And that’s all. No kiss. Liza’s heart is thumping and her face burning, just thinking about him. It’s been a long time since she last jotted notes on herself or anyone else. Must’ve been in high school.
Would he call? Would she go out with him again if he did?
If her mother were alive, she would not approve of him. She’d call him a hippie. Anna seemed to dislike him at first sight earlier in the day at Nathan Phillips Square. Liza picks up the phone and dials Anna.
CHAPTER 3
“GOODNESS GRACIOUS!” ANNA exclaims, as two pints of draft are plopped on the table by the bare breasted waitress in gold leatherette shorts and white go-go boots, the mirrored sunglasses extending halfway down her cheeks.
“Thanks, sweetie,” David murmurs and folds a bill into the waitress’ hand. She blows him a kiss and he winks.
The waitress announces the daily special — chocolate covered ants, buy one get the second at half price —crunchy and peppery and yummy!
Anna rolls her eyes. “I thought it was chocolate covered worms.”
“That was last week. We’ll have them again tomorrow,” the waitress enthuses without missing a beat.
“Can’t wait,” Anna says.
“We’re adding chocolate covered crickets to the menu. Next week. Super crunchy!”
Anna shakes her head. “What’s the world coming to? That’ll be the day, when I bite into a worm or an ant. Bring us some fries, will you, dear?”
“Love that about you,” David says.
“Love me or hate me, I’m who I am. Why the heck would anyone eat insects?”
It’s close to midnight and the crowds at Yorkville are warming up. Through the grimy window of the Mynah Bird Café, Anna notices several bikers sitting on their Harleys parked on the sidewalk. The colours are of the Vagabonds, and that familiar queasiness sets in at the sight of a motorcycle gang. But she keeps it to herself —there is no point in stirring up memories both she and David would rather leave behind.
Somewhere in the dark bowels of the cafe, the record player is stuck, and it keeps on scraping, “keeel, keeel,” until somebody bumps it and sets it back to “. . . a Catholic, a Hindu,” and it’s jarred again as the scraping sound resumes, followed by “. . . Baptist, and a Jew,” and it screeches again then continues with “. . . fighting for Democracy . . . the Reds” and then it skips to “. . . peace of all,” and is stuck again, and then picks up at “. . . all this killing can’t go on.” Then one long screech and the music stops.
Through the grey clouds of smoke, the bartender moseys to the back of the room and picks up the record player. He carries it to the bar, pushes aside an assortment of bottles and glasses on the counter, and sets it down. He slips a book of matches under one corner to level it, and the album is back on, the lyrics of Buffy Sainte-Marie’s “Universal Soldier” softened by the grassy wallpaper and absorbed in the straw wrapping of the Chianti candles, in the dripping wax, and in the shrouds of blue fog exhaled in curls and billows. The crowd, a mélange of long hair, colourful beads, miniskirts, go-go boots, and sunglasses competing for size, cheers, and soon the whole room is singing along, out-of-sync lyrics trailing behind or suddenly taking the lead.
The bar is much better lit than the rest of the room. Colin Kerr, the owner, stands out from the crowd, with his shock of dark hair and his mynah bird Rajah on his shoulder, as usual. He moves about swiftly, one moment mixing drinks, and the next serving customers and clearing tables.
Anna flips her hair off her face. “There’s Colin. He has a few volunteers for us.” She picks up the glass and heads toward the bar. She plunks her beer on the counter and, chin on elbow, chats with Colin. She pulls a writing pad out of her purse and jots down the names of people willing to help organize the next antiwar demonstration.
David follows and sits on a stool at the far end of the bar. After a while, Anna picks up her mug and joins him. She shoots David a burning glare. “What were you doing there, anyway? Other than hitting on my colleague,” she says in a low voice, and they both know that this is only the beginning of the grilling.
“You mean City Hall? The Symposium Ceremonies?”
Her stare intensifies. “No, David, the never-never land. Of course, City Hall. You were hitting on a woman I work with!”
