I Don't Want to Know Anyone Too Well, and Other Stories

by Norman Levine

  She said it almost defiantly.

  On the day I arrived for this visit men in yellow machines were busy knocking down the large convent on Rideau Street. I asked Harvey Reinhardt why were they knocking down a perfectly good convent?

  “You can’t make a buck out of a convent on Rideau Street,” he said.

  A few weeks later all that was still standing was part of the chapel. I could see a large painting painted on one wall of the chapel. It showed a young nun in a black and sky-blue habit. And coming down from the top left of the picture, down to the upturned eyes of the nun, was a wide ray of sunshine. Several cherubim were in this ray of the sun. They had curly blond hair and wings.

  On the day I left Ottawa the chapel had also been knocked down, the rubble cleared. It was all very tidy. Nothing to show that there ever had been a convent there at all.

  THE ABILITY

  TO FORGET

  I was in a small town in southwest France teaching English to adults when I decided to go to England. To the northeast, where, in the last months of the war, I was with a Canadian Lancaster squadron. I stayed in Barnard Castle, a place I hadn’t heard of but I liked the name. And it was near enough to the places I wanted to see again.

  I rented the end part of a large stone house by a river. It went up three floors. The best and largest room, where I spent most of my time, was at the top. It looked onto the river. And to upward-sloping green fields with trees on the far side. When I opened a window the continual sound of water as it went over rocks. And on a still morning I watched from this window a man, on a flat rock in the middle of the river, fly fishing.

  After I settled in I went to the places I had known some fifty years earlier: Leeming, Dishforth, Northallerton, Topcliffe, Ripon, York, Harrogate, Scarborough, Thirsk. And it was as if I was seeing them for the first time. The only thing I remembered was their names. So I decided, for the rest of my time in the northeast, to get to know something of Barnard Castle.

  It is a small market town on a plateau. The ruins of a medieval castle overlook a fast-flowing river, the Tees. A stone Elizabethan bridge, humped above two large arches, goes across the river by the castle. And not far is a large château-like building, the Bowes Museum. All its elongated windows have rounded tops. In front, a sunken French formal garden. And lawns and acres of grounds with different trees on the sides and behind. But when I went out and walked through the streets, I wondered what was I doing here? No one said hello, or good morning, or even looked at you in passing. Then I saw the plaques. By the church.

  Richard III

  And later King of England

  Was Lord of Barnard Castle

  From 1474 until his death in 1485

  He made improvements to the Castle

  Took a close interest in the Town

  And was a great benefactor

  Of its church.

  And on a large stone house.

  Formerly

  The residence of

  Sir Roderick Murchison

  Twice President of the Royal

  Geographical Society. He died

  in 1571 . Age 79. A Great

  Geologist and Explorer. A Town

  in New Zealand. Falls on the Nile,

  A mountain Range and River in

  Australia and a Sound in

  Greenland are all named

  After him.

  On another stone house with nine large windows.

  This house is the birthplace

  (30 July 1909)

  of

  Cyril Northcote Parkinson

  Author

  Professor of Various Universities

  And Discoverer of

  Parkinson’s Law—Which reads

  “Work Expands so as

  To Fill The Time Available

  For its completion.”

  And there were others. In the small library I read, in an old book, that Barnard Castle was a place known for its gossip.

  Because I felt so out of place, I went for walks in the near countryside. I walked through fields. Dogs came up. I spoke French to them. And they were friendly.

  I was wondering how much longer to stay when I walked up a slope, the Bank, and turned into a narrow street with small houses on one side. This short street led to a large open grass area. A sign said “The Demesnes.” The left side went up a steep grass slope. And, at the top, it levelled out to an upper field. I walked along this field. Suddenly there, close, was the Bowes Museum. And when I looked down the slope to the right, across the large flat-level of grass, it went to the river with trees on the bank. And, on the far side of the river, upward-sloping light green fields with dark green trees, and sheep at the top. And here and there a large stone house. An old church with a tall spire, and a small cemetery.

  This became my daily walk. Others came here to walk their dogs.

  One afternoon, when I turned into the narrow street to go to the Demesnes, I saw a man in the middle of the street staring at me. He was neatly dressed—white shirt, dark blue tie—stocky, and a few years older. As I came near he said, “Were you in the war?”

  “Yes.”

  “What were you in?”

  “The Air Force.”

  The expression on his face changed.

  “Come in and have a drink.”

  It was a small house, a few small rooms, hardly any furniture. On the walls, large picture frames with photographs under the glass. There was one of him with his wife at their wedding. She was in white. He in Air Force uniform. All the other picture frames had, under the glass, photographs of him in uniform in warm and cold countries.

  “I was a squadron leader,” he said, “a wireless operator.”

  I never met a wireless operator who was a squadron leader.

  “I was acting wing commander,” he said. “I went to Cranwell.”

  Cranwell, I thought, may explain the squadron eader. But I didn’t believe the acting wing commander.

