Some Great Thing
Page 17
“I’m no good at Art or Spelling.”
“That’s OK, buddy.”
“And Damien Lowther says I’m stupid.”
“Well, how about Daddy rips his tongue out if he meets him?”
“You bet.”
“You bet your genius head, big guy, now let’s make a couple of dwellings. You’ve got to . . . when making plaster . . . ”
There was more shifting upstairs.
“When making plaster, we have to pay the mixture some respect. We don’t have to worship it or, necessarily, pretend it’s a woman, or any of that shit, but we have to give it due respect. The one thing both you and the plaster know is that if it doesn’t feel right, it’s not going to hold. Now, you know my secret, don’t you?”
“Pinch of lime.”
“You’re a star, Jerry. Pinch of lime. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Is Mummy awake?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe she’s in bed still?”
“Maybe, buddy. So we’ll just use this bucket here and so . . . right?”
“Yep.”
“And so?”
“And Portland cement. Yes?”
“OK.”
“There is no alternative, Jerry.”
We set to building, Jerry and I, and we spread a quiet gray mess over the floor. We didn’t say a word to each other, and gradually, upstairs, Kathleen grew into a storm of cupboard doors and footsteps. We didn’t talk to each other in the basement for more than two hours.
Kids can be weird. Bunch of freaks, really. That’s one thought I dwelled on for a while. Jerry was moving his lips, making little sounds that must have been the people who were living in his house. If I did that while I was building I’d look like a nut.
His house was ingenious. It gave me a lump in my throat. I can’t describe it. You will never know. He wrote a “J” on each side and he made a little ball of plaster that he said was a cherry (for Jerry) and he put it on the roof. He was a bright, quiet little freak, and those whitening hours with the suspense overhead were some of the sweetest I ever spent with him.
“Your house is pretty ordinary,” he told me, which made me laugh, which was a mistake.
The door to the basement opened and Kathleen shouted “Jerry!” from the top of the stairs.
We each waited for the other to answer.
She shouted “Jerry!” again.
We both said, “Yeah?”
IT WAS MY MISTAKE, apparently. Kathleen had told me about dinner at Edgar’s ages before. I don’t know how l forgot. Never mind. Nothing a slap round my ear wouldn’t fix.
Everyone started walking away from me again. I was finishing the walls of phase one.
I don’t think I have ever lived in myself. I had a glimpse of that realization when I was looking at one of those walls. If a wall is something hard, something real, maybe even an end, or an unmistakable truth; and this is me, here, this body, here; then I think where I, my mind, always actually lived was somewhere between me and the walls. I think I’ve always run around between truths, between myself and the end. It is not a big space between me and the walls, but there is room to imagine anything.
3
GALATEA, SAUCY GIRL, pelts me with an apple, then runs off to the willows . . .
“HELLO, SIMON!”
“So you remember me?”
“From dinner.”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Not long enough to forget you. Come in, come in. Are you here for Leonard? I’ve just come back from running. Excuse the shorts. Are you here for Leonard?”
“Not at all, no. Is he here?”
“I think he is out eating somewhere.”
“I was looking for you, actually.”
“For me?”
“I heard that you had bought a new house, so I thought I might intrude, warm your house, bring you bread and salt.”
“Where’s the bread and salt?”
“I could get some.”
“That’s fine. We have some. Lots. Leonard’s tastes are richer. Can I offer you a drink?”
“What are you having?”
“A shower is what I was going to have.”
“Shall I come back another time?”
“No, no. It occurred to me as a witty thing to say.”
“It was.”
“I would have champagne if you joined me.”
“I will.”
“So, you aren’t here for Leonard at all?”
“No.”
“It’s a good thing he is out then. I hope you don’t mind my appearance. I don’t actually run very much. There isn’t anywhere to run to, really, and I find it boring anyway. Nothing like a good walk. But I went running anyway, you see. Do you walk?”
“Only when there is no good in sitting.”
“Maybe you would like to walk with me sometime. Would you mind opening the champagne? I blinded my grandfather once with a cork. I don’t . . . I don’t feel confident.”
“I suppose not.”
“It was just the one eye.”
“I see.”
“I’m kidding. Don’t give me a full glass.”
“Here you are. Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
“I hope you don’t think I am intruding. Or that I am odd. Please don’t think that I am odd. I have been meaning to look you up ever since we met at dinner, to call on you. Awfully long time ago now.”
“It doesn’t feel that long.”
“I could have had you and Leonard over, but I’m not good at having people over. I am much more charming at other people’s houses.”
“Cheers again.”
“Cheers. I remember your story, from dinner.”
“Which one was that?”
“About food. About your daughter and her friends.”
“The Friends and the Pizza story.”
“Yes. ‘A spoonful of chocolate pudding.’ It was the best of the night.”
