A Population of One
Page 23
But he does not come to my office, or ring me at home. If I had the time for it, this would bother me. But as it is, I can accept that absurd episode outside my apartment last week as a momentary aberration, a touch of spring lunacy to be remembered only with a grin. It has no connection with anything. It has no importance whatever. It just makes me smile all over still, whenever I think of it.
On Saturday afternoon I finish checking my computer cards against long lists of marks, and am just leaving the building when I encounter Archie in the lobby. “I have been looking for you,” he remarks crossly.
“Have you? Well, here I am.” We walk out of the house together. Once out on the sidewalk, he stops short and stares at me with a challenging, almost bellicose, air.
“Well?” he demands.
“Well what?” I am tired and the brilliant sun makes my eyes ache.
“You’ve kept me waiting all week. Haven’t said one word.”
“One word about what, for pity’s sake?”
“So I presume I am rejected.”
“Archie, what on earth are you talking about?”
“You have rejected me,” he repeats, offended.
I seize him by the arm and shake it. “I’ve done no such thing, you terrible man.”
“Then don’t stand nattering here. If you’ve accepted me, come along home and have some roast chicken. Fine thing when a woman can’t make herself clear without all this fuss.”
Not another word does he utter all the way down to his house. My thoughts are blowing all over the place like scraps of torn paper in the wind. For God’s sake, does this mean I am engaged?
As soon as we get inside, he gives me another of his vehement and powerful kisses, terminated this time by a rousing slap on the behind. He now radiates such warm and masterful exuberance you could make toast on it.
“There!” he says. “That’s settled, then.”
“Is it?”
“Eh? Speak up.”
“I said, yes it is.”
“Good. About time, too. Now you see this bottle of champagne I’m about to put in the freezer. In half an hour we’ll drink it all, to celebrate. Meanwhile, you can put that chicken in the oven — it’s all stuffed and trussed; just shove it in.” He throws himself into the old Windsor chair and thrusts out his legs wearily. “Exhausting, being in love; I’m really getting too old for it. Been a horrible week. Never been so bone-tired. My Convocation cold is three weeks early, and I ascribe that directly to you, miss. Disturbing the even tenor of my ways — and fancy keeping me waiting a whole week. Then of course there have been other things … among them the ineffable Dr. Shift.”
“I judge he tickles you very much. But he’s not a fool, is he?” This subject is one I seize on because I feel suddenly, between gusts of joy and trepidation, terribly shy.
“No, not a fool. He’s a villain. A climber. An operator. No scruples and no feelings. Admirable chap. He will doubtless run the department very efficiently — and I hope it chokes him. But when I think of next winter, when I don’t have to prepare the budget and he does, I could dance.”
The heat of the oven causes Percy to form a comma on the floor with his cream-coloured belly blissfully exposed. Outside, a gusty wind tears cloud into long, dark streamers that fly across the sunset. The kitchen windows rattle in their warped old frames. The fridge hums as it cools the champagne. I busy myself tidying up the miscellaneous clutter at, in, under, and around the sink. The roasting chicken begins to scent the room deliciously. Archie watches me drowsily over the tops of his glasses.
“We won’t tell anyone just yet,” he says. “If that’s all right.”
“It is all right,” I say quickly, thinking of Lou.
“I’ve got to go to Jamaica next week. My sister Jessie has a big Golden Wedding celebration coming up — months ago I promised to be there. But when I come back for Convocation …”
“Yes. Plenty of time then.”
There is a supremely comfortable silence.
“You won’t want to live here,” Archie says, casting me a rather shy look of his own.
“I don’t care where we live.”
“No — I’ve been thinking about it all week. Silly to hang on here, with that eighteen-storey monster about to go up. The only reason I — well, you understand. But I haven’t heard her voice for a long time now. She’s gone.”
“Yes. Not that I’d mind staying here.”
“Actually I phoned the developer on Thursday and told him I’d sell. He was livid. I’ve held out for over two years now, and his lawyer has got quite rich. But he still wants the land. Now I like this district, don’t you? Still has character and charm. Or will until our city fathers finish turning the whole place into another New York. What I thought was, it’s a buyer’s market now — we could pick up a better house along the curve here — one of those with the stone balconies; ever noticed them? Two of ’em are up for sale, just west of here across the road. One of them is actually empty right now.”
“The whole city is plastered with signs. It must be true that people are getting out of Quebec.”
“All the better for you and me. While I’m away, you could be scouting around; go and look at those two across the road. See whether you like either of ’em.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“Two weeks, worse luck. Loathe flying. And don’t want to leave you.”
“You do. You’re already restless, admit it. Bored. And us engaged only half an hour.”
After basting the chicken I go over and perch on his lap. He smells of eucalyptus and cigars and the lavender water sprinkled on the old-fashioned linen handkerchief he keeps inside his cuff. After eyeing us intently for a minute, Percy leaps up onto my lap, where there is no room for him. He balances there, purring and swaying perilously, eyes half-closed like some feline drunk.
