Cafe Babanussa (2 page)

Karen showed the manuscript to me many times over the years. We talked about matters of craft, how to improve it and how she might get it published. She also showed it to our brother, Dan, who had also written a novel and a memoir. Over the course of a decade, she took courses or mentorships with the writers James FitzGerald, Susan Glickman, Cynthia Holz and Ann Ireland. She was also mentored by the writer Sarah Sheard through the Humber School for Writers. I asked Sarah by email if she could share a remembrance of her time with Karen, and she replied within hours: “I remember
enjoying Karen's kindly spirit and her determination to press onward with her manuscript despite the difficulties in her life. She was always open to feedback because she really did want to write the best pages she could. She never appeared to mind tackling revisions, never grumbled and never went defensive. She persisted. She per-f*****g-sisted. I admire that quality a great deal in a person. She did what it took to complete her project. It doesn't get any better than that.”

Karen attended the Humber School for Writers on scholarship, and a memorial scholarship now exists in her name to help other student writers in financial need to hone their craft.

By late 2012, Karen had finished the last of her many rewrites and was ready to send her novel into the world. With the assistance of Margaret Hart at the Humber School for Writers Literary Agency, Karen began showing the manuscript to Canadian publishers. Her efforts to find a publisher lasted more than a year but were not successful. In the meantime, she wrote the essay “On Being Crazy,” which is appended at the back of this book. It is an intimate, detailed and fascinating account of living with mental illness in Germany and Canada. Karen was not able to publish this piece either.

In early 2014, Karen became acutely ill again and was admitted to Sunnybrook Hospital. After many weeks of being hospitalized, she was released on a weekend pass. The plan was that if she fared well, she would return on the Sunday and be released the following day. That weekend, while out for a celebratory restaurant meal with her daughter, Karen choked and lost consciousness. She was rushed to St. Michael's Hospital,
but she had entered a coma and she died a few days later, in the same intensive care unit where our father had died eleven years earlier.

I miss Karen more than I can explain. Some days I still find it hard to believe that she is not sitting at home in her living room, putting Aretha Franklin or Joe Williams, Billie Holiday or Ella Fitzgerald on the record player, happy to dance with any free spirit who would join her. I couldn't have loved her more than I did, and I am lucky and happy to have had her in my life for fifty-six years. My sister's courage is an inspiration to me to keep loving and to keep writing, day by day and page by page.

Posthumous publication is a sad thing. It is depressing to think of a writer putting years into her work and then not being around to see it ushered into print. But I find it beautiful to think that Karen's words may reach other readers. Her story will resonate particularly with those who care about issues of racial identity, with those who have travelled far from home to find themselves, with people who are curious about intersection between Canada and Germany, with people who live and work while struggling with mental illness, and with many more still whose loved ones have mental illness. But a writer can only be around for so long. If the written story is especially powerful, it is bound to outlive the teller. In Karen's case, the outliving began one or two acts too soon.

Café Babanussa
appears here virtually as Karen wrote it. Jennifer Lambert at HarperCollins Canada edited the novel respectfully and conservatively, and I also suggested some
minor edits. We have deleted redundant bits, but apart from a few bridging words, we have left the novel intact so that the reader can discover it as Karen wrote it.

Karen Hill has left us, but her poems, her essay “On Being Crazy” and her novel,
Café Babanussa
, are welcome to hang around and befriend us for years to come.

T
HE TABLE WAS SET FOR FOUR.
R
UBY HAD CHOSEN
plates from her university days, a motley but bright assortment of red, yellow and blue. She cut fresh lilacs from her mother's garden and placed them in a tapered glass vase in the centre of the large oak table. The house smelled of rosemary and thyme, which had been sprinkled liberally over the pissaladi
è
re.

“What's that in the oven? Pizza
à
la derri
è
re?” her father joked as he joined her in the kitchen. James Edwards was a no-nonsense type much of the time, but indulged in much rib-poking with his two daughters. He had a deep, honey-sweetened voice and frequently burst into song, riffing and scatting away
à
la Ella: “Doo bop re bop wop doo bop, oh yeah.” Ruby would often sing back an answer, as she did now. “Scooby dooby bop bop, till you drop, drop, whoo hoo, yeah.”

“Atta girl, that's my Ruby,” her father said and patted her on the back with his big brown hand.

Ruby peered into the oven and poked at the crust with her finger. The scent of olives and roasted tomatoes intermingled
with the herbs. Standing, she brushed slender hands down the front of her apron, which was tied around her waist. On the stove a pot was bubbling. Ruby lifted the lid.

“You've outdone yourself, my dear,” her mother's voice chimed in as she too came into the room. “Mushroom soup—and I can smell the sherry, too. Another wonderful round of food. What's for dessert?”

Ruby opened the door of the fridge and gestured inside. “Grape tarte with crème anglaise,” she said. She had worked hard to create concentric circles of green, purple and red grapes. It was a Sunday afternoon in the spring of 1980 and she had spent the morning preparing lunch.

Ruby's mom had spent the morning tidying the main floor of their large suburban house. As a finishing touch she had put the last of the white tulips into a pewter vase on the table by the front door.

