by Anne Simpson
Less than a year ago.
He sat very still, his face withdrawn into shadow. His eyes were wet with tears.
Jasmine, he said softly.
Yes?
He was looking down at her. A moment like this couldn’t last and last, he thought. How could it last? It would slip away, like everything else.
Maria Spelterini, he said.
What?
Maria Spelterini was the first woman tightrope walker at the Falls. In 1875 or 1876 – something like that. She came out of nowhere, and disappeared after one summer. They criticized her because she didn’t do stunts, so she started wearing peach buckets on her feet, or she’d go across in chains and shackles. But she was just as good as the rest of them, probably as good as Blondin when he was the same age.
How old was she?
Twenty-three. But everyone talks about Blondin. The Great Blondin. He was the first to go across the gorge. He could do anything on a tightrope: push a wheelbarrow, cook an omelette, carry his manager on his back. He went across blindfolded, but they all did that. Maria Spelterini put a paper bag over her head.
But how could you do it without being able to see? she asked.
I don’t know.
Damian saw how she was turning it over in her mind. Maybe she was thinking about the whole world reduced to a tightrope strung between one side of the gorge and the other, and Maria Spelterini with a paper bag over her head, balancing on it, with only a shuddering cable under the arch of each foot, trusting a pole to keep steady while the wind gusted this way and that, knowing there was nothing under the tightrope but thin air, and, farther below, the swift, dark water.
SO YOU’RE JASMINE, said Ingrid.
Yes.
Well, I’m glad to meet you – finally. You’re a very pretty girl.
Thank you.
Damian’s mother was the same height as her son, Jasmine thought. They had the same bone structure, and though her hair was white, her skin was tanned in that same smooth way. Her eyes were penetrating. She must have been over fifty, Jasmine thought, but like Damian, she was striking.
Is that what’s called a nose stud? asked Ingrid. In your nostril?
Yes.
I suppose you could get anything pierced, couldn’t you? Your ears, your eyebrows, your nose. You could just go on and on, getting things pierced.
Anything at all.
Ingrid raised her eyes to the ceiling, as if considering it, before going back to slicing the havarti into neat pieces.
Jasmine didn’t think Ingrid liked her. It had to do with the way she was slicing the cheese. Then she reminded herself that Ingrid had lost a daughter, and that made her feel sorry for her. But she also thought that Ingrid was the kind of person who wouldn’t want anyone feeling sorry for her.
Ingrid put the cheese, the slices fanned out, on a green plate on the table. And you and Damian have known each other now for –
A week and a half, interjected Damian.
A week and a half.
Jasmine moved her silver bangles up and down her arm.
Jasmine, help yourself to lemonade, said Ingrid briskly. Or there’s white wine. Would you like some white wine? It’s probably not the best Chablis around, but it’ll do. Yes? I’ll get you a goblet. There, no, not that one, Damian, I think we’ll use the other ones. That’s right. So, Damian said you’re from Saskatchewan, Jasmine.
Yes, from Lanigan.
And does your family live right in Lanigan?
They moved in from out of town.
It must have been nice being out of town.
It was. But my parents sold the land when they ran out of money, and now they have a mini-home. A mobile home.
They went bankrupt? Ingrid handed Jasmine a goblet. There are crackers – yes, help yourself to some of that liver pâté that Roger wanted, and to the vegetables and crab dip, and then we should all go out on the porch, don’t you think?
Jasmine sat down in a chair at the kitchen table. She felt weary. It was true: her parents had gone bankrupt. She recalled her mother and father in the kitchen during that time when they’d realized they would have to declare bankruptcy. Her mother had put her arms around her father.
We’ll be fine, you know, Tom, her mother had said. We’ll be fine.
Jasmine put the goblet of cool wine to her lips and closed her eyes as she sipped it. When she looked up, Damian was gazing at her fondly. But she was still nervous. A house like this made her nervous. Even the kitchen was big.
