“So, you take photographs where, London?”
“Mainly Prague. I’ve been to Prague often. I take a lot of pictures in Prague.”
“May I see some of those?” Maggie noticed his hesitation in answering her. With the exception of his Sudek tour, ninety percent of the photographs David took in Prague were of Katrine Novak. “Just to see what the city looks like?”
“Really?”
“Only if you like.”
Maggie finished half a piece of toast, drank some orange juice. The waitress stopped by, refilled their coffee. “David, I’ve got big news,” she said. “I’m on an expense account.”
“Oh, come on. I’m not the starving-artist type.”
“So what if you were? Why should you pay for something neither of us has to pay for? Let Dalhousie University pop for breakfast.” Maggie stood up. David remained seated. “I’ve got to run,” she said.
“I’m not taking this for granted. Can I see you tonight?”
“Take for granted? Believe me, I’d see that coming a thousand miles away.” The waitress delivered the bill and Maggie signed for it. “The ensemble’s performing tonight, eight P.M., Queen Elizabeth Hall. Are you interested? I can arrange a seat directly in front of Miss Brockman and her cello.”
“I am interested, but I teach tonight.”
“What time is class over with?”
“Ten. Maybe ten-fifteen.”
David stood; Maggie leaned down and kissed him lightly. “Let’s see, there’s the reception. I’m obligated there. This and that. May I expect you in my bed by, oh, say, eleven-thirty?”
“If they’d give me the key, I’d be waiting in your room.”
“They won’t,” she said. “You’ll tell me about your class. I’ll tell you about the concert.”
“Worried there won’t be things to talk about?”
Ignoring this, Maggie said, “Tonight’s our one concert in London. Noon tomorrow, it’s off to Copenhagen. Can you drive me to Heathrow?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t take it for granted, you know.”
“You’re so beautiful I can hardly look at you, except I can’t help it.”
“Temporarily smitten, due to a successful night. No matter; I definitely, definitely want to feel beautiful when you say it. But I can’t yet. We just met, sort of. Besides, you don’t have to say it. I look in mirrors like anyone. I know what I am.”
“I could meet you in Copenhagen.”
“You don’t have a wife, do you?”
“What?”
Maggie looked toward the wide doorway. Five members of the ensemble were just off the elevator, all casually dressed, holding instrument cases and talking in the hallway. “The cars must have arrived,” she said. “I really have to get to rehearsal now.”
She joined the musicians in the lobby. In a few moments David meandered into the lobby as well. Looking through the door onto George Street, he saw Maggie get into a black town car. Some of the musicians piled in after her. A cello case was on the front passenger side. The car pulled away from the curb.
David sat in the red leather chair. He noticed that directly opposite, sitting in a kind of velvet love seat, was an elderly, unshaven gentleman. He had on a rumpled gray pinstripe suit, white shirt soiled at the collar, wide gray tie, was sockless with black shoes. He had wispy white hair, age spots on pate and hands, a boutonniere in his lapel and, oddly, a child’s zebra-stripe bandage on his left ankle. John Franco stepped in from the street, glanced at the elderly man, exchanged a few sentences in Italian with the concierge, then stood near David’s chair. John Franco was a little shorter than David, with thick black hair, sharp features. “That man there cannot meet his expenses,” he said.
“What will happen?” David asked.
“I don’t know. But first thing, the concierge, Mr. Jimmy Modiano, will somehow find him a pair of socks—maybe maid service found one. Mr. Jimmy always sees the human being. The heart beating. He won’t allow a patron of our hotel to go into the manager’s office without socks.”
“For the dignity of all concerned,” David said.
Though it had been John Franco who’d been indiscreet to begin with, now he apparently took offense. It was as if David had presumed to share his approval of a time-honored code of ethics held exclusively between doormen and their concierges. John Franco sneered with his upper lip, all cordiality gone up in smoke. “If that is how you choose to think of it,” he said. He walked over and stood next to the concierge. He rigorously cleaned his eyeglasses with a handkerchief, which he tucked back into his uniform’s breast pocket in three quick movements, flattening it with a sweep of his thumb. David, as if puppeteered by discomfort, shrugged his shoulders in an exaggerated manner, stretched, faked a yawn. John Franco, with annoyed perplexity, stared at him.
