Devotion

by Howard Norman

“Please don’t start by testing his good breeding. He didn’t have a father at home much at all. He came to a lot of his knowledge of how to act on his own.”

  “You asked, I answered, that’s all. He doesn’t need defending. Bring him up to the house. I’ll put on some more cocoa.”

  They had every meal together after that. Maggie attended to wedding arrangements. She took David around to meet Dory Elliot when the cake was discussed. Midmorning on August i, William went to the guesthouse to get David. On the way, he saw David looking at the swans. They both stood there a moment, then William said, “Our veterinarian says these wing-clipped swans keep forgetting they can’t fly. The urge to fly is a million years older than their wound, so they forget. Now, that’s a sight—a swan who can’t fly. It’s as comical and heartbreaking as Buster Keaton trying to catch a bus.”

  David laughed hard, trying to picture it. “Come on up to the house,” William said. “I’ve got something to show you.”

  Maggie, David and William sat at the table. Letters were stacked up, all handwritten on official-looking stationery. “These are letters I’ve received from a very admirable man,” William said. He was addressing David. Maggie knew all about the letters. “His name is Reginald Aston. Mr. Aston is no less than the Queen of England’s official swankeeper. In the greater London area alone—and I might have these statistics wrong—Mr. Aston has over two thousand swans under his jurisdiction. Naturally the population shifts—boating accidents, natural deaths.”

  “Tell David about the kidnapping, Pop.”

  “Two thugs kidnapped a swan along the Thames. It was witnessed by passersby, yet the crime remained unsolved. Why someone would do that beats me. You lived in London, David. Any swan you saw was in Mr. Aston’s keep.”

  “My dad has something to ask us,” Maggie said, knowing if she didn’t get to the point, William might read Mr. Aston’s letters out loud and David would be too polite to say anything.

  “Right. Well, I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Aston, long-sought. It’s on August nineteenth at noon. Maggie tells me you’re flying Halifax to Boston, then on to London, on August sixth. I thought I might get a seat on the same airplane, see London as a tourist while you two go off to Islay. I’d visit the sights. I’d meet my August nineteenth meeting with Mr. Aston. I might even stay on another week.”

  “What was the concern, William?” David asked.

  “You might not want a father-in-law along, the start of a honeymoon.”

  “Maggie has to fly back to work in Halifax when our ten days on Islay are over,” David said. “I have loose ends to take care of. I’ve already closed down my flat, but I have to close my bank account. Things like that. So, if you are staying in London, maybe we could have dinner. Or just take a walk in one of the parks. I might suggest Regent’s Park.”

  “From the look on your face, Margaret, I see you’re in agreement.”

  “There, now that’s over with,” Maggie said. “Let’s take a swim.”

  “You two go on,” William said. “I swam at five this morning.”

  The wedding took place on the lawn at 4 P.M. There was a merciful breeze. The swans were on the pond. The ceremony was brief. Three musicians from the Dalhousie Ensemble, including Marianne Brockman, played pieces Maggie had chosen: selections from Bach, Haydn, Antonio Caldara. There were twenty-three people in all. Toby Knox represented Parrsboro. Frannie Dunsmore came down from St. John’s, Newfoundland, with her husband, Duncan McGary, and their daughters, Mary and Ileene. The lemon wedding cake was a three-tiered architectural wonder. Dory had asked Ezra Murry, a mechanic and woodcarver, to whittle a bride and groom; he could expertly paint on a gown and tuxedo, plus the faces. Ezra replied that he could easily carve a likeness of Maggie as a bride, but declined the request, since he’d never met David. Dory got this message to Maggie, who drove David to Ezra’s house in Lower Economy, where Ezra got a good look at him. Maggie and David stayed fifteen minutes. The wooden bride and groom turned out splendidly. David had picked up the cake; he and William carried it in from Maggie’s car as if delivering high explosives, set it on the kitchen counter.

  William borrowed a French country table, which he set parallel to the one already in the dining room. Maggie set out the Tecoskys’ best china and silverware. She had asked permission by phone, after inviting them to the wedding. “We’d love to be there,” Stefania said, “but we’re not up to traveling just now.” Maggie and David washed every spoon, fork, knife, wine glass, plate.