Ruby's older sister, Jessie, flounced in from outside, her long curls swirling about her head. Jessie's hair was light brown and her skin was a shade paler than Ruby's, but Ruby, along with her jet black hair and darker skin, had her mother's aquiline nose and thinner lips.

“Ruby, it smells fantastic in here. What did you cook for us?” she said, her hands waving in the air as her sister came to greet her. Jessie surveyed the living room, as if deciding whether to seat herself on the plush coffee-coloured sofa or on the Scandinavian-style chairs. She was taller than Ruby and not so curvy—she had her mother's angular features.

“I'm not telling. You'll have to wait and see.”

“Just like you,” muttered Jessie as she sank into the sofa. She stared at a black-and-caramel-coloured African mud cloth that hung on the wall and at the top two rows of the bookshelf that were decorated with African and Inuit masks and sculptures. “Mom and Dad really do have an interesting collection of things,” she said. “I kind of miss it where I am now.” Turning to Ruby, she narrowed her gaze. “So, how's it going, Sis?”

Ruby sat down in an armchair and sighed. “Okay, I guess. I'm playing at being the official cook in the house. Just reorienting myself and enjoying spring. Do you remember Jackie from high school? She's pregnant.”

“She's starting off young,” said Jessie.

“I'm glad
she's
doing it, 'cause I'm sure I couldn't. I'm just not ready to do the settling-down-and-having-kids thing. Don't know if I
ever
will be.”

“Why not?” asked Jessie.

“I want to hit the road. I want to travel and see the world first. Anyway, I don't really believe in marriage.”

Their father stepped into the living room. “Ah, Jessie, here you are.” He gave his daughter a big kiss on the cheek. “Glad to see you. How's the studying going?”

“Just fine, keeping me busy.”

Ruby jumped up and strode to the dining room. “I'm serving lunch! Come and get it!”

Jessie brought the full soup tureen to the table. She lifted the lid and soaked up the scent of mushrooms, sherry and thyme. “Mmm. This looks great. What else is there?”

“Pissaladi
è
re,” said Ruby.

“Wow, we're getting the special treatment. What's up?”

Jessie served the soup and everybody sat down to eat. Ruby's family was not one to mince words and immediately started asking each other, and then Ruby, what the special occasion was. Ruby squirmed in her chair.

“Soup's delicious, my daughter, but you can't keep a secret from me. Why all the fuss?”

Finally, she cleared her throat. “Remember Great-uncle William who lived in Berlin in the twenties and thirties? Well, I've decided to follow in his footsteps and spend some time there. I want to see different places in the world and I thought Berlin would be a good place to start. I'd like to see where he lived, and find out what kind of life he led.” A note of sarcasm crept into her voice. “I mean, who wants malls and suburbia, anyway? I didn't save all my money from my work at the bank and at the university library to spend it on nothing right here. I want to get away from home and see new places. Plus, I'd like to travel in other countries and work on my French and Spanish.”

Ruby's mother was from Montreal, and Ruby had grown up listening to her sing songs and tell little stories in French. Louise Edwards spoke French to her daughters often enough to pique their interest and give them an edge.

Jessie laughed. “Oh, the story of old Uncle William. You're really taken with that. He went off to be a singer and study music at the Academy in Berlin, and his gay ass was thrilled with the wild and open life he could live there.” Jessie paused. “That didn't last for long, eh?”

Louise's singsong voice followed Jessie's. “It's wonderful that you have a dream like William did. I really think you should step out into the world any way you want. But . . . I hope it's not for too long.”

Ruby's father moved his empty bowl aside and snorted. “That's a foolish, crazy-minded idea if I ever heard one,” he said. “You need to stay right here and find a permanent job. Look at how hard your sister is working to finish her degree. But she'll be set once she's done. Set for life as an architect. I don't like this idea one bit.”

“Dad, don't drag me into this,” said Jessie.

Ruby felt her eyes start to tear up. But she had known this would happen and was angry with herself for going soft. She had wanted a family meeting to make her announcement. At least her sister would stand up for her. And her mom, too. Ruby pushed her chair back from the table and began to collect the soup bowls. On her way to the kitchen, she stopped in her tracks and then faced her father.

“Dad, you know I love you, but you are wrong. Sometimes people need a change of scenery and a little freedom.”

“I concur,” said her mother. Ruby's mom had moved to Toronto in the fifties to teach French and had met her dad at the old Park Plaza Hotel, which was one of the few establishments in the city to serve both Blacks and whites in those days. They met while whooping it up on the dance floor in the hotel's ballroom. A month later Ruby's dad proposed, and they'd been together ever since. They had a really hard time at first, with all the prejudice. Her mom even had to go with
a white friend to look for an apartment, because landlords wouldn't rent to mixed couples.

Ruby brought the main course to the table. “Here we go, pizza
à
la derri
è
re,” she said, and chuckled to lighten the mood.

Jessie patted her sister's hand when she stopped to serve her portion.

