A Fine Passage (8 page)

“No, truly. It sounded swell. Sometimes you really impress me.”

The man who'd shown no sign of reading returns from the washroom, sits, watches the countryside file past.

“It's my first time in Lyons.”

They had decided to rent a car in Lyons and follow the river down to the Mediterranean. No one could say how long it would take. Certainly days, perhaps weeks.

Hans is busy photocopying the cover of the jigsaw puzzle's box. It takes him several tries before he's satisfied that he's captured the colours as accurately as possible and the dimensions he wants. He pays the clerk, walks a few blocks, enters a supermarket, buys a box of clear plastic bags, the strong ones used for storing frozen foods.

Back in his room, Hans breaks the puzzle apart and pours the pieces into one of the bags. He is glad he bought the large size. He presses the zip-lock — he enjoys that sensation — then slips the bag, zip-lock end first, into a second identical bag, a precaution in case the first bag breaks open, allowing some pieces to escape. Satisfied with the result, and with the malleability of the package — the original puzzle box would have taken up too much room — he now cuts off the white edges of the best of the photocopies of the painting, slips it between the two layers of plastic, and seals the second bag. He takes a few moments to handle the reinforced package, which produces a pleasing sound. Finally, he tidies up and takes his suitcase out of the cupboard. He places the puzzle in the bottom and the rest of his things on top. In no time at all, though he has not hurried, his packing is done. Hans scribbles a few words on a piece of paper, which he leaves, along with some bills, on the table now cleared of the puzzle. He picks up his things, exits and locks the door of the room, deposits the key in a place previously designated by the owner — you can't be too careful — and leaves the house.

“Some people toss their own bottle in the ocean. They send it out, and then one day it comes back to them. And it becomes their salvation.”

At first, Claudia didn't understand what the pope-rabbi meant, especially since his pronouncement seemed to rise up like a pyramid in the midst of silence. She took the time to think before replying.

“You mean like Little Thumb in the fairy tale?”

“Yes, a little. But it's less thought out, much more innocent. Little Thumb knew what he was doing, didn't he?”

“Yes, I think so.”

The pope-rabbi thought awhile.

“No, I wouldn't say that people do it on purpose, or that they even hold out much hope. But they do have some sort of idea in mind.”

The pope-rabbi didn't seem to expect any reply.

“The earth spins on its axis; we tend to forget that. Perhaps it too ends up catching up to itself, meeting up with itself.”

Claudia certainly had nothing to add to that.

“The fact that I meet you again in this plane, for example. What pure chance, don't you think? But then, what is chance?”

Coming out of the Lyons train station exit, Carmen pauses in front of the makeshift stand of a bearded man selling jewellery.

“They sure are pretty.”

“Must be awful expensive.”

Carmen points to one of the items.

“Look. That one's like a delta. Wouldn't that make a fine souvenir?”

Terry joins Carmen in admiring the quasi-triangular brooch with its five small, brilliant stones. Arriving on the scene, the man who'd shown no sign of reading also looks at the modest yet surprising display.

“These jewels are original, aren't they?”

Terry asks the bearded man how much he wants for the brooch Carmen likes and calculates the price in dollars.

“Two hundred and fifty. That's a bit steep.”

“Steep is right!”

The man who'd shown no sign of reading intervenes.

“If you'll allow me, I'd like to buy it for you. As a kind of general gift, for the trip, for the baby . . .”

Carmen looks at Terry. Terry looks at the man.

“You've really no cause to be giving us a gift. You're paying for plenty of things as it is.”

“But it would be my pleasure.”

The bearded man undoes the pin from the cloth of the display and shows how pretty it looks on Carmen's coat.

“It suits you beautifully. Come on, I insist!”

The man who'd shown no sign of reading takes out his wallet to pay the peddler. He selects an additional pin, this one set with only one stone but skilfully displayed.

“And this one as well.”

“That one's two thousand francs.”