“Not much of a night then. I tell it all the time. Leonard gets me into a bind with his role-playing at dinner. I always end up telling the same story, no matter what theme he sets. He can be pretentious, my husband. Do you like him?”
“It’s a story about indecision, really.”
“Yes, it is. The heroine is upstairs, in fact.”
“Who?”
“Kwyet.”
“Quiet?”
“Yes. She is still Indecision itself. She’s a student. First year at McGill. But she keeps coming home because she can’t decide whether to keep studying or not.”
“So she lives in Montreal?”
“She can’t decide. I mean, yes, theoretically she is in residence there, but she comes home every weekend. Would you like to meet her?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t be offended if she doesn’t come down. I suspect the champagne will lure her. But don’t be offended if not . . . KWYET!”
“yes, mum.”
“WILL YOU COME DOWN FOR A MINUTE—she’s actually quite social—WILL YOU COME DOWN? WE HAVE A VISITOR.”
“just a minute.”
“There, that was easy. Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
“Leonard tells me you are having a difficult time at work.”
“I . . .”
“Oh, here she is. Kwyet, darling, this is Simon Struthers, a colleague of your father’s.”
“Hello.”
“Hello. It’s an extraordinary name, ‘Quiet.’”
“Mum’s a Kinks fan.”
“Pardon?”
“Kwyet Kinks. It’s a nickname, technically.”
“We renamed her. Have some champagne.”
“Nice.”
“Bit of a reward for being social. What were you doing upstairs?”
“Reading.”
“What were you reading? . . . Darling . . .What were you reading? . . . There now, you see, Simon, that look? The silence?”
“I’m thinking, Mother. I’m just thinking about wh
at I was reading. It’s Latin, but I can’t really read a word of it. Ovid.”
“Why are you reading Ovid?”
“ . . . ”
“Darling, Simon asked you a question.”
“Sorry. For a course. I just don’t know why I’m taking the course. I don’t know any Latin.”
“Plenty of translations.”
“Well, that’s what I’m thinking about. It’s sad to look at words and not understand them, and then to look at these translations which say they are the same, but . . .”
“I know what you mean.”
“Do you?”
“Do you, Simon?”
“Yes. What you need is someone to translate for you. I could translate for you. Orally. Read it out. That’s what you need. If you hear a translation it doesn’t seem like such an impostor.”
“Right.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Right.”
“Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
“Where’s Dad?”
“Eating.”
“I’m hungry.”
“Simon, are you hungry?”
“Not really. Yes.”
“You sound like Kwyet.”
“She just said she was hungry.”
“I am hungry, Mother.”
“Kids. Eh, Simon?”
“She is hardly a kid.”
“She is nineteen.”
“Why do I feel excluded from this conversation?”
“Because you don’t participate. Are you really hungry, Simon?”
“I could be, yes. This champagne is making me hungry.”
“It’s making me silly.”
“Me too.”
“Me too.”
“We don’t have food here, though.”
“Dad eats it.”
“And we have barely moved in. I suppose you’ve noticed, Simon. It’s an empty, hungry house.”
“I like that.”
“I agree with Kwyet. I like that too.”
“How’s that champagne going, Simon?”
“There’s some left.”
“Would you mind pouring some more for us? Finish it off. That’s it.”
“I feel like something fat.”
“Food?”
“Yes, Mother. Cheese. French fries.”
“Think of your father, darling.”
“That’s true.”
“It’s the champagne. It makes me hungry.”
“So how do you know how to translate Ovid?”
“I read Classics. I . . . I was never very good at it, at the scholarship. Never clever enough! Ha!”
“What’s so funny?”
“I don’t know. Sorry. I was never much of a scholar, but I could, seriously, translate for you. I loved the . . . I loved the myths. The stories.”
“Maybe we should go for a walk. Walk off the silliness.”
“But we’re hungry, Mother.”
“We could eat something on our walk. I’ve seen a chip wagon by the park. Is that disgraceful, Simon? Are you as snobbish as Leonard about food?”
“I don’t know how to answer that. I like french fries.”
“Well, so does Kwyet. Don’t you, darling? Darling?”
“I love french fries.”
“Let’s walk to the park, then. Shall we, Simon?”
“Please. What park?”
“There’s a nice park near here. Sort of a park. Kwyet and I walk there.”
“Lovely.”
“And we will go to the van?”
“Yes, Kwyet, for french fries.”
“What an extraordinary name.”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you, Simon. Would you mind if I went out without showering?”
“Of course not.”
“Let’s go then. It isn’t far. Shall we start the big talk on the way?”
“All right.”
“How long have you worked with my father?”
“Excellent, Kwyet.”
“Thank you, Mother.”
“Umm . . . several years now. Gosh.”
“And in what capacity do you work with him?”
“Excellent, Mother.”
“Thanks, darling.”
“In a limited capacity.”
“Excellent, Simon.”
“Thanks, Matty.”
“He is limited. I don’t know why I feel so inclined to be cruel about my husband today. It must be the hunger.”
