Free A by Andre Alexis Page A

they ever meet, he and Andrews would understand each other.
    Also: Baddeley was working on what he hoped would be a magnum opus, a critical study entitled T ime and Mr. Andrews: Chronos in the Poetry of Avery Andrews . (The title alone had cost him a few white nights. He had agonized over its every word and diacritical mark.) Yes, Baddeley wanted Andrew’s approval, but even better would be Andrews’ involvement, an interview, say, something to let his admirer know that Time and Mr Andrews was not wrong-headed.
    Unfortunately, Baddeley had no idea how to go about contacting the poet. Andrews’ publisher refused to pass on the least scrap of correspondence. Nor were they impressed by Baddeley’s credentials as a reviewer. It did not seem to trouble them that they were denying Andrews access to a careful and committed reader. Without the help of Andrews’ publisher, contacting the poet seemed unlikely.
    The key to finding Avery Andrews was nearer to hand than Baddeley imagined, however. It was in the person of his friend, Gilbert “Gil” Davidoff. Davidoff, a mediocre novelist who thought highly of himself, was a compulsive womanizer. Among the women who’d given herself to him (in the misplaced hope that the intensity of his self-love might be matched by his love for another) there was one, a certain Marva Wilson, who’d had a relationship with Avery Andrews. It was a relationship of which she was shyly proud, being herself an admirer of poetry.
    This information had come to Davidoff in an unexpected way. He had finished with Marva Wilson. After fucking, he had thanked her, as if their lovemaking had been a sort of cordiality, like opening a door for someone at a mall. Reaching for his shoes and socks, he’d turned to catch the small, compact woman looking at him.
    â€” You know the story, Davidoff had said. Rambling man. Got to keep moving.
    â€” You’re not even that good a writer, said Marva bitterly.
    â€” Right, said Davidoff. And who’d you say your father was? Northrop Frye?
    â€” How can you be so cruel? she asked. What did I ever do to you?
    â€” Now this, said Davidoff to Baddeley some time later, was the moment of truth. Two choices. You either run or you stay and smooth things over. But I like to smooth things over, ’cause if your reputation’s in tatters you don’t get what matters. You know what I mean? I’m sure you’ve been in the same position.
    As a point of fact, Alexander Baddeley had never been in the same position, but he nodded sagely, inviting his friend to continue. There wasn’t all that much to continue with, however. Davidoff had soothed Marva’s feelings by pretending to care about her literary opinions. Then, just before she fell asleep, she’d let it slip that she had dated Avery Andrews, that they had been in love. Davidoff had — for Baddeley’s sake , you understand — expressed admiration mixed with “just the right touch of incredulity.” So, as she fell asleep, Marva had felt compelled to convince him. She had described the house on Cowan where he lived. And she had described the man himself: he was short; dark-haired but greying; his eyes small, his brow making them seem as if they were recessed; his mouth almost dainty; his skin smooth; his fingers long and elegant. And then there was the way he dressed. He invariably wore a yellow cardigan and oxblood oxfords. Winter, spring, summer and fall. A proper ritual: always the same sweater and shoes.
    â€” A yellow cardigan and oxblood oxfords? asked Baddeley.
    â€” I know, said Davidoff. No writer should wear a cardigan, unless he’s dead.
    Baddeley was too excited by what he’d heard to be offended by Davidoff’s words. Imagine: Avery Andrews lived in Toronto. All these years wondering where Andrews might be and he was in Baddeley’s own city. And he lived in Parkdale! Now, that was an odd detail. Parkdale was