Basic Black with Pearls Page 12

  That night in Chicago I was in a deep, black and empty sleep, having swallowed three sleeping pills from my hospital hoard. I woke, or rather I was alerted out of sweet oblivion by a sense of something or someone in the room. I could see nothing, but slowly became aware of a presence that moved at the foot of my bed. Suddenly the room was flooded by a blue-white light from the television screen across the room. There was no sound. I sat up and saw a horse and rider galloping towards the horizon. In the somewhat drugged state I was in, I took the rider to be my husband, Zbigniew, and believed he had caught up with me. I was relieved when a close-up revealed him to be John Wayne.

  It took courage on my part to shift my glance slightly to the right of the television set, where the intruder sat in an easy chair. He sat across the room, one leg over the other; and one side of his face was illumined by the cold glare of the TV. It came to me that I was not afraid of him, and this in itself frightened me. Except for a broad, rounded forehead, his features were small; and his skin and hair in that light seemed to be without color. I imagined his eyes to be blue. (They turned out to be gray.) He held a finger to his lips, and another was pointing to a connecting door through which he must have come. I nodded that I understood. At that exact moment we had our first intimation of total confidence in the silence between us.

  I see him yet, his head to one side, listening. I listened too and heard sounds in the next (his?) room, as if furniture was being moved, then the click of a door, followed by the pneumatic wheeze of the elevator. By how I was wide awake, alert not to danger, but to possible adventure. He slumped in his chair, then rose. I saw he was about to speak, and, most likely, to leave. This time I put a finger to my lips and made room for him on the bed. We continued to watch John Wayne soundlessly fight his way out of an ambush. When the test pattern came on, neither of us moved. I imagined that in this city of gangsters it was not yet safe for this handsome, desirable man to go back to his room. In a whisper I offered sanctuary. Coenraad (it was) began slowly to remove his shoes. Do all men, I wondered, take so long to untie their shoelaces?

  In the midst of it all, just as I was concluding that I would know this man’s face, this body, from now on, anywhere, with or without clothes, I felt my own body obliterating every thought. I didn’t want to leave him for an instant: but my body made the choice: it abandoned him. Coming back, unbelieving, I saw, even in that ghastly TV light, his face still above me, radiant and smiling. Then I turned off the television.

  While he slept I listened to the city awakening. The night hum of distant motors gradually came closer. A truck shifted gears in the street below, then rolled away like thunder. A car was heard, then another, and another, until the familiar sounds of traffic filled the air outside. A glint of gray light appeared in the space between the drapes.

  While I slept, he slipped away as silently as he had arrived. He left behind him only a hollow in the pillow.

  In all this time I have never thought of what would become of me were I never to see Coenraad again. Another kind of daily life will have to begin. Starting anew has always meant for me leaving behind one thing for something better. I leave behind the broken wardrobe for a room with a closet; I reject a seat on an assembly bench for an upholstered chair at a typewriter; I give up two rooms and move to four; I escape a ten-roomed house for a hospital ward — always a trade of some sort. If, for reasons he has hinted at, Coenraad does not meet me again, what will I exchange for my nights with him? Perhaps I will exchange a half-life of waiting for a life I have not tried yet. It was something to think about.

  Now think, I told myself, try and remember, did Coenraad ever say in so many or so few words that he wanted to see you again? Did he, after consulting his little black book which he always did in the lull between loving and eating — did he ever say, Darling, my next assignment is London, I wish you could meet me there? Admit it: between the first wild clutch and the last turning away nothing was ever said to indicate that he wanted to see you again. Admit, too, that you learned to time your entreaties so that you extracted promises from him in those exquisite moments before lovemaking. You had discovered that afterwards his lassitude persisted until it became indifference. Then you became frightened. You see that now, don’t you, I asked myself: the only thing that keeps you from panic is the knowledge of the next meeting. It is possible, I was forced to admit, he phoned you in Tikal because he could not (would not?) see you again. And for someone’s sake, his or yours, he got you back to the city where you live. The rest was born of your desires.

