Movement & Rest … (another short story)

Found this story recently in my ‘writer’s box”, it is about 20 years old. Gave it a quick buff, and here you go …

It began at the International Readers Series at the Toronto Harbourfront. The topic for the evening was ‘Landscape and how it affects the Minds of Writers’. I sat, patiently listening, waiting for something conclusive. A number of different nationalities were represented at this conference: their common literary language, English. The tonal range extended from the Australian outback to the learned tones of Oxbridge. Languid American southern drawls were contrasted to the airless high pitch of the Pakistani table-lands. I noticed I was becoming annoyed by all the sweeping hand movement, smiles and gentle ‘knowing’ genuflections as the words ‘spirituality’, ‘imagination’ and ‘alienation’ cropped up like gold nuggets panned straight from the McKenzie Delta.

I started to tap my foot. And then I began gazing around. I had had just about enough. Especially when Edna O’Brien started to scratch at her throat and do this wild impersonation of a sputtering volcano. “Passion truly lies dormant in Ireland,” she had said. No wonder, I thought, just look at that ragamuffin woman. Graham Swift, of Britain, sat quietly. He seemed the only one to understand the idiocy of tackling this immense topic within the limited half-hour format.

I left with my friends, Dorothy and Richard, also producers at the CBC. We slipped out before the lecture was finished. We meandered to the lakeside pub, blubbering on about the discussion. As we sidled up to the bar we were noticed by a group of well-tailored professionals out on the town. They eavesdropped into our conversation, and started to chip in their two cents. Engineers from Glasgow, they were in Toronto for contract talks with the waterfront development corporation. They were here to build our causeways and bridges. I listened to their hearty Scottish brogues, and thought what a contrast they were to our flat accents. We shared a beer. Then I excused myself. I had to get to another function.

I had been invited to a cocktail party to celebrate the engagement of a fiendish friend of mine to a recently new acquaintance of hers. It, the party, was in Forest Hill. (Forest Hell to those who are cute communists.) I arrived fashionably late: as expected, I suppose. I knew I was a bit tanked as I walked in the door. I came busting in wearing black boots and black jeans, not the requisite silk and pearls. O’ well. I mean if it’s fascist role models they want, let’s get to the party. The mother of the bride-to-be met me at the door – and she dutifully extended her arms in a mock embrace of familiarity. I noticed that her arms were stiff and ramrod straight – there was no warmth whatsoever in her clumsy lobster hug. So, yes, you might say the atmosphere was a bit superficial, masqueraded as it was in false politesse. All were a tad edgy.

I went to the bar at the back of the library. And naturally that’s where the heavies were hanging out. Jill, the girl-to-marry, was there, as was the host, chairman of Multi Uno Pipelines, Mr. William F.P.Walder, or ‘Harvey’ as he was called by his beloved son. (Apparently he cheats on the golf course. His strokes ‘disappear’.) Anyway, I settled into the bar and asked the bartender to pour me another drink. While he was doing so, I idly scanned the library. Jill approached and we looked at the titles together. Trudeau’s biography by C.D.Howe, political commentary and massive war books: the do’s and don’ts. We small-talked about her upcoming marriage. She was excited to be moving to India.

She had met Abbu while working for the United Nations in New York. He had been a student of economics at Columbia. They had dated for a three weeks then he had asked her to marry him one night while crossing the street on the upper west side.

She took me over to where he sat quietly and introduced me. He rose and greeted me with a weak smile and an even weaker handshake. Jill left us alone to ‘chat’.

Abbu was from Delhi and he told me within the first three minutes of our conversation that he was to inherit a sizeable fortune from his family. He talked a lot. I listened. He spoke of sustainable development. The trendy buzz word of global economics. Within 20 minutes we had covered the gambit. I had got his number, and it was clear that he wanted to sack me.

My mind went to the language of landscape. My body, the terrain, his body, another continent. This man standing opposite me pulled out 2000 years of Indian history and spoke of the ignorance of the Canadian ‘migrant’ populace with our meager 200-year-old landed legacy. As I looked into those deep brown eyes I did not find anything heroic, ancient or sexy there, I only saw another snotty spoilt opportunistic rich kid. His eyes were cold. I soon left him and forayed further afield through the cocktail party to the make-shift buffet table. There I met a drunken British lawyer who claimed he had negotiated half the waterfront development deals for Toronto. After some chestnut canapés, I returned to the bar.

The boys had settled down in the library to watch the baseball game. Incredibly slow-moving it was too. Slow ball. I dropped some joke about how opportune it would be to have a zippy hard ball commercial just about now. Faces turned, who is she? Mr. Walder snorted his disapproval at the disturbance and I fell back into muted silence sipping my drink. Be quiet woman. It did occur to me that what that old fud probably needed at this point in his life was a good loving f*ck to loosen that bitter, hostile edge. My mind wandered. What has his wife had over him for the past 20 odd years? Why is he such a cranky old bastard? Men are not born bastards. I continued to wander around.

Upstairs was the master bedroom. A large domed room done in navy blue and beige plaid. A large attractive conté drawing of a female nude spread-eagle hung over the bed. The room had been straightened up, tidied for the party. On the bedside table, his side, were more books on war and open at the spine was Gordon Liddy’s biography. On her side was a stack of romantic fictions, a few décor magazines and on top of all a well-thumbed dictionary. I was going over to pick up the dictionary when ‘Harvey’ walked into the room from the adjoining bathroom. His suspenders were down. He said curtly, ‘I am going to bed now’. Geez, I thought, what a gruff authoritarian. Just then a group of other guests wandered into the bedroom clutching their wine glasses, snooping around. I quietly exited, saying ‘good night, sleep tight’ as he pulled up his suspenders.

Time to go. But where? I left the party after the requisite thank you’s, hopped into my car and drove by instinct, following my impulses. I drove North. North to Alf’s place.

I abandoned my car at the bottom of his driveway, walked up the quarry stone steps beneath the pine trees and knocked loudly on his front door. He answered in slippers and pajamas. Like a friendly old dad. He chuckled when he saw me, and asked, and what do you want? I answered, a glass of milk. He smiled and dutifully poured out an immense tumbler and we both went up to the bedroom together to watch the end of the baseball game.

As I lay propped up and naked beside him I still felt I had not found my end destination. While he absentmindedly stroked my back I thought, geez alf, come on, you’ve got a woman 30 years your junior beside you in your bed, is this the best you can do? I turned to him and murmured sweet nothings to arouse his interest. He had a warm and hairy chest. He dutifully responded, his hand slid down between my legs and he pushed himself up and on to me. We were done in 2 minutes. He went back to the T.V. Then, out of the blue, he said, ‘I was in the navy for 9 years, I still keep my gun under the bed’. I looked at him. He was serious. I leaned over the edge and sure enough, there it was, a rifle with a bayonet attached to the end. I grabbed it and started to pull it out. He said, careful, it’s loaded. I gingerly slid it back in place. And lay down again beside him. Quiet. Mute. The ballgame ended. His hand went up to put out the light. He told me to go to sleep. Alf, I said, I’m not staying. I got up, got dressed, and took the empty glass back to the kitchen.

As I was about to go out the front door he came up behind me and gave me a friendly and well meaning bear hug. We gently kissed goodbye.

As I drove away I wondered again about the topic for the evening, “Landscape and how it affects the Minds of Writers”. Annie Dilliard, the American author said it best, “When all has been said and done, landscape in the mind of the writer is only a metaphor for the mind’s constant movement and rest, movement and rest…”

She might have something there.