The man who'd shown no sign of reading makes a rapid calculation and looks squarely at the peddler, who appears to find the situation very amusing.

“For the young lady, one thousand. For you, two thousand. . . . But they're worth far more.”

Again, the man who'd shown no sign of reading looks the bearded man in the eye, to see if he's telling the truth. He has the feeling that he is.

A young man joins Claudia in the café.

“I thought I'd find you here.”

He takes his coat off and sits down.

“You bought a record, I see.”

Claudia passes him the small bag. The young man opens it, looks at the contents.

“You know it?”

“No. It looked good.”

Claudia shrugs, adds in a cheerful voice: “I felt like trying.”

SUNDAY
Rest

THE WOMAN WHO
smokes only in public slowly paces the length of the airport arrivals lounge. She got here very early, having no desire to do anything else. She thinks again about the phone call that came a few days ago.

“Gorky? Oh . . .”

A brief silence followed, then:

“But tell me, do people really want to read Gorky again?”

In this almost ordinary question she had recognized the candour and tender astonishment that this man experienced daily as he went about the activity — strange activity for him — of living, an occupation that he nonetheless assumed with a degree of constancy.

“Where are you?”

“In France. A little south of Lyons.”

The woman sensed he was telling the truth, though she had not expected such a frank reply.

For a moment, neither one could think what to say.

“Gorky. Well, well . . .”

Then she guessed.

“You're coming home?”

“Yes. I'm coming home.”

It's been days since I thought of you, my son, my wife — why do I persist in calling you that? — days since I thought of all of you on earth. I'm constantly drifting farther away, changing. Since I passed beyond the stage of light, I have felt myself dilating more and more, spreading more and more into the empty, moving heart of matter.

At times, though these sightings are increasingly rare, bits and pieces of your existence briefly reflect on my clouded consciousness. But I find it more and more difficult to answer you. I seem to have lost that ability somehow. I no longer have any position whatsoever. I am the inner lining of old thoughts. I can't any more. I simply can't. I just am.

“I can't believe they're real diamonds. Seems to me, makes no sense.”

“I know. It's hard to believe.”

Carmen is sitting on the bed in their tiny room in Arles, looking at the brooch she holds between her fingers.

“Well, it's a bit nerve-racking, isn't it? I mean, what if we lost it?”

Terry looks out the window to think better. He realizes that it's the first time he's sensed Carmen so perturbed.

“Well, we can't stop living, can we, on account of some bauble?”

“I know, but just think about it! Now we've got the thing, if we were to lose it . . .”

“They're only diamonds. I mean, it's not like they're alive. They're rocks. Dead things. It's not as if you were to lose the baby.”

“For heaven's sake! Why'd you go and say that!”

Terry comes over to sit beside Carmen on the bed, puts his hand on her belly.

“All I'm saying is, this is the important thing. Not those diamonds.”

Carmen is quiet, allows herself to be consoled.

Then: “I never for one second thought we could lose the baby.”

“Fine. So don't go scaring yourself with that now.”

“Okay. Just don't go saying that again, ever.”

They lie back on the bed a moment, lost in thought.

“What do you want to do now? We ought to go out for a walk, put some fresh air in our heads.”

Carmen's reply is slow in coming.

“Odd. It's kind of like the trip's not the same any more all of a sudden.”

Terry understands what she means, tries to figure out what's changed.

Carmen adds: “He left in an awful hurry, wouldn't you say?”

“That's how it is sometimes. When you gotta go, you gotta go.”

“I suppose so.”

As he steps off the bus in Baltimore, Hans feels with absolute certainty that he has one thing to do: begin his life again. All those days crossing the United States from west to east, he hadn't felt it this clearly. On the road, as though he was hampered by too much ballast, by the weight of possessions, he had mainly concentrated on ridding himself of his money, giving it casually to whoever seemed to feel they needed it. He could not bear the head start the money gave him. He did not want a head start, not over himself or over others. He wanted to live at point zero, always. To occupy himself with living, and no more. Sleeping in rudimentary shelters, finding every day something to eat in exchange for some service or menial labour, but without further engagement. Without compromising himself. And without fear of losing his balance. Allowing each day to give birth to its own particular equilibrium or necessary folly.

