Basic Black with Pearls Read online

  Hey! he had said, his mouth close to my ear (because of the volume of music?). Good. Perfect.

  But now the sun was hitting the glass directly. I was forced to turn my face away from the dazzling light towards Andy at my side. We were sitting on the cot; there were no chairs.

  – I was in the hotel, I explained, waiting for someone. He didn’t show.

  – Please, you mustn’t — it doesn’t matter . . .

  I wanted to tell him about Coenraad, but some sensibility, perhaps, even, an instinct, made me resist the lure of confession. While I struggled with myself, Andy filled the silence. And as he spoke, I thought, he is no better at idle talk than I am.

  – One of Nature’s wonders, he was saying, is imitation. Did you know that the blossoms of the Ophrys insectifera orchid have evolved to resemble the female wasp so closely in scent, shape, color, even to the furriness of the labellum, that the male wasp enters and attempts sex . . . ? The purpose of this deception, of course, is pollination.

  – Do you think I have been deceived?

  – No, no. I’m not making an invidious judgement. What I’m trying to say is that we do things out of some mysterious necessity. Then he smiled. Nuance is everything, he added.

  Concentration was getting difficult. I remarked on the heavy perfume in the room.

  – It’s been discovered, Andy continued, that there are at least fifty compounds in the fragrance of an orchid that can be detected by the male wasp as far away as ten miles. What happens next is called pseudo-copulation.

  It was a word, I felt, that would some day spark a misunderstanding between us.

  Was it his idea of foreplay? I couldn’t be sure. He proceeded to show me, scientifically, what happens to the wasp when he enters the brownringed, purple centre of the Ophrys speculum. I noticed that Andy’s mouth turned up at the corners as in the pictures of satyrs. But unlike their baleful leer, Andy’s look was quick and piercing, more Dionysian, I thought.

  – The strong odor attracts and intoxicates the wasp. He goes in headfirst. The drunken insect loses his footing; a trapdoor opens; he falls down an oily chute and is trapped in a fluid secreted by the orchid. In the morning, when he comes to, he regains his hold on the florets because they have dried up overnight, and the bee is then able to crawl out a narrow hole. He flies off, taking the pollen with him to the next orchid.

  Whether sex or science, the images were funny and I smiled with him. Andy began to bustle happily: more wine? relax, do you like Hungarian dances? I think I must have gypsy blood in me, he said. Still in my thoughts, I drank wine and tried to comprehend the contradictions inherent in the pseudo-real. Phrases like reality of appearance and the illusion of reality were going through my head: but the music kept distracting me. Music, it is said, is the perfect art. It, too, is an abstraction, at the very least, of vibrations, of wavelengths, of such and such frequencies, of so many overtones, of semitones and quarter tones; yet none of those components, as with fragrance for the wasp, accounted for the rising tension I felt as I listened to Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsodies.

  In the course of time, when we make love, Andy takes as his own the rhythms of Liszt’s dance. He incorporates into his movements long slow phrases of the right hand, while the left hand sustains a persistent beat, then both hands run up and down the keyboard. The dancers, prepared, take formal steps opposite one another, the movements casual, steady and serious; they move as if saying take your time, we have all night; they get to know each other, sense one another’s intentions. A little anxiety is heard in the arpeggios. Can you see the stars above? Andy asks; They’re yours. He holds on to me, the music continues a little faster now as we roll over and he lies beneath me, he now looking up at the stars. The dancers tire, the music slows; we wait for it all to begin again, slowly, the music is sad, life is sad, the plight of all lovers is sad, but here we are, in the dance, the music urges us on, faster, faster, yet there is no hurry, we can dance our lives away. In the midst of it all, Andy hums snatches of melody. Now there are variations on themes, the dancers speed up and slow down, halt momentarily, the rhythms alternate, slow, fast, slow, fast; stop; and getting ready for the finale, the music races, chords, trills, arpeggios, the dancers whirl, faster and faster, until, in a joyous crescendo, in time with the crashing chords, they stamp their right heels and shout Ha!

