“You mean, Helen of Troy, don’t you?” Anna hollers after her.
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” Helena mutters and waves her hand without turning.
Anna wonders where she’d seen Helena before —must’ve been one of the bars. She pulls a pack of Luckies out of her purse, then shoves it back in. This is her last pack. After this, she’ll quit. And she’s given herself permission to make it last as long as she wants — weeks, months . . . And by then, she would’ve quit, surely. Besides, one more cigarette and there would be no breathable air left in the room.
David rocks on the back legs of his chair and blows perfect smoke rings. He taps the ash off into an empty beer bottle on the table instead of the large purple ashtray overflowing with butts, and Anna wonders how he manages not to miss the narrow bottleneck, and in that brief moment, this mundane task somehow alludes to how he handles a lot of other things such as organizing the demonstrations, getting across the border without being caught, or when funds are short, paying out of his own pocket for the buses that bring in the demonstrators. Or how he manages to handle his ex-buddies, the Hells Angels. But her top-of-mind concern at this point is that he convinced Liza to have dinner with him. What are the chances that he would start dating her colleague? He is going too far. Meddling with her job and her friend.
Anna locks eyes with him. “Did you have a good time? You and Liza.”
“Liza?”
Anna casts him an incredulous look. “Yes, you do remember Liza, don’t you?”
David says gently. “She’s a great gal.” He takes a swig and sets the empty mug on the table.
Could Anna be reading more into their relationship than she should? David wonders. Is there something more than friendship between him and Anna? Their one occasion of intimacy flashes in his mind and he quickly dismisses it. They had agreed to never mention it. And they had not. It was not the way either would have wanted it to happen.
Anna looks into his eyes with steely determination. “How much does Liza know about you?”
“What’s to know? The whole McCarthyism thing is really American bullshit.”
“I’ll say it once more, David. How much does she know about you?”
CHAPTER 4
June
AFTER A WEEK of intermittent rain, the afternoon sun seeps through the vapour veiling the tree crowns. Black binder under her arm, Liza stands at Sculpture Hill looking over the cluster of sculpture sites. She slips her shoes off, delighting in the coolness of moist grass beneath her bare feet.
She is preparing a progress report on the setup of the artists’ work areas. Some sculptors have not revealed their plans yet. They are taking some time to get inspired by the setting, designing their pieces to suit the location. Others, like Mark di Suvero, are ahead of schedule. Di Suvero has already begun the construction of his Flower Power. He has asked the City for a set of tools: a crane, a cherry picker, a welding power supply, as well as accessory hammers and an assortment of hand tools. The local construction companies have been generous with lending the machinery and tools to the sculptors, free of charge, and the trades people are more than happy to donate their time and help out. The community has provided the artists and their families with accommodations. Encouraged by Toronto’s enthusiastic support, di Suvero is planning to build two installations.
Using a crane to create a sculpture is not what Liza imagined. This is the first time she has seen an artist using this method. With the crane, di Suvero lifts the red I-beams she estimates to be seven or eight yards long, and moves them around until he finds the right position — the look he envisions. Then he climbs into the cherry picker, torch in hand, and is lifted to weld the beams into position. Some beams he fastens with steel plates. Three I-beams in the shape of a “V” about ten yards high have already been erected, and she imagines how this colossal installation will look when completed.
A five minute walk to the valley just south of Spring Road leads her to Bernard Schottlander’s foundation for his weighty piece. Schottlander is manoeuvring a wheelbarrow with concrete which he empties into the wood frame of about three square yards. He pushes the empty wheelbarrow to the side of the foundation and greets her. He unrolls the plan for his November Pyramid, which will be made of large brown cubes, and tells her it will be a gathering place for children.
On her way to Wessel Couzijn’s site, she is thrilled by the flurry of activity in the park. The birds are darting from one tree top to the next, as if on a mission. The squirrels are scurrying up and down tree trunks. The dog walkers pause to observe the work in progress, and the joggers weave among the sculpture sites. The visitors, some in groups of three or four, are updating each other on the development of certain pieces. The artists visit each other’s settings and deliberate amongst themselves. Some of the discussions are quite boisterous, a lot of laughter and pats on the shoulders.
Couzijn, a middle-aged Dutch sculptor, is stretched out on the grass under a clump of birches. He turns on his back and gazes into the green canopy above him — Liza knows this is in an effort to get the feel of the place, to get inspired. The art has to suit the setting. She tiptoes through the grass and joins him.
He sits up and smiles. “That’s a very Dutch thing to do, walk bare foot.”
“I am part Dutch,” she says.
“Yees, you told me. Your father was from Nuenen.” His eyes appear small through his thick round glasses. He has that same half-smile on his moon-shaped face that always puts her at ease.
She sits next to him and clasps her knees. “Have you decided what to sculpt, Mr. Couzijn?” She says, smiling.
He winks. “A few times. But this time I got it right. It’ll be about the park. This park and every other, but mostly this spot, right here.”
“Here where we’re sitting? So you’ve chosen your site?”
He gets up and paces among the birches, his slight figure moving as if he were weightless. The word, “yes” said in his drawn out way, encompasses a whole spectrum of plans and visions.