David had simply wished to sit a while longer. To let the life of the lobby quietly go about its business, to be both part of it and an observer of it. Maintaining perhaps the artistic distance of a photographer.
“Can I get you a taxi, sir?” the concierge asked. With this, David relinquished his chair. He walked to his apartment building. His was a nicely appointed flat, with plants along the inside windowsills, lots of books, an antique quilt on the bed, old-style steam radiators, their white paint flaking. David sat on the bed. Wash your face, he thought, giving himself instructions on how to kill time. Maybe go back to the hotel bar—have a cup of coffee—it’s okay, stomach feels a lot better, doesn’t it?—look directly at that doorman John Franco when you walk past—wait it out—it’s just a matter of waiting—it’s just a wait of a day and part of a night—it’s just a wait until 11:30.
In class that evening David lectured on a photograph by Sudek, Bread and Egg. The photograph depicts a grainy egg set against a piece of bread, which itself is set in relief, offering its sliced side. As the class studied the slide of Bread and Egg on the pull-down screen and took notes, David continued to speak, consciously avoiding the term “basic necessities of life,” even though bread was involved. He spoke about the photograph within the trajectory of Sudek’s thematic obsessions. He also pointed out the sculptural qualities of the composition, how the surface of the crust of bread seemed etched, crosshatched—that is, had what appeared to be an almost geological history.
Though he lectured each semester on Sudek’s work, and so already had slides prepared, he originally had planned to discuss a Paris photograph by Brassai. But Bread and Egg, taken in 1950, was the work Maggie had referred to at breakfast, and that was the entire reason for his change of mind; it was a way of keeping her close. After class David sat in the classroom staring at the unfinished letter to Katrine Novak, which he set out on a desk like an important exam he suddenly could not remember studying for. He tore up the letter and dropped its confetti into the wastebasket. Life, he thought—indeed, using the word “life,” not “circumstances” or “things”—in just the last twenty-four hours has taken an interesting turn, hasn’t it? I’m gone over this woman. I’ve heard of this happening to other people. I’ve read of it.
Their second night together began with heightened anticipation based somewhat on the first. Then they abandoned themselves to even more subtle, and not so subtle, exploration; sometimes in a fugue state of amorous devotion you cannot help what you say; at about 2:30 A.M., David said, “I love your body” (a person might say anything, often something, when memory isolates it from its original context, embarrassing), the most complete sentence possible between breaths. At some other point, Maggie slid herself on top of David and, inside a moan, said, “This feels nice.” Then they heard a thud against the wall. They fairly froze; Maggie started laughing; they hung on to each other as if for dear life. David said hoarsely, “Was that a body, do you think?” Maggie’s laughter, deep as it was, made things physically a bit awkward, even difficult for David to breathe, the way she lay spent across his chest, her mouth at his ear, her breath softly ratcheting down to normal, almost. Yet they
hadn’t in the slightest moved apart.
“I believe it was Miss Brockman’s cello case,” she said.
“Her cello case?”
“She had, or decided she’d had, a bad performance this evening. Haydn’s Concerto for Cello and Orchestra in D Major, arranged for the more intimate ensemble. She’ll wreck her room. I’ll have to smooth things over with management. She’ll wreck her room like the Rolling Stones, except all on her own and a bit more demurely. She writes things out on the mirrors in lipstick. Some amazing phrases over the years; she’s quite the pornographer. When she gets really worked up. Maid service gets some interesting reading when Miss Brockman’s in town and doesn’t play well.”
David barely began to slip from Maggie; she held him still; David was grateful for this; they’d wait for the next thing to happen. “Do you suppose her cello was in the case?” he said.
“Oh, lord, no. No, no, no. You see, after the concert, I caught a certain familiar look on her face. I told our stage manager, Alistair, to provide the cello safe conduct. He got the empty case back to Miss Brockman’s room. Obviously she discovered it empty. That might’ve set her off.”