As Hans steps off the bus, therefore, the day, and life in general, looks good to him: he slept a little badly; his jacket is wrinkled, having served as a pillow on the journey; and there's a stain above the knee of one of his pant legs. Only his expensive leather suitcase makes him slightly uncomfortable. He looks over the scene briefly, selects a street that seems promising, sets out with the goal of meeting someone who will take his bag in exchange for a canvas sac he can carry on his shoulder.

Terry can see that Carmen has done her very best, although without quite managing to regain her good mood. She agreed to tag along with Terry into town, but she seems to have lost her drive, her usual curiosity.

“You really want to go to the Museum of Pagan Art?”

“Seems to me it'd be something to see. And we'd have been to at least one museum. Might look better — once we got back, I mean — if we did.”

Carmen stirs her espresso slowly. She prefers it sweet.

“It's as though I've lost interest in the whole trip. I kinda feel like a delta myself.”

“I can see that, on account of the way the baby's going to come out from between your legs wide open.”

Carmen had not thought of it quite that way, but Terry's description adds weight to her feeling.

“Well, there's that as well, I suppose. I was thinking more on account of we'll be three from now on. I guess I'm seeing myself more like a triangle now.”

Terry says nothing, allows Carmen the time to unravel her feelings.

“Don't know what's the matter with me! It's like I don't understand the trip any more.”

“Could be you're just tired. After all, you're pregnant. That must do something to a person.”

“Could be.”

Suddenly, Carmen begins to sob. Terry has never seen her cry. He brings his chair closer, wraps his arms around her, trying to console her.

“That's okay, then. Don't you worry one bit. I'm here with you, aren't I?”

Carmen sobs even harder. She knows she's in public, but she can't help it.

“I swear, I don't know myself any more.”

Terry squeezes her shoulders tight, lets her cry a bit longer before speaking.

“Could be you're bored, is all.”

Carmen doesn't quite know what she feels, but she certainly hadn't thought of that. Her crying begins to abate.

“Are you bored, then?”

Terry realizes, to his amazement, that he's not bored one bit, but he decides it's best to lie a little.

“Sometimes.”

Claudia chose the train rather than the bus to get from Baltimore to Philadelphia. When the time had come to choose a college to complete her studies, she'd picked Philadelphia over Washington without really knowing why, but she's never regretted her decision. As for the train, she knows only that she likes the gentle rocking, the chief conductor doing his rounds, giving the voyage an official stamp. At the station in Baltimore, she checks the departure time to return the same day, then she sets out into the city, in search of the neighbourhood of the woman to whom was addressed the envelope she had mailed for the man who'd shown no sign of reading.

Terry and Carmen are back in their room. They're stretched out on the bed. Terry is reading with Carmen huddled up against him. Her eyes are shut, but she's not sleeping.

“Funny how I feel. Can't say as I understand it, but there's a whole lot of stuff happening just now.”

“Inside you, you mean?”

“Inside me and not inside me. I'm telling you, I can't understand it.”

“Could be that's what travelling does.”

“Could be. It's awful weird, anyway.”

“It's Sunday too.”

“And what might that have to do with it, pray tell?”

“Well, Sunday's the only day that's not like the others, isn't it?”

“On account of Mass?”

“Sunday Mass, Sunday mess. Sunday's just like that, is all. Boring and mixed up, like. Always been like that for me. When I was a kid, Sundays I was all in pieces. I just wanted Monday to hurry up and come. Things could only get better.”

“And did they? Get better, I mean?”

Again Terry decides it's best to lie a little.