Is that what I’m saying. I don’t think that’s what I’m saying.
And I’m saying if I’d lived five hundred years ago, I’d already be dead. My body would have “remembered” how to die at age forty. Today it “remembers” at age eighty. What has happened. Has our memory of how to die deteriorated. Or has our memory of how to live improved.
At the next table the knitters have stopped knitting. Cheers, Lionel says, lifting his glass.
I lean on my cheek and listen to him. My coffee is cold. It is a bit like meeting an exaggerated version of my dad. The palm trees on his lapels, framing his beard, are freaking me out. I try to steer the conversation back to mice, specifically Wedge, and he launches into an explanation of the derivation of the word muscle. Which comes from Mus musculus. Because apparently the Romans thought the muscle in the upper arm, when flexed, looked like a little mouse trapped under the skin.
Oh God please don’t let him show me.
This is beer number four.
Yes, he is removing his thin grey sweater, under which his Hawaiian shirt is short-sleeved. His arms are very thin. Don’t look at them. Still, he can make a small Mus musculus, by god. Look. The Romans thought this tendon looked like a mouse’s tail. He points to a ropey business running along the inside of his elbow. See.
Okay, I see, I tell him. Put your sweater back on. Don’t get cold.
He puts his sweater back on and stares into his beer. A mouse that is in pain or dying will hide, he says after a moment. Will burrow.
What.
Your father and I used to stay up all night arguing.
About what.
Nothing metaphysical. Methods. He didn’t believe in calorie restriction.
Probably a good thing for me, I say. I look over my shoulder. I would not say no to more coffee if someone should come by to offer it.
Then he went into psychology of all things.
So you two were close.
I wouldn’t say close.
But you dressed up as Watson and Crick.
There were many Watsons and Cricks.
I wonder what this means. Literally, on Halloween. Or how. I picture two men intertwined in a double helix. Would I know a Watson and Crick if I met one on the street.
Lionel heads back to the bar. He promises to bring me coffee.
One of the knitters leans over and says, That the guy from 60 Minutes.
I nod.
I told you, she says and kicks her friend under the table.
Click click go the needles.
My hands around a steaming fresh cup of coffee, I feel instantly better. I sit up straight. Meanwhile, on this side of his fifth beer, Lionel seems to be sobering up. He seems to have just noticed me.
Walter Flowers’ daughter, he says, shaking his head.
I lift a hand. Hi.
He looks at my chest. What’s the stopwatch for.
It’s an heirloom.
He seems unsurprised. Well. He looks at his own watch. Time to get back to work.
Work.
He chugs the rest of his beer.
Did you know my dad’s brother, I ask.
He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. Nods. Met him a few times. Law student.
No.
Tall lanky bloke. Fancy dresser.
Thoby.
Yeah. He points at me. Except he went by another name. A diminutive.
How long does it take to catch tuberculosis, because I’m pretty sure that’s what I have.
On the little toy train from Cambridge to London, I sit beside a window that won’t close, and instead of changing seats, I wrap myself in the red parachute, which other passengers seem to interpret as a show of solidarity with a sports team. Fists in the air. Slaps on the shoulder.
Down the aisle a Seeing Eye dog wears a sign that says PLEASE DO NOT DISTRACT ME.
My eyes feel hot and my neck aches. I stare at the sky. Overhead, the wires tangle and miraculously untangle. That is sort of pretty.
When I wake, I don’t feel a future. I don’t know where I am. Piccadilly Circus or Paddington Bear. I hate these toy names. I disembark in a dark corner of a dark terminal. Pigeons jog by like business travellers. Excuse me, excuse me.
I take long strides in my red parachute. But long strides to where is the question. This is what a little sleep will do to you. This is why you should not nap in the middle of the post meridiem. This feeling of horror. King’s Cross. With who. With you.
A voice over the intercom says, Have you left your bag unattended. Because if you have.
Shit. My bag. I hurry back to the toy train where my carry-on bag is waiting with a very worried expression. Where is my owner.
