Asylum

by André Alexis

  Thirteen years later, the pettiness of the idea was unavoidable. Not only had their marriage reverted to business as usual, but she had not even managed to convince him she had changed. She slept with other men, three or four, a paltry number, each time with the hope that her transgression would out or that he would notice her, her real self (quicksilver though it was) as opposed to the wife (that too solid creature) with whom he lived, or that she would have to leave, or that Paul would leave her. More empty ideas because, thirteen years on, she had become, simply, a woman who occasionally slept with men other than her husband. She had exchanged one way of being with Paul for another, equally unsatisfying.

  But then, she had never told him of her infidelities, had she? Where was the courage in that? Where in the world do those who leave find the will to go? Yes, if there is physical abuse. Yes, if the marriage is unbearable. But hers was not quite unbearable and her husband had never touched her in anger. So, she found herself wishing for more love from Paul or for none at all. And until the balance was tipped one way or the other, she could not decide what to do.

  Still, something fundamental had changed when she was with Walter: she realized not only that she could love another man but that she wanted to as well. There had been a night in Walter’s yard, summer, the stars above, when she had offered to leave her husband and she had meant it. She would have left, if only Walter had asked. But he hadn’t and, in retrospect (strange to feel this), perhaps it was better he hadn’t. She would have to do the leaving on her own. She’d been devastated by Walter’s rejection, but it had been a revelation to meet someone with whom she was able to forget, however briefly, her deepest concerns: the questions about her worth, her sins, her marriage. Such a simple idea, but it had taken twenty years to bloom: her concerns were deeply felt, they were an important part of who she was, but it was possible to put them aside without losing herself. In fact, it was necessary. One needed respite from oneself, rest from doubt. One needed a home, in the end, a place where one could simply “be,” and this she would never have with Paul.

  So, on the day her husband discovered that the woman seen with Professor Barnes was a certain Løne Kastrupsen, Louise had resolved to tell him their marriage was not working, had not been working for years. It was all her fault, yes, but the life they had shared was not the one she wanted.

  {19}

  A CHAPTER ABOUT SUICIDE AND DEATH

  The walk from his house to Parliament Hill should have been the longest part of Walter’s walk towards death. It was only a mile from the cliffs facing Hull to the bridge from which he’d decided to jump, not more than twenty minutes, even in bad weather, and yet…Walter got as far as Rideau Street before he was accosted by a young man in a peacoat. The man didn’t look threatening, but it did look as if he’d been drinking and, as he was black, Walter assumed he needed money. So, before the man could speak, Walter took his wallet from his pocket and, surprised to find he’d forgotten to put so much money in the bank, handed his last two hundred dollars over.

  – What’s this? the man asked.

  – I’m afraid it’s all I’ve got, said Walter.

  – I didn’t ask you for money.

  – You look like you could use it, though.

  – Why?

  – Well, you know…

  – Is it my coat?

  – Yes, said Walter, it’s your coat

  though he suddenly noticed the coat was not as decrepit as he’d thought.

  – I just bought it last week, said the man.

  He seemed disconsolate.

  – I’m sorry, said Walter.

  – I just wanted to know the way to the Mayflower.

  – Oh, well, keep going down Elgin and you’ll come to it. Cooper. First street after the Elgin Cinema.

  – It’s a new coat.

  Seeing that he’d disappointed the man, and wishing to console him, Walter said

  – It wasn’t really the coat, you know. I noticed you were black and I assumed you wanted money.

  – It’s because I’m black? But I just wanted to know where’s the Mayflower.

  The young man, who certainly had been drinking, wavered as he considered the case. It would have been difficult to assess, even without drink. On the one hand, Walter had adverted to his race. On the other, he’d done so in a kind voice. And if he’d spoken the truth, then the coat was not universally disliked, a thought that brought him some satisfaction, since his mother had vowed to throw it away when he wasn’t looking. Also, there was the money. He didn’t know how much there was, but it was enough for a few rounds at the pub. Of course, taking the money would tacitly affirm the man’s bigotry, and that was reprehensible.

  Walter waited for a few moments, and then he gently said

  – Well, I should be going.

  – I can’t take your money.

  – Why not? I don’t need it any more.

  The young man thought about this too, but before his thoughts could cohere, Walter added

  – And I’d be honoured if you had a few drinks, on me.

  – Why? You don’t know me.

  – I don’t know anyone, said Walter.

  – I know what you mean, said the young man.

  How friendly one could be, in extremis. Walter thought of all the friends he might have made, if he’d decided to kill himself sooner.

  – Yes, he said. The times we live in.

  Again, he tried to move away. This time, the young man held him by the sleeve.

  – I can’t take your money, he said, unless you have a drink with me.

  And because he suddenly thought it ridiculous to die with two hundred dollars on him, Walter agreed, but on condition they did not go too far out of his way. So, they walked to the Lafayette. The walk was unexpectedly convivial for both of them.

  – Thomas, said the young man.

  He looked young enough to be Walter’s son.

  – You should put that money in your pocket, said Walter.