She’d asked Damian what dress to wear – the yellow or the blue – and he’d said the blue. She had flip-flops with daisies on them, and they slapped against the floor when she walked, so it was better to sit still, waiting for someone to ask her whether she had any navel piercings.
Oh, and here’s Elvis, said Ingrid brightly. You’re back early from the workshop, Elvis, aren’t you? Well, come in and say hello to Jasmine. Jasmine is Damian’s friend.
Elvis simply stood in the doorway looking at Jasmine.
The man in pyjamas, Jasmine thought. It unsettled her, even though she knew he’d be here. He no longer resembled the man in pyjamas. He wore a silky black shirt, unbuttoned to the fourth button, and the black contrasted with his soft, childish skin, and freckles scattered in a blizzard of soft brown specks all over his face and the V of his exposed chest.
When’s your birthday? said Elvis.
My birthday? asked Jasmine, puzzled.
Full name, date of birth, place of birth. Elvis clutched a Mickey Mouse lunch box.
Sandra Blakeney, except I changed my name to Jasmine, after a little white flower, because I liked it better than Sandra. I decided that on the bus outside of Saskatoon.
You did? said Damian.
Yes. So, it’s Jasmine – Jasmine Jane Blakeney, August 2, 1989. Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.
Ingrid dropped a knife with a clatter. August 2, she said. She picked up the knife. That’s less than a week away. You’ll be all of nineteen years old.
Yes, I know, it’s kind of a shock to think of being nineteen.
You’re just eighteen. You’re so young – Elvis, stop staring, and come and wash out your lunch box. Yes, we’ll have to have a birthday party, won’t we, Damian? Now where’s Roger? Here I got the pâté specially. Yes, we’ll have to have a cake and some champagne. That’s what we’ll do. Elvis, stop staring, please. It’s rude.
I’d like a party, agreed Jasmine.
You have a nice face, said Elvis suddenly. I like your face a lot.
Thank you.
Jasmine wished Elvis would stop staring. She wished that Ingrid would stop making her feel as if she were an animal in a zoo. Something large and lumbering, like a bear.
There you are, Roger! said Ingrid. I was wondering where on earth you were.
I was lost. Roger shuffled forward into the kitchen.
Lost? Ingrid motioned for the others to move out of the way.
On this street, yes – this street.
How did you do that?
I got turned around coming outside Wang’s Variety because there was a truck right up on the sidewalk and I had to go around it. I could smell tar –
Oh, they’re paving that little parking lot between Wang’s and the triplex. I forgot to tell you.
Roger found a chair and sat down abruptly. He wiped his forehead, and folded up the sections of his cane, but his hands were shaking. His hands didn’t stop working when the cane was folded up. His fingers unfolded it and folded it again.
Jasmine watched him helplessly. Damian had warned her that his uncle was blind, but she had no idea what to do or what to say.
Damian, why don’t you show Jasmine around the house? suggested Ingrid. Show her the butterfly cases on the wall upstairs.
Jasmine followed Damian, but the voices floated along with her as she ascended the stairs.
I couldn’t get situated, Roger was saying. I just couldn’t get my bearings.
Here they are. Damian stopped at the end of th
e hall and gestured at the cases on the wall. My grandfather’s collection.
Will your uncle be all right? Jasmine said. He didn’t look very well.
No, he didn’t.
It must be frightening for him sometimes.
Damian took her hand. Look, he said.
The butterflies and moths were pinned, row on row, in three framed shadow boxes covered with glass. The labels were printed carefully with the Latin name first and the common name in brackets.
You really are showing me the butterflies.
I get to be alone with you this way. See, this is the Mother-of-Pearl Morpho.
Morpho laertes, Jasmine said. The white is almost shiny – like silk. And the markings – see? They’re so delicate.
He kissed her neck.
No, don’t. I’m looking at them.
Should I leave you alone?
Here’s the Madagascar Moon Moth.
Mmmm.
