The Figures of Beauty (3 page)

Oliver did. He had needed his passport to open his bank account earlier that day.

“Leave the way young travellers leave,” Levy said. “It’s perfectly natural. You’ve had your visit to the Louvre. You’ve walked through our famous streets. And now it is time for you to move on. As young people do on summer vacations. To London. To Copenhagen. To Rome. To Barcelona. Leave in the early morning. Leave before the traffic is terrible again. Leave before the students start their demonstrations again.”

The inspector brought his face closer. It felt to Oliver that he
was being given an unusually candid view of the inner workings of a Parisian police station. “Leave before the morning shift,” the inspector whispered.

Oliver stared.

“I am not joking,” Inspector Levy said. “Believe me. This is a strange time to be in Paris. We cannot count on things making sense anymore.”

Oliver realized he was being dismissed.

“Do not wait even a few hours,” the inspector said. “Things will be much better for you if you take me at my word.”

And so Oliver did.

He got back to his hotel. He repacked his knapsack. He left.

The hitchhiking was terrible. It took forever. But he found his way, eventually, to a town near the border of Tuscany and Liguria called Pietrabella.

T
HERE WAS SOMETHING
about the militant swing of the young woman’s arms that led Oliver Hughson to believe she had been hurrying in his direction well before she came into view. She was wearing a print dress. She was striding fiercely up through the garden. Her quick steps seemed as if they were the last of a determined journey. He had no idea who she was.

It was a hot day. He was barefoot, vacuuming the pool. It was well into the afternoon. Oliver was wearing the kind of loosely fitting, muddy-brown madras swim-trunks that men in their sixties tend, for some reason, to wear. He had already replenished his drink.

Her hair had a halo in sunshine. It was the henna she used. It wasn’t orange, exactly, but the name of no other colour that Oliver could think of came closer to describing it.

She marched resolutely toward the pool. She strode up the stone steps from the garden without hesitation. He guessed her
age to be thirty—an underestimation, he would later learn, of exactly ten years.

Oliver placed his plastic tumbler down on a patio table. The ice cubes had already melted to noiseless wafers.

She stopped abruptly at the top of the stairs. She stood at the opening of the hedge, her right hand resting on the gate. She was taking everything in.

“Dio,”
she exclaimed.

The pool was a surprise. The pool was a surprise for everyone, the first time they saw it.

But she was not going to be distracted—not even by green water, and marble statues, and flagstones, and a stone bathing pavilion, and a graceful, antique fountain that looked, she happened to know, exactly like a swimming pool that had once been on the terraced grounds of a villa in the northwest corner of Tuscany in the hills between the town of Pietrabella and the village of Castello. She had only recently studied photographs in an archive in Lucca.

Because that wasn’t why she was here. Because now she was walking toward him.

Had Oliver been given time to make several dozen guesses, and had he been given a lot of hints, he might eventually have been able to figure out who she was. Her eyes were very much her mother’s. So was her penchant for drama. She could have warned him.

“I believe I am your daughter,” she said.

He was looking into the pretty face of a woman he’d never seen in his life. He’d never considered the possibility of her existence.

“My name is Teresa.”

“My daughter?” Oliver’s voice rose precipitously.

She said nothing. A good ten seconds passed in silence.

“Teresa?” he eventually squeaked, mostly because he couldn’t think of what else to say.

He groped for his plastic tumbler.

He took two fast, large gulps. He paused momentarily, and then took a third. He’d always liked the combined effect of gin, tonic, and hot sun, and it was good to know that not even his present state could entirely withstand its warming, happy way.

He wondered: Was there a response that could appropriately address this surprising young woman’s announcement? He concluded there wasn’t. He had no idea what to say. But it was slowly becoming clear to him that the orange-haired, impish-looking figure—now waiting for him to speak—could not have been more miraculous had she been hovering above him.

He considered things.

“Well,” he said, finally. He looked into the blank air and took a deep breath. “It certainly is a lovely day.”

