Swann (38 page)
Rose has risen to her feet; there are tears in her eyes, and her face wears a mixed look of self-censure and wincing bewilderment; this is not what she expected.
ROSE
(quavering): We have a budget. People don’t always appreciate … a very small budget. Last year it got cut twice, the hockey arena got a hike, but we got —
BUSWELL
(lazily): I’m sure you do the best you can, Miss Hindmarch. With a limited budget. I was not imputing (at this Rose blinks) that you run an establishment that is … less than —
JIMROY
(icily): That is exactly what you did say, Professor Buswell, and —
BUSWELL
(unperturbed): It is hardly an accusation to acknowledge that a particular rural library is … substandard. No Eliot. No Lowell. I ask you. (He sits down in triumph.)
ROSE
(rising again): Every year I tell the council the same thing, we need money, the price of books —
JIMROY:
Miss Hindmarch, there is no need for you to defend your —
BUSWELL
(rising again): No one said anything about a need to defend. I am simply saying what we all know. That the Nadeau Public Library cannot have provided serious nourishment to the mind of a poet like —
ROSE
(on her feet, her terrible garrulousness shifting to its defensive mode): Oh, Mrs. Swann came every two weeks to the library. I don’t think she ever missed, not for years and years, every two weeks, like clockwork —
BUSWELL:
Miss Hindmarch. My interest is in addressing the question of influences. I assure you, I am not challenging you personally. It is Mr. Jimroy who makes claims for Mrs. Swann’s familiarity with certain works in the modern trad —
JIMROY:
I suggest only. I do
not
claim.
ROSE
(not understanding the focus of the discussion): We
do
have a poetry section. We use the Library of Congress numbering system and you can find —
BUSWELL
(to Jimroy, ignoring Rose): You point to parallels between Swann and Emily Dickinson and you suggest —
ROSE
(still awkwardly standing): Mrs. Swann liked a good story. For example, Pearl Buck. I remember she liked Pearl Buck real well. And Edna Ferber —
Director’s Note: Others in the audience watch the proceedings with distress, humour, annoyance, fascination. There must be a sense of order breaking down and a suggestion that an unwanted revelation threatens.
WOMAN IN GREEN TWEED SUIT:
Is this really germane?
MAN WITH CRINKLED FOREHEAD:
Of course it’s germane. Everything that sheds light on —
WATTLED GENT:
Why not let Mr. Jimroy reply? After all, he’s the one who —
MERRY EYES:
Order.
SARAH
(rising, twisting her wedding ring as she speaks): Why can’t we just say that Mary Swann was self-evolved
and be done with it? Remember what Pound said about Eliot, that he made his own modernism —
GINGER PONYTAIL:
And isn’t it possible that her influences were general rather than specific —
WIMPY GRIN:
The question of influence is oversimplified in most cases. For instance —
JIMROY
(to all three comments): Yes. And furthermore —
BUSWELL:
All I want to say, and then I promise to pipe down, is that the resources of the Nadeau Public Library
cannot
seriously be considered as an influence.
JIMROY
(instinctively dealing in flattery, knowing how efficacious it can be in such a public situation): Professor Buswell, from previous discussions you and I have had, I know you to be a man of wide reading and sensitivity. Of course I understand that you are anxious to establish a link between Mrs. Swann’s writing and her grasp on modern poetics —
BUSWELL:
I only ask —
JIMROY:
—and I can tell you that Mrs. Swann’s daughter, whom I have interviewed in depth in recent months, has confided that her mother was familiar with that genre of verse commonly known as Mother Goose —
BUSWELL
(with an appalled laugh): Nursery rhymes! Surely you’re not serious —
JIMROY:
I see no reason to dismiss —
MAN WITH OUTSIZE AFRO:
Bloody rude son of a —
BIRDLADY:
… snobbish approach to —
JIMROY
(leaning on lectern beseechingly; he has clearly lost control, but will not admit to it): If you will allow me to enlarge —
LANG
(stepping nimbly forward): Perhaps, ladies and gentlemen, it might be more profitable to continue this most interesting discussion over coffee, which I now
believe—(he peers over the heads of the audience)—yes, I can see coffee is ready and …
Lang’s voice fades; all around him people are rising to their feet and heading toward the coffee urns. They can be seen chatting, stretching, moving.
