* * *
—
Vaporettos carried us back through the Grand Canal to the mainland. Then the buses and westward to Milan. We were booked for only one night at the Hotel Touring and Grand Turisimo, a quick stop en route to the Côte d’Azur. A gritty industrial heap not unlike Toronto, Milan was nothing to write home about, except perhaps the monastery housing The Last Supper by Leonardo da Vinci. The ever-feisty Robin was once more barred entry by a priest for being improperly dressed; although she was wearing a sweater and a longish skirt, she was unforgivably hatless. Denied entry to San Marco, she wouldn’t take shit this time around. “Who says so?”
“The pope.”
“Who told the pope? God?”
And in she strode, lobbing a parting shot: “This is my father’s house.”
Inside, I was disappointed by the condition of the flaking mural. But I was taken with the guide’s narration: completed in 1498, the artwork captured the moment when the Twelve Apostles were reacting to the prediction that one of them would betray Christ. Symbols of the Trinity were embedded in the imagery: Jesus’ head and outstretched arms form a triangle, and the Apostles sit in groups of three before three windows overlooking a landscape.
Sean, Jane and Sally returned to my room, where we idly flicked 5- and 10-lire coins out the window, no fountains below to catch our wishes. When Sal and Jane decided to hit the sack early, Sean and I fell into a heavy rap about Serious Relationships; were we ready for one of those?
I told him I’d love to find the gas station in Milan where the body of the Fascist leader Benito Mussolini, executed by Communist partisans, had been displayed in 1945. As a kid, I never forgot the newsreel footage of Il Duce and his mistress, Clara Petacci—Clara, you chose the wrong boyfriend—strung by their heels, left to rot, their faces swollen like pumpkins and their bodies bashed, shot, stoned and spat upon by a mob.
A gas station—what a place to end. I wondered if there was a plaque.
* * *
—
At the wheel of his bus, Stu was breezing westward over the Italian-French border, where a listless customs agent stamped our passports and waved us through. Feeling uncomfortable leading our convoy up a steep climb, Stu thrust his arm out the window and motioned Dave’s bus ahead. As he pulled out to pass, Dave saw a black Ferrari blazing straight for him at Grand Prix speed. He swerved back behind Stu just in time.
With deadpan calmness, Stu declared, “I almost killed Dave.”
As we crested a hill overlooking the Côte d’Azur, I was smacked in the head by the panorama of the Mediterranean and the intense luminosity of sun, sky and sea. A curving bay of palm trees saluted us into the resort town of Nice. I was disappointed that the beach was pebbled; Sally was not burying me here. As we arrived at the Grand Hôtel de la Paix, Nick told us that the main drag, the Promenade des Anglais, was named after Brit aristos who escaped their fogbound island, gambled away their inheritances, then slumped into Nice’s striped beach chairs to die of TB and VD. Successive eras delivered artists like Picasso, Matisse and Chagall, attracted to the bright light and clear air; then high-voltage celebs like Brigitte Bardot and Mick Jagger; then the likes of us.
Sideswiped by a head cold, after breakfast I retreated to my bed, swallowing aspirin and wallowing in self-pity. I imagined Sally on the beach wondering, Where’s Fitz? I’m worried about him, then materializing in her fetching bikini to fetch me out of bed, or better still, jump in. Dream on.
The next day brought redemption. For hours I splashed with Sally and the others, slipping on and off a raft like seals, stealing glances at the topless Frenchwomen, the surf whooshing over the smooth stones, which rolled and clicked like snooker balls. Although he was a poor swimmer, Ross, a white-skinned redhead, thought he could make it out to the paddleboats, but when he drew close, all had moved on. On his way back, he went under, then up, then down. In a flailing panic, he grabbed for a woman, but she pushed him off. He thought of the cartoons: if you went down a third time, lights out. Then his feet touched the pebbles, and he waded out to tell the tale.
To augment the thin hotel food, Sean and I wolfed down a second dinner in Jane and Sally’s room, then we all tumbled back down to the beach. We crossed paths with some of the Vancouver Odyssey kids who’d scored some acid from a Vietnamese pusher, their dilated pupils and spaced-out stares a dead giveaway. I wanted some, but I wasn’t sure how it would go down with Sally.
