The Barclay Family Theatre

by Jack Hodgins

  What they wanted of course was not an artist at all but rather a kindly trustworthy art teacher. Dull and gentle. No affectations. Well, he could be gentle.

  As his son, too, had been gentle. “My God, Dad, they’re all a bunch of raving lunatics down here! They call me the dull Canadian.” The dull Canadian, of course, had become even duller when faced with a public that expected madness. And so eventually he must have faded right out, respectable and grey and unnoticed. In less than five years.

  Sylvi closed the door, then opened it again just long enough to let one more alarmed-looking woman come in from the foyer.

  Then silence. At the other end of the platform the alderman stood up behind the microphone.

  Ladies and gentlemen . . .

  Most of them watched the alderman. A few, still, were looking at the paintings. Gladdy Roote was grinning at him. As if out of all this crowd she thought she was the one he’d be happiest to see! The silly woman; a cow in the parlour.

  Which was hardly what he could call seeing only perfection.

  The truth was, he knew, that she was probably getting more enjoyment out of this thing than anyone else. Including him. Including even Sylvi. She just didn’t have the others’ ability to hide it. Poor simple silly woman. She may be the only one in the room who truly loved living.

  . . . who took his training under the very best teachers . . .

  And Carl, who knew how to suffer. Red and sweating. Trying to look invisible. Hoping no one would notice his fingers prying the tight collar away from his neck. His coarse hard face clamped shut, his eyes shifting.

  “Never mind, Carl,” he thought, “when you see what I’ve done with that face you’ll forget your discomfort. You’ll see yourself for the first time from the outside.”

  . . . moved with his lovely wife to this island . . .

  It was a face he had known for nearly five years that he must paint some day. From the day they came to look at the basement suite. And yet it had been necessary to wait all that time, watching, thinking, planning, before even asking the man. So that when the time came it had been possible simply to put down what he had already done in his mind. With Carl sitting, of course, so the light would be right.

  His son had lived in the basement. Robert, with that Chinese girl. For nearly two years. A trial marriage, they called it. And Sylvi, poor Sylvi, had said at least they’ll be home, they’re not sneaking off somewhere, we can keep an eye on them. But the Chinese girl had gone and soon after that Robert had gone too — off to Hollywood to become a famous director — and then the Rootes had arrived to answer the FOR RENT ad in the local paper.

  . . . fortunate for all of us that such a man should choose . . .

  “We saw your ad,” Carl said. He made it sound as if he were accusing them of a crime.

  “A basement suite?” Gladdy said. Looking around the place. Sniffing the air, perhaps, for the flower scent of a spray and the odours of dogs. She was ordinary, an ordinary heavy sagging woman, an ordinary face. He would quickly have forgotten her face if they’d never come back.

  But he could not have forgotten Carl’s. Not ever. His was a face that would have to be painted sooner or later. Those scowling eyes, like velvet blackberries. The bone-stretched jaw, the skin creases. The sudden thick nose. The way a tiniest movement of any part changed all of it, as if the light had changed, or a mask had shifted.

  “Well, can you show it to us?” he asked. It was obvious he didn’t really want to rent, not this or any other place. “We musta been through a dozen of these bastard places.”

  Gladdy had explained, almost in a whisper, that they had lost their house, that the business had gone bankrupt. And Carl had told her to shut up, never mind telling everybody all your goddam business. Though they had clung to each other as if they were afraid that one of them would turn a corner and disappear.

  . . . ladies and gentlemen, Elias Wainamoinen . . .

  He rose (one leg had gone to sleep) and walked carefully to the mike. Head high. Aware of the heavy silence.

  Forty years.

  “My friends,” he said.

  Though he saw none of them. He spoke to the far corner of the ceiling.

  “My good friends. Around you, on every side of you, is the evidence of my career.”

  Sylvi was there; there was Sylvi; standing by the door. Her face tilted; flushed. She was tired.

  “Perhaps a man’s life is a journey toward heaven.”

  He paused, closed his eyes.