Rose rises hurriedly and heads for the door into the corridor. There are tears standing in her eyes, and her nose is red. She is a woman who can never speak coherently when her emotions are stirred, and for this reason she is anxious to escape.
SARAH
(attempting to catch up with Rose): Rose, wait a minute. Excuse me, I want to—Rose! (She follows Rose into the corridor, looks right and left and sees nobody.) Rose! (She sees a door marked “Ladies,” decides Rose is there, and enters. The
CAMERA
follows, focusing on three stalls, the door to one of them closed.) Rose, you there? (Sarah leans on a washbasin and folds her arms, prepared to be patient.) Okay, Rose, I know you’re in there. Now listen to me. You trust me, don’t you? Buswell’s a shit. Everyone in that room knows what he is. An asshole. Insecure. That’s what the tenure system does to the insecure. The man’s paranoid, Rose. Can you hear me? You can’t stay in there all day, you know.
She continues talking while turning and glancing in the mirror; her face has the kind of seriousness that throws off energy. From her deep bag she takes a hairbrush and begins brushing her long hair, an act performed with a kind of distracted sensuality.
SARAH:
I can tell you, Rose—I was on the Steering
Committee—that, that twit, Buswell, is one hundred per cent on the defensive. He’s running for the bushes. This is confidential, Rose, but I can tell you this much—he was supposed to be giving a paper himself, something idiotic and desperate on vowel sounds in
Swann’s Songs
, and he’s been working on it for two years (gives her hair a yank) and then he suddenly writes to the committee, this was in October, to say his notes had been stolen. Stolen! Everyone knows he’s the most absent-minded nerd. (She puts the brush away, turns sideways, observes the curve of her abdomen and runs her hand over it.) He’s the sort of crazy creep that loves to put the blame … well, they all are, the bunch of them, it makes me wonder if I want to spend my life hanging out with—Rose? (She sees that the collar of her pink shirt is standing prettily away from her neck, careless and controlled at the same time in a way that makes her happy.) Rose? Rose! (She pushes open the door, which swings in to reveal nothing but a solitary toilet.) Rose. (Softly, hands on hips): Rose?
Dissolve to: Interior, meeting room. Late morning.
Members of the symposium are enjoying a coffee break. People are milling about, relaxed, standing in groups of three or four, and there is a pleasing sense of animation. In one corner Jimroy, Buswell, and Cruzzi are conducting a cheerful but guarded discussion. CLOSE-UP on Lang, he scurries from group to group sociably, then joins Jimroy and the others; his look is amiable and conciliatory. A nearby group consists of Wattled Gent, Wimpy Grin, Ginger Ponytail, and Sarah, who joins them belatedly and is handed a cup of coffee by Silver Cufflinks.
SILVER CUFFLINKS:
Well, you might say Jimroy managed to capture the attention of —
GINGER PONYTAIL
(earnestly): Threw some light on the early poems which you have to admit are … but it’s the love poems we’re all waiting for —
WIMPY GRIN
(to Sarah): I suppose you must have met Morton Jimroy —
SARAH
(distracted, looking over her shoulder for Rose): Met who?
WIMPY GRIN
: Morton Jimroy—you must have met —
SARAH
(focusing, but still distracted): No. I decided not to go to the reception last night. All that smoke —
GINGER PONYTAIL
: So you don’t know him at all?
SARAH:
We’ve been corresponding. For about a year or so, but I haven’t actually met —
LANG
(approaching and taking Sarah by the elbow): Sarah, may I interrupt? I’d like very much to present you to Mr. Jimroy —
SARAH
(detaching herself from the group and following Lang through the crowded, noise-filled room): Willard, have you seen Rose Hindmarch? She seems to have disappeared. I’ve looked in the —
LANG:
Oh, she’ll turn up. Probably in the loo. Unfortunate. Tactless bugger, Buswell. Utterly paranoid, still says his notes were stolen —
SARAH:
Any news about Morton Jimroy’s briefcase?