  An hour after the ceremony, the meal was served. The ensemble’s musicians played. William gave a toast, which he’d written out: “I’m as proud and happy as can be to see this marriage take place.” That was it; he held up his glass and everyone at the tables held up theirs. When dishes were cleared, out came the cake. David took ten photographs of it. Marianne Brockman took a photograph of Maggie and David cutting the cake.

  Off at the far end of the living room, Reverend Teachout remarked, “They make a nice couple, don’t they? From opposite sides of Canada, isn’t that something? Course, they rehearsed their wedding night months before the wedding. But a lot of young people do these days, don’t they? I’ve heard some even rehearse their wedding night and don’t eventually get married. Margaret and David, there, had wedding vows almost shorter than the kiss that sealed the promise.” He seemed to marvel at how passion sometimes abbreviates what precedes it, in this case his few platitudes about life and love, though quite well spoken, everyone thought. “Ah, well,” he said taking a bite of cake, “I have officiated at hundreds of weddings, and I always think it redundant to say ‘You may now kiss the bride.’ Because the groom in question doesn’t usually need to be instructed so. Bride neither.”

  The guests all left by ten o’clock. The musicians had arrived in two separate cars from Halifax. Marianne Brockman, who had drunk a lot of champagne, told Maggie and David she thought she’d played quite well, especially the Haydn; Maggie and David cracked up, remembering their night hearing Miss Brockman through the wall of their hotel room. Miss Brockman had to be assisted to the car by the other members of the ensemble. She was placed in the back seat, her cello in the front seat.

  Maggie and David spent their wedding night in the guesthouse. William set two new fans in the bedroom; they were already on. “Thoughtful of William,” David said as Maggie and he were stepping out of their wedding clothes.

  “And knowing—” she said.

  “It’s all right. It’s fine. Besides”—they were kissing deeply—“the need right now is, don’t give anything a second thought.”

  They didn’t sleep, and at 5:30 A.M., mist over the pond, they went skinny-dipping. The swans hardly bothered waking.

  Honeymoon

  WHEN THE Fasten Seatbelt signs blinkered out twenty minutes from Heathrow, William leaned across the aisle, said to Maggie, “Marrying your mother—rest in peace. Your birth. Your wedding. Those occasions notwithstanding. I’ve looked forward to meeting Mr. Aston more than anything else. I’m allowed just two hours of his time. But lord’s sake, I’ve got a list of questions a mile long.”

  “I’m happy for you, Pop,” Maggie said. “Things will turn out well.”

  “And I’m happy for you,” he said. He looked at David, asleep in his window seat. “Happy for David, too, that he married so well.”

  In London, Maggie and David got situated in their room at Durrants Hotel; William went directly to his bed-and-breakfast near the Kensington Market. First thing, he left a message with Reginald Aston’s secretary, confirming the appointment.

  The next morning William slept late, then set forth being a tourist. His happiness at wandering the streets of London was tempered by his wife’s absence. They’d not traveled much together. Still, over the next ten days he found it satisfying to jettison his habitual frugality and splurge, going to restaurants, the theater (seeing two plays by Harold Pinter, commenting during the one Islay-to-London call from Maggie, “His characters all talk pared down, like N
ewfoundlanders. Wonderful stuff”) and museums. He spent an afternoon in Regent’s Park. He visited Churchill’s underground war headquarters. He didn’t know a soul in London; his days and evenings were solitary; he enjoyed himself immensely.

  The newlyweds had hired a car to take them to the early afternoon ferry from the Caledonian MacBrayne terminal at Kennacraig, on the Argyll mainland, which docked at Port Askaig on Islay. Isador Tecosky met them with his car and drove them to Port Charlotte, where they checked in to the Port Charlotte Hotel. Beautiful sea view out onto Loch Indaal. They spent the next afternoon with Stefania and Isador at their house, in the village of Eilean Dubh. It was of course the first time David had met them. That night, sitting on the rim of the bathtub in their hotel room as the bath filled, Maggie said to David, sitting cross-legged on the floor, “They’ve never been not kind. Never not, and I must’ve tested their patience, being a stubborn kid. I caught myself staring at them today, sort of a trance of remembering. I didn’t even offer to help with coffee. I haven’t seen them in quite a while. Especially Stefania, but both are slowed down so much, those creaky old bones. Stefania forgets things left and right. And I do not like Izzy’s cough, either. But they are dear, dear people. The dearest to me. They gave my mom and dad a life in so many ways.”

