The Dutch Wife (31 page)

It was Thomas’s lawyer.

“I’d like to come and see you and your mother at nine o’clock this morning,” he said. “To discuss your father’s absence.”

The lawyer did arrive at nine and quickly explained the situation. There was nothing sinister about it. Thomas had simply moved out. He’d been planning his departure for some time and had decided to make the move before Miriam left for University, knowing she’d be able to deal with the practicalities before she went.

Indeed, it was not to Doris but to Miriam that the lawyer showed a thick file containing detailed financial arrangements.

“Overall, it’s very fair,” he said. “Your allowance will enable you to continue your education quite comfortably. In addition, your mother will have a very generous settlement and she’ll retain possession of the house for as long as she lives. Your father and I tried to anticipate every contingency.” He said this as though he expected to be congratulated for his part in the matter.

Miriam didn’t feel at all like congratulating him.

“Was it another woman?” She asked this on behalf of her mother.

The lawyer seemed disappointed at the question.

“I don’t believe so,” he said. “But that’s neither here nor there. My function is to deal with the distribution of property and finances. Personal matters are outside my ambit.”

THAT WORD “AMBIT” ECHOED
in Miriam’s brain after the lawyer left. She remembered how Thomas, earlier that very summer, had come to the dinner table late. He’d been reading and put the book beside him on the table.

“What a nice cover,” Miriam said, for the book was old and leather-bound with gilt ornamentation.

“It’s about Cyrius the Ambulist,” Thomas said. “Have you come across him?”

“No, I haven’t,” she said.

“He was one of the most fascinating of the ancient Stoics,” Thomas said. “He believed that attachment to earthly things is what makes life, as well as death, unbearable. So, at an early age, he left his home in Damascus and began walking around the countries of the Middle East, never using the same road twice. For forty years he walked all day long, every single day, stopping only to defecate and to sleep. And, of course, ultimately, to die.”

“How weird!” Miriam said, as she often did about matters that seemed to interest her father.

“The followers of Cyrius,” Thomas said, “walked along with him and recorded his sayings for posterity. You see? Here’s one of his most famous axioms.” He handed Miriam the book. There, in bold print on the opening page, were the words:
“Whatever the wise man loves, he walks away from.”

– 3 –

NOW, IN THE DONUT PALACE
, I could only shake my head.

But after a while I did say something.

“Well, well,” I said.

Miriam sipped her coffee, enjoying my reaction.

“Of course, I’d no idea
he
was going to imitate Cyrius!” she said, smiling her nice smile. “But he did. That was twelve years ago, now.”

“Where did he go?” I said.

“Not far,” she said. “But it might as well have been a thousand miles. We were to communicate with him from then on only through his lawyer.”

“You must have felt very hurt,” I said. “You must have missed him.”

She smiled.

“Not really,” she said. “I suppose he’d always been sort of missing—as though a major part of him had never really been at home with us. Anyway, we couldn’t do anything to stop him. He wasn’t breaking any law. We couldn’t have forced him to come back even if we’d wanted to.” She thought for a while. “Actually, I’ve always believed the reason he told me about Cyrius the Ambulist wasn’t so much to warn me that he was thinking of leaving. I think it was to let me know indirectly that he loved both me and Mother, in his way. I never really doubted that. Then again, you must have noticed he always liked citing precedents. I sometimes wonder if he would have done it if it hadn’t been done before!”

Looking at her, I wondered how two such parents could have produced such a daughter, so wise, so good-humoured. Perhaps she’d reacted to her parents—as many children do—by becoming their opposite: practical, rather than bookish, like her father; active, rather than passive, like her mother. But for that howling at the funeral, I’d have thought her the most down-to-earth of people.

“How did your mother react?” I said.

“Much as you’d expect,” she said. “She seemed stunned at first, so I talked her into getting some cats. She got three of them and right away they took up all her attention—she dedicated herself to being their servant. I think, when all’s said and done, that’s the kind of woman she was: she didn’t mind being used.”

“A Dutch Wife!” I said.

Miriam looked puzzled but kept talking.

