A Fine Passage

by France Daigle

  “For heaven’s sake! Why’d you go and say that!”

  Terry comes over to sit beside Carmen on the bed, puts his hand on her belly.

  “All I’m saying is, this is the important thing. Not those diamonds.”

  Carmen is quiet, allows herself to be consoled.

  Then: “I never for one second thought we could lose the baby.”

  “Fine. So don’t go scaring yourself with that now.”

  “Okay. Just don’t go saying that again, ever.”

  They lie back on the bed a moment, lost in thought.

  “What do you want to do now? We ought to go out for a walk, put some fresh air in our heads.”

  Carmen’s reply is slow in coming.

  “Odd. It’s kind of like the trip’s not the same any more all of a sudden.”

  Terry understands what she means, tries to figure out what’s changed.

  Carmen adds: “He left in an awful hurry, wouldn’t you say?”

  “That’s how it is sometimes. When you gotta go, you gotta go.”

  “I suppose so.”

  As he steps off the bus in Baltimore, Hans feels with absolute certainty that he has one thing to do: begin his life again. All those days crossing the United States from west to east, he hadn’t felt it this clearly. On the road, as though he was hampered by too much ballast, by the weight of possessions, he had mainly concentrated on ridding himself of his money, giving it casually to whoever seemed to feel they needed it. He could not bear the head start the money gave him. He did not want a head start, not over himself or over others. He wanted to live at point zero, always. To occupy himself with living, and no more. Sleeping in rudimentary shelters, finding every day something to eat in exchange for some service or menial labour, but without further engagement. Without compromising himself. And without fear of losing his balance. Allowing each day to give birth to its own particular equilibrium or necessary folly.

  As Hans steps off the bus, therefore, the day, and life in general, looks good to him: he slept a little badly; his jacket is wrinkled, having served as a pillow on the journey; and there’s a stain above the knee of one of his pant legs. Only his expensive leather suitcase makes him slightly uncomfortable. He looks over the scene briefly, selects a street that seems promising, sets out with the goal of meeting someone who will take his bag in exchange for a canvas sac he can carry on his shoulder.

  Terry can see that Carmen has done her very best, although without quite managing to regain her good mood. She agreed to tag along with Terry into town, but she seems to have lost her drive, her usual curiosity.

  “You really want to go to the Museum of Pagan Art?”

  “Seems to me it’d be something to see. And we’d have been to at least one museum. Might look better — once we got back, I mean — if we did.”

  Carmen stirs her espresso slowly. She prefers it sweet.

  “It’s as though I’ve lost interest in the whole trip. I kinda feel like a delta myself.”

  “I can see that, on account of the way the baby’s going to come out from between your legs wide open.”

  Carmen had not thought of it quite that way, but Terry’s description adds weight to her feeling.

  “Well, there’s that as well, I suppose. I was thinking more on account of we’ll be three from now on. I guess I’m seeing myself more like a triangle now.”

  Terry says nothing, allows Carmen the time to unravel her feelings.

  “Don’t know what’s the matter with me! It’s like I don’t understand the trip any more.”

  “Could be you’re just tired. After all, you’re pregnant. That must do something to a person.”

  “Could be.”

  Suddenly, Carmen begins to sob. Terry has never seen her cry. He brings his chair closer, wraps his arms around her, trying to console her.

  “That’s okay, then. Don’t you worry one bit. I’m here with you, aren’t I?”

  Carmen sobs even harder. She knows she’s in public, but she can’t help it.

  “I swear, I don’t know myself any more.”

  Terry squeezes her shoulders tight, lets her cry a bit longer before speaking.

  “Could be you’re bored, is all.”

  Carmen doesn’t quite know what she feels, but she certainly hadn’t thought of that. Her crying begins to abate.

  “Are you bored, then?”

  Terry realizes, to his amazement, that he’s not bored one bit, but he decides it’s best to lie a little.

  “Sometimes.”

  Claudia chose the train rather than the bus to get from Baltimore to Philadelphia. When the time had come to choose a college to complete her studies, she’d picked Philadelphia over Washington without really knowing why, but she’s never regretted her decision. As for the train, she knows only that she likes the gentle rocking, the chief conductor doing his rounds, giving the voyage an official stamp. At the station in Baltimore, she checks the departure time to return the same day, then she sets out into the city, in search of the neighbourhood of the woman to whom was addressed the envelope she had mailed for the man who’d shown no sign of reading.

  Terry and Carmen are back in their room. They’re stretched out on the bed. Terry is reading with Carmen huddled up against him. Her eyes are shut, but she’s not sleeping.

  “Funny how I feel. Can’t say as I understand it, but there’s a whole lot of stuff happening just now.”

  “Inside you, you mean?”

  “Inside me and not inside me. I’m telling you, I can’t understand it.”

  “Could be that’s what travelling does.”

  “Could be. It’s awful weird, anyway.”

  “It’s Sunday too.”

  “And what might that have to do with it, pray tell?”

  “Well, Sunday’s the only day that’s not like the others, isn’t it?”