LANG
(his face falling): Not yet. I can’t understand who—(He steers Sarah over to where Jimroy is holding court.) Morton, sorry to interrupt, but you expressly asked earlier to meet Sarah, and I’ve managed to snatch her away from—Sarah Maloney, Morton Jimroy.
JIMROY
(offering his hand and looking suddenly timid): How do you —?
SARAH
(smiling broadly, unprepared for such formality): At last! (She embraces him warmly and plants a kiss on one cheek; she is a naturally demonstrative woman.) At last!
Jimroy, gratified but confused by so spontaneous an embrace, instantly draws back, squirming.
CAMERA
close-up of his face reveals a twisted scowl of mingled pain and desire.
JIMROY
(muttering coldly under his breath): So good to meet you.
Sarah, interpreting Jimroy’s cool behaviour as an act of rejection, steps back and attempts to explain to him, to the others, and to herself.
SARAH:
After all the letters we’ve … I just felt, you know, that we were —
JIMROY
(aloofly): I assume you’ve met Professor Buswell?
BUSWELL
(carelessly): Old friends. We go way back.
JIMROY:
I see.
SARAH
(still puzzled by Jimroy’s snub): I’ve been looking forward to —
LANG
(recognizing an awkward situation and anxious to deflect it): And have you met Frederic Cruzzi? Mr. Cruzzi, Sarah Maloney.
CRUZZI
(also trying to relieve the tension): We have met. By letter. A charming letter if I may say so.
JIMROY
(blanching, pierced to the heart by this information): You must be very busy, Ms. Maloney, with all your letter writing.
LANG
(rattling on expansively): It was Sarah who managed to persuade Mr. Cruzzi to attend our gathering.
CRUZZI:
A most persuasive letter. How could I possibly refuse?
LANG:
Actually we’re very, very fortunate to have Sarah with us. Perhaps you know her happy good news?
JIMROY
(icily): I’m afraid not.
LANG:
Just newly married. Christmas Eve, wasn’t it, Sarah?
BUSWELL
(breezy, bored): Congrats.
JIMROY:
Married. (There is more exclamation than query in this outburst.)
SARAH:
To someone—(shrugs nervously)—someone I’ve known for some time.
JIMROY:
My congratulations. Excuse me, won’t you? I see someone I must have a word with. (He starts to leave.)
SARAH
(perplexed): We
will
have a chance to talk later, won’t we, Morton?
JIMROY
(cringing at the sound of his name): I expect that
might
be possible —
SARAH:
There are dozens of things I want to ask you about —
JIMROY
(dismissively as he leaves): We must do that some time.
SARAH
(to others): Did I by any chance say something wrong? Put my foot in it or what?
LANG
(smoothly): I’m sure Mr. Jimroy is just tired, his long journey, and then speaking for—and without notes —
SARAH:
No, not just that, Willard. I’ve been (she pauses) snubbed.
LANG
(looking at his watch): Good god, we’re running late. Completely lost track of time. You ready, Sarah? (To Cruzzi and Buswell): Sarah’s on next.
SARAH
(staring at Jimroy’s back): I can’t understand it. In his letters he was so—maybe he’s brooding about his briefcase, or —
LANG:
I’m afraid … mustn’t fall behind, you know. (He
firmly takes the coffee cup away from her and steers her to the front of the room.)
SARAH
(still mulling over the snub): I must have done
something
. Or
said
something. Or —
WOMAN WITH TURBAN
(grasping Lang’s hand): Just want to let you know, Willard, that I’m looking forward to the love series. I’ve done some work —
LANG:
Five minutes late! I don’t know how we —
SARAH:
Maybe I came on a bit strong. I do that sometimes.
WOMAN WITH TURBAN
(clinging): I think all of us are —
LANG
(at the lectern): Ladies and gentlemen. (People drift to their seats with looks of expectation.) Ladies and gentlemen. I am particularly happy to present our next speaker, Sarah Maloney, who is the person—and I think I can say this without exaggeration—the person most responsible for the rediscovery of Mary Swann, who, in her article a mere five years ago, pointed to Swann’s unique genius and to—well, perhaps I should now turn the microphone over to Ms. Maloney herself. (Applause.)