“She died eight years ago,” she said. “I was living in Toronto permanently by then. Father moved back into the house and looked after the cats till they died.” She shrugged.

“After that, there’s not much more to tell. Naturally I’d no idea he was ill. His lawyer called me to let me know he’d died. I was upset at first that I didn’t have a chance to have a last talk with him. But I wouldn’t be surprised if that was the way he wanted it.”

She thought about that for a while, then those blue eyes focused on me again.

“I think,” she said, “that’s why I’m able in my work to deal with dysfunctional families. I mean, that’s what our family was—dysfunctional, in a civilized sort of way. I’m sure it’s a very common syndrome.”

We ordered one more cup of coffee.

“So,” I said, “all those things he told me about his own parents: you’d heard all that before?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “He used to tell me about them often when I was a little girl.”

“So it’s all true?” I said.

“Of course it is,” she said, frowning. “He may have been many things, but he wasn’t a liar.”

“I didn’t really mean that,” I said. “I just mean it all sounded so exotic.”

“Exotic to an outsider, perhaps,” she said. “I never thought of it that way. Isn’t it funny how your
own
family never seems all that exotic. Especially things you’ve heard since you were a child.”

“Maybe so,” I said.

“By the way,” she said, “a while back, you said my mother was a ‘Dutch Wife.’ What did you mean by that? She wasn’t Dutch. Neither was my father, really—except for the name.”

I told her it was Thomas I’d heard use the phrase several times. That it wasn’t always flattering and could mean a woman who wasn’t much more than a piece of bedroom equipment.

“Well,” she said, “in that case, I’m sure there are more than enough Dutch Wives to go around. And Dutch Husbands, too, for that matter.”

While I was trying to figure out what that meant, she sipped the last of her coffee and glanced at her watch. “I really have to get back to Toronto. It’s been very nice meeting you.” She took a pen from her purse and wrote a phone number on the back of a napkin. “Next time you’re coming to town, give me a call. I’d love for you to meet my family.”

We left the cool of the Donut Palace and went out into the heat of the midday sun. We shook hands and went our respective ways. I had no doubt we’d meet again.

– 4 –

ONE MORNING A FEW WEEKS LATER
, I was at home in the library struggling with
The Kilted Cowpoke
. I’d been at it for hours and felt like a break, so I got up to stretch my legs and look out the window. Just then a black Mercedes pulled up on the street outside. A stocky man in a pin-striped suit, carrying a briefcase, got out and came up the pathway. I opened the door before he could ring and he stared at me with the unblinking, red-tinged eyes of a bulldog.

“I’m Scott Campbell, the late Professor Vanderlinden’s lawyer,” he said and put out his hand. His grip was light for such a fierce-looking man. “I’d like to speak to you for a few minutes.”

I brought him into the library and we sat down.

“I’ll come to the point right away,” he said. “This building’s to be sold in the New Year. In Professor Vanderlinden’s will, he says you can stay here till then, rent free.” He pulled a document out of his briefcase. “I’ve drawn up a memo to that effect.”

I didn’t quite understand.

“The building? Professor Vanderlinden? You mean Thomas? What did he have to do with it?”

“He owned it,” he said.

“Really?” That was a surprise. “I assumed he just rented the other side, like me.”

The red-tinged eyes didn’t flinch.

“No,” he said. “He was your landlord. He owned the whole building. It used to be one big house till it was split up, years ago. He and his family stayed in the other side and rented this side out.”

I was just absorbing this, wondering why Thomas never mentioned it, when Campbell surprised me again.

“Actually, when he separated from his wife it was a bit like Musical Chairs.” He said this without any sign of humour. “He just moved into this part of the building. Then when she died, he moved back next door again.”

I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. I asked him to repeat it and he did: that Thomas Vanderlinden’s separation from his wife amounted to moving only a few yards away.

Campbell continued to heap surprise on surprise. He gave me the whole history of the place. It had been bought by Judge Vanderlinden at the turn of the century, when he was involved in the circuit courts. He had a reputation for promptness—clocks everywhere, even in the bathroom. He’d intended to retire there, but died at his work. The house went to his daughter Rachel, Thomas’s mother. As a source of income, she’d had it split into two parts. Thomas, in his turn, inherited it from Rachel.

