by Eric Dupont
Gabriel
* * *
Ring gegen Uhrzeigersinn
May 19, 1999
My dearest brother,
I’m sitting in the same train as yesterday. Don’t panic. I haven’t taken to spending my nights at a German railway station. This time I’m going counterclockwise around the Ring. Do you realize, Michel, that I spent the last winter of the century on a German train? A whole winter on a train! Only three days to go before Claudia comes back, and I get the impression I’m in for the spring of my life. Every day I congratulate myself for waiting before I went to see her. Only yesterday, I noticed that I could understand most of the conversations going on around me in the S-Bahn. You just have to keep your ears open. Berliners are talking about the beautiful weather, vacations they’re going to take, and little everyday things. I haven’t heard from Magda since that afternoon at the Schrebergärten. She must feel ashamed about the whole business.
At the thought of Claudia coming back to Berlin, I feel, for the second time in six months, a vast, calm sense of relief washing over my soul. I’m taking advantage of it to write you this long letter, knowing, as I do, that my life begins this Saturday. No more long journeys on the S-Bahn. I’ve also been thinking about earning a living in Germany. I’ll have run out of savings a year from now. There’s not much work to be had in Berlin, and my teaching diplomas wouldn’t be recognized anyway. Umso besser! That’s fine with me! I’ve had enough of being a high school teacher. I’ll do anything if it means I can stay here. Two Germans who’ve been watching me work out for months asked if I’m a private trainer. I think there’s potential there. Especially since Germans take great pride in their physique and appearance in general. They seem completely unfazed by nudity, more so than any other people in Europe, I think. Apparently, on Rügen Island, back in the GDR, people would walk around naked. The fall of the wall had a curious effect on them, as if they’d suddenly been stripped of their privacy and were being watched for the very first time. Reunification signalled the end of this earthly paradise in the Naked Republic. And everyone was naked. We’re not talking about a handful of rich girls with curves in all the right places who decide to take their tops off one day in Saint-Tropez. I mean whole families at socialist campgrounds playing badminton in the buff, just like God made them. Then capitalism brought the curtain down on their honeymoon with nature. And now the way Germans think of their bodies, as well as training and sport in general, could mean a full-time job for me. Like the Americans, the Germans like to be well built; they’ve no time for the dainty figures of French actors. God made them strong, and they intend to show it. But all the same it’s a weakness wanting to show off how strong you are all the time, and you know the effect weakness has on me.
So you find me at peace today. Claudia in three days. The last time I felt such relief was last fall. It was two weeks after the Toronto Island episode, when I decided to leave for Berlin on January 1, 1999. I would have a year to prepare to ring in the new German millennium. That’s when I started to sleep better. I didn’t tell a soul: I’d seen how the school board treated teachers who left during the school year. Mrs. Delvecchio asked me into her office.
She was in great form because, she explained, she was buying a brand new motorcycle to replace her old Harley-Davidson. We talked about Suzuki motorcycles and she was surprised to see I knew so much about them. I strongly recommended she get a VZ 800. Five-speed transmission, two cylinders, burgundy and white. Suzuki loved hers. Do you remember when she’d drive us around the Eastern Townships with one of us sitting on the back? It was usually me, I know. You flat out refused to put your arms around her waist. You don’t know what you missed, poor Michel.
Mrs. Delvecchio told me she spent every Christmas vacation in Italy, at her cousins’ place in Pescara.
“I have a bike over there too. Another Suzuki! Well, it’s actually my cousin’s, but he lets me drive it around over the holidays.”
Then she announced, proud as could be, there would be a special concert that October, just after the monthly mass.
“Little Stella has her Juilliard audition at the end of October. She’s very nervous and her mother thinks she should sing her program at least once in front of a real audience before facing the jury. Since she’s a former student, I said she could sing here. Right after mass, accompanied by a pianist. I can’t wait to hear her. Such a talented child! And have you seen how she’s looking these days? It’s a little too much, if you ask me. Women should still have a curve or two: it makes them all the prettier. But her mother has been working her so hard. You’ll see for yourself—the weight has just melted off her!”
