The eleven tales
comprising the slim volume At the Bottom of the Sky limn a territory
where art flirts with madness and friendships are imbued with an unsettling
degree of instability and paranoia. Montreal author Peter Dubé
illuminates the lives of a gang of urban compadres whose identities
are defined by social rebellion and intellectual one-upmanship. But
this potentially rankling mise-en-scène is redeemed by
the author's descriptive powers and luscious use of poetic language.
Though this short-fiction
collection is set in Montreal, each story is named for a character in
ancient Greek (and in one case, Roman) mythology. The interlocking tableaux
focus far more on setting and character than plot, leading the reader
through a demimonde of Goth bars, gay cruising grounds, twilit street
corners, and even into the literal bowels of the metropolis. Against
the backdrop of these subversive settings, first-person narrator Thom
and his friends question their relationships, and in some cases, their
sanity.
In "Actaeon," psych-ward
inmate John complains to the visiting Thom about the fact his meds are
being increased, in the next breath offering an elaborate conspiracy
theory about the disappearance of government scientists. Walking the
grounds, they revisit earlier days together, reminiscing about work
in videography and touring with bands. In this short scene, Dubé
creates a revealing portrait of one man's seeming disintegration. But
before he gets out the door, it's Thom who lurches into fantasia, as
he glances at a passing old man and conjures up surreal fantasies of
him.
The story "Janus"
is named after the god of gates and doorways--in it, Thom navigates
the passages of an abandoned building where men congregate for sexual
encounters. Eventually, in a taut and efficient scene, he finds what
he is looking for, comparing the moment of orgasm inside another man
to a pilgrimage to a holy river. The tale is more grounded and less
esoteric than it sounds, and it works as art, as well as erotica.
Not every entry
packs the same punch. "Lycaeon" and "Menelaus" are a pair of letters
exchanged by Thom and Adrian, whose disappearance from the circle of
friends figures loosely across all the stories in the book.
In "Lycaeon," Adrian
tells Thom of meeting a stranger in a bar and instantly embracing him.
Dubé establishes a touching moment that will resonate for anyone
who has ever made an unexpected emotional connection with another person.
But we subsequently learn the man was Thom himself, a revelation that
feels a bit too perfect. Thom writes his response to Adrian in a coffee
shop across the street from the home of their mutual friend Terrence,
a visual artist prone to destroying his own work. As Thom watches Terrence
paint over his own windows, an agitated and seemingly mentally ill man
stands on a street-corner pulpit offering warnings about alien abduction.
But the "crazy person" just feels like an overt symbol here, somewhat
hollow.
Yet elsewhere,
Dubé's imagery is less determined, more oblique and haunting.
In "Paris," a short reflection on estrangement between friends and former
romantic partners, one man sees himself in the other's sunglasses, and
the author's description infuses the scene with an almost psychedelic
emotional power.
Some of the strongest
moments of At the Bottom of the Sky are achieved the few times
Dubé combines his love of poetic detail with a strong narrative
drive--such as "Cerberus," about the trespasses of urban explorers,
and the final story "Charon," in which a city bus driver asks all of
his passengers to join him in finding out what happens when societal
rules are collectively broken. I don't want to reveal the plot--I'll
just say that it's a delightful end to an unusual, ultimately rewarding
book.