Here. Sorry.
Back out into the terminal. Long strides towards the pay phones with their oversized receivers and heavy directories. The intercom voice says, If you have left your bag unattended, we will remove it and the king will torture it.
A pigeon rides by on someone’s suitcase.
Something Hilly said. When I told her I was looking for my uncle, she said, Have you tried the directory. Which I thought amusing at the time. Ha ha. If only it were that simple. Silly Hilly. How little you know about the complicated existence that is mine.
But maybe it is that simple. What are directories for if not to direct you. Because I am alone in London and I have found no one, no one, no one.
I open the directory to the Fs. Flowers, T. There are six T. Flowers. One lives on Toff’s mews. In Toff’s house.
The funny thing about solving a mystery is that the closer you get to the solution, the more it feels like you are remembering rather than discovering. Like you are just jogging your memory.
Of course. Toff has been impersonating Uncle Thoby. Of course.
I jog down Toff’s mews, unamused. Parachute billowing. I don’t bother knocking. I burst in.
Toff, I yell. Or whatever your real name is.
Except it’s not Toff’s house. It’s the brilliant woman’s. I recognize her even though her hair is dry. Oops. My apologies. These houses all look the same. Like teeth. Don’t they.
Get the fuck out.
Of course. But you should lock your door if you do not want overseas visitors.
Slam.
Toff’s house is three doors down. Jog, jog. My parachute is creating some wind resistance. Which is what it was designed to do, of course. But it is a bit of a drag.
Burst open the door. Toff! Or whatever your real name is.
Hamlet trots down the hall, a growl dying in his throat. Oh, it’s you. Yes, it’s me. Be nice. He blocks my path. Looks over his shoulder.
Toff appears with a dishtowel, drying his hands. He looks like he was expecting an overseas visitor. So you’ve been to Cambridge, he says.
Yes, I’ve been to Cambridge. What’s your point.
No point.
Goddamn it. He thinks I’m a better detective than I am. He thinks I know something I don’t. This is like a red flag to a bull. Speaking of which, he’s back to cravats, and this one is red. I lunge for the cravat and get a grip on his clavicle. Is it because you always wished you were my dad’s brother that you are now pretending to be him. Is it because Uncle Thoby was in Newfoundland that you thought you could get away with it.
He backs into the wall. Jesus God, Audrey.
What.
You’re upsetting the dog for one thing.
I look down. Not that far down. Hamlet is practically at eye level, and snarling. I release his master’s clavicle. The tail wags. Dogs are so simple.
Toff arranges his cravat.
I back up. Sorry.
This is off the wall, even for you. What’s with the cape.
It’s a parachute.
Oh, well that makes much more sense.
I push my palms into my eyes. I feel not good.
A dry hand on my forehead. You’ve got a fever.
I nod. Possibly an untreatable strain of tuberculosis.
Look at me, Audrey.
/> I look. At first I see only black spots. Then I see red. What.
Why would I do that.
Do what.
Impersonate your uncle.
Because you loved my dad and wanted to be his brother.
Okay, that is true, he says. That is true.
Toff brings me a warm beverage. When I ask what it is, he says, Remember the advert with the St. Bernard dog.
The what.
Nevermind. It’s for cold and flu. And tuberculosis.
I take it in two hands.
We sit together on the sofa. He asks how my meeting with Grandmother went.
Poorly.
And Lionel de Tigrel.
Poorly.
Oh Audrey.
I look at him. You’re all I’ve got left, Toff. You’ve got to tell me the truth. Where is he.
I don’t know.
You look like someone who does know.
Has it occurred to you that he doesn’t want to be found.
Bollocks. Don’t act like you know him better than I do. Don’t you dare.
Hamlet puts his head into the conversation. Toff pushes him away.
Grandmother said he went home.
Then he probably did.
Home with his olive branch. A tear drops into my lemon beverage.