“It would have to withstand time and the elements,” he says. “It is a park after all. The piece will belong here.”
“And what will it be?”
“It will be a moment in life. As it evolves here, in this park.”
His mischievous smile tells her that he isn’t about to reveal any more than that. She waves goodbye. Later, his words would seep back into Liza’s thoughts, the inspiration for the sculpture revealed to her in a way she had not anticipated.
Liza heads to Jason Seley’s site — a pile of chrome plated car bumpers and other car parts. The sun dances off the shiny metal surfaces and the setting resembles a mini junk-yard. How would she describe this site in her report? The prospect of artwork made of old car parts is intriguing. The first in Toronto. Yet, visitors shrug doubtfully as they pause at Seley’s collection.
She makes her way toward the Forest School. The clapboard building from the early nineteen hundreds, once a summer school for underprivileged children, is now used as an art studio for the sculptors and art students who assist them. In the shade of the veranda, two men are having a loud discussion. The sun is in her eyes, but she recognizes the voice of the school superintendent who looks after the inventory and schedules. The second man is Frank Gallo.
The superintendent waves her over. “Just the young woman I need! Frank here could use your help.” The superintendent continues: “Frank’s supply of epoxy resin is held up at the border. Customs won’t release it. Questioning the chemical composition of the material.”
Liza had already heard from Gallo, had contacted a friend at the customs office who knows the officer in charge of Gallo’s shipment, and she is hoping to hear back any time now.
The first time she met Gallo about a month ago she could not believe how much he reminded her of David. David — who never did call. David — whom she has not been able to put out of her mind
after only one date, almost two months ago.
The superintendent waves his arms in despair. “The customs people simply won’t let it through. What do they think it is? Dynamite? I’ve done all I can, Frank.”
Gallo steps hurriedly toward Liza, takes her hand and shakes it vigorously as if they were old friends.
The sun is suddenly searing hot and the humid air feels too warm to inhale. Liza leads Gallo toward the shade of the school veranda. They sit side by side on the wooden steps. A gentle breeze weaves its way among the wooden trellises and she is instantly refreshed.
Gallo gives her that same questioning glance as the day they met. It reminds her of the way David looked at her at the restaurant when he said: “Liza, you look lovely.” It was just an observation. He could have been gazing at the Fettuccini Alfredo and saying: “That pasta looks lovely.” A detached assessment.
Gallo rhymes off the dates and times he contacted the customs office looking for his supplies.
“I’ll phone you as soon as I get some info,” she says.
At last, he gets up, shakes her hand heartily, and hurries off.
Liza wishes she could put David out of her thoughts. Since the sculptors arrived in Toronto, the whole city has been altered by their presence — David somehow part of the whole scene. Even if he did phone, I would not wish to see him, not after so much time has passed.
* * *
The sculptors have left their sites for the day. Gallo’s hosts have invited the artists and their families to a garden party. The locals take turns holding pot-luck dinners — the chance for the neighbours to chat with the sculptors and to get to know their families. Liza has excused herself. She could use a quiet evening. She checks her watch. There is enough time to draft the report while the information is fresh.
She heads to Couzijn’s site, sits on the grass in the cradle-like hollow between the birches, and works on her notes. The fog has lifted. The late afternoon sun lights up the tips of the tree crowns and lengthens the shadows below. How should she report on Gallo’s site?
By the Forest School where she and Gallo had been, a man is sitting on the veranda steps. Her heart beat quickens. It is David. He stands up and walks toward Keele Street, his back to her. His navy and white tie-dyed T-shirt hangs loosely over his jeans. He turns and she watches his profile. His shoulder length hair and bushy beard glow red in the sunshine.
He strides down the hill and pauses at the site for No Shoes, di Suvero’s second piece. It’s just a cordoned off grassy patch with a few I-beams stacked in a pile. Seeing David here feels personal. Close to home. She is glad that he is not aware of her presence. Another chance meeting?
* * *
A few weeks back, Liza saw David at the Love-in at Queens Park. He did not recognize her. She had sprayed gold sparkles in her hair and tied a multicoloured bandana across her forehead; an artist at the Love-in had drawn a pink tulip on her cheek; hot pink lipstick and oversized sunglasses completed the look.
She had gone to see Leonard Cohen and Buffy Sainte-Marie’s performance, and the excitement of the event took hold of her. She can see it now. Cohen is singing her favourites — “Suzanne,” and “So Long Marianne,” while wearing flowers behind his ears, bare feet planted in the grass. He tells people he loves everybody and spring had called him to come to Toronto.
A woman hands Liza an armload of tulips and daffodils and asks her to hand them out to others. As Liza distributes the flowers, Buffy Sainte-Marie is singing “The Universal Soldier,” and the crowd joins in. In another section of the park, Earle Birney, poet in residence at University of Toronto, is reading poetry. The place is throbbing with music and sing-along. Some people are dancing barefoot. The venues are free of charge and the performers have volunteered their time. A long-haired teenager dunks a plastic ring into a soapy dish and offers it to Liza, and as she blows into the ring, gigantic rainbow bubbles drift over the crowd. Several people are sitting on the grass, cross legged, and meditating, their palms upturned to the sunshine, eyes closed, faces serene. A group of teenagers are smoking banana peel and singing Donovan’s “Mellow Yellow.” High on the song, if not on the banana peel, Liza ponders.
