Some Great Thing

by Colin McAdam

  “She would like that. I was jealous of her for flying. I bet he is handsome, too. Pilots normally are. You really want to help her with her studies?”

  “I would be happy to translate for her.”

  “Is that something her father should do?”

  “No.”

  “She would love that.”

  WE HAVE MADE you of marble, Priapus, for the time . . .

  “LEONARD TELLS ME you have been quite close to some of your colleagues.”

  “Does he?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why have you had affairs with your colleagues?”

  “You’re awfully frank, aren’t you, Matty?”

  “Sorry. I think Leonard likes Renée. He feels he is getting old, Leonard. I think it makes him a bit desperate—to have affairs and that sort of thing. Prove he is still attractive. It’s all a bit funny. No offense, but I find affairs a bit funny.”

  “Why should I take offense?”

  “Because you have them.”

  “Just because I am a bachelor, it does not mean I have ‘affairs.’ You imply that I am an adulterer. I am not always an adulterer.”

  “What I mean is, I find the whole thing funny. Sex, physical attraction, lust. Shall we sit down on the grass?”

  “If we come here often I will buy a picnic blanket.”

  “Yes, lovely, let’s have a picnic.”

  “You were talking about lust.”

  “Yes. It’s funny I married Leonard because I lacked imagination, in a way. He seemed to like me. My father wanted to give me away because he liked the idea of offering a dowry. It made him feel noble. Do you mind my being frank? I thought for many years that I was only with him through convenience, lack of imagination, as I said. I thought that there might be better husbands available if I ever chose to put some effort into seeking them and so on. But through experience I’ve learned that it wasn’t a lack of imagination at all. My apathy was, is, satisfaction. That phrase is rehearsed, but it’s true. I’m not convinced that there is anyone ‘better’ than Leonard, because having someone is all the same to me. I like sex every now and then, but it seems amusing to me to want to seek it all the time. And I’ve found it difficult with Kwyet. I think she might be a bit more interested than I am in that sort of thing, and I don’t really know how to give her guidance.”

  “I don’t think you should.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  “Perhaps she doesn’t need it.”

  “Maybe. She has that pilot boy in Montreal. He sounds good— maybe I was wrong about myself, maybe I would like a pilot. She has other boys too. Has she told you about any of them?”

  “I haven’t really spent much . . . You know everything she has said to me.”

  “She is very charming, Kwyet. Maybe, though, she is like me— I have never known about any definite boyfriends really. She could have many, or none. Do you know the kind?”

  “When will she be visiting you again?”

  “In a couple of weeks. You must come over then. Why don’t you read with her then, or whatever you wanted to do? I can listen. Shall we meet here?”

  “In the park, two weeks from now. The three of us.”

  BUT IF BIRTHS make full the flock, then you will be of gold.

  FOUR DOLLARS NINETY-FIVE for a picnic blanket was a perfectly affordable way to silence the earth’s cold reminders.

  “SILENCE, PLEASE, EVERYONE, now. Here. Silence. I will read my translation for you, Kwyet. A bit of Ovid that I like. Do you both like the picnic blanket? Yes? Silence. Ready?”

  THE TALE IS TOLD by Venus, bully Venus, love-weary Love, not weary of love but by, with, and from it. They say that by this stage in her career she was a little worse for wear. There were ghosts behind her eyes, and her breath, though still sweeter than the freshest flower in Tempe, tasted sour on her tongue in the morning. (Whiskey whispered some.)

  It was pectoral Adonis, hunt-boy Adonis they all blamed. The hunt, he loved; Love, he didn’t. Venus could only chase him as he ran after animals and it was tiring her.

  One day she managed to pin Adonis to the ground, her Lovesick head on his lovenone chest, beneath the shade of some tree or other—they don’t say which or how—and she told him this story, apropos of everything.

  “You may,” she said, “have heard of a girl who ran more quickly than any man alive. Atalanta was her name. I used to go to school with her. And whether she was more beautiful than fast or faster than she was beautiful, even I couldn’t say.