Oh don’t, says Toff. Cry. Please.
It’s my stye. It’s my black eye. It’s this potion that’s making me weepy. I’m not crying.
He pulls a Kleenex out of his pocket.
Thanks. Too kind.
I’ve been an ass, he says after a moment.
Yes. Well. It’s not too late to stop being one.
He looks at me. Slowly he nods.
Where is home. His home.
Cornwall. Forgive me, dear brother.
Toff’s guest room is warm. I climb under the covers. I am so sleepy. Possibly he has poisoned me. He said that tomorrow he would go with me. To the bottom of England. Tomorrow. But there are no trains tonight. And I need to sleep. Take off that parachute.
I have left the door ajar.
I do not know Toff’s last name. I have never known it. I have never noticed that I don’t know it. Is that usual. Will I remember in the morning that I don’t know it. Or is my noticing just a side effect of the hot beverage. I am sleeping in the house of someone whose last name I do not know.
I close my eyes and see Uncle Thoby in the imaginary chair, in a shaft of gold light, tied up with ropes. Oddly!
I will find you.
And in my usual delayed way, I process something that Lionel de Tigrel said, the only thing he really said, though he spoke non-stop for two hours. I finally hear it, ten hours later: A mouse that is in pain or dying will hide. Will burrow.
The door creaks open. Enter Hamlet. I was hoping he’d visit. Is he going to climb on the bed. Because that would be awkward. No. He just stands there and rests his chin on my chest. And sleeps this way.
England is a rumpled landscape with the seams of the blanket showing. Hedges belong outside, Dad. How could you not have known that. Ponies canter in the shadows of clouds. There are bursts of sun and rain. The train makes its slow way south to the foot of the bed.
Destination: Penzance.
When Toff first said Penzance, I thought he was kidding. Penzance. As in the pirates of.
Yes.
But Penzance isn’t real, is it.
Across from me Toff wears a yellow cravat with small blue specks. We are in the dining car. When he looks out the window he is a playing card. A jack, sorry knave, cut off at the waist.
My head feels stuffy. We order coffee. Across the aisle, a man talks loudly on a cellphone.
Toff has been writing a letter. He seals it in an envelope and doesn’t address the envelope. Is it pour moi. No. Pour qui. It sits there on the table between us.
The man with the phone is giving his credit card number. To the entire dining car. I grab Toff’s pen and write it down on my napkin. Will he give the expiry date. Yes. What a fool.
Audrey.
What.
Accent-grave eyebrows.
Might come in handy, I say.
We should talk about money at some point.
No.
You have plenty.
Do not bust out another Hellvetica will or I will spill my coffee on it.
Fine.
A strong wind buffets the train. We are close now to the foot of the bed. Who knew there were palm trees in England. We roll to a stop in front of a yellow brick wall that says St. Erth.
Toff says, Just popping out for a cigarette.
Oh no you don’t. I reach across to grab his cravat but instead knock over his coffee. Shit.
Come on, Audrey. What am I going to do, run away to the ends of St. Erth.
Ha ha.
He leaves the car.
I mop up the coffee. He took his briefcase. Left the envelope. Wait a minute. I stand up.
Outside he is lighting a cigarette. He’s making that hand-cupping gesture all smokers make. His cravat flaps in the wind. I pull down the window. Get back on.
He looks up.
Get back on.
I’ll wait for you here.
What do you mean you’ll wait for me here.
In St. Erth, he says.
For how long.
Indefinitely.
That’s sweet of you, Toff. But get back on.
The train starts moving.
But I don’t know where I’m going.
There’s only one stop left, he calls. Get off at the next stop.
I sit back down and watch him get smaller. I lift the envelope. Pour moi. Of course it’s for me. So now we are getting to the bottom of it. Are you ready to get to the bottom of it.
Dear Audrey,
You asked me if I had kidnapped your uncle, or threatened him, or at the very least said something to make him leave you. I assured you I hadn’t. But it’s possible I did say some things—some unkind and threatening things that I now regret. Please tell him when you see him that I am sorry, that what I did for him and Walter I would do over. He will know what I mean.
