Logan Macnair - Panegyric

PANEGYRIC

PANEGYRIC

A Novel

LOGAN MACNAIR

Copyright 2020 by Logan Macnair

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

Publishers note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Macnair, Logan, 1989

Panegyric. / Logan Macnair .

ISBN 9781988098975 (softcover)

Printed and bound in Canada on 100% recycled paper.

eBook: tikaebooks.com

Now Or Never Publishing

901, 163 Street

Surrey, British Columbia

Canada V4A 9T8

nonpublishing.com

Fighting Words.

We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the British Columbia Arts Council for our publishing program.

To Ashley,

For nudging me off the diving board and into the unexpectedly calm waters beneath.

But the skylight is like skin for a drum Ill never mend,
and all the rain falls down amen,
on the works of last years man.

Leonard Cohen, Last Years Man

1
PROLEGOMENON

DO YOU KNOW who I am?

Do I know who you are? Arent you the cynosure we were all meant to emulate? Arent you the heartbeat of industry recently recalibrated to match the rhythm of modern apogee? Are you the towering presence that thought to strike out with such a piercing and focused query or are you the resonant timbre with which it was released? Anyone with even the slightest read on Canadas political pulse would know who you are. But do I know who you are? Based on common titles I do. Member of Parliament. Self-made millionaire. Prodigious businessman turned equally successful politician. Likely future leader of the federal party and possibly the nation. These were things I knew, but there were also things I had heard. Direct. Strong. Intense. Dangerous. A marriage of such adjectives and a moment to thank those timid enough to refuse having their hearts painted over by the same brush. These things I did not mention. And then his question:

Do you know who I am?

I was busy figuring out who I was at the time. I knew what they said about me. They said I lack form and discipline, that I am allergic to plot and structure, choked purple in the face, that nothing I write will ever see the light of day lest I learn to play by the rules. But somehow he knew who I was, even when nobody was supposed to. He knew that I had recently ghostwritten the memoirs of a former premier, even when my name was refused space on the cover. He knew exactly where and when he would be able to find me to ask this question:

Do you know who I am?

And that was the question that brought me some 4000 kilometers across the nation from the mattress in the corner of my Vancouver apartment to the basement office of his Oshawa home, sandwiched between an opulent suburb and a private entry into the waters of Lake Ontario. His proposition was a simple onetell them who I am, in my own words. He spoke of lavish payment, of idyllic living conditions, of the freedom to work my own hours so long as I could finish the project by the end of the summer. And so here I am, settling in to what will be my home for the next five months and the task at hand. Ive been here nearly a week, yet I still cant shake the question that started it all:

Do you know who I am?

Arent you Maxime Montblanc, born 1959 in British Columbias sleepy interior to Qubcois parents newly relocated? Surely you are the success story that we were all meant to be. But are you truly Canadas brightest light? Are you the embodiment of resilience yet to become inured by the dancing pistons of modern machinery? Are you the pleasant, well-mannered man that solicited my services? Are you the ruthless and perfidious harbinger of ruination they say you are?

I thought I knew who Maxime Montblanc was at the time. As it turns out, I had no idea. But I learned. And you will too.

2
PROLIXITY

ORWELL INSTRUCTED WRITERS of all vocations to avoid using long words when there was a short one that might suitably replace it. Hemingway echoed this notion, arguing that big emotions dont necessarily come from big words.

As an infant I had a precocious disposition toward reading that my parents proudly encouraged by surrounding me with books. By the age of five I was reading beyond the expected level, though my pronunciation was marked with a noticeable stutter and I had trouble forming full sentences without tripping over certain words. My parents and their friends thought this was cute at the time. By the age of ten my stutter had become significantly worse to the point where nearly every word was a struggle. As teachers started questioning my intelligence, as other kids started their imitations and mockery, and as I grew increasingly quiet and afraid to speak, it wasnt so cute anymore. And now at thirty years old, though my stutter is as pronounced and debilitating as ever, Ive had my whole life to deal with this master status the best I can and to accept certain things that at this point cannot be changed. I know I wont be starting any conversations with any alluring strangers I see in public. I know Ill never be a contestant on Jeopardy! I know Ill never deliver any keynotes, best-man speeches, lectures, or eulogies. And I know that to compensate for this I will always disregard the advice of Orwell and Hemingway.

Maxime Montblanc personally recruited me to ghostwrite his memoirs because he had heard that I was capable of completing this task with the same quality that he demonstrates in all other aspects of his life, but between you and me, I think he may have been misinformed. Regardless, he was unaware of my condition at the time he solicited my services but he has so far demonstrated a high degree of patience and empathy. Most people do. Ive had a long time to acclimate to the lexicon of pity that I am routinely exposed to. Still, in the week that I have been living in the basement guestroom of Montys Oshawa home he has proven to be a courteous and respectful host. Under such conditions, spending the entirety of the emerging summer here to write his memoirs sure beats the hell out of spending another summer languishing amid the rolling waves of underachievement.

But as I soon learned, my arrangement with Mister Maxime Montblancthe highly esteemed paragon of politicswas to be far more multifarious than the simple writing of a book.

3
PROMULGATION

IT IS TIME that we discussed your impediment.

What imp-p-p-imp-imped-imp-impediment?

Clever boy. Funny boy. Still, I would rather not do you the discourtesy of pretending that your problem is invisible. I would prefer that we be transparent about it, for this arrangement will only succeed if we remain fluid in all things. We must appear as translucent to one another. I need you to see me unfiltered and without pretense or expectation. If I am to trust you with writing the story of my life, I must also be assured that you see me complete. This is a trust that must be reciprocally felt. No hollow peaks tickling the azure and no rolling sediment. A subject within and a magnified gaze inverted inward. A man uses a chainsaw to fell a tree, but what fool of a man would not first familiarize himself with the innards and mechanics of the tool itself? Do you understand?