A Fine Passage (3 page)

“Well, that's the whole point, isn't it! How else are they going to know, then?”

“They don't need to know, do they? Makes no difference.”

Terry's answer is not immediate.

“Well, I'm thinking it does make a difference.”

And he adds, as he struggles to open the window: “Seems to me it's my way of being preggers along with you.”

Carmen finds the answer sweet; she can think of nothing to add. She continues applying her makeup.

“Are we Tuesday or Wednesday, then? I'm all muddled.”

“Makes no difference. Tuesday, Wednesday . . .”

When she comes out of the bathroom, Terry is stretched across the bed, trying to touch the opposite walls of the room with the tips of his fingers and toes and succeeding.

What drew Hans's gaze to this particular puzzle was the somewhat dilapidated windmill about halfway up the painting and slightly to the left of centre. The way the mill sits on a base of pillars and piles gives the impression that the wind not only turns the vanes but rocks the whole structure. In spite of the great number of other buildings in the painting, this is the only windmill. It sits alongside a frozen river, on which people seem to be strolling quite happily. Strangely, it was as though Hans was seeing this landscape for the first time. As though he hadn't lived all his life in the Netherlands.

Meandering along the corridors of the airport lounge, the man who'd shown no sign of reading is not surprised to find large paintings hanging on the walls. It has become general practice to hang art in this sort of place — inoffensive art, of course, but colours just the same; never entirely without effect.

The man has long ago lost the habit of pausing to admire such decorations, moving steadily along instead, though with no purpose other than to pass the time. Wandering in this way, he comes upon Claudia seated in front of a wall of windows, looking out over the landing strip, her back to a painting of intermingled blues and greens. As though by pure chance — the man who'd shown no sign of reading is forever being swept along by pure chance, in which he only half believes — Claudia turns her head at that very moment and their eyes meet. For a fraction of a second, he is gripped by how impossible it is for a man of his age to approach a young girl in this way, simply to talk to her as a man of his age. It's as though he could draw no strength at all from all his years.

It's a bit in Terry's nature to be caught in between things. Between Tuesday and Wednesday, for example; beyond the aggression and tension of Tuesday, but short of Wednesday's deliverance, short of any strict requirement.

“I mean, it's not as though we'd been here before and knew there were things you do on Tuesday rather than Wednesday, now is it?”

Still stretched across the bed, Terry is examining the room's ceiling and discovering nothing in particular there.

“I suppose we might go out and walk, or just to bed. Aren't you a bit weary, then?”

“Even if I was weary, I couldn't sleep, could I? I'm too wound up, is what it is. I wouldn't mind a coffee, though.”

Terry springs to his feet, happy to proclaim his fine mood.

“If it's a coffee you're wanting, sweetie, a coffee is what you'll get.”

With that, he pulls his toiletries bag from under the bed — having found no space in the bathroom for it — and takes his turn in the tiny washroom. Nor does Carmen despise talking to him this way, from the bedroom to the washroom.

“We should go to the Marais.”

“
Marais
, as in ‘swamp'?”

“It's a neighbourhood full of artists. With real narrow streets.”

“And what's so swampy about that that they have to call it the Marais?”

“Don't know, do I? It must have been a swamp before.”

“Before what?”

“Before before. Can't you hurry up? I'm dying to get out.”

Terry finishes brushing his teeth and emerges from the bathroom.

“I love you, sweetie.”

“I love you too. Now get moving, will you.”

The man who'd shown no sign of reading feels that the airport is a sort of universal place, so, not wishing to appear out of place, he attempts a universal approach. He selects a seat not too far from the young girl, making sure to offer a discreet greeting. Claudia returns his nod politely. He does not see how he might do more. Should he barge right in? He wishes he knew a way to proceed that wasn't too awkward. He can think of nothing. Then:

“You're not a musician, by any chance?”

Claudia takes some pleasure in the man's addressing her as an adult. The pope-rabbi had done the same, and that had pleased her too.

“No.”

Not easy. She barely smiled.

“Nor am I.”

The man who'd shown no sign of reading believes all is lost. Something is just not going to happen; he can feel it.

“It's odd the way sometimes something simply doesn't happen.”

Claudia hears the words, but she's completely at a loss. It's the sort of phrase that either clicks or immediately turns the other person off.

“Excuse me?”

“Are you hungry? We could have a bite to eat together.”

To his astonishment, the girl gets up and grabs her bag.

“Okay.”

“You don't play a wind instrument? How odd. I was sure you did.”

Hans tried not to be put off by the psychotherapist's New Age approach.

“Many people come to California because they can't think of any other place to go. It can be an act of hope, or of desperation. A successful completion, or a last ram-part. It's something typically American. You're not an American?”

Without waiting for a reply, the woman turned to the large window overlooking the bay and the cities on the opposite shore.

“San Franciscans believe they invented the bay window. They spell ‘Bay window' with a capital
B
. They also dislike Oakland a great deal. What about your dislikes?”

This woman was on the verge of creating one, but Hans resisted the temptation to tell her so.

“The end of the continent gives them a sense of freedom, lightness, renewal. Invisibility too, sometimes. Disappearance. Are you attracted to the San Andreas fault?”

The woman slipped in her questions now and then, in the midst of her monologue, without leaving time for answers. Hans decided it had to be a kind of general presentation of the themes to which they would be returning in more depth later, as they went along.

“You're not answering my questions. Are they too brutal?”

The woman looked him squarely in the eye.

“The trams here travel at nine miles an hour, and San Franciscans are all in agreement to keep them. The 1906 earthquake came crashing in at more than seven thousand miles an hour and destroyed everything. Which means that slowness has its advantages. But beware! Speed can strike blindly. The line between serenity and indifference is a thin one.”