The cicadas were buzzing. The water from the fountain at the end of the pool went
splash, splash, splash
.

And clenching your fist for the ones like us who are oppressed by the figures of beauty …

—L
EONARD
C
OHEN
, “C
HELSEA
H
OTEL
#2”

Delivered by Hand

C
ATHCART
, O
NTARIO
. A
PRIL
2010.

I am writing this in the hope that you won’t start anything with it. Although there is an argument in favour, I admit. You are my daughter—a woman who has come to know her father belatedly, mostly through letters. Almost a year’s worth, so far. So using one might be forgiven. But I don’t advise it. Your mother would not be thrilled.

Furthermore. Beyond reading it, beyond remembering some of what it contains, and beyond filing it among the childhood drawings, school essays, and old photographs that families never know what to do with, I would not encourage any further use of something you will receive after my death. Such a document will involve my lawyers—as you are, by now, aware—and that would get things off to a misleading start. I have nothing to reveal to you. It’s not that kind of letter.

It was my solicitor—the handsomely bespoke Robert Mulberry (LLD)—who suggested this addendum. He “strongly advised” that I compose a note “of a personal nature” to be included in the estate-related material you have now received. “The swallows will return to Capistrano before lawyers anticipate everything,” he cautioned.

Robert works at an old Cathcart firm. In fact, he is the grandson of one of the original partners. But his slight build, livid eyeglass frames, and fashionably tight suits do not immediately suggest the wisdom of the ages. If I didn’t know he was a lawyer I’d guess he was eighteen. But then, I think everyone under forty is eighteen. Nonetheless, it was Robert’s experience—so he said, with no hint of irony—that had taught him the benefits of including a personal statement in the hefty
package of legalese that has now been delivered by someone’s hand to yours.

“It is often necessary to explain …” I remember Robert pausing as he searched for a word. He rested back with some distaste into an enormous leather desk chair. Judging by its inelegant size, he’d had nothing to do with choosing it. “Nuance” was the word he was looking for.

There is one disbursement from the estate that will precede my death. Your mother will receive one statue from the swimming pool. I am bringing it when I come to visit you and your family in Italy in a few weeks’ time. I am planning to present it to her myself. As gestures go, this is a little over the top. I admit that. But Anna did say it would take a miracle. And anyway, I find I like the idea. Perhaps your enthusiasm for drama doesn’t come exclusively from your mother.

I’m not quite sure why my giving the statue to your mother feels like the right thing to do. But it does—despite what the cost of shipment will be. I’ve made some initial inquiry. And believe me: you don’t know how densely crystalline a substance marble is until you learn the extortionate charges of air-freighting a three-quarter life-size female figure across the Atlantic.

Otherwise, you are my sole heir, and when Robert first made his suggestion that I write you a letter “of a more personal nature,” I couldn’t see that there was any need to say anything more than what is already in probate. There isn’t any nuance involved. I suppose I could tell you why I’ve decided to sell my house and the old pool in Cathcart, but that would mean I’d have to understand my reasoning—which, to be perfectly frank, I don’t. Not entirely. All I can say is that selling my property, like giving your mother that statue, feels like the right thing to do.

A friend came by a few days ago to discuss my plans. He was very concerned, he said. He is one of those people who
take a certain irritating pleasure in being concerned. And partway through our conversation, I realized that what concerned him most was my sanity. Or my lack of it—as his overly gentle kindness made clear was his best guess. I think I managed to convince him that I am not having a nervous breakdown. But he was not greatly comforted.

“It just seems such a bizarre thing to do,” he said.

I suppose it does. But I’ve decided that it’s time for me to be unencumbered. It’s time for me to be what your mother always thought I should have been when I was young: unreasonable.

I can’t see why, after I visit you in Italy, I can’t travel wherever curiosity or happenstance takes me. For as long as I care to. I missed most of the world the only other time in my life I set out on such a journey. There’s no shortage of places I haven’t seen.