  The next morning broke sunny and clear. Their waitress in the hotel’s dining room said, “Weather might change momentarily, but we try to enjoy what’s given.” She put in their order.

  “Quit your job, Maggie,” David said. “I know you like it. I know it’s a good job, you’ve worked hard at it, but quit it. I told the Tate I’m moving to Halifax. I gave notice. But let’s not go to Halifax. You give notice to Dalhousie. Let’s stay here.”

  “And do what?”

  “Not leave.”

  “And after that?”

  “Keep not leaving.”

  They moved on to David’s book proposal (he hadn’t mentioned it all summer), then to their plans for the day, unfolding the map of Islay on the table, folding it back up when their breakfast was served. Just as they’d left a tip, they looked out the window and witnessed a kind of incident: a vintage black sedan, an ornamental silver bugle fixed to its hood, passed by on the road in front of the hotel. An elderly woman, black hair cut to just below her ears, her somber attention aimed straight ahead, was behind the wheel. A live swan was in the back seat, also facing forward. The waitress, come to fetch her tip and clear the table, saw this too. “Oh, that’s Mrs. Robert Campbell,” she said. “That swan’s got clipped wings. Mrs. Campbell found it injured near her house and nursed it back to health. She’s devoted to it beyond the logical, and why? Because she thinks the swan’s her dear departed husband. What’s the harm, I say. And besides, when Mrs. Campbell looks at that swan, who’s to tell her Mr. Campbell shouldn’t come to mind? Who’s to judge?”

  David said, “We should all be so lucky,” clearly surprised at himself, as if he’d stated a belief in the afterlife he didn’t know he held. He looked at Maggie, who said, “Now that’s a topic of conversation, isn’t it? For later, darling.” The waitress went to another table.

  Such an odd sight might have conveniently convinced a tourist of the general notion of Scottish eccentricity, or in this case, eccentricity on Islay in particular. But for all David and Maggie knew, the waitress considered the sight of Mrs. Campbell chauffeuring her swan-husband as merely familiar.

  “Well, my part of Nova Scotia’s got its share of people equally fixed in their beliefs, of this and that sort,” Maggie said.

  “You’re not homesick, are you?” David said.

  “Not in the least. Not here. Not now.”

  After breakfast they called on the Tecoskys again, inviting them out for a walk. They’d strolled along the cliffs for only ten minutes or so when Isador got winded and began coughing. They returned to the house. “Some days are easier than others,” he said. “What can I tell you?”

  “You live in a beautiful place,” David said. “Your house is the most comfortable I’ve ever been in in my life. I mean that.”

  In their kitchen Isador presented them with a pair of binoculars. “May we suggest your going to look at swans,” Stefania said. “They’re called whooper swans, and they arrived early this year. You can see them at Loch Gorm. Please use our car. We aren’t driving anywhere all week.”

  They visited the Round Church in Bowmore, built in 1767, one of two round churches in Scotland. The medieval ruined chapel and grave slabs at Finlaggan. The old Islay lifeboat station at Port Askaig. They drove all over the island. Lochs and harbor villages. But every day, too, they stopped at a different beach. The one at Lossit, at Kilchiaran, Saligo, Tayvulin, Aros, Traigh Bhan, Big Strand; much of their time made for a kind of gazetteer of beaches; the sea set up its lull and roar in their ears. Their map of Islay was creased, frayed, marked up with directions, blotched with tea stains.

  They reluctantly left Islay on August 18, this time flying from Glendale to Glasgow, then to London, arriving at Durrants Hotel at 1 A.M. Since Maggie’s flight to Amsterdam (with connecting flights to Montreal and Halifax) was at 7 A.M., they decided to stay up all night, which they did. Then David drove Maggie to Heathrow.