“So, naturally,” said Campbell, “when he separated from his wife, he just moved into this side.”

I searched those red-rimmed eyes for any sign of amusement, in vain.

“But what was the point in separating, then?” I said. “How could he avoid seeing the woman every day?”

“He saw her, all right,” said Campbell. “But they communicated only through the lawyer. He never spoke to her directly for the rest of her life.”

I was trying to absorb all of this. Thomas Vanderlinden was a much stranger man than I’d ever suspected. I was still puzzling over the fact that he hadn’t told me I was actually his tenant when Campbell spoke again.

“She actually died in the basement,” he said.

“What?” I said. “Who?”

“His wife,” he said. “It seems she went down to the basement after one of the cats, and while she was down there the bulb blew. They found her a few days after. Her mind was a little delicate, you know.”

Again, I was startled.

“After that,” said Campbell, “Professor Vanderlinden moved back in and began renting this side out again. It became vacant just at the time you were looking for a place.” The red eyes glared. “I instructed his agent to encourage you to take it.”

The house agent, Victoria Gough—she had been so anxious that I should rent the place. I’d been surprised at how cheap it was.

“Why me?” I said.

“I had you checked out,” said Campbell, his eyes, if possible, wider. “The Professor always liked to know who he was renting to. His previous tenants were an accountant and his wife. They were very tidy and very quiet. The Professor thought it might be nice to have a writer for a neighbour.” The bulldog eyes bulged again.

“Why didn’t he tell me he owned the place?” I said.

“He was a thoughtful man,” said Campbell. “I’m sure he didn’t want you to feel obliged in any way.”

I was nevertheless beginning to feel quite paranoid.

“By the way,” Campbell said, his eyes bulging so much I feared they might drop out of his head, “did you meet his daughter at the funeral?”

“Yes, I did,” I said. “She didn’t mention anything about the house either.”

“That’s good.” He said this as though he had just ticked off an item on some mental agenda.

– 5 –

CAMPBELL’S VISIT LEFT ME WITH NO DOUBT
that Thomas Vanderlinden had manipulated my life and would have enjoyed my discovery of that fact. I remembered a conversation I’d once had with him. It was on one of those beautiful summer mornings in the back yard when I was having an awful time with
The Kilted Cowpoke
. I remarked to Thomas that nothing could be less pleasant, on such a day, than being stuck at home, sweating out sentences.

“Ah well,” I said. “I suppose I’ve no one to blame but myself.”

That cliché seemed unusually interesting to him.

“Not according to Franciscus Hispanicus,” he said. “He believed we have
nothing
to blame ourselves for.”

Of course, I’d never heard of him.

“He was one of those sixteenth-century mystical philosophers,” Thomas said. “He was burned at the stake.”

“Was that because he didn’t believe in Free Will?” I said.

“You mean, you do?” he said with a little smile.

MY WIFE FINALLY CAME BACK
for good from the West Coast and we did stay on in our now rent-free abode and I did get
The Kilted Cowpoke
finished. The Scottish dialect was abandoned, but those kilts and sporrans remained.

In mid-December, just after the first snow,
FOR SALE
signs went up on the front lawn, and a variety of potential buyers came to look the building over. My wife was at work, and during the inspections I usually went for a coffee. One morning, I asked the real estate agent if I could have a quick look at Thomas’s side before his clients arrived. He gave me the key and in I went.

Thomas’s side of the building was for the most part a reverse-image of the part I’d lived in for the last six months. Not just the location of the various rooms—no, the two sides were replicas of each other even in the details of décor and colours: the same dark carpets with their faded geometrical designs; the same gloomy mahogany furniture, with the knobby sideboard standing in exactly the same place; the same eccentric bathroom with multiple shower-heads, privy on a platform—complete with a rusted-out clock with the hands fallen off, lying together like twigs at the bottom of the crystal. Even the library seemed to have the same set of books that were in my side. Where pictures had once hung on the wall, there were only the same ghostly shapes.