A concert with Stella after October mass? That was all I needed. I didn’t dare mention my imminent departure to Mrs. Delvecchio. I already had my Lufthansa ticket to Berlin booked, but I knew better than to tell her I’d be taking off halfway through the school year.
“One other thing, Mr. Lamontagne. We have a group of girls in Grade 10 who are quite into sport. I think they should form a softball team. What do you think? Girls tend to get the rough end of our sports program, if you ask me. Can I count on your support?”
I didn’t want to let her down. I promised I’d see to it, then went back to my classes.
On the first Friday of October, the monthly mass was cut short by fifteen minutes to make time for Stella’s recital. The four hundred students gathered in the school’s auditorium. They made a hell of a racket and we had a hard time getting them to quiet down. We’d told them there would be a recital from a former student who wanted to pay tribute to her alma mater before launching her international career. It was hard to say it with a straight face considering everything Stella had been through at Holy Canadian Martyrs, the fun they’d poked at her braids, her weight, her piety. It was like a circus in there. The boys threw paper balls and shouted at each other, while the girls gave strangled little cries and pretended to be divas. Mrs. Delvecchio was incredibly nervous, perhaps even more so than Stella herself. Stella had refused to show herself before the curtain went up, leaving her pianist to come shake the teachers’ hands. It was the little bald man I’d seen leaving her house the very first time I’d stepped into Mrs. Thanatopoulos’s lair. A handful of parents who didn’t have to be at work had made it in that morning. My three princesses had skipped class to hear the recital. Having known her since elementary school, they were eager to see the new Stella. Melikah, Candice, and Kayla had come into full bloom at the University of Toronto; they were in their element. They now looked like three movie stars, like Charlie’s Angels or something. Kayla and Candice were in the phys ed program and Melikah was studying French literature. It’s nice to see you can make a difference in young people’s lives. Kayla and Candice were planning to finish their studies and open a megagym in North Toronto. “We’ll be fucking rich, Mr. Lamontagne!”
Melikah, the most sensitive of the three, asked about Claudia. “What about your Fräulein?” She wanted to know all about courtly love and confessed to taking a medieval literature class to satisfy the curiosity Claudia had aroused in her. Her professor at the University of Toronto was gay, she complained. “I mean, not that I’ve anything against that, but what does a fag know about courtly love? It’s not hard to respect your fine lady when you’ve only got eyes for the knight’s ass!” The three of them sat down beside me.
Mrs. Delvecchio walked up to the microphone on stage. She could be quite menacing when she put her mind to it. A fine actress, she wore the expression of a Mother Superior with a nasty case of hemorrhoids.
“Be quiet! Now!”
In the eyes of the students, Mrs. Delvecchio was a no-nonsense matron. They were frightened of her. Because she rode a motorcycle to school, weather permitting, and because she had no husband or children, as far as they knew. She didn’t fit the traditional model, so the students at Holy Canadian Martyrs didn’t know what to make of her. At any rate, her carefully tended virago image came in very handy at moments like these. The studen
ts fell silent as one.
Mrs. Thanatopoulos appeared on stage. She wore a black evening gown with a single strand of pearls. A nostalgic short-sighted audience member might easily have mistaken her for Nana Mouskouri.
“My dearrr students. Thank you for all being here this morning to listen to my dear Stella’s rrrecital. As you know, Stella will soon be leaving us for the United States to study at one of the finest music schools. What you are about to hear is the rrresult of years of hard work. Your ears may not be used to such divine music, but I have no doubt, my little darrrlings, that you will appreciate it for all its worth. Remember the name! Now, without further ado, please welcome the new prima donna, Stella Thanatopoulos! God bless you, my little darrrlings!”
Candice stuck a finger down her throat and pretended to gag. “She’s just as annoying as her daughter,” she whispered. I had to stop myself from correcting her. No, Mrs. Thanatopoulos wasn’t as big a pain in the ass as her daughter: she was ten times worse. But the show was about to begin. Mrs. Thanatopoulos had spared no expense. She’d rented a grand piano, a Yamaha, delivered just for the recital. The little bald man came out first. There were a few titters; he waddled like a duck. He sat down on his stool, carefully arranged his sheet music, then practically went into hibernation while we waited for Stella to make her entrance.
