The Master of Happy Endings

by Jack Hodgins

  Once Roberto had received enough sympathy from Miss Farrell, as well as the name of a good dentist, he hurried away to disappear behind a beaded curtain.

  Oonagh had taken the liberty to order ahead. “I hope you still like seafood. He has created his own Mexican seafood thing—a sort of crepe.” She removed a handful of brochures from her bag. “The Huntington.”

  She had put a bookmark on the page describing the Ellesmere manuscript, which would be, he saw, displayed in the first glass tower inside the exhibition hall, setting off a tremorous thrill in the pit of his stomach. The opened-out first pages of the illuminated Canterbury Tales were presented here in a photograph, a flowering vine in blues and reds down the left side and across the bottom to serve as perch for a tiny winged dragon.

  Apparently it was also possible to see a draft of the Magna Carta, the manuscript of Piers Plowman from the fifteenth century, and a first edition of Dante’s Divina Commedia. “A first edition of Pilgrim’s Progress. The first edition of Gulliver’s Travels. The whole of my English Literature course has been down here all along. You could have invited me years ago. Thirty-five students sleeping on your floor!”

  Why hadn’t he known about the Huntington during that long-ago Christmas holiday? He might have organized a field trip. School bands earned money to take themselves to Seattle. He had taken students to a performance of Death of a Salesman in Vancouver but he hadn’t known what was available down here.

  Roberto came out from behind the beaded curtain to set down two glasses and a carafe of white wine before rushing off to welcome new customers at the door. Thorstad seized the opportunity to ask again about the invisible Andrzej Topolski. “If I knew where Topolski could be found I’d suggest he come to the Huntington with us.”

  “He would do his best to spoil it for you.” She watched him pour wine for them both. “If you’re asking where he is I can tell you. I know where he is because I write the cheques that keep him there.” She tasted the wine and nodded. Her voice dropped to a whispery growl. “He suffered a series of small strokes. Now he’s in an Assisted-Living Home—and not especially happy about it.”

  Thorstad shuddered. Assisted Living. Two simple words, but terrifying when put together. “Poor man! Sometimes I have this awful feeling that somewhere one of those places has an empty room with my name on it.”

  She laughed. “Not this place, I promise you! Only corporate crooks and celebrities can afford it. There won’t be a single high school teacher there, unless there’s a charity wing I don’t know about.”

  When he asked if Topolski had inherited his promised duchy, she rolled her eyes. “The family mansion was a pile of rubble and the land beneath it radioactive swamp. But a wealthy brother died in France with no heirs, and darling Andrzej came into most of his fortune. Of course he used the money to make more money, then lost it all, several times.” She paused, and looked out the nearest window at the deserted alley. “We divorced years ago, Thorstad. Axel.” She’d dropped the tale-telling tone from her voice. This was something more intimate. “Obviously you don’t read the tabloids, or didn’t at the time. It was a disastrous marriage. Exciting, I suppose, if you think violent battles are fun!” She spoke to her glass. “After a while we gave up. Lived apart for years. Not long ago he showed up out of the blue, in terrible shape—financially, physically, the works.”

  Thorstad had always assumed the marriage had been a happy one, that he’d heard nothing about it simply because she’d kept Topolski out of the magazines. And Elena had not kept in touch with her cousin, who had been, it turned out, only a very distant relative, his wedding simply her excuse for a trip to North America. He’d seen Oonagh and Topolski as the perfect couple from the moment he acknowledged the failure of his own hopes—the extravagant beauty and the sophisticated older man from Europe and Montreal. Otherwise . . . well, otherwise. He did not want to think of otherwise.

  “When he lost most of it in some stupid business scheme, he came back to Laguna Beach to live with his sister, but his sister died and left him her house. He suffered a series of strokes soon afterwards.” She paused to examine her glass for a moment. “I visit him now and then, though I’m not sure he’s pleased to see me. He seems to be more irritable by the time I leave than when I arrived.” Again a rumble of laughter. “Which may explain the marriage.” She raised her eyes to his. “The past few years I’ve been with a kind and patient architect outside of Toronto who keeps my feet firmly on the ground.”