And then she spots David, sitting on the grass in a group of people, she estimates about ten, and passing joints. They have a few going, and seem relaxed, engaged in conversation. A few pizza boxes are passed around as well. Cans of pop are propped up between them, here and there. She recognizes a few faces from the newspaper articles — organizers of the antiwar demonstrations, seen as socialists. She gets closer, debating whether she should say “hello” and catches a few words — about deserters and FBI agents, and the difficulties of finding jobs. She walks away. What would I say to David? At the end of the day, David and a few others organize the cleanup of the park and everyone helps. While picking up paper cups and discarded food cartons, Liza remains a safe distance from David. If he wants to talk to me he would call me. The next day’s newspaper articles praised the organizers for bringing the community together and keeping the event peaceful.
Now, seeing David at Sculpture Hill checking out the sites, she wonders if she should walk over and tell him that she had seen him at the Love-in. She could use it as an excuse to talk to him. He continues toward the Forest School, and she loses sight of him. He reappears not far from Colborne Lodge Drive where Irving Burman’s two boulders of granite and a block of marble have been sitting in the crates since they were delivered, a few days before the opening ceremonies.
He stands by the stones, arms crossed, rocking back and forth on his heels. She is dizzy just watching him. What does that say about him? Insecurity? Discontent? Or simply contemplation? Then he turns in her direction. She lowers her head and brings the sunglasses from her hair down over her eyes. She buries her face in the open pages of the report and hopes he does not notice her.
When she looks up, he is passing not far from her, and she is glad the shrubs and trees obscure her hideaway. He continues up the hill toward Mark di Suvero’s Flower Power. He stops by the red I-beams that have been erected in the shape of a large “V” and remind her of a gigantic peace sign.
She is not surprised by David’s interest in di Suvero’s work. The name Flower Power di Suvero chose for his second piece confirms his empathy with the hippie subculture and the antiwar movement.
Liza has kept clear of the rallies and maintained the “clean” and “disciplined” look of the corporate culture. While at university, she stayed away from the “cool” kids and wild parties and stuck to a tight study schedule and a part time job at the school library that, in Anna’s words, had kept her out of trouble. Now she wishes that she had broken out and experienced the “wild side.” She has missed out on the freedom the hippie subculture offers. Yet it’s everywhere, all around her. She could smell it but not taste it, she could see it but not touch it — as if she were wrapped in gauze to prevent being infected by it. And all she has to do is reach out. But how? Going to the Love-in was her way of trying to, in a small way, get the taste of the subculture. But it was only a one-day adventure.
She’s always been a bit of a loner. She does not fully belong to the corporate culture either. This feeling of not belonging is amplified by her conflicted existence. In principle, she fully supports the antiwar movement — that she does nothing about it gnaws dully at her like hunger pains after a skipped meal.
Liza now has a clear view of David. He steps over the plank barrier to examine the partially erected V-shape of Flower Power. He passes his hand over the red I-beams. Then he steps out of the cordoned-off area. He pats his jean pockets, pulls out a pack, taps out a cigarette, and pushes it in his mouth. With the unlit cigarette hanging from his lips, he sits on the grass and stares into the distance.
I etched my number in his skin, for heaven sake. She turns her attention to the report. In the corner of her vision, his red hair glows in the late-day sun.
The draft
report finished, she snaps the folder shut. The shadows have enveloped the hill and filled the valley, and the last rays of sunlight illuminate the I-beam apex of di Suvero’s Flower Power. The man with the red hair has vanished.
CHAPTER 5
“THIS LITTLE BUG never lets me down.”
Liza pats the hood of her Volkswagen Beetle she’s squeezed into the last available parking spot on Colborne Lodge Drive near the Forest School. Returning from a gruelling Friday afternoon meeting in Etobicoke, she drove straight to the park to visit the sites and update the report.
She clutches the door handle. Should she search for another parking space down the road? The forest green Ford Galaxy parked next to her is rather close. She has been careful not to have the car dented or the paint scratched. Although she’d bought the robin-egg-blue Beetle second hand, it had been well cared for, and is immaculate for its age. On the other side, a cherry red Camaro convertible with the top down and white leather seats is parked a safe distance away.
Instinctively, she scans the sculpture sites. Irving Burman’s two large granite blocks and a slab of marble are still strapped in the wooden crate in which they were delivered. She had been puzzled by the combination — Carrara marble and granite — and as much as she tried to pry details about the design, outside of his announcement at the opening ceremonies, Burman remained as silent as those stones. But his enthusiasm was high. The day of the delivery, he remained near the blocks well into the night. When a man appears from behind the blocks, she expects it to be Burman. But his red hair and beard quickly give him away. David runs his palm along the face of the marble as one would run a hand along the back of a horse, caressing and connecting. He is as captivated by those stones as Burman is, Liza thinks.
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