The Rat Race
The “miserable rat race” of work, business and industry were now in full swing. Miss Cousins had returned with plans, and the office hummed along with all cylinders firing. I was writing a catalogue to accompany a planned show and the endless revisions and discussions were cumbersome and annoying. Lunch—the fabled institution of Miss Cousins’ office schedule—evolved on some days into an ongoing planning session, and that is how Ardie came to our rescue.
Ardie had stopped into the office to see Miss Cousins and joined lunch, already in progress, at the urgent invitation of pretty much everyone; Ardie was always fun and his impromptu visits were welcomed. Today’s fare was a Chinese banquet, so another set of chopsticks and a plate were soon found and Ardie was soon ooh-ing over the General Tao’s chicken just like everyone else. (Miss Cousins gave good lunch.)
Miss Cousins was “bored to death” with all of the suggested ideas for the photo shoot planned to promote the upcoming show. The catalogue, she decided, should include photographs showing her artwork in the homes of real people. No more all white walls, contemporary interiors or lush museum settings!
We discussed a few different ideas before Ardie interrupted Miss Cousins with a wet cough and suggested a few names and addresses where—he was “more than certain, Adelaide, more than certain”— the home owners would be thrilled to having their home photographed with a real Adelaide Cousins painting adorning a
wall.
The catalogue, Ardie continued, would be a collector’s item in itself; why, some of the same owners might become patrons! (This was tricky; Miss Cousins could be difficult with patrons on the hunt for “something, anything really” to adorn the walls.)
I was directed to write the copy for the catalogue, which Miss Cousins would subsequently edit. The final product would be sent for professional editing and proofing, of course, but the original effort was in-house. A team of three graphic designers (hired by yours truly) eventually came up with a style and look that pleased Miss Cousins, and the cover eventually served duty on a poster, post-card and, much later, a calendar. The final product was so successful we used the dame three designers, year after year, for a long time.
Ardie had “all sorts of contacts and friends” we could “tap into with a simple phone call” and soon Ardie was recommending various people who had “homes with potential” for our consideration. First on the list was 12B, of course, as Ardie was feeling hard-up for cash and a little self-promotion goes a long way in the “decorating rat race.”
I had an uneventful evening at home on my social calendar; shared a quick hello with Jane when she arrived at The Campanile to collect Bethany, and waved to Habashaka as he headed over to Yonge and St. Clair on a domestic errand. The news about the shaky foundations—literally, as it turned out—of The Campanile did not serve as a catalyst for good times and merriment. Jane was securing a suitable mortgage and, with only a 6% ownership vote, the decision would not be one I could materially affect.
Miss Cousins was sanguine about The Campanile. “It will get sorted out, it’s just business.” She was working on more food images—they sold like hotcakes, pun intended, so why shouldn’t she crank a few more out?—and the office was quiet as I prepared to wrap up the day. She was smoking, sipping a cocktail and seemed in no hurry to be leaving. “I’ll drive myself home tonight,” she dismissed me in a friendly way, “see you tomorrow.”
I walked for a while before catching a cab up near Harbord Street. I slipped into 7A and bolted the door, not looking for company or entertainment of any particular kind. I was paying rent to live in the apartment now and, although deeply subsidized by my 6%, it was no longer free and the future was far less certain, economically speaking.
Ardie was a fury of activity; the antiques shop downtown was repainted, restocked and re-opened with much fanfare. Old clients were invited to 12B for drinks and a tour and more than a few of them subsequently contacted Ardie, the master, for consultations on updates, renovations, additions, deletions, makeovers and bare-to-the-walls, top-to-bottom overhauls.
Of course, new clients were the lifeblood of his business, and this is where a concerted charm offensive paid grand dividends. Every morning would find Ardie scanning the obituaries of The Canadian Record, looking for “good deaths.”
Good deaths, Ardie explained, would involve “money, property, antiques and a war over the will.” One good estate sale could reveal a fortune of plunder for the antique shop. Tea sets and davenports and sideboards would be found, along with Chinoiserie, majolica and “God only knows what else!” as Ardie smoked over the paper, coffee cup nearby, intent on stoking his fortunes once more.
Ardie had to move quickly when it came to the Jewish community. He generally skipped funerals but had a week—give or take—to “hit the Shiva and really clean up.”
For the uninitiated, a Shiva is a proscribed period of time, usually a week, after which the friends and family of bereaved Jews will visit the family and comfort them in their time of loss. Friends, neighbours, colleagues and others will deliver food, good wishes, companionship and the sense of community everyone needs so badly during a time of loss.
The Shiva—with its rhythms and comforts—provides a concentrated opportunity to grieve, remember, laugh, cry and finally begin to move on. “Of course you have to eat, too, so don’t miss the buffet,” Ardie said as he corralled me one afternoon to accompany him to a Shiva up off Bayview Avenue.
We were only attending because the deceased was an aged aunt of Candis Mitzvah’s cousin-by-marriage, and Candis would be in attendance today, “dispensing coffee and cake” according to Ardie. “Oh, and sympathy. Of course.”
Needless to say, Ardie changed the tone of this particular Shiva. I offered a few quiet condolences and moved to the buffet—which was good, actually—and kept quiet as Ardie worked the room. Ardie greeted Candis and was then introduced to the cousin-by-marriage, and then he was almost immediately saying goodbye; he was just in the neighbourhood, he had heard the sad news, worried about Candis and her family, must dash, really shouldn’t intrude. Just wanted to wish everyone well. So sorry to learn about your Aunt; that type of thing. Ardie was smooth with his insincerity.
These people were not grief-stricken enough to let Ardie leave. Soon the scotch was flowing—who knew Aunty kept such a bar?—and Ardie had learned that dear Aunt Whatever had left some money to her daughter, who was now getting the full-court press from both Ardie and Candis, who was eager to promote her association with Ardie Beebe.
We left after an hour or so, and Ardie smiled as he sat behind the wheel of his car. “The poor dear suffered so much and her daughter got everything. Candis tells me she’s thinking of moving and, of course, she’ll need some help with wherever she moves.” He cleared his throat. “Lots and lots of help.”
No comments:
Post a Comment