And anyway: Why should wandering around the continent of Europe remain the prerogative of youth? I can afford to travel now, for one thing. For years, if I want. I have time. It’s not as if I have to get back to anything important.

Getting old is not the strangest thing about age. It can be unsettling. But what is really strange is getting used to the idea of getting old. That’s a shift, let me tell you. That’s a new perspective.

Twice during the summer I was with your mother I woke from the same dream. It was of my father vacuuming the swimming pool. It was night, which is an odd time to be vacuuming a pool. And for some reason, I was in the water, watching him. He was poling hand over hand, drawing the head of the vacuum slowly across the bottom. The sadness the dream left in its wake seemed out of all proportion to what little I could remember happening in it.

Anna understood this to mean that I would not be happy back in Cathcart. For a long time I thought she was right. But now I am beginning to think the dream was even sadder.

There are retirement homes in Cathcart. I’m not ready for one—not for a long while yet. But they aren’t going to go away. They can wait for me to get old enough to come back. That’s my plan, anyway. Beyond that, I don’t have a lot to say on the subject. Certainly not a letter’s worth. And anyway, I’m going to break off here.

It’s odd. However carefully I rake in the fall, there are always wet leaves to be dealt with when the snow disappears.

Robert Mulberry is fond of quaint, cautionary aphorism—a stratagem that he uses, I’m sure, to appear older to his clients than he is. It was Robert who negotiated, on my behalf, with NewCorp Development Ltd., the eventual purchaser of my Cathcart property. When, finally, it appeared that they would agree to both our hefty asking price and our unusual conditions of sale, he looked up from their offer and said to me, “Well. I think we can start counting our chickens.” And when we met a few weeks later to discuss my estate planning, and when I said I didn’t think a letter such as this was necessary, Robert looked at me with the sad expression those who plan ahead reserve for those who don’t.

His gaze fell with what I took to be concern on the miniature marble replica of Michelangelo’s
David
that I had just given to him. I guessed that the lengthening pause was his search for an old-fashioned commonplace.

I’d prepared a few words of thanks before handing Robert the statue that morning. While he had listened, obviously pleased, I pointed out that while
David
remains one of the
most popular reproductions of Carrara’s long-established souvenir industry, this model came from an earlier period. It had been carved by someone who obviously respected the beauty being copied.

“This,” so I’d explained to Robert as I passed the little statue carefully into his hands, “was created by a nameless artisan among the legions of nameless artisans in the region. But this was carved with skill and pride. It comes from a tradition established before memento became cheap.”

Robert had placed the six-inch
David
amid the files on his desk. I could see that he had been touched by my little speech, and by the gift—which may have been why I felt so chastened by the expression that crossed his face when I told him that I wasn’t sure a letter to you would be necessary.

“There’s many a slip between cup and lip,” he finally said. I took this to mean I shouldn’t assume what I’m assuming.

My expectation is that these documents will be handed to you years from now, and that the new and unknown chapter of my life on which I am now embarking will, by then, be old and known. The question that occupies me—Will your mother so much as give me the time of day when I see her again?—will be long resolved. Time will have passed.

You’ll probably hear from an official calling you from Cathcart—from an institution of assisted living called something like Meadow Vale or Pine Croft. You’ll be told that I shall be greatly missed by my friends at bingo night. Although such a prediction is impossible, I’ll predict anyway: the estate will sustain itself however long I live. As you see, I have made the necessary arrangements.

But Robert Mulberry is professionally obligated to consider calamity. “Hope for fair skies, plan for storms,” he advised. And so, I agreed that I would think about what I’d
like to say to you now—under these unusual circumstances. Unusual for me, that is. It’s so bright, I am going to have to go down to the house in a moment to get my sunglasses. The weather this April has been unseasonably warm in Cathcart. I’m writing this up at the pool.

By the look of it, the cover won’t last another winter. But that’s not my problem. Not anymore.

I have pulled out an old chaise from the bathing pavilion and opened it near the deep end. There are no leaves on the maple trees yet.