Still, we could fly with or without wings, and as we were engulfed by sand, sea and stars, I felt a lightness and self-acceptance that seemed entirely new. Taking turns skipping the ropes of our word play, we were hot, we were on, we were one; when the topper came, Sally tipped into hysterics of such breath-stealing force that she doubled over and collapsed on the stones. “I’ve pissed my fucking pants!” she cried, and a mixed mood of triumph and loss lofted us back to the hotel. Locked out, we rang the concierge and I was disappointed when he let us in.
* * *
—
Stopping for a picnic in the French Alps en route to Grenoble, the twenty-eight of us sprawled across an open pasture, the sky flooded with keenest blue. When Annabel, the shapely, perfectly coiffed Havergal girl bound for medical school, challenged all comers to a foot race, I sensed potential humiliation and took a pass. But the drivers, Dave, Stu and Steve, were game, and as the quartet bolted across our patch of Eden, it was no contest from the get-go. Annabel was uncatchable.
In the hotel dining room, we mingled with a tour of fifty American girls. When they started singing happy birthday to one of their own, one of our own leapt from his table to capitalize on a free kiss, and the room erupted into hooting and cackling. Hypercharged peer pressure drove the males to follow suit; when my turn came, twelfth in line, I could see she was freaked out by the serial invasions, so I affected an air kiss of the brand perfected by my mother. Returning to the table, Sally shot me a look that could kill. Was she actually jealous?
A ramble over the spectacular Swiss border led us down into the postcard-quaint town of Interlaken, population five thousand, encircled by mountains and lakes. The contrast with the sexy-violent Italian decadence was stark; all this lung-clearing fresh air and orderly hygiene looked too much like Canada.
At the hotel, we picked up our mail. Jane breathlessly relayed the news that one of her friends, also named Jane, had been knocked up by a UCC boy, scandalizing the Toronto private school set and precipitating a shotgun teen wedding. I happened to know him—athlete-scholar, born leader, the boy most likely—and wordlessly I digested the cautionary tale.
Our own in-house gossip hotline percolated non-stop. Did I know that Sean was bummed out because Jane went out with Steve? I did. Did I know that Marywinn was so pissed at Rich for carrying on with Liz that she got her ears pierced in town? I did. At Branksome, she and Sally had not been allowed to wear jewellery or makeup, so I got it.
The next morning we took the cable car up the nine-thousand-foot Schilthorn, one of a trio of peaks along with the Jungfrau and Eiger in the Bernese Alps. On the deck at the summit, turned frisky by the thin air, we swung the coin-driven binoculars on ourselves and took turns piggybacking. Talking to Sally by the railing, I was caught off guard when Margi wheeled and pointed her camera at us. Just us. Only us. I felt as if I was being framed by the four corners of a formal portrait, the eyes of the world trained on our coupledom. Why did I feel like dying? In the second before the click of the shutter, I wavered, then swung my arm around Sally’s shoulder and smiled.
Disembarking from the cable car partway down the mountain, we descended on foot. Grazing sheep, open-shuttered cabins, brimming flower boxes and crystalline streams passed like a glass-lantern show, and I expected to meet a pigtailed Heidi singing songs from The Sound of Music. Back at the hotel, I soaked my blistered feet in an ice-filled bathtub with six pairs of all-girl feet, but I only played footsie with Sally.
Sally was rooming with Nikki. I knew Nikki believed in ghosts, so when darkness fell
I hid in the closet. Bursting out, I scared her bug-eyed and instantly felt sorry. I crashed beside Sally on her bed, feeling remorseful, then sneaked back to my room at 4 a.m., dodging Nick’s radar, as both girls dreamed on. I was still getting away with it, and maybe soon I would know what “it” was.
* * *
—
The girls had shifted into deep shopping mode: the latest craze was Swiss watches. I watched Robin parade around in a pair of leather lederhosen, her bleached-blond hair attracting a passing woman who babbled at her in German. Robin cracked, “She thinks I’m Eva Braun.” Back at the hotel, a bunch of us goofed around throwing water and shoes out the window, and I was pulled into a mock slap-fight with Kat, excited by her lithe, laughing quickness.
