pad into the sink. “You can wash the dishes yourself for all I care!”
Karen watches her barge through the swinging doors, hears her thump down the hall...One second, two seconds, three seconds, wham! The whole house reverberates as Candice slams her bedroom door closed. Karen winces; the sound feels like a cannon placed against her temple. She gropes for the counter, eyes watering, and inadvertently knocks her crutches to the floor. They land with a repercussive clamour.
“Mom?” a small voice says behind her. “Dad wants to know what’s going on.”
“Nothing,” Karen whispers hoarsely. “Nothing. Your sister is having some female problems, that’s all. She’s feeling a little under the weather.”
A pause. “Do you want me to help you finish the dishes?”
“Oh, Andy ...” Karen whispers, and this time it is her turn to release a tear. “What on earth did I do to deserve you?”
Chapter Six
Moey favours modern belly-dance music from Algeria and Morocco as opposed to traditional Pharaonic compositions. As he searches through his CDs for a suitable piece for his premiere performance at the Footstop tomorrow, he puts aside “Ya Raya” (an uplifting little tune) and, as a possible alternative, “Nahawad” (a dramatic, mysterious song). At the same time, in his mannishly cramped script, he writes his monthly Vitality Sermon.
On the last training day of every month, Master Zahbar asks his instructors to deliver unto his students a rousing speech filled with martial-arts wisdom. He has provided his instructors with a self-published manual of Key Elements to be included in these speeches. This evening Moey has chosen Key Element No. 7 (Train Without Music) and No. 17 (Never Feel Relief). He picked both at random.
To say Moey is writing without thought is completely wrong; he is doing a great deal of thinking as his left hand flips through his CD rack and his right hand places inky chicken scratches upon paper. Only he isn’t thinking about martial arts; no, he’s thinking about double-veil routines versus sword acts. Improvisation versus choreography. Taped music versus a live band.
Moey doesn’t feel guilty about this discrepancy in mental acuity, because many years ago he learned that Master Zahbar grows agitated when his instructors embellish on the wisdom inscribed in his manual; therefore, other than the occasional use of a synonym, Moey copies the Master’s Vitality Sermons verbatim from the guidebook. More than once he chafed at this restriction, questioned the correctness of it, because some of the Master’s philosophies seem rooted not so much in fact but opinion. Yet who is Moey, a prairie-town trophy holder, to question the beliefs of a world kickboxing champion?
So as Moey sweats and frets over the petrifying, exhilarating prospect of doing his first public belly-dancing performance on the morrow, this is what he writes:
A dedicated martial artist does not train to music. Music is an addictive drug, supplying the martial artist with a false and temporary energy. It creates an unharmonious barrier between the mind and the body, so that the body becomes unable to function adequately without the stimulation of music. What does a martial artist do when in a Real Street Situation? Does he turn up the volume on his walkman? Look for the closest radio? Start singing the lyrics of the latest top-ten song?
No! He must draw on all his resources, focus all his energy, to deal with the threat at hand. He is a warrior! No warrior relies on outside stimuli to perform. If you are training to music, stop now, or I guarantee that when a Real Street Situation crops up, you will be unable to adequately defend yourself!
And he also copies this down verbatim from Element No. 17:
The path to excellence in martial arts can only be found when the martial artist stops feeling relief. Relief is an indication of both a pre-existing fear and complacency.
In the first place, the martial artist should never feel fear. If you eliminate all your fears, you will never again feel the relief that follows when that fear is removed. Break down your fears — analyze them, then desensitize yourself by facing them directly and repeatedly. A true martial artist feels neither fear nor relief — be a true martial artist!
As he pens these words, Moey feels uncomfortable, as if he’s wearing a wool sweater in a sauna; in fact, for the past six months or so, every time a Vitality Sermon rolls around, his scalp tingles unpleasantly. But as usual he ignores the sensation. Instead he chooses to mentally review another item of importance for his looming performance at the Footstop tomorrow — his costume.
Moey’s costume is self-assembled, not self-made. It consists of a red sateen scarf worn pirate-style on his head, a large gold earring, and a curling, fake moustache (all purchased, over a series of months, from Liquidation World). Next comes an enormous black cape of a flowing material that glitters with interwoven threads of gold (part of a Halloween Merlin the Warlock ensemble one of his brothers wore at age fifteen).
A woman’s sleeveless bolero, though extra large, fits him a little too snugly, but it is simply too authentic to replace; reflective plastic mirrors, red tassels, and gold braid decorate every inch of it. He purchased it from a Mexican stall during International Celebration Day two years ago. His pantaloons — a glossy lipstick red — come from Habib’s Quality Imports in a section of Vancouver known as Little India. The pantaloons (again, women’s apparel) are meant to be worn under a sari. Acquiring them knocked at least a year off Moey’s life; the slim, giggling East Indian cashier saw right through Moey’s stammered story about it being a present for his wife.
Bare feet and finger cymbals complete Moey’s costume. He is aiming for the Gypsy look.
Moey puts aside his plagiarized speech and cracks the air bubbles from his thick knuckles. He closes his eyes and envisions the layout of the Footstop, trying to picture himself moving with grace and passion among its merchandise. Sweat pops out on his palms.
“I’ll never be able to sleep tonight,” he mutters, and the telephone shrills.
It’ll be Karen, he thinks. She’s changed her mind. She doesn’t want me to dance tomorrow.
He hurls himself from his chair in an adrenaline-fuelled trajectory, staggers across his gloomy basement suite (all twenty feet of it), and rips the receiver from its cradle.
“Hello?” he bellows. “Hello?”
“You don’t have to shout, Moey! These things work by electricity. It’s not a long hollow tube you have to scream down.”
“Mom?”
“What, are you joking? It’s me, Miranda.”
“Oh.” He licks his lips and shudders with relief. Not Karen, after all. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.”
“What, between me and your mom?”
“Uh ... well, all women sound the same on the —”
“Yeah, well, your mother doesn’t suck on your balls, does she?”
He winces. “Miranda...”
“Look, can I come over for the night? I went shopping today.” Her tone drops a little, roughens a titch. “Wait till you see what I bought this time.”