The deafening noise at the bar magnifies the tension between them. He tucks his hands in his pockets. “I play by your rules, Anna. Appreciate your help. Guard your privacy. You said nothing, I said nothing.”
He pulls out a cigarette pack and Anna wonders how many frayed white cotton shirts and fashionably worn jeans he owns in order to look as if he is always wearing the same clothes that have just been laundered.
She steps closer without taking eyes off him. The silky fabric of her purple mini dress moulds to her body, she knows, and her faux snakeskin slingbacks, although sensible, have these new heels, at once architectural and minimalistic and sexy in the way they make her feel chic. Her confident stance is enough to attract the attention of several young men strung along the bar like cheerful Christmas lights.
David taps out a cigarette. By the look on Anna’s face he is certain that she is fully aware of the men’s hungry looks and of the power she holds over her audience, including him, that very moment.
He slips the cigarette between his lips. “You look rather sleek today, wouldn’t you say?”
She narrows her eyes. “Answer my question, David. This isn’t about me, and you know that.”
“If it’s about hitting on your colleague, I wasn’t exactly.”
Anna flips her hair back over her shoulders. She picks up her mug as if it were a trophy, and squeezing between the patrons returns to their table.
David takes a long puff, puts out the cigarette in the overflowing ashtray on the counter, and follows. They’re back at their small round table in the dark corner.
“How dare you stand behind me at City Hall, next to me, or whatever, and pretend it’s by chance? What’s your game, David?”
“No game, Anna. Hoped to talk to you. Didn’t know you’d be with Liza.”
“We have an agreement. You don’t come near my work. Or work-related functions. Where my colleagues could make the connection. No discussions whatsoever. About the demonstrations or anything else. Get it?”
“I didn’t do any of that.”
“I’d really prefer you didn’t come near me when I’m around my coworkers. What you did was rotten. Butting in on my talk with Liza. Every time I turned you were there, somewhere behind me or next to me, clowning around. And you thought you were so charming. You made me really uneasy, David. Did that cross your mind?”
David nods. “I know I should’ve been more careful. It’s the Commie thing, isn’t it? But you’re not in the States. It’s not so bad here.”
“Haven’t you heard a word I said? Some of us need our jobs. Like me, for instance. The benefits, the pension, the whole shebang. I need it.”
David shrugs. “I did want to be there for the opening.”
“Sure. And happen to stand next to me. Oh, yes, and you certainly didn’t want me to see you wallowing in self-pity. No, not you. Being a sculptor doesn’t mean you get every contract, David. You have my sympathy. You really do.”
He flicks the plastic bathing-suit-lighter and nothing happens. He shakes it and thumbs the flint wheel again, and is rewarded with a bluish flame that flares up as the fluorescent pink bikini top lights up and flashes on and off.
Anna shakes her head in disbelief. “I see you got yourself a new toy.”
He shrugs. “It’s a gift.”
“You know, that’s really degrading. Tells me how much you think of women.”
“Quite the contrary. Toy, yes. But with no reflection on my view on women. C’mon, Anna. You know me better than that. It’s a gag gift. From a woman, for that matter.”
Anna ro
lls her eyes. “Besides, you haven’t been sculpting for a while now. You have to practice your craft, David, or you lose the edge. Or the contract for that matter.”
“The contract? Most of the winners are newbies. Irving Burman, for example. But why tell you what you already know?”
“The competition was fierce, David. So you didn’t get it. Besides, you’ve been busy teaching.”
David knows Anna has a point. The twelve sculptors who were chosen do have impressive backgrounds. And so does Burman. What burns him is that he believes his rejection had something to do with his being a draft dodger. It’s not the money he is upset over — there is no money to speak of — a couple of thousand dollars for a whole summer’s work. It’s the recognition and the chance to challenge his creative self. The promise of a new beginning. Once he saw the two granite blocks and the slab of marble delivered at Burman’s site, he became inflamed with a desire to be part of the venture.
