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Parkdale was a two-hour walk from Cabbagetown. (Baddeley could not afford the streetcar.) And though Cowan was not a long street, it was just long enough — almost a kilometre, running from south of Springhurst north to Queen Street — to be difficult for one man to patrol on his own. At which end of Cowan should he begin? Should he walk up and down the street looking for a man in a yellow cardigan? He — that is Baddeley – would almost certainly look suspicious. And what would he do if he actually found Avery Andrews? How would he address him? What would he say? How would Andrews react?

These were all questions to which Baddeley gave himself easy answers. Excited by even the faintest possibility of meeting Andrews, he refused to allow practical concerns to stand between himself and the poet. He would walk up and down Cowan. For one week, beginning at the furthest point south, he would walk the southernmost end of the street: Springhurst to King. The following week, he would walk north between King and Queen. In the event he met a man in a cardigan and reddish oxfords, he would follow him about for a day, watching to see where the man went and to which address he returned. Once he'd found the man's house, he would — at some later time — break in and leave a copy of
Time and Mr. Andrews
somewhere prominent: on the kitchen counter, say, or on a living room table. How could Andrews — if it was Andrews — be anything but intrigued by such an intrusion? More: once Andrews had read the manuscript, he would — wouldn't he? — welcome Baddeley's company. (And if the man he found was not Andrews? Well, that would be unfortunate, it's true, but there were worse things in life — weren't there? — than a home invader who stole nothing but left a manuscript behind.)

Baddeley set out in search of Andrews the day after learning about Marva. He was immediately rewarded. At eleven o'clock on his first morning patrolling Cowan, Baddeley saw a man in reddish oxfords leaving the house at number 29. To be more expansive ... it was a cool but sunny day in November. Beyond the highway and the asphalt promenade, the lake was greenish- grey and as placid as a corpse. Baddeley was filled with the spirit of adventure. He was so excited at the thought of meeting Avery Andrews that he did not immediately clock the man coming out of number 29. Of course, but for his oxblood shoes the man was the essence of nondescript.

– That couldn't be him

was Baddeley's first thought. But then, as if to mock Baddeley's disbelief, the man turned towards him, unbuttoned the dark raincoat he was — oddly, given the sunshine — wearing, and revealed the canary yellow cardigan he had on beneath it. The man slid the key to his front door into the pocket of his sweater and then set off along Cowan, heading north.

Immediately, despite the sunshine, it began to rain.

Though he did not (
could
not) believe that the man walking before him was any kind of poet, Baddeley chose to follow him rather than dawdling in the rain waiting for a more likely candidate. Also, he assumed that pursuit would keep him warm. How true this turned out to be! The man walked quickly, so that it was difficult for Baddeley to keep up. Then, instead of waiting for a streetcar at King the man kept going: from King to Bathurst, and along Bathurst north to Dundas. It was a walk of some four kilometres that left Baddeley out of breath but un- chilled.

Though Baddeley managed to keep up with the stranger, the man finally shook him in the most unusual way. That is, though the stranger seemed entirely unaware that he was being followed, Baddeley lost him in the basement of the Toronto Western Hospital. As quickly as one can say “gone”, the man disappeared. No, it was more mysterious than that. The man took the stairs down. Baddeley followed. The man stepped into a room: Radiography 11
A
. Baddeley hesitated. What would he say, once inside? How would he justify his intrusion? He stared at the grey door, its shiny metal panel. And after a minute, he hit on the most obvious excuse. He would pretend to have lost his way. Once inside, he would take a close look at the man in the cardigan, then he would apologize and leave.

Baddeley had the words

– I'm so sorry on the tip of his tongue as he pushed the door open. In fact, he said those very words to the empty room.

The room was thirty feet by thirty feet by thirty feet. Its ceiling lights — far above — were banks of fluorescents tubes. It had one door, only one, the one by which Baddeley had entered. There was, in other words, no obvious way for the short man to have left. Not only was the room empty of occupants, but it was also bereft of furniture or any sort of medical equipment. It being a room in radiography, one might have expected a side chamber or alcove in which the controls for an X-ray generator were kept. There was no such alcove, only the empty, white cube.

More peculiar still: the room was not quite empty. Yes, Baddeley was alone, but there seemed to be another world in there with him. As if the room were the aperture of a conch shell, he heard the sound of the sea and, along with it, the tones of familiar voices. The voices belonged to his parents, both of whom were long dead. The effect of hearing his parents' voices was deeply disturbing and Baddeley left the room at once.

Once outside of 11
A
, the world was restored to him. He knew exactly where he was: the basement of Toronto Western Hospital. He stood before a door on which the word “Radiography” was stencilled. In fact, the “real” world came back to him with such force that he felt puzzled rather than alarmed at what he'd experienced. The man in the cardigan had eluded him. No doubt about it. And the voices he'd heard? Nothing more than the hum of fluorescence. His imagination had played tricks on him. He was sure of it.

He was less certain about how to proceed. Should he leave a copy of his manuscript in the living room at 29 Cowan? He wasn't convinced the short man actually
was
Avery Andrews, but one had to start somewhere. Why not start at the home of this gentleman who, after all, had both the yellow cardigan and the oxblood shoes?

He hadn't worked out how he would break into the man's house but, as it happened, this was no problem at all. Though the man in the cardigan had locked his front door, the back door was open. So, Baddeley walked into a spotless kitchen. At least, “spotless” is what he thought on entering. But it was more that the place seemed uninhabited, expectant. There were no cobwebs and not much dust. The rooms were in order, the furniture arranged “just so.” The lamps and wicker wastebaskets, the books in bookcases and the pictures on the walls were all neatly arranged. The place smelled faintly of incense. The further he went into the house, the less likely it seemed that anyone actually lived there.

