Echolocation

by Karen Hofmann

  Some of us attempted to continue a discussion that had begun in one of the last sessions of the conference. Some of us taught in this area and had important and useful ideas about it. Most of us had opinions about it.

  Some mentioned Sheila Watson and Ethel Wilson, in the context of the geographical setting of this small new university. Some remarked that Canadian Modernism really lagged behind European Modernism by about thirty years. Some of us wondered if there was any point studying it, so late and out of date. One of the indefatigable organizers, whose research and teaching area is Canadian Modernism, blinked her slightly protuberant eyes a couple of times as if the lids are trying to wipe a screen.

  Some of us said then that most Canadian writing has not even reached the Modernist period, and remains stuck in the Victorian era. One of us said then that Western Canadian writing seemed all to be about remittance men. One of us said that Canadian writers are all still crofters fighting the Enclosures Act. One of us said that it was all about being afraid of Papa, but obsessed with defying him. Some of us said that Canadian fiction is actually Romantic, making claims for Nature and Beauty and Truth in the face of the industrial machine. Others disputed this. Some said that Canadian fiction is all ghost stories. By whom, for example? others demanded. Lists were made: Atwood, of course. Robertson Davies. Ondaatje. Kroetsch. Urquhart. Vanderhaeghe. All of recent Canadian literature, one of us said, confuses eccentricity for genius, vandalism for iconoclasm. Are there vandals in Canada? some of whom are not Canadian asked. Yes, indeed, other non-Canadians said. They scribble on people’s garden sheds with spray cans.

  The best Canadian novelists, some said, don’t write about Canada. They write about American heroes or life in the Gulag or Malaysian prison camps. All the cult of the individual, others said. Where is the social novel, the experimental novel?

  Are there no important Canadian novelists, then? some asked. We will permit you the short story, some said. Munro. Although some might say she is really a Scottish writer. Her stories read Scots. Rubbish, some who were Canadian said. Munro is our Chekov. Munro is their Chekov, the non-Canadians agreed, then. The smell of hamburgers and onions had reached the dock.

  Some of us arrived late. Some of us complained about the signage on the road, and some pointed out with more precision that the signage was entirely functional; rather the distances in the email directions didn’t correspond with the distances on the odometer. Some of us had used our vehicles’ GPS systems. Some of us, who had been organizing the conference and barbecue for many weeks, laughed merrily, perhaps maniacally.

  There is some competent nature writing, some said as they stood in line with their paper plates. But too literal or too obviously symbolic. It’s trying to be Ibsen or Dostoyevsky or Calvino.

  Some of us, bending over grills, blasted by heat and smoke and spitting meats asked querulously if there wasn’t anything to eat except dead animal. Some of us pointed out that protein-rich salads had been prepared. Some of us wondered, mostly facetiously, if there were any firearms on this property, and if so, if they were securely locked away. Some of us thought this joke in bad taste.

  One of us arrived, last of all, on a motorbike and some of us ignored him as he swung a long lean leg easily over the saddle and doffed his helmet and shook out his long hair, which had hardly any grey in it at all. Some of us ignored him as he stepped onto the lawn in his jeans, looking neither spindle-shanked nor pot-bellied. Some of us ignored him as he opened a beer and took over one of the barbecues. Some of us felt, at this point, that the party was only now complete, but didn’t understand why we felt this way.

  AFTER THE FOOD HAD BEEN CONSUMED, some of us who were the younger faculty – obedient, compliant, untenured – cleaned up, pushing the paper plates and foam cups into oversized black garbage bags, and then sat quietly on the dock, at the admonishment of the older ones, who had had drummed into them at some point, it seems, the warning against swimming after eating. But some of us threw caution to the wind and paddled around knee-deep, or set sail on a flotilla of inflatable ducks and porpoises.

  The plenary speaker appropriated the largest air mattress, a huge inflatable chaise with pockets for beverages, and drifted out into the lake with a rather down-market women’s magazine and a wide-brimmed straw hat. Some of the Europeans appeared in Speedos. The suits outlined their buttocks, their testicles, their penises. Some of us wondered if we felt intimidated, aroused, or grossed-out. Some of us weren’t swimmers; at least, we had lessons at the pool as children, but wouldn’t have dreamed of entering this lake, with its mess of reeds and frog spawn and, no doubt, leeches. But some of us dove off the dock and swam out after the plenary speaker, resting our hands briefly on her inflatable throne, then turning and swimming easily back.