  “Perhaps some people from time to time achieve moments there. Perhaps an artist is the man who can show you glimpses of those moments.”

  He breathed deeply, tilted forward now, almost bowing. “Thank you for coming, my friends. I hope, this evening, some time this evening, my work will give you a glimpse into the harmonious world of truth.”

  Not offering much is he, Gladdy thought. The harmonious world of truth, for crying out loud!

  And shifted weight in her tight shoes. She hadn’t worn the things since winter. So much barefoot walking in summer had spread out her feet.

  The dress, though, the dress was perfect. Hung on her body like it was made in Paris for her. She looked as good as any one of these other babes, anyone could see that at a glance.

  She felt flushed from excitement, but didn’t look as red as Carl. The poor bugger hated to wear a suit and tie anyway, and here he was with his head the colour of a fat radish, and sweating buckets as if that collar was really squeezing. His eyes bulged, and never stopped peering around the room the whole time the speeches were on, searching for the shock of his own face looking back.

  “You’d think he was a bloody Michelangelo,” she whispered, out of the side of her mouth, to Carl. She nodded, smiling, at the woman who turned to let a look scorch right down the full length of Gladdy Roote.

  Your face’s got as much paint slapped on it as some of these canvases, Gladdy thought. And wondered if the necklace was real diamonds. In this town, who could tell?

  Mercifully the ribbon was cut at last and the crowd fell apart like struck billiard balls. They spread out in every direction all over the hall, running — some of them — to get a closer look at something their eyes had picked out while they stood listening. Someone, moving, kicked Gladdy’s ankle; though she swallowed the curse that rose in her throat, and smiled. This isn’t a bloody $1.49 day at Eaton’s, she thought. Were the rich at an art show like housewives at a bargain sale?

  “Where’s the picture?” Carl muttered. “So we can get the hell out of this place.”

  But no one was going to cheat her out of one minute of this.

  “You can’t just look and go.”

  He mopped his high shiny forehead with his handkerchief and glowered. “What else are we here for?”

  “You have to mix,” she said.

  “Mix?”

  “This isn’t a department store. You gotta look at every painting like it was the only one here, and you gotta talk with people.”

  “Shoot, I’m not looking at 250 goddam pictures. And we don’t know any of these people.”

  She slipped her hand in behind his elbow. “We know some. Enough.” And smiled at her dentist’s second wife, who had begun, after all, as his receptionist. “We’ll start here,” she said, “and work our way around.”

  Down the first wall there wasn’t a single painting she’d say thank-you for. Not one she’d have in her house. A photograph cut out of a magazine would look better than any of these. A lot of trees with fuzzy leaves, and silly messed-up skies. Carl pulled her down past them too fast to see anything else but she didn’t mind. What she minded was not having the time to get a good look at the people who stood there, studying. They seemed to be saying things about the paintings as if one wasn’t the same as the next.

  “Did you notice the prices he’s got on these things?” Carl said.

  “Paintings are a good investment.”

  “How much do you figure he pays for the canvas? Not much. And
the paint. He sure as hell puts a high price on his labour.”

  “What else is there to a painting but the labour? You don’t think these people came here to admire the paint, do you? Or the frames?”

  Carl Roote shook his head. You’d think he was looking at the biggest con job of all time. Still, he wasn’t going to spoil her night. Gladdy stood back from a large watercolour in the corner and tilted her head. “Now that’s got depth,” she said.

  The fat woman beside her smiled. “Yes,” she said. “That man understands light.”

  “Yeah,” Gladdy said. “You could guess exactly what time of day it is, where the sun’s coming from.”

  The woman moved up closer, one pudgy finger out, as if she wanted to touch.

  Carl said, “Maybe he knows light, but he don’t know nothing about a logging claim. Them trees are all too clean and perfect. Where’s the dead limbs? Where’s the rotten snags and widow-makers? Where’s the windfalls?”

  The fat woman looked Carl over. “Have you met this, this Mr. Wainamoinen?”

  “Oh yes,” Gladdy said. “We know him well. Neighbours. I suppose we’re what you could call friends.”