Jasmine could hear Ingrid’s voice grow louder downstairs.
Roger said something in a low voice.
Your mother doesn’t like me, said Jasmine.
She likes you, said Damian. What she doesn’t like is the fact that I’m being, as she says, irresponsible. I said it was none of her business. But we cleared the air, and then she said she wanted to meet you.
Jasmine heard a door bang downstairs. I can tell when someone doesn’t like me.
Damian put his arms around her. He held her tightly and they faced the butterflies and moths on the wall.
You could draw them, she said.
I could, but I’d rather draw you.
They’d spent the day in her bedroom as he drew her from different angles. It had taken hours. He hadn’t wanted her to move, but it had been hard to keep the same pose. There was something about him, she realized, something that drove him in a way that was completely single-minded. What was it? It was as if he’d forgotten about her and yet he hadn’t forgotten about her. It was just that he’d gone so deep into her, he didn’t see her anymore. And then, when he was finished, he wasn’t happy with what he’d done.
There’s the Luna Moth, he murmured into her hair. I’ve seen one of those.
It’s pretty.
They’re nocturnal, so it’s rare to see one. I saw one hanging on the screened door at home. It didn’t move. And then I realized it was dead.
Actias luna, she said.
Come here. He took her down the hall.
What?
My bedroom. Well, it’s the guest room, but right now it’s mine.
It’s a little weird to be in your bedroom, she said.
Why?
I don’t know. Your mother’s downstairs with your uncle. Jasmine went to the window and stood pensively.
He joined her. You can see the Niagara Gorge –
Elvis came into the room and put his guitar down on Damian’s bed.
Hi, Elvis, said Jasmine.
That’s where the old Schoellkopf Power Station used to be, there, across the river, Damian said, pointing. You can’t see a whole lot, though, because of the trees.
I’d be looking out this window all the time, she said.
Looking out the window all the time. Elvis laughed, bouncing a couple of times on Damian’s bed.
Jasmine touched the box on the top of his bureau. What’s this?
Oh, said Damian. Nothing much.
It’s all taped up, she said. Pandora’s box.
It’s nothing.
Elvis got up from the bed and took the box. He shook it, listening, putting it up to one ear and then the other.
Don’t, Elvis, said Damian.
Why not?
Because it’s not yours. Leave it alone. His voice was sharp.
Not yours. Elvis put down the box and lay on the bed again, his sneakers sticking out like clown feet. He gazed at Jasmine. You have a nice face, he repeated. I like your face.
Well, thank you, Elvis.
I want to kiss your face all over. Is it okay if I kiss your face all over?
No, Elvis, that is not okay, said Damian.
But she has a nice face, said Elvis mournfully.
Yes, she has a very nice face. I think it’s time to go, Elvis. Time to go.
Elvis picked up his guitar and went slowly to the door, which Damian shut behind him. He locked it and turned to Jasmine.
What? he said.
I don’t know. It was the way you were with him.
I just put a stop to it.
He didn’t mean any harm.
But I don’t want him saying those things to you, said Damian, going close to her. He can’t kiss your face all over. You don’t want him doing that, do you?
No, but it’s almost as if you’re jealous.
Jealous of Elvis?
Well, if it’s not jealousy, it’s something else.
I want to put a wall around us.
A wall?
To keep things out. Maybe I’m selfish. He pressed against her. You’re so –
Don’t say I’m beautiful, she said. She felt the weight of his body against her as she leaned against the wall.
Why not? You are. God, you are.
He found the hem of her sundress and pulled it up, sliding his hands up her thighs.
Don’t. She flung herself away from him, and stood by the door, straightening her dress, smoothing it.
Jasmine –
What is in that box, anyway? she said angrily. That box you won’t let anyone touch?
It’s – never mind.
The screened door banged as Ingrid went out.
He’d made her angry. Well, to hell with it. Roger finished the wine in his glass and ate a little pâté straight off the blunt knife. He fumbled around for a couple of crackers. He’d scared himself. His heart was still racing.