Despite his sense that something wasn't right, Baddeley placed a copy of his manuscript — which he'd optimistically brought with him — on a coffee table in the living room. He left the house by the door he'd come in, resolving to return the following morning. But as Baddeley closed the kitchen door behind him and turned to go, he was confronted by the man in the yellow cardigan.

Caught off guard, Baddeley stuttered.

– I'm sorry. I'm sorry, he said. The door was open. I thought there was someone home.

The man stared at Baddeley a moment.

– I'm home now, he said.

– That's just it, said Baddeley. I thought a friend of mine lived here. That's why I went in. I must have the wrong address. – Stop lying, said the man. I'm Avery Andrews and I know who you are, assassin.

When he thought about this moment later — and he was to think about it often — Baddeley thought about how strange his face must have looked. On learning that he had found Avery Andrews, the emotions that coursed through him were myriad, contradictory, and sharply experienced. He felt excitement, wonder, fear, confusion, guilt, deference, arrogance, and disbelief. And each emotion must have imposed its own fleeting expression on his face.

– But, but, but ..., he said.

Andrews interrupted him.

– I apologize, he said. I shouldn't have called you “assassin.”

Let's play this out. – Play what out?

was Baddeley's first thought, but he almost dutifully followed Andrews back into the house. They walked through the kitchen into the living room.

– Don't sit down, said Andrews. I don't like housecleaning.

Baddeley stood, as Andrews sat down on the sofa. Andrews saw Baddeley's manuscript, picked it up from the coffee table — Baddeley's heart raced as his idol touched its pages — and threw it so that
Time and Mr. Andrews
hit Baddeley on the shoulder.

– You don't know anything about my work, said Andrews. None of you do. You're all deluded.

The bitterness in Andrews' voice was so corrosive, Baddeley accepted his own insignificance as if it were an obvious fact.

– Yes, he said. But if only you'd help me interpret your work, it would be even more popular than it is.

– Are you out of your mind? asked Andrews. I write poetry. It's not meant to be popular. Anyway, I can't help you interpret what I don't understand myself.

It was not going as Baddeley had hoped. He was certain a mind as acute as Andrews' would know the springs and coils of its own mechanism intimately. If only he could coax certain things from the poet.

– Mr. Andrews, Baddeley said, I really believe people would have a deeper appreciation for your work if ...

Andrews cut him off.

– You don't understand, he said. I can't help you. I know nothing about my poems. I don't understand them at all. The only thing I know for certain is where they come from. I'll share that with you. That's what you want, isn't it?

On hearing Andrews' words, it was — for Baddeley — as if a distant star had entered the living room. Did he want to know the source of Andrews' poetry? Yes, he most certainly did.

– Thank you, Mr. Andrews. You don't know how much it would mean if you helped me understand where the poems come from.

For the first time, Avery Andrews smiled.

– They come from God, he said.

– Oh ..., said Baddeley. They come from God.

He did not hide his disappointment.

– I believe it's God, said Andrews. But I've never asked. I've been too busy taking things down. You can decide for yourself. It would have been difficult for Baddeley to say which aspect of this moment shook him most. Was it the change in Andrews' tone, from bitter to ... something else? Or was it Andrews' strange offer to show him how the poems came “from God”? With creative types, there was always the possibility of madness, but Andrews' poetry had always seemed to Baddeley so sane and clear that the idea the poet himself was mad had not once — not in all the readings and re-readings — occurred to him.

Baddeley assumed Andrews would invite him to his desk, to the place where inspiration touched him and then lecture him about creativity. He did not imagine that Andrews would take him to see the “god” in question. But it appeared that's what Andrews intended to do. They walked to King and from there they took the streetcar.

– I prefer to walk, said Andrews. But I'm tired.

And he paid Baddeley's fare.

Where's this madman taking me? Baddeley wondered. But he went anyway. Avery Andrews was determined to show him
something
and Baddeley's love for Andrews' work was sufficient to spur him on. But how strange genius was! Like something from a world where they breathe iridium.

As they approached Bathurst, the Wheat Sheaf tavern looking gothic in the silvery afternoon, Andrews spoke.

– So, you want to be a poet, he said.

– I don't have the talent to be a poet, answered Baddeley. I only wish I could write the poetry you write. It would ...

Andrews cut him off.

– I wanted to be a
novelist
, he said. I've always hated poetry. They got off the streetcar at Bathurst, and Baddeley, alert in the company of Avery Andrews, looked up at the world. In one distance, the city rose to a craggy peak of metal, cement, and glass. In another, it was the lake that seemed to rise, like the inside of a glinting, grey-green cup. Behind them was the Parkdale from which they'd come.

– We'll walk from here, said Andrews.

Which they did, going wordlessly north, until they came to the Western.

We're going to Radiography 11
A
, Baddeley thought, alarmed, but they went, rather, to the fifth floor of the north wing. As they left the elevator, Avery Andrews stood still a moment before moving towards Ward 55
A
.

Now, disappearance generally moves along a line from “done with mirrors” to “sudden drop.” The
suddenness
of a disappearance is, of course, part of what makes it uncanny. And if, on entering the room, Avery Andrews had disappeared in any of the “usual” ways, Baddeley would have been dismayed and, no doubt, frightened. But as the two went into Ward 55
A
, Andrews was absorbed by the room. It was as if the man were a streak of ink blotted up, his disappearance taking a full five seconds: time enough for Baddeley to wonder what was happening; time enough for him to realize he was alone in the same room he had entered in the hospital's basement — thirty feet by thirty feet by thirty feet, white. More than that, it was now obvious to Baddeley that the room could not be as it appeared to be, its dimensions making it impossible to fit between the fourth and sixth floors of the Toronto Western.