  “Like all young girls in those days she went to Delphi to ask the Oracle about a husband. And the Oracle said, ‘Husband,’ it said, ‘now there’s a thing not to mess with; run from that thing: husband.’ And as usual the Oracle felt mischievous so it added, ‘But you will not run, and running you will lose yourself .’

  “Atalanta was scared by the Oracle. She lived in fear for a good few years, hiding alone in her bedroom and in the shady woods out back on warmer days. But despite her attempts to hide, suitors came knocking or they would bump into her in the woods sometimes. She had to have some defense if they tried to woo her, which, of course, they did.

  “‘Run,’ she would say, ‘and see if you can catch me. Beat me in a race and you can have me in marriage.’

  “And just to adjust their leery smiles she would add, ‘But if you lose, you must consent to die.’

  “Atalanta had no mercy.

  “She was so beautiful that even on those terms, in the face of death, a rush of suitors leapt forward to race her.

  “Now, this is where Hippomenes comes in.

  “Hippomenes had taken a seat to watch this race. He bought a glass of wine and a few sprigs of mint and he said to the vendor: ‘Who would risk such danger for the sake of winning a wife?’

  “And the vendor said, ‘Check her out.’

  “If you were a woman, Adonis, Atalanta would be as beautiful as you are. She was almost as beautiful as I am. And when Hippomenes realized this, when he had seen her undressing for the race, he held out his hands and cried to the runners, ‘I’m sorry! Forgive me! I hadn’t seen the prize!’

  “And while he was thinking of words to praise her, and while those words ran ahead of him, he fell helplessly in love.

  “Atalanta shot by like an arrow. The race had begun. Her skin flushed pink as she ran and she looked like a statue of Me that has borrowed the blood of the sun. ‘Why am I not running?’ thought Hippomenes.

  “He watched as Atalanta crossed the finish line victorious.

  “All the young men who ran with her had to pay the price. But the groans and the blood, broken hope and teeth, would not deter Hippomenes. He sipped his cool Riesling, wiped his lips with mint and shouted to her, ‘Atalanta! Isn’t it an easy title, beating the slowest youth in town? Come on and give me a shot! If fortune gives me victory, there will be no shame for you to be beaten by so worthy a chap. My great grandfather is Neptune—owns all the oceans. If you beat me, you will have a properly memorable fame!’

  “Her eyes softened like the evening when she watched him utter his challenge. She wavered between winning and being won.

  “‘You’re not bad looking!’ she shouted in return. ‘Who is it that wants you removed from the living? Maybe I am not worth it. Maybe you are not the right age for me. Maybe other women would not refuse you, and you could marry them more safely. Marriage with me is cursed. For my sake, for your sake, I wish you hadn’t looked at me.’

  “A crowd had gathered around and they were getting eager for another race. Atalanta’s father was among them. ‘A race is due,’ he mumbled.

  “Hippomenes turned to prayer at this point. ‘O Venus,’ he said, ‘help me with this race that I think I’ll dare to run, and smile upon the love that I might coax out of her.’

  “And a gentle breeze blew his prayer to Me, and I saw some room for fun. There wasn’t much time.

  “Not far from there was a park, quite magical. They’ve changed all
the names now so I can’t find it any more, but back then there was a tree that grew in this park, whose leaves and branches were covered in gold. I had an idea that would help Hippomenes. I jogged over to the park and plucked three golden apples from the tree and returned to Hippomenes, showing myself to him so I could teach him how to use the apples.

  “He was weak in the knees because I was Love bearing fruit, whispering in his ear.

  “Trumpets sounded for the race to begin.

  “Atalanta and Hippomenes shot from the blocks like a thought. ‘Run, Hippomenes, run!’ half the crowd shouted. ‘Kill, Atalanta, run!’ the other half shouted.

  “It seemed sometimes like the girl was deliberately waiting, holding back to look at Hippomenes’ face. Or perhaps Hippomenes imagined this. Sometimes I do that to people.