“Archie, did you see that interview in the Star the other day with Harry Innis? He says he’s going to move east of the Main and join the separatists.”
“I did. But have you seen the reply? There was an editorial in La Presse the next day. Admirably short and to the point. I cut it out to show you.” He begins to heave all of us about stormily as he tries to peer down beside the chair where he files clippings, cat-toys, and dirty dishes. Percy and I get off with as much dignity as we can muster while our lord and master stirs through a heap of objects, including gardening gloves and a monkey-wrench, till he fishes up a small newspaper-cutting in triumph.
“Here, I’ll translate. ‘We wish to register our polite but final rejection of the support of Mr. Harry Innis of Cartier College. The cause of Quebec independence has no need or wish to enlist anglophone sympathizers of the kind represented by Mr. Innis.’ ”
“How devastating for him. Maybe that’s why he and Molly —”
“Why they what?”
“Well, yesterday I stopped in for coffee at the Hideaway, that campus place, you know — and they were there with some other people in a booth at the back. They didn’t see me. And …”
“Well?”
“I couldn’t help hearing part of it. They were talking about me. Us, that is. Apparently they saw us when you arrived at Emma’s and took me home before going in. They were … laughing. I couldn’t tell what was so funny about it. Then somebody said ‘Typical old maid. Really hungry.’ Not very complimentary to either of us, was it?”
After a silence he says, “Remember how Crusoe longed to reach the mainland, until he stopped to think, ‘I might fall into the hands of savages … far worse than lions and tigers.’ ”
“Yes,” I agree, thinking of Bill. “Islands are not the highest-risk places. But let’s forgive them.”
“Sit down here again, miss. Much they know about it, eh? Much they know. Only you and me. Now that’s enough, or I shall forget to respect your virtue. Which I intend to do, in my archaic fashion, until after the ceremony. After that, look out. Now get the champagne and we’ll drink to our wonderful selves.”
“It’s getting late — I really should go.” But I don’t move to get up. Instead I study Archie’s beaky profile bent in a scowl over the mass of papers he is studying. The last few days have been unromantically cumbered with legalities concerning the sale of his house. Lawyers’ meetings, together with all the end-of-term paper work at Cartier, have kept him busy, tired, and extremely testy. I have been arbitrarily assigned a number of chores myself.
“Got your passport application off?” he demands.
“Yes. The picture makes me look like a criminal lunatic.”
His only response to this is a grunt. I make a terrible face at him.
“What did your landlord say about your lease?”
“Well, you know it only has three months to run. But Louis-Philippe told me at first I couldn’t sublet. Then he hinted that for fifty dollars he might just possibly be able to arrange something. And today it turns out he can find a new tenant for the place almost right away.”
“Good.” He yawns.
“Archie, you should go to bed.”
“Eh? Have we finished the wine? No? Then pour me what’s left. It helps the cough. And the travel twitches. If God had meant us to fly, He’d have given us all jet engines on our little fingers.”
“What time shall I be here in the morning, Archie?”
“Time? What for?”
“To take you to the airport, of course.”
“I don’t want you there, miss.”
“How rude you are. Why not?”
He shoots me a fierce look over the tops of his half-glasses. “Because I refuse to say good-bye to you in that seething brew of tourists. I refuse to say good-bye at all, in fact. Look for no sentimental farewells from me.” He takes a large, noisy gulp of wine, and adds, “I wish to God I’d never promised Jessie to make this silly journey.”
“There, there. Don’t grind your jaws like that, love.”
“Two weeks is a long time. You might come to your senses and change your mind.”
“No such luck for you, Benedict. I promise.”
He whacks me amiably across the arm with a rolled-up deed before tossing it onto the floor.
“You’ll look after Percy. Don’t let him bully you.”
“I like that. Who let Percy sit on the table the other night and put his paw into the Charlotte Russe?”
“That was different. It was his birthday. What are you grinning at?”
“Oh dear, I hate this trip too. Being happy is so corrupting … makes you selfish and plaintive and full of crazy, creepy fears.… But you will write to me, won’t you?”
“I shall.” He stares at me so comprehensively that I begin to blush. Then he says brusquely, “Go now, miss. At once.”
I am glad of the effort necessary to corner Percy and stuff him into the cat basket. Captured, he deliberately makes himself heavy as a stone cat and fills the air with loud wails. I lug him out into the hall, then come back, buttoning my coat.
“Please take care of that cold while you’re away.”
“You may give me one dry kiss on the forehead before tiptoeing away with your cat. I will see you when these bloody two weeks are over.”
“Bless you, in the meantime, Archie.”
“Go,” he repeats without looking up.
And I leave him among his papers. Just as I reach the door, his sonorous voice rises and reaches after me in a declamation threatened by laughter:
“With a heart of furious fancies
Whereof I am commander;
With a burning spear
And a horse of air,
To the wilderness I wander.”
