Tom Waits, I was as free as a bird, soaring high until I came face to face with Bat Kol, the divine voice that reveals the will of God. Or, as it were, the anointed voice of my hero.

***

I’ve been pecking at this for a good long time. It’s not a perfect piece of writing but I had the most delicious time creating something full of intentional affectation and heart. I would really love to set out for Montreal to visit Leonard Cohen’s resting place. So, until I am able, this little ditty will have to do.

In (intentional) propinquity,

Nic