On the 29th of May, I was sent off to Joseph Dahl’s townhouse. He was often seen strolling around Caden Street or by the lake in Muriel Park, wishing everyone a good hullo, usually while dressed in a grey suit tailored from JR Parking’s and wearing a straw hat. A habit which made him the menace of a few penny counters and good Samaritans, but the local policemen regarded him as more an itch than any serious threat.
“Some people,” he said as he gripped my hand in his leathery paw, “can’t understand the spiritual life, they’ll chant their vows come Sunday but rarely put those promises into practice.”
“How about it?” asked his not wife, not girlfriend, Susannah, who at that moment lazed upon the sofa. “Do you swear by Christ or by Odin?”
I knew that Christ in this context, meant dull as dishwater conformity. To them Jesus was the brown-haired Caucasian, a treasured institutional piece, rather than a middle eastern rebel, and Odin was the big cheese of their ancestors, because Joseph and Susannah were “never one of us,” but proud aliens.
“Well,” I replied ,“as Woden was the god of my ancestors’ enemies, I’d swear by Excalibur instead, but you’d still think me English. So, I’ll swear by Caledfwlch.”
Susannah laughed. “Oh I love it when you people hint at things I’ve not yet read. Makes planet earth all the more exciting.”
Joseph though, perhaps happy that I had never met his friends and thus had no inkling of the real him, shoved me towards the hall whilst Susanah, with an almost cat like sloth, let her fingers trace dust off the hardwood floor as her lips blew raspberries at our retreating backs.
“And now,” Joseph laughed, “I’ll show you the centre piece of the home, centrepiece of my life really. Perhaps you’ve heard of my dad, Lt. Eric Dahl and how he killed twenty soldiers during his tour of Qikiqtaaluk. The man was a modern day hero for Chrissake!”
And he led me to the landing where a gigantic and vivid painting stood above the bannisters, depicting a stern man, silver haired and silver moustached, standing proudly in a dark maroon suit, his left arm a wooden claw with a bloodhound sitting by his side. The interesting detail was that the man was engulfed in flame, and I don’t mean that the portrait was burning, rather it appeared that Lt. Dahl, set himself ablaze and dutifully stood still to allow the artist to paint him at a leisurely pace, judging by the care to detail that one Mr J. Pasolini (his signature lay at the right hand corner) had given the work.
“An act of self-control,” Joseph beamed. “The man could remain perfectly cool, even if an ocelot ate his nose or the earth gave way beneath his feet. This painting is a monument to the spirit conquering the flesh, something we should all aspire to.”
“Sure,” I shrugged.