  “On account of Mass?”

  “Sunday Mass, Sunday mess. Sunday’s just like that, is all. Boring and mixed up, like. Always been like that for me. When I was a kid, Sundays I was all in pieces. I just wanted Monday to hurry up and come. Things could only get better.”

  “And did they? Get better, I mean?”

  Again Terry decides it’s best to lie a little.

  “Always.”

  The woman who smokes only in public is driving full speed on the highway. The man who’d shown no sign of reading is sitting next to her.

  “You got my note from Israel?”

  “Yes. Thanks. It was a nice thought.”

  The woman hesitates before asking the question on her mind.

  “Did you really go there?”

  The man, on the other hand, does not hesitate at all.

  “No. It was too much.”

  “Too much?”

  “Yes, too much. I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to breathe, that I’d collapse from within.”

  “You, afraid?”

  “Yes. Me. Afraid.”

  In the face of this frank admission, the woman reaches out, puts her hand on the man’s arm, squeezes a bit.

  “Do you think you’ll want to paint again?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. I know only that I don’t want to live without you any more.”

  Hans is walking down the sun-drenched avenue, his hands in his pockets, the canvas bag over his shoulder and swinging gently against his back. He found exactly the sort of bag he was looking for, one of those seabags with a wide strap and an opening that pulls shut, thanks to a rope that laces through a series of eyelets.

  As he walks along, he is trying to decide whether to destroy all his identification papers. He weighs the pros and cons, evaluating the degree of satisfaction such a gesture would afford him. He thinks of the woman with the chewed-up fingers, realizes that she wa
s right, that he does indeed aspire to become someone by becoming nobody. He can also hear her telling him that he will always make the right choices. As a result, Hans feels no need to hurry his decision. He will decide in good time. He has a more pressing desire to rid himself of the jigsaw puzzle, which he is still carrying in his bag. Because it seems to him to be an object of some interest, he does not want to simply throw it away.

  In the bed in the small room in Arles, Carmen is sleeping against Terry, who puts his book down to watch her. He hopes she will awaken free of the worry and confusion that inhabited her at the beginning of the day. He also remembers the conversation he had alone with the man who’d shown no sign of reading.

  “Watching the two of you, it seems so obvious, so simple.”

  Terry, sensing the time had come, ventured to adopt a more personal tone.

  “Love, you mean?”

  “We call it that, but . . .”

  Terry waited for the conclusion, but realizing that nothing would follow, he made another stab at it.

  “It’s true it’s more than meets the eye. And anyway, I mean, after all, what else is there?”

  “I’ve found nothing else.”

  “Is that what you were looking for, then? Some other thing?”

  “Some other thing, or someone else but me, beyond me. I found only me.”

  But immediately the man seemed to amend his conclusion.

  “No, not quite. Beyond me, I found what was there before me. Darkness and wind.”

  Terry found this description somewhat depressing, but the man seemed rather happy.

  “That’s it. Exactly. Now I understand. I was trying to find how to retain the light. But we don’t have to retain it; it appears all on its own. Yes, that’s it. It makes itself. Like now.”

  And the man became exceedingly cheerful, talking about one thing and another, until finally: “Have you been to Vent Couvert?”

  “No, but my dad worked there a spell when I was a boy.”

  “Did he?”

  “Not long, mind you. He missed my mum too much.”

  “She didn’t want to go along?”

  “No. Don’t know why not. Never really understood the whys and wherefores of that story.”

  Claudia asked the taxi driver to drop her off a few blocks before the street she was looking for. She wanted to cross the neighbourhood on foot, since the weather was fine and she had plenty of time to spare. Now she finds herself across the street from the house of the woman to whom the man who’d shown no sign of reading had addressed his letter. The mid-sized house includes elements of modern design. Nevertheless, it blends nicely with the neighbourhood, which, though not entirely chic, is clean and comfortable.

  From her position in the entrance of a small apartment building, Claudia is content to watch the quiet comings and goings of her surroundings. She notices that though some people greet each other, not everyone seems to know everyone else. Some passersby look at her, others not at all. She stands there for close to a quarter of an hour without spotting any movement around the house opposite. There’s no car in the yard, and the garage door is closed. She knows very well that she will not go across and knock on the door. She never had the slightest intention of doing any such thing. She simply wanted to see the house, the place, to somehow prolong the story or imagine new aspects of it. Now that it’s done, she’s thinking of leaving, of walking a little more in the streets and taking her train back to Philadelphia.

  Claudia is about to set out when a car enters the lane of the house. Her heart leaps. A woman gets out from the driver’s side, and then, from the other side, emerges the man who’d shown no sign of reading. Claudia retreats into the entrance of the building, not wishing to be seen. The woman and the man step to the rear of the car; the woman opens the trunk, the man removes two suit-cases. Claudia recognizes one of these. The woman goes towards the door of the house while the man closes the trunk and picks up the bags. But he is suddenly distracted by a figure who seems to have come out of nowhere. The passerby is tall, with blondish hair. His clothes are worn, a canvas bag hangs from his shoulder. His other arm is wrapped around a kind of package that Claudia can’t quite make out.

