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