  David went back to the hotel. He slept till noon, waking because the telephone rang. It was William. He was in the lobby. David joined him for lunch in the dining room. William spoke excitedly about his appointment with Mr. Aston, asked after Stefania and Isador, of course asked after Maggie, and finally said he intended that afternoon to visit the Tower of London, then make an early night of it. David noticed that when William got worked up in his enthusiasms, his Scottish accent intensified. He also noted that William pointedly did not ask how “they” enjoyed their honeymoon—he’d phrased it, “And how’d Maggie like things on Islay?” He’s getting used to the idea of us being married, David thought. Nothing unusual there. On the other hand, William thought, Look at this, he lets me rattle on—politeness for the old father-in-law—he’ll learn how to speak up for himself with me—then it’ll be a real conversation—things take time. David picked up the tab without need of insistence. “Not much to spend your money on on Islay, is there?” William said.

  “See you soon in Parrsboro,” David said. They shook hands. “Then we’ll hear all about your visit with the Queen’s swankeeper.”

  They took separate cabs, William to the Tower of London, David to his bank, where he transferred all but a little of his savings to a bank in Halifax. He ran a few other errands. By the time he got back to Durrants Hotel, it was 5:45. The instant his cab stopped in front of the hotel, he saw Katrine Novak entering the lobby. He was incredulous: although he might better have thought, Don’t go into the hotel, he actually thought, We should never have left Islay. Neither was quite useful enough. He paid the cabbie and went into the lobby, where Katrine was inquiring after him at the registration desk.

  “Katrine,” David said. She turned and they stared at each other across the lobby. “What are you doing here?” David’s sour tone drew John Franco’s disapproving notice. David locked his arm in Katrine’s and steered her to the bar. They sat at a corner table.

  Katrine was thirty-one, slim, as tall as David, with dark brown hair cut short, a beautiful complexion, cheekbones with wide-angled planes, brown eyes. An altogether striking woman. She was dressed in what David called, with dubious affection, one of her “Eastern European bohemian looks”: black jeans, buckled ankle-length boots, black cowboy shirt with silver piping. She spoke English with a noticeable but not thick accent. She was a freelance translator, mainly of mystery novels, “killer-thrillers,” as she called them, police procédurals like Ed McBain’s. Translation fees varied, and steady work didn’t necessarily mean the bills got paid on time. An acquaintance at the Tate once asked David to describe the woman he was seeing in Prague, and he said, “Beautiful and matter-of-fact.” But Katrine was more complicated than that. Like anyone is more complicated.

  “I got your letter,” she said. “I
take it David Kozol is married. Did your life work out this way?”

  “Katrine, first, how did you find me?”

  “Well—” She took a pack of cigarettes from her pocketbook, tapped one out, flicked her lighter and smoked for a moment. “You see, that question puts me in the position of humiliation. Because if I answer it honestly, I have to describe how I spent much precious time to find you, which is true. You didn’t have your telephone machine hooked up for months, right? Finally I called the gallery where you teach. Your friend there—someone, what’s his name, I forgot— said you were flying here to Canada, back and forth. Doing this a lot, he said. He said why not knock on your apartment door. I waited these months. I had my work. I accepted you wanted to end things. But then I asked myself, How do I feel dignified in this? Okay, so we were never to get married maybe. Fine and dandy, all right. However, you got to write your letter, but I don’t get to answer? I decided it’s best in person. So I called your gallery friend back. He gave me your landlord’s telephone, who I rang. And he said you just stopped in to pay some money you owed him. He said you were checked into this Durrants Hotel. Simple. I went to the airport and now I’m here.”

  “I am married, Katrine. I married Margaret.”

  “I’m happy for you. I’m not happy for you.”

  “I understand.”

  “Really? In your letter you wrote you hope to be married, but no letter after said you were married. That would have been useful, David.”

  Katrine opened her small travel bag, took out a stack of photographs held together by a rubber band. She threw them at David, hitting him in the chest. They scattered on the floor. David leaned over and picked them up. “All these you took of me. I looked at them over the past months, my copies you gave me. They are every possible fucking cliché of Prague, every kind of not-original shit, David. Katrine at Kafka’s grave. Katrine at the Jewish cemetery. Katrine in this garden, Katrine in that beer hall. My God, what I let you turn me into. The city I was born in!”