  “It soon became clear that Hippomenes was slower than Atalanta, and he regretted having that wine. When it looked like he was losing he tossed one of the golden apples so it bounced off the track to Atalanta’s right. The fruit caught her attention and when she realized it was gold she had to have it. Away she ran and Hippomenes burst ahead.

  “With the jeweled fruit in her hand Atalanta felt a surge of conflicting cupidities that did nothing but push her forward: gold! freedom! race! And soon she caught up with Hippomenes.

  “Again she moved ahead of him, so again he tossed an apple and she was distracted from her course. More carats!

  “But again after picking up the apple she caught up with Hippomenes and got ahead of him. There was one last chance for him to win.

  “All this time the more she ran ahead of him the weaker he got with love. But I gave him strength of purpose, and he threw the last apple farther than the rest.

  “This time Atalanta hesitated for a moment longer, but I forced her to run after the fruit and once she picked it up I made the three apples heavier than they had been. She was overburdened by the treasure and at last Hippomenes crossed the finish line before her.

  “In front of a half-disappointed crowd he led away his prize, golden apples in her arms.

  “So, Adonis,” Venus said. “Didn’t I deserve a bit of a present? Some thanks from Hippomenes, maybe a bottle of something? I didn’t receive one puff of incense from him. He completely forgot what I had done for him.

  “I got angry. I decided to punish them both.

  “On their way home Atalanta and Hippomenes were walking through the woods and they were tired from all their running. They noticed a holy temple, sacred to some god or other—they’ve changed all the names—and they went in for a moment to rest.

  “It was there that I struck Hippomenes with my strongest spell of lust. Completely without control, he grabbed Atalanta and he defiled both her and the temple.

  “And then as they entwined and augmented their offenses, we gods ganged up and changed their skin to fur, arms to legs, moans to growls, and before long they were lions. Helpless, separate and enraged.

  “Really it is a story about how l had a hand in creating lions,” Venus said. “But l am telling you as a sort of warning, Adonis. Do not underestimate the anger of the beasts you meet on your hunt.”

  Adonis paid no heed, of course. As soon as he heard the word “hunt” he sprang up, letting Venus’s head fall rudely to the ground.

  She sat up and called her limo. In the backseat she got some gin from the fridge and mixed a little something for her head.

  It was in the back of her limo, watching TV, that she later heard the news. Adonis had been killed in the woods.

  “WHY DON’T YOU come to Montreal sometime? Come and visit me.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  “When?”

  “Whenever. Come on a weekend.”’

  “But you are usually in Ottawa on weekends.”

  “I’ll make an exception.”

  “Why do you come to Ottawa, anyway?”

  “I miss my mother.”

  “Of course. Stupid of me. It’s a boring place compared to Montreal. That’s why I asked.”

  “Why do you live here then?”

  “I don’t know. It’s appealing. Blank.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s like a place where I do nothing and feel comfortable. Plus my mother’s here.”

  “Yes. That is it for me. Minus your mother. More or less. Although I’m very happy I met your mother. And you. Do you know, Kwyet, before I met you and your mother I felt awfully wise around everyone I knew? I felt like I knew everyone. I don’t feel like I know you. I hope I am not embarrassing you. I feel at a loss.”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know. I feel hopeless . . . overwhelmed.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. Can I buy you a present of some sort?”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “KWYET SAID SHE bumped into you.”

  “Yes.”

  “You are around here a lot now, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, for work, you know. Do you feel like I’m around you too much?”

  “No. I wonder why you are always here during the days.”

  “For work.”

  “Nothing to do with Leonard’s not being here?”

  “What? No. Leonard knows . . . my colleagues know that I am here. I have recommended that they come out and look at the area. It’s a dramatic initiative of mine.”

  “Why don’t you come over tonight?”

  “Tonight?”

  “While Leonard’s here. I can make supper for you both. Kwyet is still in town but she will be out baby-sitting.”

  “I see. Yes, thanks, that would be lovely.”

  “You do like Leonard, don’t you?”

  “Of course. We have worked together for a long time now.”

  “I know that.”