“I only meant that I don’t always have much to do with him. We have worked on matters together, occasionally. This land around here, for example.”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“. . .”
“Why so quiet, Mother?”
“I can’t think of anything to say, Kwyet.”
“That’s the fault of big talk. It’s my fault. My work is boring.”
“It’s not that at all. Let’s pick up the pace a little. I hate all this construction.”
“But you said you liked your house.”
“Kwyet said that. I like the house well enough. It was Leonard’s idea. Come on, everyone. Pick up the pace.”
“I could beat you both in a race.”
“Of course you could, Kwyet.”
“But l am a man.”
“That’s true, Simon.”
“An older man.”
“Really Kwyet. Don’t offend your father’s friend. You are younger than Leonard, aren’t you?”
“Probably”
“There now, Kwyet. Don’t offend him. I can see the chip wagon ahead. That’s where the park is.”
“I’m not sure my silliness is being walked off.”
“You seem sober, Simon. Very . . . what’s the word? Upright.”
“I feel silly. It wasn’t much champagne. Maybe it isn’t the champagne at all.”
“Come on.”
“I’m going to run.”
“Don’t run, darling.”
“I’ll buy the fries.”
“She’s only boasting, Simon. It’s not that far.”
“I am tempted to run.”
“After her?”
“Toward the van.”
“If we get there at the same time she won’t buy the fries for us. Look, she’s there already. You don’t have children to support, do you, Simon?”
“No.”
“And Leonard tells me you are unmarried.”
“Yes, I . . .What did you mean earlier when you said I was having trouble at work?”
“Did I say that? I probably meant Leonard. I gather you all have a big project. So you have no one to support?”
“No.”
“Leonard’s always talking about money, supporting her at McGill.”
“Well, you have a big new house . . .”
“Here she comes. That was quick. Aren’t you lovely, Kwyet?”
“It was your money.”
“Yes. I was just shocking Simon with that. Good God, I am hungry. These fries aren’t very fresh.”
“I think they’re good.”
“They are good.”
“They’re good, but they’re not fresh.”
“How do you spell Quiet?”
“K-W-Y-E-T.”
“How extraordinary.”
“Let’s go to the park.”
“You’ve never been to this park, Simon?”
“I don’t really know the area. I mean, I know it intimately from maps and so on. Surveys. But I have never been here.”
“How extraordinary.”
“Are you mocking me, Kwyet?”
“Sorry.”
“It never occurred to me to consider this just a park.”
“How extraordinary.”
“It is extraordinary. I . . . one gets so involved.”
“When will you translate for me, Simon?”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Whenever you like.”
/>
“What did Ovid call french fries?”
“I don’t think Ovid went to Belgium.”
“Wrong answer.”
KWYET, SAUCY GIRL, pelts me with pommes frites, then runs off to the willows.
TO CALL ON MAT T Y and then to meet Kwyet. Gentlemen speculators: hold in your eyes the diamond of your dreams, blink, and behold what diamonds dream of.
“HELLO, MAT TY, it’s Simon Struthers calling. I hope I am not disturbing you.”
“Not at all, Simon. How are you?”
“I am well. I am at work, but I am well because I had a marvelous idea. Do you have a moment?”
“Hold on, I’ll ask the turnips I was peeling. Go ahead, Simon, but hurry.”
“I don’t know whether it registered with you how important it was for me, professionally, to spend time with you and Kwyet in the park the other day.”
“Professionally?”
“Absolutely. It was a pleasure personally, of course.”
“That was obvious. I have never known friends of Leonard’s to hum unless they were leaving a concert.”
“Well, professionally it was crucial. I don’t think you have a sense of how absorbed in that land I had been. And then to see it. My idea was to go out to that park today, now. It is work, after alL And I was wondering if you would join me.”
“It would be a pleasure.”
“You have no plans?”
“No. I should take up bridge, but I am willing to wait another day. Kwyet is back in Montreal.”
“Oh. Shall I come over soon?”
“Do.”
“I WANT TO COME out here often. Not just to this park, but all around here.”
“It is a nice park.”
“There’s something about it. It isn’t all that nice objectively, but there is something wonderful.”
“I expect that is my company. I like coming here with Kwyet. Maybe it’s Kwyet who makes it wonderful.”
“Maybe. But it feels lovely now.”
“Maybe it is me. I believe it may be me, Simon.”
“Yes. The Government owns this land. It isn’t actually a park. It’s just land waiting for something.”
“Kwyet’s seen this land from above.”
“So have I.”
“From a plane?”
“Survey.”
“That’s not the same, is it?”
“Same as what?”
“As from a plane. Kwyet has a friend at McGill with a pilot’s license. The airport’s near here.”
“Yes.”
“So she saw it from above. I’m not sure whether he is a boyfriend or not. Normally she tells me.”
“I would like to help her with that translation.”