  And so the young man did, but in a touchingly awkward way. Money in one hand, he patted himself distractedly with the other until, finding what he was after, he reached into his left pants pocket with his right hand and pulled out a black wallet, into which he pushed the crumpled bills. For a minute or so, in the midst of a most mundane act, the young man was so entirely unselfconscious it was as if Walter could see something beyond this particular young man to all the young men who had preceded him on Earth, himself, Walter Barnes, included.

  – Sorry, Thomas said.

  They walked on in silence, each lost in his own thoughts. The Laf was not busy, but it still took time for the waiter, a scruffy old man in a green shirt, to approach them.

  – What can I get you? he asked.

  Thomas ordered a pitcher of draught and two glasses.

  – So, he said. So…

  to which Walter responded with a polite smile.

  Their silence was not strained and, perhaps because they did not speak, it seemed to each that the other was agreeable. Still, when Thomas went off to use the pissoir, Walter got up and walked out. It made no sense to court friendship at a time like this, and he left his drink untouched, because he didn’t want to die drunk, to die as if he needed chemical courage to do the most logical thing he would ever do.

  (That was pride speaking. To whom could it possibly matter if he were inebriated or not? The pathologist? The undertaker? He would fall into the cold and go wherever the river went and there was no telling who, if anyone, would next see his body. Yet here it was, his eleventh hour, and he was still concerned with appearances.)

  As if it were unplanned, Walter found himself at the foot of the Alexandra Bridge, looking over towards Hull, distracted by dark thoughts. He had braced himself and taken a step onto the bridge when he heard his name.

  – Hello, Walter, said Mr. van Leuwen.
How are you?

  There was van Leuwen before him, walking back from Hull, it seemed.

  – Oh, hello, Robert.

  – Cold night to be out and about, isn’t it?

  The question was casually put, but there was clearly another behind it. Van Leuwen’s head was slightly angled to one side, his hands in his pocket, as if he were expecting something.

  – Yes, I guess it is, said Walter, but not as cold as last year.

  – Is that right? Listen, are you all right, Wally? I was sorry to hear about your accident a while back.

  – I’m fine.

  – What exactly happened? I heard a few versions of the story.

  – I was assaulted.

  – That’s terrible, said van Leuwen. Did they catch who did it?

  – Oh…really, it was just an assault. Happens all the time.

  – You’re taking it remarkably well.

  – I’m fine. Really. How are you?

  Before van Leuwen could answer, two things occurred. First, the parliamentary carillon rang for eleven, each mournful clang clear and mournful in the clear and mournful night. And then, they were approached by an older man, staggering across from Hull, singing at the top of his voice

  – Irene goodnight…Irene goodnight…Goodnight, Irene goodnight, Irene…

  When he reached them, he said

  – ’Evening lads…

  and they could almost taste the alcohol on him.

  – Lovely night, isn’t it?

  – It is, said van Leuwen.

  – I miss home, though.

  – Where’s home? asked van Leuwen.

  The old man put a hand to his mouth, as if he were going to spew. Walter and van Leuwen stepped back at once, instinctively, but the man took his hand away from his mouth, said

  – Loughborough Junction

  and, turning away from them, staggered a few yards before again breaking into song, singing the only words to “Goodnight, Irene” he could remember, the chorus, which he’d been singing from just outside Les Quatre Jeudis, and which he would sing all the way to Sandy Hill, all the way home, in fact, because he hadn’t lived in London for fifty years and it was now a place where his father (long dead) would sing (“Ramona, I hear the mission bells above…”) and look down at him as if he loved him and down at his mother (long dead) as if he loved her too. It didn’t seem possible that such a place should die, though it would, because he would and he would surely take it with him, there being no one left to carry it.

  Van Leuwen smiled.

  – Where’s Luffbro Junction? he asked.

  – I don’t know, said Walter.

  After a pause, during which they tried to recall the thread of their conversation, van Leuwen said

  – Well, I guess I better get home myself. Night, Wally. I’m glad you’re okay. You know, you should come to the next evening, if you’re up for it. Henry’s got us reading Francis Hutcheson this Saturday. We miss you.

  – Good night, said Walter.

  He had already turned away from van Leuwen, turned towards the bridge, towards Hull, thinking how meaningless their conversation had been, and what a shame it would be his last. On the other hand, he was cold and ready for death and, as if it were a parting gift, his memory pushed up the words to a prayer he hadn’t thought of for years:

  If the noise of the flesh were silent, and silent too the phantasms of earth, sea and air, silent the heavens, and the very soul silent to itself…

  Now, really, could there be greater consolation than Saint Augustine?

  As if it were unplanned, he found himself at the centre of the bridge, looking down into the river, with Ottawa on his left and Hull to his right, the meaningless firmament above and darkness within.

  It was time.

  Of course, this being his first leap from a bridge, he hadn’t considered the impediment of the railing. He had imagined something like a graceful jump, his eyes closed, his arms outspread. Unfortunately, he was not as agile as he had once been. He could not clear the railing without a running start. As he didn’t wish to be struck by a car, he could not begin his run from the middle of the road. He would have to climb on or over the railing. But the railing was smooth and icy and he would look ridiculous doing so. Small price to pay. Walter took off his mittens, put them in his pockets, placed his hands on the railing, and was about to pull himself up when someone touched his arm and said

  – Excuse me. I don’t usually do this, but do you have a few minutes?