  “Yes.”

  HE HAD TO BUY flowers for Matty. Lilies seemed right.

  Wine for Leonard. What wine does one bring a pompous bladder of a man whom one despises for no reason? How can he be father to the daughter of Imagination?

  Contradiction bottled. Something impossible, something to sum up: fire, fruit, silk, rot, dust, blades, bother and temptation. A young Pommard, perhaps.

  What was he doing?

  “HELLO! I THOUGHT you were baby-sitting.”

  “I am. I’m leaving. Mum will be down soon.”

  “You look angry.”

  “Excuse me.”

  “Sorry. See you?”

  “Simon. Hello.”

  “Hello, Matty. Was there something wrong with Kwyet?”

  “I don’t think so. Lilies! How lovely”

  “Where’s Leonard?”

  “He isn’t here.”

  “Oh. I will give him this wine when he comes.”

  “Put it down here. You and I will drink it. Leonard won’t be here at all tonight.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll put these in water. No, Leonard went out to dinner with Renée and Randolph and that lot. It’s Thursday, remember?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you notice that you weren’t invited?”

  “I have stopped noticing.”

  “Well, I thought it was cruel of Leonard not to invite you. You do know that he deliberately stopped inviting you?”

  “I . . . no . . . I thought it was my choice.”

  “Anyway, I wanted to test you, to see if you liked Leonard enough to come over. And you have: It makes me very angry with him.”

  “Yes, well, that’s not quite it.”

  “Anyway. He was wonderfully perplexed when I told him you were coming over. Most upset. I must apologize for him, Simon.”

  “That’s all right.”

  “But we will have a nice dinner.”

  “I’m sure we will. Perhaps I should go, though.”

  “Why? Oh, no, I have offended you. This wasn’t all a test. Don’t be silly. I wanted you to come over. I wanted to spend time, yo
u know . . . I didn’t like the idea of one of those dinners again without you among us. So, really, it was just a way of ensuring you were among . . . me.”

  “Yes, but your test . . . it didn’t really test . . . shall we have some wine? It didn’t test whether I liked Leonard. It only tested whether I could put up with Leonard to be with you.”

  “ . . . I see.”

  “Now I have offended you.”

  “No. I . . . cheers . . . gosh, this wine . . .”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not very hungry.”

  “No.”

  “I feel a little woozy. I thought . . . I don’t think I want this to happen.”

  “What?”

  “This. Hold on . . . Please, sit down for a moment, Simon. I don’t . . . Kwyet’s just left, you see.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know who you are.”

  “Yes you do.”

  “Simon?”

  “Why don’t we go upstairs and have a shower?”

  You who pick flowers and earth-born strawberries,

  Take off: a cold snake lurks in the grass.

  HE SAW IT, his wet little paunch in the mirror, toweling off, an athlete with no pride in his victory.

  The end of his pastoral? Not quite. Let him yet pretend for as long as he can stand it. Pretend everything is what it isn’t.

  But it was such a peaceful time. Such a lovely, silly, almost imaginary park, too. Fine in its center, but don’t go near the edges, beyond the trees: on one side construction, on the other nothing, such a miserable nothing, then an airport, beyond which, nothing. And soon to be a scene of struggles, then more struggles, then the site of something, well, wonderful. He put it there.

  Matty. Matty’s daughter. You couldn’t blame him for loving them. His Kwyet.

  He was so at ease, unaware of himself, unaware of artifice. None of his usual low-church priapism; just respectful sacred attraction, a delicious vibrating stasis between the three of them, sweet to be a part of.

  Then he joins Matty in that sweaty shower of Leonard’s. Leonard’s own shower! Familiar moans—please, please, please, please, please just stop.

  Matty may not have enjoyed that. Perhaps not. Did she? Perhaps not.

  “Did you?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  HE NOTED THE WAY KWYET stormed out of the house that night when he arrived at the door. Jealous of her mother and her visitor. He was worried about offending her, giving her the wrong idea about his interest in Matty. He had to signal to her somehow that she was his real goal.