  One of us, as he hauled himself, dripping, laughing, onto the warm silvered wood of the dock, said: I was afraid out there.

  Afraid of what? the rest of us asked.

  Of something in the lake, the swimmer said. Something that would eat me.

  Vagina dentata, one of the other swimmers suggested.

  Yes, I think so, the first swimmer said, squeezing water from his beard.

  Some of us didn’t know what this meant and had to have it explained. Some of us were discomfited, for differing reasons.

  Those of us who were visiting Europeans said: We were just discussing how exciting your life is, and how to express properly our fascination with it. How, if you will forgive us, you live here, with your vast spaces, your new university, at the very edge of terra incognita. How very romantic and glamorous it seems to us!

  Those of us who taught at the host institution laughed at the word glamorous. Mostly, we said, we felt we were in a backwater, out of the mainstream. Mostly, we said, we felt we had missed the boat.

  Oh, no, not missed the boat; flung yourselves from it! those of us who were European visitors answered. Flung yourself in, where you are now swimming among the teeth of the great Mother herself! Some of us wondered at this point how much beer had been consumed and if there would be sufficient sober drivers for the trip back to the city.

  Now more of us scrambled into the inflatable dinghies and pushed out into the water, even while arguing over the possession and proper application of the ineffectual plastic oars. Some of us had lost our hats and sunglasses, but the sun had nearly set, anyway. One of us watched the backs of his estranged wife’s calves, and then her thighs, mottled with heat rash, disappear into the gelatinous water.

  Those of us who had remained on the dock heard a shriek, which one of us recognized as the estranged wife’s. Those of us still on the dock rose to our feet. The one who had recognized his wife’s scream thought: my children. Some of us who were already in the lake already began to swim out to where her head bobbed. One of us, who had just emerged from the lake and was clambering up the somewhat slimy ladder, streaming water, turned and dove back in and was soon past the rest. Some of us thought, admiringly, that she could be mistaken for an Olympic swimmer.

  Some of us on the dock didn’t know quite what to do. Some of us were still fully dressed. The one of us who had recognized his wife’s scream removed his sandals, then wondered aloud: If there is an emergency requiring a car trip, wouldn’t it be better to leave them on? He mentioned that he was not a strong swimmer, and that by the time he made it to his screaming wife, he’d be a liability. And there would already be a group of swimmers there.

  I felt it, I really did feel it, the one who had screamed kept saying, through chattering teeth. Some of us had been diving among the reeds for nearly an hour, and it was getting dark.

  Two of us kept hugging and massaging the one who had screamed. Some of us thought she was enjoying the attention. One of us very gently lifted a corkscrew of damp hair from the cheek of the one who screamed and tucked it behind her ear, in a gesture as intimate as a kiss. I felt it; I felt it, the one of us who had screamed said again, and shuddered.

  What she had felt, she said, was two things:
first, a hand on her thigh, as she was floating along in the water.

  Firm or flaccid? one of us interrupted.

  One of us wondered if, technically, a hand could be flaccid.

  Then, the one who had screamed said, I kicked out violently –

  As anyone would, one of us said.

  And my feet then connected with a body.

  Hard or flaccid, the one of us who had arrived on a motorcycle asked. Some of us detected some irony and tensed.

  Oh, soft, the one who had screamed said. I felt the naked skin, the texture. Then the thing drifted away.

  No resistance, one of us observed. Dead.

  But who is missing? a few of us murmured. It was difficult to determine. Some of us looked around. Some of us had already left. The leaving had been somewhat piecemeal. Two of us who were sessional faculty had taken the two who were children (but not their own children) with them.

  One of us said that it could have been a dog or a deer. After a while in water, the fur comes off – the hide softens.

  How do you know this? some of us wondered. But it seemed suddenly to most of us the most likely and satisfactory answer. What the one who screamed had touched in the water was the body of a dog, a deer – perhaps even a bear cub – that had tired while swimming across the lake, or even, months before, had broken through the ice.