I am here to help you.
Always,
Toff
Penzance is at the bottom of England. You leave St. Erth and alight in Penzance. There are white beaches with palm trees like inverted umbrellas. The ocean throws white pearls at your feet. Welcome, welcome orphan.
So Penzance is real. I have arrived in my dad’s biography of Uncle Thoby. And surely Uncle Thoby must be here, must be in his own biography. Surely this is one of the rules of biography.
I walk the cursive streets that spell PENZANCE from above. I make my hand a visor. I scan the beaches for an asymmetrical outline. The wind is strong and cold. The sky darkens. Where. Where oh where do I look.
I come across a pub called ’Tis Mabel’s. It reminds me of Bebe’s at home. There’s a fire in the hearth. The woman behind the bar has puffy sleeves. She’s drying a glass. She puts the glass down and looks at me. Poor wand’ring one, she says.
Sorry.
You look lost.
Well. I’m looking for someone.
The bar is empty but there’s a second room, through an arch, where a group of men are playing darts. I drift towards that room. Pour, oh pour the pirate sherry. Fill, oh fill the pirate glass. They all sound like Uncle Thoby. But none of them is him.
Something dawns on me: If everyone in Cambridge sounds like my dad, and everyone in Penzance sounds like Uncle Thoby, and if the people in Cambridge do not sound like the people in Penzance, then my dad and Uncle Thoby do not sound alike. This is what is called a syllogism.
Mabel, I assume ’tis Mabel, comes up beside me. Who’re you looking for, luv.
A man with one arm longer than the other.
She tilts her head. Wilfred.
I sit at the bar while she draws me a map. Here, eat this. She puts a bowl of soup in front of me. ’Tis a long walk, she says, and there’s snow on the way.
Sno
w. How can there be snow if there are palm trees.
Five whole centimetres, she says. And we’ve only got three ploughs.
Won’t that cover it.
Three for all of Cornwall, she says.
Oh.
I look at the map. Tremorden Lane. It’s at the very edge of the E in Penzance. Up on a hill. Overlooking a beach.
I pay for the soup without touching it.
Outside it is starting to snow. Big beautiful flakes. When will I ever see snow falling on palm trees again. Unless I buy a Penzance snow globe. But then, how would I get that snow globe home.
It’s dark. Street lights come on. My shadow wobbles on the cobbles. My bag bounces. A black flag flaps over a store. To keep my spirits up, I hum my dad’s favourite song, the song of the Modern Major General.
About binomial theorem I am teeming with a lot o’ news With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse.
And I start to feel cheerful. I’m going to find him, Dad. He’s here. He’s been burrowing, but it’s not too late. I pick up the pace.
It’s a steep climb up to Tremorden Lane. At the top there’s a stone wall and a row of dark cottages. Summer cottages. Are they even heated. There are no numbers. I will have to knock at the door of each one.
On the other side of the stone wall, far below, is the beach. The ocean is throwing its weight around. Snow swirls.
It feels impossible that Uncle Thoby, our Uncle Thoby, could be inside one of those dark cottages. That’s just it, though. It is possible. He is. He will be. I knock on the first door. No answer. I move on to the next. No answer. And the next. There are eight cottages in all and no answer at any of them.
Do not be discouraged.
I return to the first cottage and try the door. Locked. The next. Locked. The third. Unlocked. I give the door a shove and step into a kitchen. Bottles clink underfoot. I wait for my eyes to adjust. A pair of orange gloves on the counter. Uncle Thoby, I call.
I step into a living room. He is on the sofa, asleep. Very asleep. But breathing.
I sink down beside him. In the dim light he looks bluish. Beaten around the eyes. I push his hair back. He looks like a pirate. Or like someone whose brother just died. Or like someone whose true love is dead.
Come, Thou Tortoise Page 31