  The woman’s face lighted up. “Really! Well he certainly is a talented man.”

  “My husband,” Gladdy said, “modelled for him.”

  Carl growled. The woman’s eyes darted to him, away, then back again. Clearly she didn’t believe.

  “We haven’t seen the picture yet,” Gladdy said. “We don’t even know if it’s a good likeness.”

  “Shoot,” Carl said. “Let’s get . . .”

  “It’s the first time I ever heard of a Finn who could paint, ” the lady said. “They don’t go in for things like this. As a rule.”

  “Mr. Wainamoinen,” Gladdy said, “has always painted.”

  Which ended that conversation. The fat woman tip-toed on to the next painting as if she were really invisible and had only to be silent to be undetected. As if paintings were things to sneak up on, like whispering children.

  “Aw Gladdy,” Carl said. “Let’s see that damn thing and get out of here. I’m dry as hell.” He ran a finger around the inside of his collar. “A beer would help.”

  “There’s a cocktail lounge next door,” she said. “We could step in for a drink once we’ve seen it.” She could have promised him anything then, her heart was so full. This was where she belonged. She could sing, she could stay forever, she could promise Carl the moon out of pure joy.

  “If we go out to the middle of the room and turn around we should be able to pick it out,” he said.

  “In this crowd?”

  “Over their heads. I’ll stand on your shoulders if I have to.” And put a hand on her breast. Hidden fish. For reassurance, perhaps, or gratitude.

  She stepped back, looking for people who’d seen. No one had, and anyway, when she did that, he moved his hand to her rear end and bent down to whisper in her ear. “Where’s the nudes?”

  “The what?”

  “There’s bound to be some naked bodies in a few of them. All them artists get naked girls to model for them.”

  “Speaking of naked,” she said, and watched Kit O’Donnell slither by in something scarlet and see-through and nearly indecent. Then she said, “Mr. Wainamoinen doesn’t do that kind. People’s heads and hillsides are his specialty. I don’t expect you’ll find a single nude here.”

  They worked their way out to the centre of the room. Carl stood up on his toes and strained to find his portrait over people’s heads but he felt silly and gave it up. “We could be stuck here all night,” he growled. And would have started making his way to the door if Gladdy hadn’t spotted Wainamoinen himself coming toward them, his arms outstretched like she was a sister he hadn’t seen in twenty years.

  “Gladdy,” he said, and put one hand on her shoulder. “Carl,” and put the other hand on Carl’s arm. He looked at one and then the other. “These people,” he said, and held out both hands like someone feeling for rain. “These people, they fill me with something, with . . .” and one hand slapped back onto his own chest, unable to grasp the perfect word.

  “A good-sized crowd,” Gladdy said. He must’ve been a handsome man at one time, she thought. One of those strong slant-boned Finnish faces. With eyes that moved like glittering birds. And white even teeth that slanted in, with spaces. He was a tall man, with big thick hands that could just as easily have held a chain-saw as a brush all these years. “Yes,” she said. “You never know.”

  “Eh?” Carl said.

  “Art lovers,” Gladdy said, raising her voice. The noise of people talking around them seemed to be getting louder. “You don’t have to be rich to like pictures!” And straightened out Carl’s red-and-green plaid tie that had got somehow crooked. From all his fingering at it probably. He couldn’t keep his hands off a tie once it started bothering his neck.

  “This town,” Wainamoinen said, “has truly turned out to honour an old man. And to see if my hand has captured more truth than their eyes have seen.” He tilted his head back and looked around. “Look well, my friends. I offer you more of the real world in this room than you may see in a lifetime of looking at cars and houses and streets and at the daily monotony of your jobs.”

  “I wondered if you would have music,” Gladdy said. “But in this crowd, no one would’ve heard a note. Listen to them.”

  Then, suddenly Sylvi was at her husband’s side. She dipped her head in a dry nod to Carl, to Gladdy.

  Thinks she’s his bloody watchdog. Deciding who’s good enough to talk to her precious husband.

  “You look lovely,” Gladdy said. “Sylvi.”