  Morning again, after a fretful night. Beside the bed, on the floor, postcards were strewn about. Had they fallen or had they been discarded?

  Opening and closing the door again, going along empty corridors and into an empty elevator, pressing the button marked Lobby. The lobby was deserted, except for the ubiquitous old men in a row under the brilliant chandelier, sitting as still as sparrows on a wire. I was about to wave to them in greeting, but there is danger in such unthinking reflexes, nothing else. I was afraid that I had finally capitulated to vacuity. I became aware of having approached the reception desk and was now standing before the clerk and that I had done so without conscious will. Certainly I was standing there without any hope. He greeted me by my (false) name. Then he turned around to my box, from which he extracted a small white envelope and held it aloft in the air before me, as one does with a gift to a child. Confusion set in. Have I been mistaken about my mistakes? It was a note and a shiny brass key from Andy. “I am on the third floor. I won’t hear the bell. Let yourself in.” I could not share the clerk’s enthusiasm; I whispered, Thank you.

  This morning, anxious to leave the streets which were darkened by towering buildings, I hastened to the corner of Yonge and Front streets, where the structures were low and the roads broad, and where the day that lay ahead of me was bright and cloudless. A crisp wind from the lake blew against my face. Street sounds were different, too. They were sounds that, to me, marked the start of days and nights given over to the pleasures of the city, without the roar of trucks, without the salesmen in a hurry screeching against sudden stops. There were just a couple of buses, and, for the most part, family cars loaded over the passenger limit, rolling slowly, the freshly washed metal glinting in the sun.

  I could not claim today to be searching for Coenraad — it was Saturday and he would be home for the weekend — and I walked on, towards Bay Street, enjoying the freshness of the day. The sky was blue, pure and unheeding. Crossing with the light, I felt a weightlessness, or, rather, the end of a heavy weight, as one experiences the first time out of bed after childbirth. I was so light of foot that as I walked I felt a balance between me and the law of gravity. I felt also the disappearance of ghostly consorts. Still, simultaneously with the release, a terror took hold of me at being without encumbrances. I remembered the Latin word for baggage was impedimenta. I got a sense of being unimpeded.

  When I was forced to come to a stop by a street photographer, a lean young man in a green corduroy suit who stood feet astride in my path, I became angry. He had apparently taken my picture. He offered me the print for a dollar. I uttered a sharp No! He could not have known that he copied a likeness I no longer wanted. He persisted in holding the picture up to me, saying, It’s no use to me. Nor to me, I answered. He tore it up before my eyes; tossed the glossy bits into the gutter. Perhaps, it occurred to me, through the “evil eye of the box” the photographer had removed a soul that was weary of wandering. Despite the breeze, the pieces of my soul just lay there. Good, I said to myself. Good riddance.

  The coffee shop at the Royal York was lively with laughter and loud talk and the brisk steps of harassed waitresses. Beyond the Please Wait to be Seated sign I could see families indulging in breakfasts of pancakes and sausages. The children obviously recognized the privileged nature of the event and poured endless streams of syrup over everything. Finally, a hostess in the shiny black costume known as hostess pyjama
s led me to a small table. In my line of vision was a large glass container marked Vitality in zigzag lettering to denote the energy of both lightning and of the orange juice within; the liquid cascaded down the sides and over the top of the container in a continuous niagara. I did not see the waitress of the previous days, whom I had come to think of as Elsie’s mother. My order for Breakfast #1 was taken by a pleasant woman with wide hips and gray hair. Her “diamond”-framed glasses sparkled. She leaned towards me while she carefully placed the hot coffee at my elbow and said, in a confidential tone, Isn’t it lovely to be out on a lovely morning like this?