  Most of us decided, though the decision was not unanimous, to phone the police but not to make it an emergency call. Those of us who hadn’t already left disbanded then, loading our bags and damp towels into our Civics and grey Corollas, and drove away. Some of us, who had worked indefatigably to organize the conference and the outing, stayed behind till the last, loading bags of trash and greasy salad bowls into the back of the shabby minivan.

  The one who was the plenary speaker also stayed: She had somehow arranged that she would ride back into town on the back of the motorbike. And then the one of us who rode his motorbike to the lake, and the one who would be his passenger left, too, with a clackity roar. That engine was missing something, some of us thought, but we knew nothing about motorcycle engines.

  Those of us who were left watched as they turned up the road, the one who was the plenary speaker pressed up against the motorcyclist’s back.

  Before the two of us who were left, the lake spread, ominous in the dusk. The lake’s breeze was suddenly chill. We shivered.

  But the air was alive with the sounds of crickets and frogs; their clicks and thrums formed a multi-layered, endless symphonic concert. One of us opened her arms to the vibrating air like a conductor. Both of us heard, then, all of the instruments – the clear optimism of the flute, the self-doubting reeds, the deep froggish complaint of the trombone, and for a few moments, we felt ourselves fully immersed.

  THE BISMARCK LITTLE PEOPLE’S ORCHESTRA

  MOTHER WAS AGAINST IT, of course. Vaudeville, she said, wrinkling up her nose. And: Remember, Pearl – you are the companions you choose.

  My father was dead, or he’d have raised objections, too. If he’s been alive, I wouldn’t have got away with it. But I wouldn’t have needed to. Father had made a decent living as an accountant. But there was no social safety net back then, for the family of a man killed crossing the street by a drunken milk-truck driver. Mother and I had to scrimp. We were scrimping, and getting scrimpier – shrimpier, too, if that were possible. So when the offer came – my name had been submitted by my music teacher – I jumped on it. I was twenty-one.

  Mother got over it. She was practical at heart, even if she did have her little prejudices. I think she even got some mileage out of telling people – not everyone, just people whose sense of propriety she liked to rattle – that I had run away with the circus.

  Of course it wasn’t the circus. It wasn’t even vaudeville. It was a travelling review. You don’t know what that is. In my day, in the 30s, reviews were live variety shows that travelled from city to city. The TV variety shows of the 1950s, 1960s – they came out of those reviews.

  There were so many travelling reviews that you had to have a gimmick. Sets of triplets or Eskimo throat singers or live elephants. But our whole company was the gimmick.

  You’ve heard that some reviews were off-colour. That is true. There were some pretty sexed-up productions. But our review was completely wholesome.

  Well.

  Sometimes I wonder about that. Sometimes I wonder if we were a kind of sideshow.

  The Bismarck Little People’s Orchestra, that’s what we were called. We weren’t just musicians, though. We all had to dance and sing, as well. So it wasn’t just a gimmick. We gave the same entertainment for your dollar – or nickel – as any travelling review.

  Me, I played the trumpet. Maybe that’s how I got hired. I wasn’t quite as little as they liked. Four foot eight. My father played trumpet, and I taught myself, being musical. The orchestra needed trumpet players. They had lots of saxophones – everyone wanted to play the sax. And lots of flautists, though you know, the flute isn’t an easy instrument for a little person. It takes as much breath to play a flute as to play a French horn – most of the air is wasted, blows over the top. But I played the trumpet, and they had only one other trumpeter, who was male.

  I’m guessing that’s how Jarvis Noakes got hired, too. He was little enough, but his head was a bit large, and his spine was crooked. They didn’t want us misshapen or squat or large-headed. We had to be perfectly proportioned. But you don’t get many little tuba players.

  Now why am I talking about Jarvis Noakes? You’d think I’d start by mentioning Don, who was my boyfriend, my fiancé, I guess. Or Betty, who was my best friend, who I still keep in touch with. Jarvis Noakes! Now there was a sad story. He killed himself. Committed suicide. Many little people do, especially the men. But I don’t think he did it for the usual reasons. What are the usual reasons? Well, not being able to cut it in a man’s world, I guess. It’s easier for small women. Women are supposed to be small. And cute. You know. But for the men – well, I suppose being small is like being defective, for men.