He could work wonders with those pieces. And that hunk of Carrara that sat atop the granite blocks? It spoke to him the moment he saw it. He envisions the sculpture trapped in it — stirring, shrugging off the excess stone that weighs it down, unburdening itself of the rubble, heaving sighs of freedom to become all it could be — an elegant woman with the physique of an athlete, struggling to rise from the rock in her full form and beauty. He is the only one who can free her! Without him, she will remain encased in that marble tomb forever.
He blows a loose smoke ring and, in the dissipating ether of the dark bowels of the bar, the stone woman emerges — and all at once he is elated by the possibilities and devastated by the reality that he would not be the one to unshackle her.
“You sure seem absentminded today,” Anna says.
David stares into the distance, then rests his forehead in his palms. ”No, not really.” Hand over eyes, he invites the vision of the stone woman to settle in the quiet darkness of his mind. After a moment, he opens his eyes.
Anna scrapes off a dab of wax from the Chianti candle and moulds it between her fingers. The flickering wick casts yellowish shadows across her face. Her eyes remain downcast, focused on the metallic-purple glass. She pictures the fibres of a loosely twisted cord inside the bottle, imbedded in the wax — the soft-spun threads that by capillary action draw up to be burned a steady supply of the melted wax. How similar this apparently simple process is to human relations. Especially to certain people, certain men. What is it about David that draws women to him the way the wick draws oil to a flame?
David taps out another cigarette, pushes it between his lips, and observes Anna carefully, the crow’s feet around his eyes deepening. “Is there a problem?”
She unwraps a new piece of gum. “I’m uneasy about the demonstrations. Even about being seen with you.”
“Just being seen with a Commie. Not a good thing, as Allen says. Right?”
Anna winces. Allen Ginsberg has been a pebble in her shoe. Not that she has anything against the man or what he stands for — she is glad for his courage — but the office politics at work are rather complex. To David, he is a friend and an inspiration, a poet who uses his talent to stand up to convention and bureaucracy, unafraid to express his beliefs. To her, Allen is a rather curious writer who uses foul language to shock society into hearing what he has to say. When some of her coworkers refer to Ginsberg as “a screaming kite caught in the storm of criticism,” she finds it difficult to totally disagree with a clear conscience. So she tactfully avoids the subject.
Anna is chewing gum as if her life depends on it. “Things seem so simple to you, don’t they, David?”
“No, I realize. In your office, I’m sure . . .”
“Just the mention of Ginsberg raises hackles in some circles. Especially with my boss! You’ve had your picture plastered all over the newspapers. You and Allen. I could imagine what my boss would say if he thought I had anything to do with either of you.”
The gold leatherette shorts and perky breasts are back with cold beer. She sets two mugs of draft and a shiny clamshell filled with chocolate-y morsels. “Surprise! Our chocolate covered grasshoppers got here early! We’re all so excited! The boss said to give out free samples!”
Anna shakes her head in despair, picks up one of the mugs, and takes a gulp. “Liza and I work in the same office. You must’ve figured out that much. Any idiot would’ve. And it’s just a matter of time before she figures you out.”
“Come on, Anna, things aren’t that bad. You make it sound as if I’m . . .”
She places the mug back on the table. “No? A lot of people know your involvement. You lead the demonstrations. You’re friends with Joe Young. With Allen Ginsberg. Your teaching contract at U of T wasn’t renewed. Anyone seen with you gets labelled.”
“Is that what you’re worried about? My teaching contract? It had nothing to do with politics.”
“Sure, David. If you say so. But we both know the truth. As I said, I need my job.”
He searches her face for meaning, the creases on his forehead deepening. “You’re great Anna. You get things done. People look up to you. Just need to loosen up a bit.”
Anna’s blood rushes to her cheeks. She grabs the mug with both hands and takes a long swallow. “Did I hear you say, loosen up?”
He runs his fingers through his hair. “Everything’s under control.”
Anna pulls a paper fan out of her purse and snaps it open, revealing a large coral-coloured peony and a tall-legged bird, and begins to fan her face. “You know, David, you can do whatever you want.” She places the fan on the table. “You have no attachments. You come and go as you wish. And you think it’s nothing. If you got caught you’d be jailed for good. You do know that, don’t you?”