  “What did you do?” he said.

  “Drop bombs.”

  He poured more whisky.

  “Where were you before coming here?’’

  “In France,” I said. “In the southwest.”

  “We flew to an airfield outside Paris near the start of the war. Once we had Churchill on board. Another time the Duke of Windsor.”

  Again, I didn’t know whether to believe him.

  “I was told to go into cafés, restaurants, railway stations, and listen. Never let on that I knew French. Then, back in England, I had to report to Intelligence.”

  “How was it in Paris before the Germans came?”

  “Panic. Everyone was trying to get out. Those with money did. They went south. Those who didn’t have money had to stay.”

  For the next half-hour, probably more, he never stopped talking about the war. Finally, I interrupted.

  “The English had a good war. The French didn’t.”

  He looked puzzled.

  “In my English class, I asked Madame Larrere. Give me a sentence using the word tenderly. And Madame Larrere slowly said, ‘When my husband came back from Buchenwald I kissed him tenderly.’

  “Another student, an attractive widow of a doctor, told me when we were having dinner that when she was a young girl her mother cooked a piece of meat, strapped it to her body, then put on her dress. Then she went to see her father in jail—he had been a collaborator—so he could have something good to eat.”

  He still looked puzzled.

  “In France, I sometimes have an evening meal in a restaurant near where I live. And because it was summer people ate on tables outside the restaurant. A new waitress was on. She was older than the usual one. And if you saw her in the street you wouldn’t have noticed. A new and expensive German car drove up and a young man and woman, both tall and t
anned, stepped out and sat at the next table. They were obviously German. The waitress brought food to the other tables. And took orders from others. But did not go near the table where the healthy-looking young man and woman were. Everyone knew what was going on. No one said anything.

  “After about half an hour the couple got up, walked to their car, and drove away. The waitress continued as if nothing had happened.”

  He still looked puzzled, as if he didn’t understand why I was telling him this.

  “In France,” I said, “I live beside a boulevard. In the early morning I take the dog out for her walk. We go down this long boulevard. There are plum trees in the middle, then plane trees. And the sun on the Bassin d’ Arcachon. At the end of the boulevard I turn to the right and walk by the water. After a while I retrace my steps.

  “This morning, when I came back to go up the boulevard, I saw a woman on a bicycle. She was watching the sun on the water. One foot was on the ground, the other on a pedal. When she saw me she stared.

  “She was not young. There were lines in her face. Her lipstick was put on badly. Her brown-reddish hair was dyed.

  “’Do you live here?’ she said in French.

  “’Yes.’

  “’Where?’

  “’Up the boulevard.’

  “’Are you alone?’

  “’No,’ I said.

  “Again we were silent.

  “She continued to look at the sun and the water on the Bassin. After a while I said, ‘Do you live near here?’

  “She was silent, sitting on her bicycle, looking at the Bassin. And remained silent. Then turned her face towards me.

  “’I loved a German soldier.’”

  Suddenly he left the room. And came back with his logbook and gave it to me. I wasn’t interested in his logbook. And no one had done this to me before.

  “Take it,” he said.

  And I did.

  When I came back to the large top room of the house by the river, I looked through his logbook. It was so remote. What did interest me was that he had cut out part of a faded page from the Daily Telegraph. And glued it to the inside back cover of his logbook. It had the “Anniversaries (Births and Deaths)” for November 22. And it listed George Gissing, Charles de Gaulle, Benjamin Britten, Aldous Huxley. And two small black and white photographs of Mae West and John F. Kennedy. Below them, he had written in ink, “Squadron Leader Albert Richardson.”

  Next day, when I went to return his logbook, I couldn’t remember which house he was in. They all looked the same. So I went around to the backs of the houses. There was a drive area where cars could park and turn. And the far-end house had a conservatory. And, on the side of it and the house, a garden sloping upwards with a stone fence around it. And inside: flowers, vines, shrubs, and small trees. A woman was working in the garden. I asked her where did Albert Richardson live? She pointed to the back of a house. She had a pleasant and lively face.

  The next time I saw her was in the main street. It was Wednesday, market day, and there were the stalls, and people walking by and buying things. We talked. And she invited me back for coffee.

  Then she invited me for dinner. Ruth had been a farmer’s wife. And we were on our own. When she realized that I didn’t know this part of England, she said she would show it to me, starting with the North Yorkshire moors when the heather was out. Our favourite rivers were the Tees and the Wharfe. Her son had a farm about a half-hour’s drive away from here. And when he had to be away for several days or more, we would go and stay on the farm and look after his sheep. It was very pleasant to walk in the country by a stream and see the farms; some had sheep, others cows. And, in late afternoon, Canada geese flying low, in a line across, as they flew to the reservoirs for the night.

  Our favourite place, close by, is the reservoirs. Except they don’t look like reservoirs. More like a series of small lakes—elongated in places, with the land coming into the water with grass and trees on the bottom slopes and sheep towards the top. And it is always still and quiet.