  Walter turned and saw a young black woman. He answered

  – Well…you see, it’s just that I’m…

  – Please, she said. Please.

  There was something in the tone of her appeal that stopped him, something too in being accosted by a second black person on this, his final night. He thought about the woman’s request. Strictly speaking, he was busy. On the other hand, it wasn’t his intention to jump for an audience. Then again, he could see it had taken nerve for her to address him and, just then, nerve was very much on his mind.

  – Please, she asked again.

  Walter said

  – Well…will it take very long?

  – I don’t know, she said.

  She began to cry. It was no business of his, whatever it was. She would have to find her own way in this world, but he could listen, for a little while.

  – What is it? he asked.

  – I don’t know where to start, she said.

  They began walking, slowly, despite the cold, towards Hull, with Walter wondering how long it would be before he could jump in peace.

  The young woman’s name was, she said

  – Mary

  It was Mary Stanley. She hadn’t planned to speak to him in particular. It might even be that, had she known Walter, she would not have been able to tell him anything at all. In any case, she was not used to speaking with strangers, and it was a measure of her distress that she spoke to this one. It was late and cold, but they walked, not quite together, in silence, towards Hull where, even on Sunday, they would find a somewhere open late. They walked without speaking, until they crossed the bridge, because Mary did not know where to start, nor what to speak nor what to hide. This is what, more or less, she said, though, naturally, being more discreet, she would have kept the intimate details to herself…

  Six months it had been since her grandmother had tried to convince her she was a wealthy woman. Even before this “revelation,” Eleanor had begun to behave in peculiar ways: forgetting where she was, speaking in a Trinidadian accent, hiding unsavoury things in odd places (dinner plates beneath the bathroom sink, dirty clothes in the kitchen cupboards, clumps of hair in the vegetable crisper), wandering away from the house with a winter coat over her nightgown. It would have been difficult to believe anything Eleanor said. Still, Eleanor had sworn Mary to secrecy and Mary had kept everything secret, in effect siding with her grandmother.

  And then, Eleanor had died of a heart attack.

  Two days before her death, she’d again called Mary to her side. She was now thoroughly Trinidadian. Her accent was impenetrable, but she herself was warmer and more open and, although she was lucid, it took longer for her to come to the point; the point being that everything was settled, that all was now in Mary’s name, that Eleanor trusted and loved her. Her final words to her granddaughter were

  – Yuh musn’ fahget de blue bag, Mary. It hav’ evryting in deah before she turned away and closed her eyes and slept.

  The following day, Mary did not see her at all. She worked late, ate supper in the Market, and was home at ten, by which time her grandmother was, usually, asleep. It occurred to Mary, afterwards, that she’d felt something when she came in the door. It was a cold night, but the house was warm and quiet. Her parents had retired early. Her brother was out. The house was still, and it seemed to M
ary someone had been cooking, because the house smelled of curry. As she walked into the living room, there was a loud and startling clatter of pots in the kitchen. And, thinking there was an intruder, Mary went cautiously to the kitchen – no one and nothing and not a thing out of place. It occurred to her afterwards that there must have been some significance to the disturbance, that, perhaps, she had entered the house at the very moment of her grandmother’s death. But whatever it was, if it was anything at all, Mary went up to her own room, after giving the kitchen another once over, and she was asleep by eleven.

  The next morning, her mother discovered that Eleanor was dead, and the day after that they found Eleanor’s will in an envelope beneath her mattress:

  I, Eleanor Stanley, being of sound mind and body, leave all my property and all my earthly possessions to my beloved granddaughter, Mary Stanley.

  Eleanor Stanley

  15 January 1976

  In the crinkled cream envelope there was, along with the will, a card on which Eleanor had written the name of her lawyer (Martin Bax) and his telephone number. It was a surprise to all of them that Eleanor had bothered to leave a will, a surprise and a source of bemusement; as if a pauper had decided to give rags and bones to her nearest and dearest.

  – Aw, she was okay, the old lady, said Stanley.

  No one contradicted him, but Mary was apprehensive. It was as if she’d forgotten to turn a stove off somewhere.

  Eleanor was buried on Friday, December 7. A week later, almost as an afterthought, the Stanleys gathered in the office of Mr. Bax to hear a reading of the will. It was a curious enlightenment for them all. As Mr. Bax read Eleanor’s will, as he formally revealed the properties, holdings, and bank accounts that had been Eleanor’s, they were all forced to reconsider their impressions of the woman who’d been Eleanor, grandmother, Mrs. Stanley. Mary, of course, was stunned by the will. She felt guilt because she had not taken her grandmother at her word, guilt because she had kept Eleanor’s wealth secret, guilt because she was Eleanor’s only beneficiary, guilt because she was now on one side of a divide, looking back on those she loved.