At dinner, we were served cheese fondue, a new one on me. Some genius made up the rule that if your piece of bread dropped off your fork into the pot of melted cheese, you had to kiss your neighbour, and the meal quickly slid off the rails. All charged up, eight of us scooted, giggling, back to Jane’s room, where we all rolled around on the bed like greased marbles, smooching randomly. Freud said when two people go to bed, it was more like eight, so we got the numbers right. In our dreams, we are all promiscuous. Switzerland was shifting out of neutral, and I was learning how to be “good in bed.”
I followed Sally to her room and flopped on the floor. As she gave me a five-star massage, digging her long fingers into my hunched shoulders, the rules Nick chiselled on stone a thousand years ago on the Raffaello—don’t sleep with the girls, and show up every morning for breakfast—were now down on their knees begging to be broken. But we were not alone, and once again I nuzzled up beside her in my clothes. Awakening at 5 a.m., I slinked back to my room to find Will and Kathy, Peter and Nan still awake. From the window, I sang to the Swiss dawn, “First there is a mountain, then there is no mountain, then there is…”
* * *
—
189 Gordon Road
July 14
My darling Sally,
I don’t know if you’ll get this letter because of the coming strike; I hope so.
Well, summer is passing, albeit very slowly. The heat is very oppressive, well over 90 today, and a hazy sun. So David, Graham, Nathan and I played tennis from 12 to 3:30. Dave kind of folded in the heat, and I’m getting in shape to take you on when you get home.
Went to the Boulevard Club for a regatta party with Gerrie & Doug. Mrs. Grand had decided to play matchmaker, and I was introduced to a very nice kid (I guess) named Sue Matthews. I had fun, but she didn’t because I wouldn’t drink or dance. She wanted to know why, so I told her I was engaged and went into a long song-and-dance about you being away. So I had a lovely evening, and she went home with her mother. So don’t worry, please. I’m still in love with you.
This mother, Mrs. Matthews, about 45–50, divorced, now she was attractive. Just my type. Even had a nice boat. So if I have to get a date for anything this summer, I’ll ask Mrs. Matthews instead of her daughter.
I presume (I don’t know for sure) that you know about your father’s talk to me. As a result of that, I’ve gone into some inquiry as to taking an M.A. This would involve two more years of school after this coming one. The final year then (your last in nursing) would be a MAKE-UP year, and I would be a regular student.
The next year (your first at work) would be my M.A. qualification year, and for that I would be paid between $1,200 and $2,000. So you may have to be prepared to work to support us for a year. But if I get an M.A., any job I took would automatically pay me around $500 to $800 a year more to start, and I would have a much greater scope of choice.
So when you plan your wedding, keep that possibility alive and in mind, and we’ll talk about it later. OK?
I’ve thought of something to surprise you with when you come home. But, being an unpleasant type, I’m going to keep it as a surprise.
Next week, maybe later, I’m going to drop in on both your parents just to talk. As far as I know now, I’ll be picking up both you and Robin, but if she doesn’t know, then don’t tell her.
I don’t remember writing letters this long when you were away last summer. But this will be (has been?) the first time since I met you that I haven’t (won’t?) see you for two months. But I guess I’ll keep, and besides today it was, and still is, too hot to do anything, including THAT (sigh!) except swim, sit and drink. But the beer stores are still closed.
I think I will start running mail for Father and some other offices in his building tomorrow, so they’ll be able to function once the strike starts.
After dinner, I’m going down to Jim White’s new apartment that he shares with two American newspaper reporter–draft dodger types. He phoned all excited and nervous, saying he had some pot, and was I interested tonight. He was so eager that I couldn’t resist shooting him down. “No thanks, Jim. Not interested.” Dead silence. “But I’ll come down if you’ve got any beer.” Which he does, so off after dinner and home early, and sober.
Hope you’re getting some sun. I’ve been out in it for at least six hours a day all week, and plan on really embarrassing you if you come home white.