I’ve brought a clipboard and some paper up from the house. Quaintly old-tech, I know, but, as you know, I prefer to hand-write my letters to you. I opened a bottle of Prosecco and mixed up some frozen grapefruit juice in the late morning. And I’ve been sitting here for a few hours a day, for the better part of the week.

I recline, slipping backward and forward in time like a lazy, ancient god. And young Robert Mulberry was quite right. Doing this did help me sort a few things out. Eventually I realized what it is I want to ask you to do for me.

Clouds will continue to pass over the hillside. Swirls of wind will continue to flicker across flagstone. For some reason, I find it particularly difficult to think that office girls will continue to skip across busy streets in their high heels when I am not around to see them. Nobody likes to be left out of what is going to happen. And so, I’m hoping that some faint ghost of who I was might in some way continue too. I’m hoping you might find a way to bring a spirit back to life.

For a little while. Every now and then.

I want to be remembered.

That’s all.

Don’t worry. It’s not as if everything depends on you. There will probably be a small notice in the back pages of the Cathcart
Chronicle
about my career as a print journalist. I was a recognized byline, locally speaking. And I was reasonably popular in the newsroom—which may have something to do with the fact that I never actually worked in it. I dropped in now and then to show the flag. Most of my work was done from home.

The crew at Cable 93 will remember that my Sunday-afternoon art-appreciation program,
For Art’s Sake
, had its loyal viewers—dozens of them. I’d like to think that I’ll be remembered as an informative television host. But what the crew might recall most fondly is that I was a good deal more relaxed than my fellows. That’s because other hosts were younger and under the impression that their cooking or home repair shows would lead to more high-profile network positions. Usually it takes three or four seasons for them to realize their mistake. They can get grumpy.

My easy going professional nature was due largely to the inheritance I received from my adoptive father, Archibald Hughson. I didn’t need my job to lead anywhere. In fact, I didn’t need the job—which is a useful advantage when it comes to employment.

People are inclined to like people with money so long as the people with money are reasonably understated about demonstrating they have it. I always arrived for tapings with cookies, muffins, and lattes for everyone. I remembered birthdays and Christmas presents. It’s the little things that stick with people.

There might be a few women in the Cathcart area who will remember some adventure of the heart with me that sadly didn’t go anywhere beyond being briefly thrilling. My neighbours
will recall that I kept my front lawn raked in autumn and my sidewalk shovelled in winter. When the summers became very hot, I slipped notes through their doors inviting them to make use of my pool.

So. There will be plenty of others who will remember the longest and by far the most obvious period of my life. But my request to you is more specific. What I want to ask you to do is remember a particular time—because if you don’t, soon enough nobody will. It’s the time when I set out to see the world and ended up finding your mother instead. Because who knows? It might happen again. It’s not impossible.

It was only four months—four months that began the year before you were born. Other than my memories and what your mother cares to divulge, there is no documentation of that summer—as you have already discovered. But that shouldn’t matter. Historical evidence isn’t so important in this instance. Anna didn’t really approve of accuracy.

Your mother thought literal truth was fine. So far as it went. But she thought it left out a lot.

“Michelangelo’s sculpture, for one thing,” she said. “Look at the
David
. Look at his hands.”

We were sitting at the outdoor table, in front of the house she rented from a local farmer. It was after our dinner. Anna was telling me one of the stories she liked to tell. It was set in her idea of America in the years just after the Second World War. It was a crass, under-lit, improbable country—more like a cheap, black and white detective movie than reality. But no matter what I said to the contrary, this was her notion of the place from which I’d come.

It wasn’t unusual that a discussion that seemed to have nothing to do with Renaissance sculpture should end up being about one of Michelangelo’s great works. No conversation with
Anna ever orbited very far away from the idea of stone. She loved its mass, and its hollows, and the way the Tuscan light sculpted it with shadow. She had the beauty of marble in her core. She’d been born into it.