  One day, too, after lovemaking, I say, Music is not the only perfect art.

  A second bottle of wine had been opened and poured ceremoniously from on high; we watched the red liquid flash in the light. We drank out of pottery mugs. I wasn’t certain why I was there, but I was happy, deciding that scales are well-tempered and that nature is teeming. All the same, I sat on the edge of the cot, my feet flat on the floor. Andy suddenly busied himself with slides and microscopes, making notes. He had a way of abruptly looking up from his work and staring at me until I met his eyes, and I, unbelieving, wanted to ask, who, me? Even as I was wondering whether to stay or go — the sky had faded into gray with faint streaks of pink in the west — Andy shut the notebook and covered the microscope. He was at my side, murmuring pleasant adjectives, some of which had never been addressed to me before.

  – Well, he asked, what are you thinking? Will you stay?

  – I’d like to, I’m very tired, but there’s one more walk I must take before I can decide.

  I stood up, keeping my eyes on the orchids, and noting that their colors remained potent in the darkening room. I imagined wasps entering their centres.

  – Are you worried about making a mistake? Andy asked.

  – No. I’ve read that a principle in biology is that discovery often depends on something going wrong. Don’t misunderstand me: I mean only that I’m not afraid of taking you seriously.

  – It’s going to be a clear night. Don’t go. I’ll give you the moon and the stars . . .

  A final doubt, unspoken: when I come back, will I be able to withstand the light?

  If I had not left when I did, much of what I subsequently learned would have remained hidden from me. I continued to take walks and to go in and out of public buildings, but, Janus-like, began to look in two directions — where I’d been and where I was going. The important thing was that behind me now was a door I knew I could open with my own key anytime I wanted to and be welcomed. Andy had been explicit about that. A question had arisen in my mind.

  – Interfere . . . your work?

  – These . . . told you . . . hobby. I work in an office . . . nine to five. Trips . . . would you like . . . with me . . . in the country . . . Sundays . . . in the woods.

  – Agreed . . . if you . . . city walks . . . with me.

  I could not help but compare this exchange with an incident in Stockholm. The alarm had rung; Coenraad shut it off; he turned to me. It was not the only time he had ignored the clock in order to make love once more; but that particular morning he fell asleep again and was late for his appointment at the American Embassy. I held out the cufflinks, I placed his overcoat, gloves and hat near the door (it was winter), and as he hurried to dress, Coenraad said, Lucky for me I didn’t know you years ago. And I, weak-kneed and seated, replied, Oh, but I wish we had! My life would have been fulfilled! Exactly, he replied, you would have been fulfilled, but I would never have amounted to anything.

  Outside, on Elm Street, a few yards from Andy’s door, a young woman rushed past, pulling a chattering child. The mother was not paying attention, her head strained forward, intent, I imagined, on getting to her own door and preparing supper. Possibly the child was telling her mother that she had been tied down on a cot and that she wouldn’t stop screaming, No one could make me stop screaming. Her interest finally caught, the mother looked down on her daughter; but then, perhaps, felt her own helplessness and said, Serves you right; that will teach you; now will you be good?

  Near Chestnut Street a half-dozen children played. They ran and shouted, which was
just as well, for they were not dressed for the cold. These children have no equipment for games other than thin arms and legs and calculating eyes. It was just after five o’clock, at twilight, that time of day Nerval called I’heure fatale; that time of day when the birds are in flocks, and, in the city, are to be seen in the sky between the towers of bank buildings; it was that time of day when the last glow of the sun illumines the bricks and returns them to the fire; that time of day just before the evening meal when the streets empty mysteriously and the grumbling city becomes peaceful; that time of day when lamps are lit in houses.