  Had she decided he was anxious lest she might assume he’d come with higher hopes? Which perhaps he had, he wasn’t sure. He was relieved that at least he hadn’t allowed his imagination to initiate some foolish action. And yet he experienced something like indignation as well. Why had she felt it necessary to set his mind at ease? Why had she assumed he didn’t want to be thought of as a man with a man’s hopes? Did she think he had gone beyond such things?

  Well, he supposed Oonagh Farrell had remained a certain boy-man’s enduring fantasy, surviving somehow in a corner of his soul, even throughout his happy marriage. Oonagh was simply being kind to what remained of that young fellow. Maybe it wasn’t easy for a well-known actress to be simply a friend to a man of any age.

  Roberto burst out through the beaded curtain with a large red plate in either mittened hand. “Caliente!” he warned. He placed a plate before each of them and stood back, ready to accept their praise. “For the fabulous Miss Farrell and her guest.”

  The fabulous Miss Farrell breathed in the aroma. “Bravo, señor!”

  “So,” she said, once Roberto had turned to other customers and they had tasted the seafood dish, which was indeed very caliente, “you told me the television world has conspired to make sure you can’t do your job. The first question that has to be answered is: What difference does it make if one more adolescent fails a few exams?”

  Thorstad did not believe this deserved an answer. Instead, he explained that things had got even worse. “Now he’s having trouble on the set. This morning I had to stand by while he kept forgetting his lines. If it happens again I’ll be tempted to step in and help!”

  She did not disguise her horror. “I wouldn’t advise it—unless you want to be banned from the studio altogether!”

  He knew this already, of course. He’d been a director, once, himself. “Evans says that Travis needs to remember he’s not in a high school musical. That sounds pretty damning to me.”

  “It does indeed!” She briefly frowned, but closed her eyes to enjoy the Mexican seafood crepe.

  Of course she could help him with this if she were willing. Instead of dwelling on his own questionable fantasy, he could act his age on Travis’s behalf and simply ask. He had never been shy about soliciting aid from outside the classroom. If you were teaching The Mayor of Casterbridge you naturally invited in a former mayor of Dorchester if a former mayor of Dorchester were living two blocks from the school. Unlike Henshaw, he may not have sold his wife but he could talk about the town and other landmarks mentioned in the novel.

  “If it weren’t impertinent, I’d wonder if you could help me with this.”

  She looked up from her lunch, head tilted a little. Perhaps suspicious.

  “I mean. Imagine how happy he’d be if you were to give him a few tips. Things you’ve learned. Advice from an experienced actor—a star?”

  He saw how bold this was, and presumptuous—as though she were still that colleague down the hall. “I meant only if you’re inclined, and have the time.”

  Eventually she put down her fork and reached across the table to lay a hand upon his. Something had been decided. Her hand remained on his while she looked inward. “We can’t let this go on.” She appeared to be a little amused by the situation, but he could think only of how familiar that hand was, the long fingers, her mother’s sapphire ring, her lovely female skin. “I’ll tell you what—we’ll spirit your lad away. A picnic somewhere?”

  Naturally he was pleased, but then immediately, alarmed. Thi
s could be a serious risk. “Only when he isn’t needed at the studio. Otherwise Evans would have a fit.”

  “Evans won’t object if this old warhorse gives his youngster some hard-won acting-for-television tips. But we’ll drag him off to somewhere remote, just to be safe!” She laughed, perhaps foreseeing an adventure. “If the boy isn’t grateful we’ll tie him up and leave him to be eaten by the ants.” She sat back, apparently satisfied, and looked at Thorstad as though to suggest they could be proud of themselves for this. “Now! Eat up. I’ve changed my mind about the Huntington. Today we’ll have our dessert and coffee with you-know-who.”

  This time she drove in what he sensed was a southeasterly direction. For a while they passed through areas of drab apartment buildings and small garishly decorated shops until the world opened up on their right and they were following the coastline. Sunlight glittered off lazy waves.