“And the cello itself is where?”
“Upright in my closet, right here in room 334.”
“You know these musicians very well, don’t you?”
“Quirky natures, many of them. They each have their superstitions and such, which I find interesting. Onstage they like to be observed. Offstage they can be terribly private, some of them. Miss Brockman’s alone a lot, I think. Sometimes I’m her mommy. Sometimes I’m her shrink. Mostly I just get her to the concert on time.”
“Okay, three’s a crowd. Enough about Miss Brockman.”
They turned sideways, facing each other, continued toward a blissful circumstance impossible to resolve by thought; then Maggie said, “At breakfast I had the right to ask about a wife.”
“There isn’t any wife.”
“Because if there is, I’m going to smash Miss Brockman’s cello over your head. Because it’s covered by insurance. I’ll do as much damage as possible.”
They listened. Miss Brockman had gone quiet, but Maggie said, “Just wait.” Soon they did hear Miss Brockman’s muffled voice on the telephone. She alternated sobbing with shouting, silence in between, all of which, had they fully taken it in, might’ve been a sobering human drama, but they concentrated away from it until it was altogether lost. They fell asleep briefly, waking when the telephone rang on Maggie’s side of the bed. “It’s her,” Maggie said. Five more rings, then the sound of the phone being slammed down. They heard, “Goddammit, Margaret, don’t answer, then! What do I care?” They both moved to the left side of the bed; the sheets were cooler there. They slept again.
“I read a little of your book,” David said. It was 7:30 in the morning. He’d already gone out and brought back coffee and cranberry scones. Propping herself against pillows, sheet and blanket pulled up to her neck, Maggie took a sip of coffee, rubbed her front teeth with her forefinger, drank more coffee, took a bite of scone. “Toss me a T-shirt, there, will you?” she said, conscious of having stopped short of adding “darling.” David handed her a blue oversize T-shirt, which Maggie slipped on. “This scone is delicious,” she said. “Thank you. A very nice way to wake up. I can think of only one better way, but it’s too late for that, isn’t it?”
David sat in the overstuffed chair. Setting the tray aside, Maggie got out of bed, stepped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. In a few moments David heard the toilet flush, the sink faucet turned on and off. Maggie emerged, walked in a comically bent-over fashion, holding the T-shirt stretched down to her thighs, and got back into bed. She took another bite of scone. “So, you read a little Anatole France,” she said. The Crime of Sylvestre Bonnard was on the bedside table.
“Twenty or so pages is all. Both nights we’ve spent together, I just opened the book to whatever page and started reading.”
“In school, didn’t they teach you to start with the first page?”
“Do you remember ‘City of Books’?”
Maggie interrupted with an impressive show of memory: “‘...thereafter made me feel very grateful to Mademoiselle Préfère, who succeeded at last in winning her right to occupy a special corner in the City of Books.’”
“How did you do that?”
“I can recite the odd passage from Proust, too. Some Stendhal. Some Victor Hugo. Maybe five Baudelaire poems in all. But for some reason—maybe I’m a freak of nature—with Anatole France it’s like I have a photographic memory. I can’t explain it.”
“From what you told me, you read him at university till you were blue in the face. I didn’t attend university, by the way. Probably you should know that.”
“Now I know it. I went to McGill. Junior year in Paris, Collège de France, on an exchange program.”
“Why do you read Anatole France in English, then?”
“I speak French pretty well. My reading skills got crummy, and I’m too lazy to work on them. I took half my courses in French. I minored in economics. I guess I thought the combination was ‘sophisticated and European,’ or something like that. But as it turned out, when I graduated, it was the economics that was useful right away. I got a job working in the business office at Dalhousie.”
“How long have you been publicity director, then?”