He then adds “Dammit.”
My letter comes from Jamaica on a brilliant May morning. The sky shimmers like tight blue silk. The trees flicker, yellow-green under a hot sun. All through the city a sort of euphoria sails on the warm air. People swing along the pavement gaily; the metal flashing on cars stabs the air with brightness. The glass towers downtown glitter like dreams. My letter is in my handbag, gripped to my side as I set out for Cartier. It is not a long letter, or even a particularly interesting one, to anyone but me. But certain phrases, hastily read in the glass apartment lobby, are already written into me permanently.
On the steps of the office building I catch sight of someone who looks vaguely familiar. A tall, thin lad with a slouch, the sun turning his long hair yellow. I hurry with a little skip to catch up with him.
“Mike, I haven’t seen you for ages. How are you?”
He frowns down at me through a pair of huge dark glasses.
“I’m okay, thanks.”
“I’ve been hoping I’d run into you. Have you got a few minutes —? Do tell me how things are with you. What are your plans?”
“Plans?” he says vaguely. “Well, that’s not exactly my bag, plans. Might go off to the West Coast this summer with a couple of guys. Or might not. Like that. I’ve sort of got a deal on for this Honda … just depends.”
“That would be great — to go west, I mean. It’s a whole different scene out there, they say. And who knows, maybe after a while you might even feel like finishing your degree out there.”
He looks at me without expression.
“You sound exactly like my mother. And my father.”
“Yes, I daresay.” He edges a little away; he would like to go, not out of any unfriendliness, but simply out of boredom. I am no longer of any significance to him — if, indeed, I ever really was. Yet out of my own brimming happiness I would like to give Mike something of value to take away from here, even if it is only my loving concern.
“I’ve thought a lot about you this last month, Mike. Often wondered how you were, and wished things … had been different. Blamed myself. Well, we over-thirties are talented worriers. How has your father … reacted?”
A faint smile touches his tender lips.
“I found him one night in the library looking at the old Mauser. Sitting there just looking.”
“God, was he?”
“That was when we talked about me going west. And he mentioned I might go back to college out there some time. You see? You get it? He’s got me now, for keeps. Wherever I go. Whatever I do.”
He raises one hand in a lazy half-salute and without saying anything more, he lopes easily away. His short shadow bobs after him down the white pavement.
I watch him till he is out of sight. Then, gripping my bag, I jump up the entrance steps. It is deliciously cool and shaded inside the building. The lower floor is completely deserted, silent except for a lone telephone drowsily ringing somewhere behind a closed door. I climb the stairs swiftly, the oak banister smooth and cool under my hand.
Up on our floor, it is quiet too — so quiet that I am almost startled to find quite a large number of people about, many of them from other departments. They are just standing about in pairs, or silently going to and from offices. A little group is clustered around Sherri’s desk. They are talking in low voices. Oh, surely not more secrets and conspiracies, I think lightly. Well, whatever it’s all about, I must ask Sherri about renting Convocation regalia.
When Sherri lifts her eyes to me I see that they are red. She does not speak. A queer little buzz of shock goes through me.
“What’s wrong, Sherri?”
“Haven’t you heard? About Dr. Clarke? His sister sent the college a telegram a couple of hours ago. He had thi
s heart attack yesterday. They took him to hospital, but he died early this morning.”
The buzz escalates and then ebbs completely away.
“That’s too bad,” I say vaguely. “What a shame.”
“Don’t,” someone says soothingly to Sherri.
I wander away down the corridor to my own office, and unlock it, and go in, and sit down in the armchair. Each action is a primly separate, deliberate, act of will. I am perfectly calm. I am proud of how perfectly calm I am. The most important thing in the world now — the only important thing — is the need to preserve this equilibrium. No cost would be too high to keep it intact around me always like a polished glass bell.
I sit there for a while thinking about Mike. He will be quite all right. In five years well-to-do, even successful. No need to be concerned for him. Then I do two or three minor items of paper work. After a while I go out into the hall again where Sherri’s desk is, and ask her about renting a gown for Convocation. Bill is now among the people aimlessly lingering there.
“Isn’t this the most miserable news?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“To think he’d just go like that. Why, I saw him just the other day. He looked terrible, I thought. Just terrible. Poor old man. Well, I hope that bastard Fraser is satisfied.”
“Yes.”
“After all, Archie had nothing and nobody. His life here was it.”
The talk drones on, joined now by others, a meaningless noise, made by empty, serious faces. Bill has disappeared, but I see Molly in a corner. Her mouth, her eyes, are dry and grim. She is saying nothing. I look away quickly.
“Will you ever forget the time he called the Principal a poltroon?”
“Bit of a problem with the bottle, wasn’t there?”
“Actually, I saw him last Tuesday. He said the damn rain was making moss grow up his north side.”