How shall I put this? How can I describe the thing we saw trotting onto the stage? “Oh my God!” my three princesses chorused. The students applauded. They weren’t so ill-mannered, after all. But the Stella on stage before us was a far cry from the Stella we’d known. I hadn’t seen her since that last day on Toronto Island, when she’d already weighed ten kilos less than she should have. She’d lost a lot more weight since then. I wondered how it was even possible. Already sylphlike in late August, now in October, she looked like an Auschwitz survivor. Or someone in one of those awful anorexia awareness campaign photos they show to young girls. Skin and bones, that’s what she was. Gone were the braids. She’d had her hair done for the occasion, a hairdo fit for a diva. She wore a diamond necklace and matching earrings. A burgundy velvet gown. Shoes, likely Balmain. Her radiant smile contrasted with the rest of her. You wouldn’t have thought someone so thin could still manage to smile. She waited for the applause to die down. I glanced over at Mrs. Delvecchio. She had her hand clapped over her mouth, as though a plane had just crashed right before her eyes. But what we were watching was much worse than a plane crash. A plane crash is an accident; an occurrence no one wants. Dozens of people are hard at work every day in Berlin alone just to keep planes from crashing. What we had before us was no accident. It was something we had all contributed to, none more than I. I kept thinking Stella was going to topple over and fracture her hip at any moment. All that remained of her chubby little face was a gaunt, made-up surface with hollowed-out cheeks. Once round, plump breasts now hung limply like old oranges in a plastic bag. An emaciated mare. Fit for slaughter. Mrs. Thanatopoulos clearly didn’t do things by halves.
Stella sang without a microphone, as every self-respecting opera singer should. The recital lasted a half hour, during which it was as though her audience was under the influence of a powerful narcotic. Stella’s voice was sublime. It reminded me a little of Teresa Stratas’s. You had me listen to her once. The same purity, the same metallic sensibility, clear as crystal, as rich and thunderous as Lake Ontario, as fragile as dew in summer. She started off by seriously embarrassing me.
“First, an old French song for my favorite teacher,” she said, looking straight at me. “I’m going to sing it for him in German. He’ll know why. Danke schön, Monsieur Lamontagne . . .”
I thought I was going to die when I heard the opening chords of Acropolis Adieu. “Es war September in Athen, der letzte Abend war so leer. Ich fragte ihn, wann kommst du wieder? Da sagte er, vielleicht nie mehr.”
“September in Athens. The last night was so empty. I asked him: ‘When will you return?’ ‘Perhaps never,’ he replied.” Then the chorus. “Akropolis Adieu, Ich muß gehen . . .” which says more or less the same as the French version we both know. She’d chosen to say good-bye to me in this strange way, knowing full well that no one other than I would understand the message contained in the song that seemed to go on for three hours. Then Stella returned to her opera pieces. We were treated to Mozart’s Voi che sapete—honestly, she sings it better than Anamaria—and the inevitable Habanera. Once again, she stared down at me while she played an improbably thin Carmen. Never more so than when she sang, “Take gua-ard yourself!” She had no doubt chosen to sing Habanera to show off her impressive range.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t moved by the second-to-last song. I knew the tune. I think Anamaria might have sung it a long, long time ago, back when your singing teacher in Villeray organized those recitals. We must have been eighteen. It’s an airy melody, mysterious and a little exotic. It was about a woman called Chloris, I think. I forget the words. Something about “the grace of her eyes” at the end. Stella really touched me with that one. Somewhere very close to the heart. I couldn’t stop thinking about Claudia. You have to admit that Chloris sounds a lot like Claudia. But I’m getting off track, dear brother.