  Except for a dreary room in a deserted hotel, I had nowhere to go. There were still the public places, of course — galleries, movies, museums. Yet, despite their easy accessibility, these harbors did not tempt me today. I didn’t want to kill time any more. I dug into my purse and found the paper coaster from the Bacchus bar, Andy’s note and key. They were in the zippered compartment, which, until last night, had held only the pictures of my children and of Coenraad. I studied Andy’s script; I liked it; the letters were large, all joined; tiny circles over the i’s; the t’s crossed a third of the way down; the lettering even and straight, not slanted either to left or right. The spaces between the words were generous. The handwriting could be described as optimistic. I memorized the address and replaced the coaster. Before pulling the zipper I studied Coenraad’s picture for quite some time.

  I tossed some coins on the table with a firm flourish and went towards the exit, where I pushed ahead of a family delayed by the demands of a little girl for gum, but still had to wait my turn. I could not help but compare the weak bleeps of the electronic machine with the huge brass cash register at which my stepmother used to sit as if chained. No one, not even my father, was allowed near her temple of Mammon. It’s not for me, I swear, my father swore, it’s for Shirley; she needs shoes. I’ll give you back when I go back to work. But she was adamant: Shoes she’ll get if she helps in the store.

  I helped in the store; my father got a job; but neither he nor I were ever allowed near the cash register.

  A revolving door at the side entrance to the Royal York took me out to a lane. The driver of the first of a long line of taxis looked directly at me; the temptation was strong to take a cab to Andy’s. We eyed one another, until he was forced to turn away because of my (obvious) decision not to hire him. I looked towards my left, considering subways, shows, stores. I went, instead, to the right on Front Street. It stretched to the west endlessly, empty, deserted. At York Street I was exposed to yet another temptation: the airport bus was awaiting passengers, its luggage hold wide open. I looked straight ahead, crossed the road, and kept going. I was not in any hurry, having decided to take a stroll in the sunshine and, possibly, think of what I will do without Coenraad. It was easy to concentrate, since there was not another person in sight.

  After a while I felt I was walking in forbidden territory; I had a sense of danger that comes when one asks why is there no one here but me? The yellow cruiser moving slowly at the curb beside me stopped. A young, clean-cut policemen jumped out in front of me and startled me with his look of hatred, a look of viciousness that somehow did not belong with his pink-cheeked youth. I think he said, What are you doing here, can’t you see that all the buildings are being torn down, haven’t you any more sense than to expose yourself to unknown hazards, don’t you realize that danger lurks in parking lots, have you any identification? I was, indeed, the only person, except for my inquisitor, on the street. Ominous sounds came from giant plastic sheets flapping in the wind, sheets that draped the fronts of old red brick buildings, sheets meant either to protect the pedestrian from loose bricks or to hide the shame of vandalism that precedes reconstruction. I handed over my wallet with driver’s license, social security and credit cards, all visible through plastic windows. The policeman began to copy numbers into a little black book. When he came to the credit cards, of which I have nine, his expressions went from belligerence to uncertainty to apology. Sorry, ma’am, but we have our orders you understand we can’t be too careful, so many creeps here for the weekend from Buffalo and Detroit. He tore out and crumpled the page he’d been writing on. Just the same, ma’am, for your own sake I suggest you leave this area.

  Around the corner, on John Street, I was on home ground. A little further down, at Wellington, I could see the blackened windows of the Admiral Building, where, on the fourth floor, my dexterity in pushing wicks and stuffing cotton into cigarette lighters had earned praise from the foreman. Continuing north here on Adelaide Street, between John and Simcoe, I looked up at a warehouse, where I once typed two thousand envelopes a day for a mail-order company. When I came to Queen Street, I automatically turned to my right and found, a couple of doors from the corner, that Wexler’s Restaurant was still in business, although today, Saturday, they were closed, since they are open only when factories are open. The same dusty glass comport was in the window, but the years had leached all the color from the wax oranges, apples, lemons and bananas. The false fruit now was a shade of dirty ivory. In the window, nearest the entrance, and easily reached into by the cashier, were four large paper bags full of styrofoam cups ready, I presumed, for Monday morning’s take-out. I mused on the nature of social democracy in those days. No matter what my job was I was free to sit anywhere, even beside the owner of a dress company or his accountant. The only difference between us was the type of lunch: either a thick Kaiser roll with cheese; or gefilte fish, chicken soup, roast chicken, strudel, prunes and tea with lemon. If you could afford it, every day was Sabbath.