He’d lost his way. It was like being in Antarctica in a snowstorm. But he was always in a storm. The snow whirled around him, day and night.
Abruptly, he recalled kissing the waitress from Giorgio’s. He’d put his hands up to her face. Mandy, from Amanda, she’d told him. She was twenty-two and he was fifty-six. Her lips were like plump cushions; he could have gone to sleep on them.
Christ, she’d said to him. I thought blind guys knew how to kiss.
As soon as she spoke he realized he didn’t want to kiss her. He’d got it wrong. He was fifty-six and he’d got it wrong again.
Now Damian had met someone. The way it went was that one of them would give something and the other would give something and after that they’d start taking from each other. He and Marnie had taken from each other until nothing was left. But he’d get fucked up if he kept thinking these things. Anyway, the way he’d been with Marnie wasn’t the way Damian would be with Jasmine.
Roger went slowly to the sink, leaned against it, and took two plastic tumblers out of the cabinet. He ran water in one and then the other, checking the levels with his finger and pouring a little out of them until they were three-quarters full. This was the test, he thought, the thing he hadn’t been able to do. He could carry one glass of water, but not two. With a glass in each hand, he moved in the direction of the kitchen table. It was only a few paces from him, but it might have been half a mile away. Cautiously he went, trying to balance the glasses, shifting from his left foot to his right foot.
On the fifth step he bumped into a chair, his own chair, the one he hadn’t pushed back close to the table. He tripped and the glasses flew out of his hands. He cried out as he crashed to the floor.
Tears came to his eyes as he lay there. He couldn’t do anything for himself. He’d got lost that very day on his own street.
When he’d been suspended upside down over Niagara Falls, he’d been, as he said later in the bar, scared shitless. The cameraman got him a beer, but he hardly touched it. It was on the table in front of him, a blurry glass, hardly a glass at all. The cameraman asked him what had possessed him to do it then, if he’d been scared shitless. It wasn’t so much the hanging over the Fall
s that frightened him, Roger had said, trying to recall everything exactly. It was when the crane was lowering him down to the brink that he’d wanted to get out of it, but he’d been in a straitjacket, and there was no getting out of it. He’d heard people yelling, despite the thundering noise of the water.
He’d had better vision then. He could see that the water was a rush of green before it went over the edge, then a rush of white as it fell, roaring, to the river. And as they lowered him down, the Falls came closer and closer. The cable gave one shudder, then another. It would break, he’d thought. It would break and he’d fall into those depths.
He hung upside down. He hung from the cable, looking into his own death. That’s what he was doing, he’d thought, looking into the whiteness of his own death. He’d felt himself grow calm. It wasn’t such a bad thing. He’d circled this way and that as he dangled at the end of the cable, but he felt his heart grow calm.
Roger? Are you all right, Roger? It’s Jasmine. Do you want me to help you?
Roger was lying on the kitchen floor in a puddle of water. Jasmine picked up two plastic glasses and put them on the table.
Yes, he said, if you could help me up – there. Thank you.
She saw how his hands gripped the chair as if he thought it might tip over.
We haven’t really met, he said, settling himself on the chair. I’m Roger and you’re Jasmine.
Pleased to meet you.
Likewise. If I had a hat, I would doff it.
Doff it?
Yes, he laughed – a quick, strangled sound. That’s what men do. No, it’s what they used to do when they had hats. They’d doff them.
She laughed.
You think I’m crazy, he said.
No, not at all.
If Ingrid were here she’d say I’m crazy. But she’s not here. Do you want to smoke a joint? he went on. I really think I’d like to smoke a joint.
Jasmine imagined Damian, upstairs in his room, listening.
We’ll go outside to smoke it, though. That way the forces of good and evil won’t be able to discover us. What do you think we should worry about most? The forces of good or the forces of evil?
I don’t know. She didn’t know what to say to calm him.
The forces of good always worried me most, he confided.