  “Ours was surely the worst marriage ever endured by two humans living on this planet!” She chuckled—wickedly, he thought. “While you, I’ve heard, have the perfect union. Topolski told me—in one of those rare moments when we were not only in the same room and sober but actually speaking. I don’t know how he knew. He was jealous! He regretted not marrying her himself. Missed his chance. Or rather, he’d forgotten she existed until it was too late—our heads were so distracted by that stupid play!”

  “Well, you couldn’t have known this—Elena died some time ago.”

  “Oh my dear, I’m so sorry.” She touched fingers to his arm. “I’m so bloody thick, I didn’t think to ask.”

  Eventually they were travelling between the open beach and a high chain-link fence. A passenger jet rose up from somewhere and crossed over them so low that Thorstad felt he might have reached up and touched its broad white belly. He held on to his armrest, for fear of being sucked up after it.

  Rows of palm trees lined streets of cracked and buckled pavement, but there were no houses, only broken concrete foundations and weeds. “The site of a disaster?”

  “It is,” Oonagh said. “All this was a beach community once, condemned and bought up for airport expansion. People were driven out—scattered. It’s still a hot issue, after years.” She turned inland now. “I nearly miss this damn turn-off every time. Jets rattle my brains. We’ll take the 401.”

  He might be sorry later but he had to ask. “You thought Returning to Troy was stupid?”

  “Well! It wasn’t Eugene O’Neill, was it? Or Tennessee Williams.” She chuckled, perhaps at some private memory. “Of course Tennessee would have scared us half to death back then.”

  “Audiences liked it!” He sounded, he knew, annoyed—but didn’t mind. “I’d even imagined, once, gathering us together one day to re-mount it.” He added, quickly: “For fun.”

  “With the original cast?” She threw up her hands. “Lord!” But then sobered. Frowned. “Surely most of the cast—the old ones—must be dead!”

  He hadn’t thought of this. Well, he supposed he’d never been completely serious about it. “We’d have to use students for the old people this time, and keep the principal roles for ourselves. For you and Topolski. And Foster if we could find him.”

  She was showing all her teeth again, her voice gone down a staircase to speak through gravel. “You’d be sued by the author, or his heirs.” She honked her horn at a slowpoke, who raised a middle finger in response. “Topolski was terrible—wasn’t he? Well, he did a decent-enough job once you’d switched him and Foster. Not that he was especially good even then, but he was a hell of a lot better than he was as the husband. I should have taken note! Did you know what you were doing when you made the men exchange their roles?”

  “I knew what I was doing, but I didn’t know what it might lead to. For us all.”

  “You should never have read that damn Troilus thing. Chaucer isn’t safe! At least he isn’t safe for you.”

  Eventually they joined a freeway, heading south. She increased their speed, and changed lanes, causing horns to blare. Because of the wind in their faces, they gave up attempts at speech. At any rate, Thorstad did not want to distract her. He concentrated on watching the world fly by and hoped to be still alive when they reached their destination.

  When she swung onto an off-lane at last, and onto a narrower road heading downhill to the west, he thought this would be the end of their private Grand Prix. But she turned off this road too, and the next one as well without slowing much, making a series of confusing moves to both left and right, and then raced up a steep hill and in through an archway entrance to what he assumed was their destination at last, both of them still alive.

  Topolski’s new home had the pillars and fountains and elaborate gardens of a major destination resort pictured in travel magazines. There seemed to be several wings, four storeys high. On each floor, rows of tall French doors opened onto cantilevered balconies with wrought-iron railings. Brilliant bougainvillea crawled up pillars and draped itself off shutters. In the parking lot, rows of too-large luxury sedans from a much earlier time sat radiating heat from the blazing sun—brought here, perhaps like family portraits and favourite chairs, by those who could not bear to part with them.

  He was sure there would be no escaping this place without making several gaffes—leaving dirt from your shoes on a carpet, or making a remark that caused someone to cry. And of course somewhere in his brain was the suspicion he might not be allowed to leave at all.

  They were told at the front desk that Topolski had been wheeled down to the dining room for lunch. “He’ll have been fed by now, but there’s entertainment.” When Oonagh said, “Oh dear,” the receptionist explained, “It’s only music. A small local trio. You can ignore it if you talk softly. No one will mind.”