  Ruth is the most generous person I have known. She buys me things that she thinks I need. And continues to take me to places that she thinks I should see. And does all kinds of things for other people. She is also a good cook. And we started to have our evening meals together. And morning coffee on Sunday. The one thing that upsets her is when someone tells her a lie.

  Albert also has a lady friend. I saw them walking up the Bank, holding hands, tightly clenched, arms bent upwards at the elbow, the tops of their bodies leaning forward as if they were walking into a gale. Her name is Nellie, in her early eighties. She is small and delicate and always elegantly dressed. She invited me into her house. (It is near where I live. The back of her house also faces the Tees River.) The house is neat, spotless, and nicely furnished. But it was the watercolours on the walls that I noticed. They were of narrow streets in an old city, of parks, gardens, and by the sea. And portraits of people. I thought they were very good.

  “Who did them?” I asked.

  “I did. I went to the art school in York. I wanted to be an artist.”

  Next time I saw Albert on the Demesnes, he said, “Someone has a key to my front door. My clothes get stolen.”

  And I didn’t believe him.

  But a few days later, I found that three of my shirts that I bought in France were missing, also two sweaters. And when I was walking on the Demesnes, a woman walking her dog came towards me. She looked angry.

  “I saw you talking to the wing commander. He came up to me and said, ‘If it wasn’t for people like me—you wouldn’t be living in freedom.’”

  I saw Albert on November 12. I was coming up the Bank and he was going down. He was wearing his Air Force uniform and cap and his greatcoat on top.

  “I’ve just come back from London. I was at the Cenotaph. There are only three of us left. I won’t go again.”

  A few weeks later, Sunday morning, I was having a coffee with Ruth, when we saw Albert at the back door. He was dressed in his officer’s cap, his officer’s tunic, shirt and tie. And he had his squadron leader’s greatcoat on top. The only thing that was not part of the uniform was his trousers; they were civilian brown.

  He sat in a chair. Ruth gave him some coffee. After a few minutes he said, “I’ve been asked to lead the parade.”

  I waited a while then said, “Where is the parade?”

  He looked uncomfortable and mumbled. “In the south. It is in the south.”

  We didn’t know what to say.

  So we were all silent.

  “I’ll be in front,” he said. “They will all have to follow me.”

  Again silence.

  Then, brightening up, he said, “I’ll probably get a gong for this.”

  He didn’t stay long.

  As soon as he left, Ruth and I decided to go to see his daughter. She runs a hotel in the country about a half-hour’s drive away.

  When we got there it was lunchtime. His daughter was busy in the kitchen. We talked to her husband. He went to see her. And when he came back he told us, “She arranged for a doctor to see him tomorrow morning.”

  I did see Nellie, several days later, walking up the Bank. “I put a get-well card through his door every day, but I don’t have a reply. I went to the post office and posted one there so they would send it on.”

  “Do you know where his bank is?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Who is his best friend here?”

  “You are.”

  Later a For Sale sign appeared by his house. Then the Sold sign. People disappear. And that’s that.

  KADDISH

  (A Sketch towards a Portrait of Norman Levine)

  “John. . . ? Hello. . . ?”

  A voice familiar.

  “Is that . . .”

  “It’s Norman.”

&n
bsp; “Christ, Norman!”

  Peering at the pulsing numerals.

  “It’s 4:13, Norman. It’s dark.”

  “I’m in the Bassan.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s my mother’s unveiling.”

  “What! What do you mean Bassan? What do you mean ‘unveiling’?”

  “Well, that’s it, you see . . . And I was wondering . . .”

  * * *

  Such tentative, wistful probes in other years came from Toronto, then France, then Yorkshire; a couple of weeks later Norman was ensconced with us in Ottawa as he usually was when visiting his mother. The “Bassan”—though why he couldn’t have just named the town in the “Bassan” that he was calling from, I’d have recognized Andernos-les-Bains from our letters—

  4:13 a.m.

  The “Bassan” turned out to be the Bassin d’Arachon, the bay on the Garonne to the south of Bordeaux.

  The mysterious “unveiling” turned out to be the central reason for his visit.

  It is the Ashkenazi custom after a burial and the erection of a tombstone that there is held within a year a service of commemoration, a formal dedication, as it were, of the grave. The unveiling, often an “unveiling” merely symbolic, is the removal of a veil, cloth, or even a handkerchief from the tombstone by a designated family member.

  The service itself is conducted by a rabbi and a cantor. It involves first the recitation of Psalms, most commonly chosen from among Psalms 1, 23, 24, and 103:

  Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful . . .

  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters . . .

  Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? or who shall stand in his holy place? He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart . . .

  Bless the Lord, O my soul: and all that is within me, bless his holy name . . .

  The Psalms are followed by the eulogy which is delivered by the rabbi. The veil is then removed. The cantor then sings the prayer El Malei rachamim . . .