FRIDAY
Love

TODAY CLAUDIA HAS
all the time in the world to explore the area. During the first few days of her visit, she was mostly busy catching up and chatting with her parents. All three now seem sated as far as that activity is concerned, an activity that consists of reassuring one another that everything is fine and that everybody can continue living their lives as they please. She'll take advantage of this free day to mail the letter given her by the man who'd shown no sign of reading.

“I wonder if I might ask you for a small favour?”

No objection from Claudia.

“I'd like to send word to a woman. I too planned to go to Israel today, but I've just now changed my mind. Nevertheless, I would like her to think I was in Israel.”

This idea struck Claudia as rather odd, even worthy of suspicion. A number of questions came to mind.

“I know it seems bizarre. But I love this woman, and I would never do anything to harm her.”

Claudia decided she had no cause for restraint.

“You love this woman, and you're lying to her?”

“I'm not lying to her. I'm providing dreams for her.”

“Ah, it's you. I didn't expect you to come back.”

Indeed, Hans had considered putting a stop to the therapy.

“Let's talk about the fault, if you like.”

But Hans immediately knows that she will do most of the talking. He's not mistaken.

“You know, of course, that couples can drift apart much as continents do.”

She stares at him intensely. Hans wonders if she expects him to comment. Nothing occurs to him.

“Have you ever been in love?”

To this Hans could reply, but the woman has gone on without waiting. If he took all this seriously, he'd think he was in the middle of a novel by Kafka.

“Falling in love is in fact no more than a predisposition. The falling is really all there is to it. You see what I mean?”

Pressing her right hand on the desk, the woman swivels around in her chair to contemplate the view in the Bay window — with a capital
B
, because Hans is beginning to feel like a San Franciscan. It is at this point that he notices that two of the woman's fingers are wrapped in Band-Aids at the base of the nail. Clearly, he thinks, something's eating her. The woman turns back towards him.

“Many people leap into love as they might leap into the fault, in the hope that it will seal up again and enclose them. To be engulfed seems desirable to them. Do you think they just don't know any better? Don't answer. Answers are always wrong on Fridays. On Fridays our defences kick in.”

Hans thinks he will probably get nothing out of this so-called analysis except a bit of entertainment, which is something.

“Have you wandered around the Tenderloin district? A feeling of lack seems to arise spontaneously, don't you find?”

And the woman glances nonchalantly at her watch, as though the time was passing too slowly.

“Some people choose to live on the fault, you know. They move into brand-new houses, knowing full well. For some it's an abstraction, but for others it's very real. For them, every day is a gain. In this way, they end up feeling they lack for nothing. It's the same in love. There are those who win by making sure everything is lost from the start.”

In the end, when Hans tries to pay her, the woman with the chewed-up cuticles refuses to take his money.

“No, not today. Give it to the panhandlers instead. Some days it's best to steer clear of all financial considerations.”

Having affixed the stamp, Claudia pauses and, for the first time, looks with curiosity at the envelope she agreed to mail for the man who'd shown no sign of reading. She turns it this way and that. Although she knows the contents — the man had quite naturally let her read the note he was sending this woman — Claudia wonders if it isn't some sort of coded message, if this man who claims to be a painter isn't really a spy or something like that.

“Ex-painter, to be precise. But I still have some paintings on the market. They're priced too high, but what can you do?”

He also told her his name, but in passing, and Claudia had not found it useful to remember it. In any case, he really seemed to love this woman. He sealed the envelope gently and slowly.

“You really don't miss your parents?”

The question took Claudia by surprise. Now she wonders why.

“I'm sorry. I'm being indiscreet. I overheard your conversation with your neighbour in the plane, that pope.”

Claudia had no idea what to say. The man, sensing that the conversation was perhaps on the verge of collapse, tried to put her at ease.

“Forget it. It doesn't matter. I can be very clumsy sometimes.”

They sat for a while, allowing themselves to be rocked by the comings and goings of the people in the restaurant. Until Claudia decided to break the silence.

“And you? You don't miss her?”

The man took his time answering, but in the end, he said: “Missing is the opposite of dreaming.”

And with those words, he had handed the envelope to Claudia.

Terry is a bit peeved.

“Well, if you're wanting to be rid of me, you've only to say so.”

“Geez, and aren't you the great romantic.”

“And what, if I may ask, is so romantic in that?”

“I'm only saying that if we were to lose one another, in the subway or some such place, instead of searching and not knowing where we were, we ought to just get on with our day alone. Each of us on our own. And I could buy you a small present, and you might do the same for me.”

Terry really can't see the use of pretending to get lost.

“Well, the way you're talking, sounds like you want us to plan to go and lose each other. We may as well decide to spend the day each on our own, if that's what you want.”

Carmen had not thought of it quite that way.

“Seems to me, it'd be more exciting if we were to lose each other. Not on purpose. That way, we wouldn't be expecting it. It'd be more of a muddle that way.”

Terry doesn't immediately reply, but the idea has already begun to spin wheels within. Finally, he proposes a kind of compromise.

“I don't want to lose you. But if it happens, we'll do like you say.”

Carmen turns in the bed, kisses him.

“I love you.”

“So do I, love you. What do you think? But don't go forgetting you're preggers. That thing's half me, you know.”

The restaurant had become quiet. The waitress even had time to come over and ask them if everything was fine. Everything was fine.

“He caught my attention when he spoke about boundless joy. I'd never heard that expression before. Interesting concept, don't you think?”

Claudia enjoyed listening to him talk, but his questions were often perplexing.

“I don't know. Is it religious?”

The man shrugged. “It could be, but it wouldn't have to be, I suppose.”