  And then, in that last light, I was buffeted by wave upon wave of sorrow. Maximilian once told me that it was a syndrome called, in German, weltschmerz; literally, world pain; the pain of being in the world. It — all my struggle, all my efforts — it had all been to no avail. Just as suddenly, without thought on my part, by itself, came pity — pity for myself, my husband, my children; a pity that encompassed everyone I had ever known, even that landlady with red hair and, strangest of all, Coenraad. I was emptied of all thought: pity filled me completely. Inexplicably, out of nowhere, a minute later, I recall the exact instant, when the sodium vapor lights came on and the street got as bright as day, and I came to Yonge Street and saw the four corners of Yonge and Dundas, saw the bookstore, the clothing store, the Brown Derby, the bank beside me, crowds crossing or waiting to cross, people descending into the subway, a minute later, for no reason at all, I was exultant. It was a joy that comes to children and is without cause. I threw back my head and straightened up and broke into a run. The feeling was akin to triumph.

  At the King Edward Hotel I went through the revolving doors with such force that two people behind me had to stand back and wait for the revolutions to slow down. After I had opened the door to my room I made no effort to prevent the resounding slam of the door as I let it swing shut on its own weight. Inside, I stood, two hands on one hip, staring at my pack of postcards. The maid must have picked them up. I thought of the endless hours of the night ahead. Then an anger seized me, perhaps an anger with myself for a failure of courage. I took hold of the cards and wrapped them in the hotel’s laundry bag, folded the plastic over and over, then secured the package with the knotted elastic band. The prospect of being without proof of having loved and having been loved caused my hands to shake. I carried the package to the corner of Yonge and King and found a blue enamelled trash can marked in yellow letters Keep Toronto Clean and, underneath, Pitch In. The postcards were pitched in. It was an act that took its toll: I dropped with them. My stomach lurched; I was nauseated.

  What was really odd the next morning was that I was dressed before daylight. Perhaps I had not undressed. I waited for what may have been a long time for dawn, standing to one side of the wired window so that I could see a part of the sky. For the first time since my mother’s death I faced the sunrise. It came up again as if nothing had happened. There was a glow of gold, a few longitudinal clouds outlined in rose. Inside the hotel and out in the streets there was an absence of noise, heard as a hum. It was the sound of Sunday. I thought vaguely of Coenraad. He will be getting ready to go to the Episcopalian church with his family. They will enter the church, his wife flanked by two sons, going in first, followed by Coenraad with his daughter at his side. Once through the doors, the images become clouded and dissolve altogether. I have never been inside an Episcopalian church. It would seem that without the background of a postcard, the beloved figure vanishes.

  Today, the emptiness and the silence in the hotel did not oppress me. Today, the old men in the lobby, as if sculptured on the edge of their seats, made me feel at home. I appreciated the set of their faces: the catlike quality combining alertness with utter indifference. I waved to them. The house detective sat in their midst: I felt he has been defeated by their independence. I waved to him, too. He did not meet my (independent) look.

  Nor did I mind the poorly-lit cafeteria, with its Formica tables and flimsy chairs and puce walls. All I felt was hunger. I wanted to serve all that bacon and all those scrambled eggs to those about me, alone at tables, plowing through platefuls of toast or porridge or fried potatoes only. The cashier asked, How are you today? without taking her eyes off my tray while she calculated its worth. She was dressed as if for a party: gold hoop earrings, every portion of her handsome face rouged, shadowed, pencilled. She wore a red flowered dress, cut low in front, a corsage of artificial gardenias pinned to her left breast. I told her I was very well and very happy and hoped she was too. She looked up, startled. I asked her what was the weather like when she came to work and did she mind coming so early Sunday morning. She held my change in her hand, in midair, over mine, while my breakfast got cold, telling me that she would rather be here than alone in her apartment; she spoke of her four grown children, none of whom cares what happens to her; said she would rather be here meeting people than alone in her apartment all weekend. The weather, I repeated, what kind of a day is it? Sunny. Crisp. Cold for this time of year. Snow has been predicted.