  The two men are talking, apparently about the package. The man who’d shown no sign of reading takes it in his hands, turns it this way and that. He discusses something briefly with the passerby, appears to come to an agreement, and slips his hand in the pocket of his jacket. As he removes his hand, something falls on the ground. To Claudia, the object looks like a small present. The passerby bends to pick up the object, hands it to the man, who thanks him and returns it to his pocket. Then the man who’d shown no sign of reading gives some money to the passerby, who bows slightly, politely, and as he departs, says something more. The man who’d shown no sign of reading looks again at the package, slips it under his arm, grabs hold of his suitcases, goes into the house, and closes the door behind him.

  Claudia remains still for a moment, touched and surprised to have witnessed the return of the man who’d shown no sign of reading. Finally, she is filled with joy. As she leaves, she knows she will often recall this story. She’s not sure how or why, but the man who’d shown no sign of reading has provided her with the stuff of dreams.

  Carmen wakes up in the arms of Terry, who’s resumed his reading after dozing a bit.

  “Mmm . . . I feel better.”

  Terry puts his book down, cuddles her a little.

  “You must’ve been tired, is all.”

  “Could be. It was like there was something all bottled up.”

  “There’s times it’s like that.”

  Terry continues to caress Carmen in silence.

  Then: “If you ask me, we’d be better off staying here a couple of days, take things easy, then decide where it is we want to be going.”

  “Mmm . . .”

  Terry interprets this response as positive.

  “We might telephone back home, just to say where it is we are and find out how things are going back there.”

  “Mmm . . .”

  “We might do a picnic by the water, just to hear the water.”

  “And the wind.”

  “And the wind.”

  Carmen squeezes closer to Terry.

  “Do you think it’d be all right to sell the pin to buy some paintings? Back in Moncton, I mean.”

  “And why wouldn’t it be all right?”

  “Well, it was a gift, wasn’t it?”

  Terry thinks about this, thinks of the man who’d shown no sign of reading.

  “Well, wasn’t he a painter himself? Far as I’m concerned, it’d be a kind of tribute to him.”

  Terry continues to think, adds: “Might be we could even buy a big one from Yvon Gallant.”

  Carmen is enthused by the possibility.

  “Do you really think so, then? You think we could buy three?”

  “Could be. If we found the right person to sell the thing to. I heard of a fellow in Bouctouche knows a thing or two ’bout diamonds. One of the Duplessis clan, as I recall.”

  Terry can already see himself doing business with the fellow from Bouctouche.

  “And one day, we’ll be telling all this to the boy.”

  “Or girl.”

  “Or girl. Girl, boy, makes no difference.”

  Moving away or closer — though from or to what, he can’t say — Hans thinks how much he enjoyed picking up and returning to the man with the suitcases the small, prettily wrapped box that had fallen to the ground. He enjoyed feeling the lack of weight of the gift in his hand, the feather-light present that felt unlike anything he could recall, as it absorbed the beauty of the day and crystallized everything. Hans also thinks he saw something far away shift in the eyes of the man just before he decided to buy the jigsaw puzzle of the wint
er landscape. And he thinks of his identity papers, which he still feels like throwing away.

  How strange that neither you, my son, nor you, my wife — but who are you both really? — received the last tiny parcel of energy I was able to direct towards the earth. I thought surely you would be the ones it would reach, but no. Instead, this minute wavelength infiltrated a shop somewhere in an American city, I think — more and more, I’m losing all trace of it — and caused to slip into the hands of a young girl that music I loved so much, the Orphaned Notes — I can’t even remember the composer, all air and wind. That slippage, that barely noticeable progression, was all I was able to manage, and really only because that young girl’s hands were open.

  Also by France Daigle

  Real Life

  1953: Chronicle of a Birth Foretold

  Just Fine

  About the Publisher

  House of Anansi Press was founded in 1967 with a mandate to publish Canadian-authored books, a mandate that continues to this day even as the list has branched out to include internationally acclaimed thinkers and writers. The press immediately gained attention for significant titles by notable writers such as Margaret Atwood, Michael Ondaatje, George Grant, and Northrop Frye. Since then, Anansi’s commitment to finding, publishing and promoting challenging, excellent writing has won it tremendous acclaim and solid staying power. Today Anansi is Canada’s pre-eminent independent press, and home to nationally and internationally bestselling and acclaimed authors such as Gil Adamson, Margaret Atwood, Ken Babstock, Peter Behrens, Rawi Hage, Misha Glenny, Jim Harrison, A. L. Kennedy, Pasha Malla, Lisa Moore, A. F. Moritz, Eric Siblin, Karen Solie, and Ronald Wright. Anansi is also proud to publish the award-winning nonfiction series The CBC Massey Lectures. In 2007, 2009, 2010, and 2011 Anansi was honoured by the Canadian Booksellers Association as “Publisher of the Year.”