“Relax, Anna. I haven’t been caught yet, have I? Why would I get caught now?”
“Don’t play with me, David. We know each other too well for that. Where do you cross, anyway? Buffalo, Lake Erie?”
“Yeah, yeah. A short boat ride. No biggie. My fellow Americans don’t really care. What would they do to me? Jail me? Anything’s better than fighting a war. Killing innocent people. I am not a soldier, Anna. But change can happen without a gun. You believe that, don’t you?”
“You think I’d be here, talking to you, if I didn’t?”
David leans forward, props his elbows onto the table, cups his face, and closes his eyes. After a long moment he opens his eyes, pushes his chair back, and gets up.
Anna stiffens. “For God’s sake David. Go ahead. Walk away.” Her voice softens. “You know I respect the work you do. Fighting for peace. Otherwise I wouldn’t be putting my job on the line. And being a draft dodger? I sure don’t blame you for that.”
She grabs a few chocolate-y tidbits from the clamshell and stuffs them in her mouth. The next moment, with a revolted look on her face, she snatches the paper napkin off the table and spits into it. Holding the napkin over her mouth, she runs to the ladies’ room.
David sits down and leans his chin in his hand. He wishes he could remind Anna that she and Ginsberg are on the same side, helping with the antiwar movement. Except that she is undercover, sort of. Her job with the Department of Culture means the world to her, and the politics could get heated if her coworkers found out about her involvement in organizing the demonstrations. She would be ostracized and that could be tough on her. He knows her heart is in the right place and her work with the movement is invaluable. She’s an efficient organizer and a people-person. He sits down and guzzles most of the beer and places the mug back on the table.
In his mind, he goes over the speech he’d like to convey to Anna. He could remind her that Ginsberg is the one who had suggested that protesters should be armed with flowers to hand out to spectators, even to police and press and politicians. The use of flowers and toys and music was intended to reduce the fear and anger inherent in protests. The method proved very successful, and “
flower power” became an integral symbol in the counter-culture movement. Ginsberg is a beacon of the movement and what it stands for. David is ready to jog Anna’s memory about all this. Then he reconsiders — she is too upset.
Anna returns. “For heaven sake, I just stuffed insects in my mouth! I’ve got to take a break from everything. All of this is really getting to me.” She picks up the clamshell and sets it on another table.
“Things aren’t that bad, Anna. Nothing comes easy.”
“I just need some calmness here, in my world. No one depends on you. It’s different for you.”
“What’s this about, Anna? Who depends on you? Who are you talking about?”
She sits down with a deep sigh. Deflated. “Forget it, David. It has nothing to do with you. Forget I said anything.”
He taps out another cigarette. “I’m here for you. You know that.”
She reaches into her purse, pulls out a package of bubble gum, and slaps it on the table. “Why do you keep lighting up one after another? Don’t you see I’m trying to quit?”
She waves away the billows of smoke drifting from the table next to them and stares at the two large men in shirts with cut-off sleeves and mirrored sunglasses, puffing away. Bikers. A young woman squeezes out of the chair wedged between them. Her ample breasts are spilling over the yellow push-up bra and her thighs are bulging below the skin-tight purple shorts. With her waspish waist, she appears ready to take flight. Her blond hair is tied with white lace into pigtails. As she passes behind David, she leans over the back of his chair, grasps a handful of hair at the top of his head, and stares mischievously at his face. Then she plants a smacking kiss on his cheek.
Anna makes a gagging gesture with her index finger. “Hey, you!” she calls out. “Those two not enough for you?”
“It’s Helena,” the woman answers calmly. “Like Helena of Troy, you know,” she says in a musical voice as she tousles his hair. She picks up David’s unlit cigarette from the ashtray, flicks her lighter that matches David’s, and after lighting up and drawing a few puffs, sets it back in the ashtray. She continues toward the ladies’ room.
Stone Woman Page 3