“When Ruby's got a plan, there's no stopping her,” said Jessie. “Maybe she wouldn't be so driven to get away if Dad hadn't kept shoving so many ads for government jobs her way. Or maybe if she didn't feel like she had to measure up to me . . . But when I'm done, ha ha, I'll join Ruby overseas, if she's still there.”

“I have goals and ambitions, too,” Ruby said. “Just because they don't have to do with a set career doesn't mean they're not as valid.” She spoke a little more about her great-uncle, how she felt he would help guide her way in Berlin.

Her father continued shaking his head in disbelief. The family ate in silence, the girls not daring to provoke their father. Ruby knew she risked her father's wrath, knew he would not understand. She realized that it was just like she had expected, and that he might never change his mind before she left.

Ruby served dessert while Jessie prepared a pot of tea. Everyone oohed and aahed about the grape tart and then fell into silence again.

Ruby and Jessie were left to tidy up the kitchen. Their parents had always made them do this kind of work together, so they fell easily into step.

“Ruby, you know I'm with you, whatever you decide to do. But maybe you ought to earn some more money before you head off.”

“Well, I'm still working a few days a week at the bank. But even if I got a good job, it would be ages before I could afford to move out, and I don't want to live with Mom and Dad anymore. I have to get away, Jessie—I've started having nightmares again, where someone's holding me down and I can't breathe. And they've gotten worse. There's a man actually lying on me, trying to smother me. I end up blacking out in the dream, before waking up. They stopped for a while at university, but as soon as I came back to this house, they returned.”

“That's awful.”

“I can't live up to Dad's expectations the way you do. I have to make a life for myself somewhere else.”

“You're probably right about it being about Dad, but be careful about running away. I want you to go as much as anyone else, but I think you'll just carry your fears with you. I know you'll think I'm crazy, but maybe you should try a little meditation. Maybe that will help keep the dreams away, if you can relax your mind.”

“You're not crazy, Jessie. But I have a jumpy mind, one that doesn't calm easily. I don't think I can make it be still.”

“Well, I mean it about coming over to visit you, wherever you land. You better find a place with enough space for visitors!”

“Oh, I will. And I promise not to bring a German lover back to Canada like Uncle William.”

Jessie's face lit up “What? I don't believe you. Nobody told me that!”

“I wrote Aunt Lettie last fall. She's the family historian so I thought she might know something about him. She was hesitant at first, but she finally sent me copies of some letters to her and to his sister Ella. He told them about the lover he was bringing home.” Ruby's eyes sparkled as she exposed this little secret to her sister.

“You're kidding me!” said Jessie, her face even more incredulous. “That's incredible. Do you have those letters here? I'd love to see them.”

“Yeah, I do. We can look at them later, downstairs.”

Ruby's mom came into the kitchen, a big smile on her face. “Nice work, girls. Good to see the two of you keeping each other company.”

Ruby's dad joined them in the kitchen. “Ruby, is there any of that grape tart left? Would you cut me another piece?” Like Ruby, he had a sweet tooth.

Jessie said, “If there's enough left over, cut another piece for Mom and me, too. And is there any more tea?”

Away from the formality of the dining room table, the family hovered around the kitchen table nattering and joking with each other. Their father finally motioned to Jessie to follow him upstairs, and Ruby wondered what on earth he was up to. After they had been gone for a few minutes, she crept lightly up the stairs and stopped just before her parents' bedroom. The door was only partially closed. She overheard her father start in on Jessie. “You have to do something about
Ruby and this talk about travelling. I want you to convince her to get this cockamamie idea out of her head.”

It was all Ruby could do to stop from barging in on them. There was a long silence before Jessie replied.

“Dad, I can't believe you're asking me to do this. Ruby is a grown-up now and she will do whatever she decides to do. Remember that poster I had in my room with that quote from Kahlil Gibran?

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

Jessie had long ago memorized the whole quotation. “Remember now? Well, it's time for you to let go of Ruby. She'll be fine. You and Mom taught her well.”

“But I had great hopes for Ruby,” her father said. “I don't want her to fritter away her time.”

“Just because she's going to travel for a while doesn't mean she won't come back ready to plant her feet on the ground. Anyway, you talk to her. I won't do your dirty work.”

Ruby ducked into her mother's sewing room before she could be seen, then snuck down into the kitchen. Her face felt flushed; perhaps realizing that something was wrong, her mother gave her a hug and a peck on the cheek. Ruby stared out the kitchen window at a trail of cream-coloured gauze crossing the skies, brightened up by threads of pink
and orange. The day was ending. But spring was in the air, and Ruby could hear the birds twittering in the tree just outside the door. Despite her father's negative machinations, the breeze carried with it a sense of promise.

Jessie burst into the room. “You won't believe what Dad—”

“Shhhh,” said Ruby, placing a finger on her lips. “Mom, come quickly, there's a cardinal on the cherry tree.”

The three women stood shoulder to shoulder at the window. The garden was bursting with white tulips and narcissi of different sizes and shapes, doubles and singles, beginning to fade as the lilacs reached their peak. With the pink blossoms bursting on the cherry tree, the garden seemed like it was right out of a fairy tale. The cardinal was hopping from branch to branch.