Once her strange medley was over, she disappeared backstage to great applause. She was obviously angling for an encore. The students stamped their feet like the Germans do in concert halls, threatening to bring the roof down. Then she was back, looking radiant. The applause died down. Someone whistled. And then, pulling herself together the way a German woman would, she launched into Vissi d’arte. What can I say? How can I describe the magic she breathed into that prayer? When she fell to her knees imploring God, we were all sure her kneecaps would shatter as she hit the floor. The piano accompaniment was barely there. She alone bore all the misery and suffering of the aria, as though the words had been written for her. The students were very impressed to see her kneeling there, eyes raised heavenward. They were Catholic, after all. It’s the kind of image that always troubles us deeply. When she sang, “Per che, Per che Signore,” I think Melikah and Candice both shed a tear. She has this vibrato—no, more of a wave in her voice—that has the effect of squeezing her audience’s heart valves. After the last notes, the auditorium was silent for a long while. I heard Mrs. Delvecchio sniff, then tissues being passed back and forth. It took a while for the applause to build. I think the students were still in shock at what they’d just heard. I’m sure some of them will remember that performance for the rest of their lives. Stella was given a tumultuous ten-minute standing ovation, complete with feet-stamping, whistles of admiration, sobs, and “Bravas.” She never once stepped out of character, not even during the applause, which left us feeling as though we were applauding a true martyr, the only one ever to have walked through our school’s doors.
It was impossible to speak to Stella that day, or to her mother. Apparently, she had to be whisked back home as quickly as possible to get ready for the trip to New York. I wouldn’t have known what to say anyway. She no longer belonged to the mortals of this world. Melikah was in tears after the recital, both charmed by the music and aghast at how sickly her former classmate looked. “You think it might be cancer, Mr. Lamontagne?” I didn’t dare tell Melikah that Stella wasn’t ill. Her problems ran deeper than that: unlike me, she hadn’t managed to ward off that long, painful, and fatal scourge known as “Mom.”
The fall semester ended. I kept on writing letters to Claudia. Her replies were guarded; she always kept her emotions in check. Her reserve only made me want her even more. That December, two days before the end of term, I told Mrs. Delvecchio I wouldn’t be coming back.
“Oh, I suspected as much! And guess what? Lemon won his trial! We found out yesterday. The court ruled that the school board had no right to fire him just because he’s gay. It looks as though the archbishop of Toronto will be protesting. Good Lord! I’m glad. The whole thing was a little too much. As it happens, I was just about to tell you we’d have to find you another school. We wer
e thinking Brebeuf or St. Joseph’s—a girls’ school! You’re so good with the girls! Before you came, none of them did any sports at all. Now they even have teams of their own! It really is a shame you’re leaving, but you’re still young, you’ll be wanting to see the world. I hope Lemon will be equal to the task.”
“Did you get your motorcycle?”
“Oh, yes! In November. You were right, Gabriel. Nothing beats a Suzuki! Elvira loves it!”
I wasn’t tactless enough to ask who this mysterious Elvira might be. It was the first time she’d mentioned her. It must have slipped out. She looked away and cleared her throat as soon as she said it. She showed me photos of the bike and wished me good luck in Germany. She was a good egg, Delvecchio. I hope all the Italians you meet are like her.
Before I left Toronto, I needed somewhere to leave my books. I donated them to the school library.
“I can’t have The Diary of Anaïs Nin on my shelves!” Jodi laughed. “The parents will lynch me!”
I gave the racier novels to my princesses. They were overjoyed, Melikah especially. She was working on a manuscript, she told me, and had started going out with boys.
“I steal a book from every one of them!”
“What do you do when they don’t have any?”
“I don’t screw ’em!”
You see, Michel? Even a phys ed teacher can make a difference.
My train is pulling into the station. I’ve gone around Berlin three times counterclockwise. I won’t have time to write for a while now. My letters will be less frequent. I’m planning on mailing them all to you just before our birthday in June. Come Saturday, I’ll be Claudia’s knight in shining armor.
Your brother, on the cusp of happiness.
Gabriel
* * *
Ahrensfelde–Wannsee
May 21, 1999
Before I go, I really must tell you about last night. You’re going to fall off your chair. Are you sitting down? I got back to Lichtenberg around five. Then I decided to go for a swim at the sports center across the boulevard where the tram runs. Magda had told me about the place; she’s been going there for years. I still hadn’t been. The pool wasn’t great, but at least it was close. After my swim, I decided to try out the sauna. I know what you’re thinking, but I wasn’t looking to hook up! First off, the sauna is very busy, but not with the type of bodies you’d like to see there. Before I went in, a woman who worked there made me take off my towel.