  “And you,” she said. Sweetly smiling, her dimples deepening. In Finland she would probably have become a factory worker. Tightening nuts. Tittering behind her hand in the lunch-room.

  “A big night,” Gladdy said. “You must’ve had your picture taken a hundred times for the papers already.”

  Again the dimples, though the eyes remained flat and dull. “Not of me,” she said. “It’s Eli’s night. His alone.”

  “Sylvi,” the old man said, and put an arm across her shoulder, pulling her close.

  “Of course,” Gladdy said. “But you too. You must be proud.”

  “I’m happy at least two of our neighbours could come,” said Sylvi Wainamoinen. “Because of course the Paynes . . .” And smiled, sadly.

  Gladdy lowered her eyes, she hoped enough. “A tragedy.”

  Though Carl, the bugger, didn’t know when to keep quiet. “Closer than you think,” he said. “That funeral place is right across the road. Where they’re waiting.”

  The old man looked frightened. A rosy flush burned at the edges of his eyes. “Hysteria,” he said. “Stupid emotional people.”

  It was clear his wife agreed. Her hand went to his, clasped it. “The woman is clearly unwell, I feel sorry for the husband. Sitting waiting in that morbid place. And who could have known ahead of time?”

  “Still,” Carl said. “There’s still the chance she’s right.”

  Wainamoinen’s eyebrows dropped like two grey wings. “Carl,” he said. And looked away. “But you haven’t said if you’ve seen the portrait.”

  “No,” Gladdy said, quickly. “Not yet.” And would happily have disappeared.

  “No. 97,” Sylvi Wainamoinen said, lifting a finger vaguely to her left.

  The old man beamed. “At least five people!” he said. “Five people or more have shown interest. The painting will be sold before this evening is through. A beautiful thing, Carl, it’s one of my best. A beautiful thing.”

  “Eli,” his wife cautioned.

  “Yes, one of my best. And the title, Carl. Do you know what the title is?”

  If it says Carl Roote on it we may as well pack up right now, Gladdy thought. He would never stand for that.

  But no. The old man lifted those eyebrows once again. “You’ll see, I’ve made you immortal.”

  And so, suddenly, she and Carl were left st
anding in the middle of the room. Her bloody feet hurting. People’s cigarette smoke stinging her eyes.

  “C’mon,” Carl growled at her. “Let’s get this goddam thing over with.” He elbowed a stoop-shouldered man out of the way.

  David Payne, driving his car up through the web of downtown streets with his wife beside him silent and white and rigid with both hands fisted together before her mouth, wished for two things: that his day would be over as quickly as possible, and that whatever was going to happen after that would happen swiftly and with little trouble. He did not bother wishing that the dull pain in every bone of his body should go quickly or that the faint dizziness in his head should pass: such things were unimportant and would leave him anyway once this other business was over.

  Wednesday. That’s what it was, Wednesday. The streets were deserted, or nearly. A few people walking toward the theatre. It had been Monday morning — he’d barely settled into work at the office — when they phoned from the hospital to say it was too late, by the time they got the girl into the hospital it was too late for anyone to help her, that she had died quietly without ever regaining consciousness; and he had said, “What? What? What are you talking about? Are you talking about my daughter? Anna’s at home, she was still sleeping when I left.” They told him he’d better get over right away because obviously he’d been under the wrong impression and had better talk with his wife too who was sitting on a couch right there, right beside the phone. Where she was still sitting when he got there and hurled himself across the waiting room toward her and shouted out, “What’s going on?” She sat, unruffled, undisturbed — he would have said uninvolved — and said Anna was dead but don’t worry because she’d been promised something in three days. He said, “What?” and she said, “He promised. Destroy this temple and in three days I will raise it up.”

  “Don’t be afraid, David,” she said. Her hands, her beautiful hands, were folded in her lap. “You mustn’t be afraid.”

  “What are we expecting?” he said. “We’ve never been inside any kind of a church since the day we were married. We know nothing of God. I can’t recall you ever admitting even that you prayed. Who are we to expect a miracle?”