  Emerging from the hotel, finding myself alone on King Street, I couldn’t get my bearings. The usually bustling street was empty, as after some disaster. I had to remind myself that the agents and typists and bankers and clerks and salesmen and investors who crowd these streets would be back tomorrow. The peculiar silence was broken by a peal of bells coming from the spired old church I could see from where I was hesitating on the sidewalk. In the past I avoided taking solitary walks on Sunday. It is a day for lovers. But it is not a day for those whose love is illicit. It is a family day. But it is not a day for families who are unhappy. Now, forced out into the open, as it were, I found myself strolling up Yonge Street. In short order, between King and Adelaide, I encountered, four times, well-dressed (family?) men walking alone. I paused at Simpson’s and stood beside a man who was looking at the window displays. He was of medium height, hatted, gloved, tailored overcoat, gray suit, shiny brown shoes — so perfect a costume that he triggered in me a reflexive hope, which I erased at once. Coenraad at this very moment was still sitting in church. I moved on quickly.

  As soon as I was able to stop looking at men who reminded me of my lover, I began to notice that there were others like myself, as one with crutches is aware of those similarly crippled. I passed an old woman in a tweedless tweed coat and galoshes with metal buckles; I passed a Chinese boy in a quilted black silk jacket; I passed a curly-haired teenager who, despite the cold, revealed nipples under a sheer blouse; I passed a man who must have just come off the boat, as we used to say, wearing an overcoat with a caracul fur collar and yellow shoes and swinging a brown cane. There were more. We solitaries came towards one another, passed; others came up from behind and passed me; at times we walked side by side for a few paces. Soon I got a sense of a common activity: I thought, I would like nothing better than to link my arm through yours and we would walk along together. Acts of fellowship, I reflected sadly, take place only during bombings and public hangings. Under normal conditions strangers must avoid the other’s strangeness.

  At Queen Street young people swarmed on the sidewalks. They were of all colors, in pairs and in groups; their many languages reached me as the buzz of bees. They were in a holiday mood, but tense, as if Sunday was going to end very soon and they had to get everything they could out of the holiday. They laughed and pushed and eyed each other in a kind of courtship dance, seemingly indifferent, but alert to the main chance. They took possession of the sidewalk: sometimes I had to step off the curb for them. They infused the street with an air of adventure, of the sort I experienced once before in the streets of Marseilles. No sunny slopes here though, such as the ones in the Parc du Pharo, where Coenraad and I lay in the sun. Afterwards we walked beside the ocean in the Old Port and you said I had to leave Marseilles because the city was dangerous. I said I was not afraid.

  And you said that you were. You insisted that I take the train to Arles, bribing me with an orange and a piece of cake
bought on the steps leading to the St. Charles railway station. In Aries you came to my room at midnight every night and I told you about my daily pilgrimages when I retraced the steps of Vincent van Gogh, but you said nothing of where you had been or what you had done.

  I have heard it said that Toronto has become a dangerous city; that people are afraid to be out in the streets at night. I ruminated that I will find cities within cities in Toronto. I will choose. I realized that right now I have no idea, for instance, where these young people come from, where they live, where they work: do they work in factories or abattoirs or stand all day in Becker’s or in hospital kitchens, places I have forgotten about? I wished I were not outside their lives. I hung about with them. With them I window-shopped and noticed clothing to be worn either by men or women — shirts, jackets, boots, jeans with flies in front. With them I examined the frenzied figures on posters outside the movie houses, observing that triple bills offered horror and sex and disaster in bizarre combinations. With them I was intrigued by the hundreds of bits of artistry from India or Hong Kong in little shops. With them, too, I stood near an open doorway, the door frame outlined in lights that blinked like myriad flirting eyes. We could see nothing in the darkened interior. Then we turned to gape at photographs under glass mounted on the walls outside of big-breasted naked girls, who had assumed provocative poses, yet managed somehow to hide their pubic triangles. I watched two young men laugh and jostle one another towards the stygian doorway: it looked as if they were gathering sufficient nerve to go inside.