Be careful. Rumour has it here that the French student riots start in Lyon, Nantes, and Paris on or about August 10. So take care, because you’re too precious to me to get squashed by a brick, or even a VW mini-bus.
Must sign off and go eat. Will try to write again, and promise to think and dream of only you. Be good (I am) and remember you are mine. Don’t forget I love you, and love you very, very much.
Forever yours, George
Where will you be on the night of August 12th? Write now if you haven’t already and tell me. But I’m not going to phone: I can’t afford it. Just a mushy telegram. Love forever & forever, as long as you want me!
* * *
—
Nice, France
July 25
Dear George (my lover),
Two nights ago I sent you a telegram. I wanted to make it as mushy as possible but I couldn’t because it cost 20 cents a word and I didn’t have that much money. However by sending it as a night letter it only cost $4.20 altogether. That’s pretty dirt cheap. I hope it didn’t get there at too ungodly an hour. Please apologize to your parents if it woke them up.
But I really wanted to send it to tell you that I love you. And also I hadn’t written since that beautiful letter you sent me in Venice saying that you’d asked my dad if you could marry me. I think that’s a terrific idea and I’m gonna marry you and we’re going to be very happy cuz we’re in love.
I got your letters here in Nice. Thank you, love, they were really sweet. I loved your story for Seventeen magazine. I think you did an excellent job on it. And guess what, there’s a girl on the trip whose name is Anne but we call her Annabel. Well, anyhow, this year she was representative at Simpson’s. They have reps from each school. Well, she was the Simpson’s rep for Seventeen magazine. She worked for them this year, you know, modelled and all that crap. Well, she read your story and so did practically every other girl on the trip and by the way they all think you’re a great writer. Well, anyhow, Annabel read it and liked it and she said she could maybe get some pull and get it into Seventeen seeing as she worked for them. So if I forget, you remind me when I come home to talk to Annabel and she will see what she can do for you.
I’m really having fun spending money. I’ll see if I can list what I bought. Nothing in Sorrento cuz it was sort of a hole. Nothing in Rome cuz it was too expensive. About $65 in Florence. Love that place. I really want to go back there with you and I want to go to the Ponte Vecchio and buy jewellery. I’m so mad I didn’t have more money because I would have loved to have gotten you a good ring as well as a couple for me. But anyhow I’d already spent $65 so I didn’t buy any jewellery.
Well, I’ll tell you how I spent my moolah. I got a gorgeous, funny-coloured brown leather purse, hand sewn. It’s just beautiful and really smart. I also got a light brown suede purse, sort of a shoulder bag
. It’s really quite smart, too. Then I got a cute little cheap white straw purse cuz I don’t have one. I’m really mad though cuz I couldn’t find a nice black one and that’s what I needed the most. Oh well, I’ll just have to take you out and we can pick one out. So I got three great purses. Now you’ll be able to see a variety.
Also I got something for you and my dad but I’m not gonna tell you what it is. You already know about the watch so I have to have some surprises. I got a surprise: I love you. How bout that! And I bought six pairs of beautiful gloves, four of which are pour moi, one for Mum and one for Di. And I bought two pairs sandals. One pair doesn’t fit anymore but I wear them anyhow. I got two great dresses in the Florence flea market. They’re made out of terrycloth. One is just a straight shift and the front and the back are attached by two brass rings on the shoulder. Because there are the two rings and you can see through the rings onto my shoulder, I can’t wear a bra. You know I’m really getting used to no bra. Tammy has worn one about four times since we left and now she’s gotten about half the trip not wearing them. It’s great but I don’t wear them under turtle-necks cuz what you see through a turtleneck is for you and you only.
You know George, I’m getting sooo horny. I can’t wait to get home to your arms. I think I’ll just throw myself in your arms and then I’ll be at your disposal. You better be able to keep up with me or you will be pretty sore the next day. I find I’m really energetic now. I can even stay up all night and drink you under the table I bet. But we’ll see when I get home. So don’t forget to think horny so you can keep up with me.
Dreaming Sally Page 10