  But Jarvis Noakes – no; he did okay in that way. He won the lottery, bought himself a custom-built house, out in California. I saw it, you know. It was a mansion! He won the lottery and retired from the orchestra and it didn’t last long after that. We couldn’t find another little person to fill his shoes. Ha! But some of us did go see him, in California, when we were touring there.

  What was the show like? Well. It was elegant as all get out. We played in formal dress, white tie and tails for the men, long gowns for the girls. Those gowns! They were all different, but we had to be appropriate to the season. We had them custom-designed and made for us, of course. People used to ask me if I could wear little girls’ clothes. Of course I couldn’t. Little girls don’t have hips and bosoms. Mind you, I didn’t have much in those days. But I wasn’t straight up and down.

  I had a red satin gown. Sleeveless, plunging neckline. I believe that got me into trouble, that dress. And three or four green gowns, on account of my hair. You can’t tell now, but I was auburn. I had a slinky number, moss-green crepe, cut on the bias. I was particularly fond of that dress. The other girls said it brought out my eyes. Funny, how girls notice things like that and dress for each other. The men liked the red dress. Got their attention, I guess.

  And sailor outfits, ethnic outfits. We changed several times a show.

  My favourite number? It was a musical theatre piece. “Puttin’ on the Ritz.” We were all in silver. The audience was always swept away. I guess there wasn’t a lot of glitz in most people’s lives back then. The Depression, you know. I had a top hat, and a cane, and a skirt that came off. Leotard underneath. Very high heels. And we had to kick high, and do a backbend over our partner’s knees. It was a strenuous number.

  Don was my partner. He used to wait till the curtain fell, then tickle me. Or move his knee, suddenly. I had to be on guard. Some of those curtains, in small-town theatres, were pretty flimsy. We couldn’t move till the stage lights w
ere off and the house lights on.

  Did I mention Betty? She became my best friend. You needed a best friend. A best friend was very useful. Someone to watch your back, get you out of sticky situations. Lie to the manager for you. Oh, I’m just kidding about that. Betty and I got together because we both thought all of the other girls were idiots. Some of them really were! Well. I don’t know. Developmental problems, you’d say nowadays. I’m not saying feeble-minded. They had to be able to play orchestra music, and dance and sing. But maybe they had been sickly as children and didn’t go to school. Or maybe they were kept home, because of their size. One girl said that she hadn’t gone to school because they couldn’t get shoes small enough to fit her feet! I don’t know if that was true.

  Some were bright enough, but silly. I guess that’s what Betty and I meant, when we said they were idiots. They were silly girls. All they thought about was falling in love. They spent hours talking about what kind of engagement rings they might get.

  And they took themselves too seriously, as showgirls. Panics and piques all day long. Betty and I were not like that. We thought it was a fun way to make some money so we could go on with our real lives. Betty was saving up for university, to study engineering. And she did, too – she helped design planes, during the war. She said being little gave her a different perspective on the spatial relationships of things.

  Me, I just wanted to put a roof over my head. Well, I wanted to provide enough so that my mother wouldn’t sell our house, as she was threatening to. And I was right to do that, because I inherited the house and I’m still living in it. Yes! This is the house. Now isn’t it a nice house? I’ve lived here since I was born, except when I was travelling. I’ve never wanted to live anywhere else. I got my fill of variety, travelling around Canada and the States for six years.

  Novelty! That’s what we were, a novelty. Mr. Berger – he was our impresario – wasn’t a little person. He’d had a son who was, though. Or so they said. He wanted to showcase that talent comes in small packages. That was the official line, the one he gave in interviews. Really, I think he was one of those people who has an obsession to make something out of the imagination. He had a vision of a perfect performing troupe of tiny people, and he made it. He was always driving us to be better. He hired dancing teachers that just punished us, I can tell you. None of us were professional to start but you couldn’t tell, after a year. Scare people enough and you can make them do anything. Well, I guess that was the lesson of the 30s. Hey?