“Five years. I applied the second I saw the job opening. Want the rest of my résumé, David, our second morning together? First of all, observe this hair. You must have noticed I braid it. Almost every day I braid it. That’s from childhood. It’s obsessive, but it makes me feel organized. I definitely get edgy now and then—you haven’t seen this yet. Especially with people who complain about their lives. I cannot stand that. Want to see my nasty dismissive grimace?” Without waiting for an answer, she demonstrated it. Outwardly, it made David laugh; inwardly he hoped and prayed she’d never mean it for him. “I’m too thin, so say some people, my father included. I consider myself homely with a few nice features. My hands have received compliments. My feet have not.” Taking this all in, David knew she must’ve realized by now he found her beautiful. “I’m five feet nine. My nose got broken twice. Ages eight and fourteen, both while ice skating.”
They stayed in the room until 8:45. David went to his flat, showered, changed clothes and picked Maggie up in front of the hotel at 10. John Franco placed her suitcase in the back seat of David’s rattletrap Citroën, which he’d purchased from his landlord; it needed repairs but they could wait. Maggie said, “I’ve got a cup of coffee here for you”—then she said it—“darling.”
“Thank you,” David said. “That was thoughtful.” He fit the paper cup into the holder near the gearshift. Halfway to Heathrow he said, “I can still get a ticket for Copenhagen. I don’t teach for a week.”
“Better to wait, I think.”
The ensemble was at the boarding gate. Maggie led David off to the side, for as much privacy as could be had. “Get everyone else out of your apartment,” she said, “launder the towels and sheets, and I’ll consider staying with you there a night when I get back, if I want. If you want. I’m keeping my hotel reservation, though, David. At Durrants.” She boarded the plane. When she found her seat, she thought, Did I mean, Better to wait and consider all this carefully? Or did I mean, Better to wait until we can’t stand waiting? Or all of the above and more, or what? On the flight she distracted herself with a “to do” list for Copenhagen.
Letter
IN LONDON, David’s apartment was at 813 George Street. Typing there on his old Underwood manual, he composed a letter to Katrine Novak; his new devotion to Maggie was the motivation. He wrote it straight through in one sitting; he knew if he started to rewrite, there might be a hundred drafts; it was of course impossible to get it perfectly right. Still, he and Katrine had a history (quoting Chekhov, she once referred to their relationship as a “skewed love story”). Fact was, David had seldom visited Prague without spendi
ng at least one night with her. And while it was true those nights never somehow accumulated into a declaration of fealty, individually they had allowed for passion, the value of which, he and Katrine agreed, should never be underestimated. With the sound of George Street traffic drifting into the kitchen where he typed, David instructed himself to attempt a philosophical intimacy in the letter rather than nostalgia, otherwise it might suggest the possibility of a return to good things. That would be confusing, false encouragement, a lie. No, David needed to close things off.
April 15, 1985
Dear Katrine,
I never thanked you enough for translating the monograph on Josef Sudek—so, thank you, Katrine. That was October of 1982, if I remember right. I need to say good-bye in this letter—because I hope to be married soon. I think, hope, wish to be. The details may be hurtful to you. I don’t want that. Suffice it to say I have met someone I feel is the love of my life. I have not known her long. I did not know her during any of our time together in Prague. Though I might sound like I’m trying to absolve myself of guilt, actually I only look forward to the future with her. It would not do you or her justice to not tell you her name—Margaret. There it is, then. I won’t be visiting Prague.
While we never, either of us, said “I love you,” deep feelings were there, I think. I know on a number of days deep feelings passed between us. This of course is my summary, not yours. I must tell you this is the truth of things. My heart is closed to you. I would expect the same directness from you.
Often in your presence I felt the tremendous desire to sleep after supper. What was that, I wonder? You wanted to stay up in cafés all night. What an interesting life you lead. That must now sound patronizing. Of course it does. But it’s true. Your literary friends, your cafés. Your feverish political discussions. I envy it a lot—also sounds patronizing, I suppose. But nonetheless I mean it. Simply, I’m putting all of our time together in perspective. The one thing that unifies every hour walking in the city, every argument, every photograph you let me take of you, everything, was my gratefulness. That might have a hollow ring. I expect it does. I’m sorry if it does.
Devotion Page 5