  Only music! Elena would have minded. The slightest disturbance would have resulted in an angry glare. If the glare was not enough to put a stop to the talking, however soft, she would crash down a chord and walk out.

  “What can we expect from our hero today?”

  The receptionist rolled her eyes. “He hasn’t bitten anyone, I can say that much. He ate a little breakfast but complained about it. And Cathy said he threatened to sabotage the music if he didn’t like what they played. He pinches her, you know.”

  The view from the large windows here, Thorstad noticed, was not unlike the wide expanse of Pacific seen from the Evans house, except for its division into equal segments by a row of eucalyptus trunks along the parking-lot border. A multipanelled image.

  The view was much the same from the dining room, where the “small local trio” was situated in the farthest corner, perhaps to keep at a safe distance from those who hadn’t yet finished their lunch. Piano, violin, and cello. The young musicians, perhaps still in their teens, were frowning their way through something that swelled and fell back and swelled again. Schubert. The adagio from the Piano Trio in E flat was at least recognizable.

  What seemed like an acre of elaborately patterned carpet lay between the musicians and the new arrivals, with any number of wheelchairs pushed up to several round tables across the distance. Some diners had apparently gone to sleep after their lunch. Others nodded with open eyes. One or two were still patiently being fed by young women and men in uniform. These were the wealthy senior-seniors he’d imagined Audrey Montana sending off in a cruise ship to roam the oceans forever, leaving more property free for developers.

  Off to one side a man sat at a table all his own, scowling stiffly into space. Perhaps he was preparing a critique of the music, which was surely more ponderous than the composer intended. Perhaps he wasn’t welcome at the other tables.

  Of course this was the “Polish Prince.” The thin dark line of moustache was unchanged. Surely he must dye it, or have it dyed. His once-black hair had thinned out and faded and lost its shine. The blue eyes were rimmed with an unhealthy red, as though he had been reading far too long without glasses or neglecting to eat something important to his diet. His greeting, when he saw them, was an indifferent on-off smile. T
hey might have been two workers from Maintenance come to oil his wheel bearings.

  Thorstad turned away for a moment, to let a wave of dizziness pass. Perhaps Oonagh had grown used to this, and hadn’t thought to warn him properly. Here was the very thing he’d dreaded, the maestro’s threatened “old-folks home” with senior-seniors breathing laboriously in their wheeled prisons. His own breathing had quickened, his chest tightening almost painfully, as though to crush his lungs. “Oh my,” he said, though he hadn’t intended to say it aloud. He fought an urge to bolt. He couldn’t bolt. Oonagh would not forgive the cowardice. This was their friend Topolski, after all.

  “What . . . doing here?” Topolski sounded annoyed, as though Oonagh had only just left and was not expected back for several weeks. Or perhaps he was annoyed at the extreme effort it took just to form those words.

  “What kind of question is that?” She affected a cheerful tone she probably did not feel. She took possession of his table by flopping her large bag upon it and pulling out a chair for herself. “I’m here to let an old friend get a look at you. And you at him. We’ve come to have our dessert!”

  Thorstad took the chair across from Topolski, though he wished with all his heart that he hadn’t come. Topolski’s expression suggested he felt the same. A young woman wearing a pale blue cotton top like Alvin White’s placed a bowl of pudding before each of them. Cooked berries of some kind, and cake, with a dab of whipped cream. They were given spoons and sturdy mugs of coffee.

  Topolski looked on this activity with suspicion but seemed to settle on Thorstad as the one who deserved his scowl. “Whozziss?”

  “Think, my darling. Think! Axel Thorstad? High school teacher? Married your cousin?”

  The old man who was just barely Topolski continued to stare at Thorstad as though he suspected an imposter. “What’zee . . . want?”

  Apparently Oonagh had already exhausted her patience. “Oh, for Christ sake, Top. What does he want? He wants to see you tap dance! He wants us to remount Returning to Troy! What do you think he wants? He came to say hello.” She scooped up a spoonful of dessert and tried to tempt the grim old mouth to open, but Topolski turned his face away, his lips clamped tight and thin.