  Now, ahead of me, a block away, were the four corners of Queen and McCaul streets; I could see the traffic lights, which had not been necessary in my time. Continuing south on McCaul Street, I found the same houses I had known; on most of them the bricks had been repainted. Absent were the black cardboard signs in the front windows that had offered, in red letters, Room To Let or Flat To Let. And when I came to Dundas, I could see the Art Gallery and thought of going in since Saturday afternoon was almost as good a time as Sunday, but, for the first time, I was not drawn to shoulder my way through the revolving doors. For, at this point, people began to appear on the street and I wanted to share the sun with them. There were mothers and children, families of various relationships; students, couples. Nobody was alone.

  All were absorbed in one another in a way that reminded me of walks with Coenraad. In his company, on this street, I would tell him stories about my early life. On the other hand, I might be content just to be at his side; I might say nothing at all: he is quickly bored.

  The number on McCaul Street I was looking for was outlined in black wrought iron on a new door beside an old grocery store. The building itself was in the shape of a square box divided in half horizontally, its bricks gleaming with fresh vermilion paint. The store’s two windows, at the sidewalk’s edge, had Coca-Cola logos across their tops, and, on the inner side of the left window, Cigarettes, and similarly on the right, Groceries. I was on the corner of the western limit of Elm Street; across the road began D’Arcy Street. Finding myself on this corner was a coincidence, I told myself, that augured well for the future and not, as I feared in a momentary panic, of a fateful return to the past.

  Andy’s key slipped easily into the lock and the door yielded to a light push. And, for once, the flights of steep stairs beckoned: they were brightly lit and clean, with rubber treads all the way to a door at the top. I walked up keeping time to a beat pounding somewhere in a deep bass, as if from a jukebox. The door was ajar. Inside, I found myself in a blaze of daylight. Overhead was a skylight that roofed the whole room and revealed the same azure sky.

  He must have sensed my presence: he could not have heard me come in with that music beating away. It came from a Wurlitzer just inside the door, to my right. Andy hurried down the long length of the narrow room and shouted, I won it in a raffle. It was the classic of jukeboxes — classic in the sense that
it restored an art of the past. The entire machine glowed in an aura of rose. At the top, a massive piece of chrome in Art Deco design was surrounded by neon tubes that gave off lights in yellow and blue and red. The buttons burned red. The speaker was partially obscured by more Art Deco in black celluloid. And down the sides were tubes with streams of pink and green light that flowed steadily. Behind the glass, where three-minute jive records took our dimes, there now was a conventional turntable spinning out a long-playing record — Brahms, I think it was.

  On my side of the room, beside the Wurlitzer, were pegs on the wall holding a knapsack, binoculars and a green jacket with many pockets. An army cot was covered with a red Moroccan blanket. Partially hidden under the cot was a pair of dirty hiking boots, the brown leather discolored, gray mud dried around the soles. At the end was a table with a kettle and bottle of wine on it. Across the front of the room were a microscope and shelves of books. The entire length of the wall opposite, under eaves of glass, was taken up by orchids. Orchids in pots plain and adorned, on innumerable surfaces and hanging from beams. Orchids, white and mauve, yellow and violet, green and purple, clear-colored or spotted. Orchids, from whose centres extruded soft lips surrounding stamen. I found myself caught, fascinated, by their erotic shapes. In this room, Andy’s red hair and bright blue eyes did not appear so intense; he was part of the color. The quickening shift of the sun suddenly hit the bottle of wine, causing it to gleam like a ruby. I knew that were I to come here again I would not wear black. Andy’s excitement at my arrival didn’t strike me as such at the time, in the midst of music, the exotic flowers, the geometry of light and shadow, and color everywhere. Only later, while sipping wine, after the sunlight had gone and the Wurlitzer was stilled, did I realize how definite his welcome had been.