Greenwood

by Michael Christie

  In the morning, Harris, Baumgartner, and Feeney are brought to the Imperial Palace, where they wait in the garden. It’s here they learn that the meeting isn’t with a private railway company at all, but rather the Japanese High Command. After an hour of idling, Harris’s mounting frustration quelled only by Feeney’s detailed account of the garden’s exotic birds, they’re led to the negotiating room. Feeney describes a vaulted chamber of clear beams, all fit without nails. It’s Harris’s experience that the Japs know timber better than anyone. He sold them boatloads after their earthquake in ’23, and they’re always first to snap up his best quarter-sawn logs. A translator introduces twelve uniformed men as the Railway Command Group, and they all kneel at a low table, which Feeney says has a sword placed at its centre.

  “What kind of sword?” Harris says from the side of his mouth.

  “Ceremonial,” Feeney replies. “Blunt as a tin can.”

  “I should’ve brought my ceremonial rifle,” Baumgartner grunts as he squats uncomfortably on his bad knee. Though he’s never cared for international travel, Baumgartner is particularly ornery this morning, and has been since they left Vancouver.

  “Do they seem ready to give us their money?” Harris whispers to Feeney.

  Feeney puts his mouth near Harris’s ear, which electrocutes something in his stomach: “Not quite.”

  There’s much introduction and ceremony, including recurring talk of the “Emperor’s will” and more bell ringing and tea that tastes of sodden pine. By the time they break for lunch, the negotiations haven’t even reached preliminary stages, and Harris’s legs are completely numb, and Baumgartner’s knee has seized so badly they’ve fetched him a cot to lie down in. After they eat, maps, plans, and technical drawings are brought forth, which Feeney does his best to describe. Engineers come forward with complex inquiries about wood species and their deflection ratings. Through the translator, Harris does his best to allay their skepticism concerning the use of Douglas fir for railway sleepers, extolling the tree’s sturdiness and rot-resistance, assuring them that Canada’s own Board of Railway Commissioners chose it for their continent-spanning line for good reason.

  After five days of deadened legs and bizarre lunches of sea urchins and fish roe, which Baumgartner refuses to eat, it’s related by an agent that the Railway Command Group doesn’t actually have purchase authority for the newly nationalized railroad, and that the real negotiations will begin with the Imperial Railway Purchasing Group the following day. Baumgartner nearly strangles the man and has to be restrained. To keep a lid on things, Harris asks his gruff assistant to return home to Vancouver to settle a labour dispute that’s cropped up at their Chemainus mill. It isn’t until Harris tells Baumgartner that his strong hand is the only thing that can resolve the matter that he agrees to go.

  The morning he departs, Baumgartner suggests that because the Japanese are most likely using the paper-walled guesthouse to listen in on their conversations, Harris should leave immediately and move into the Imperial Hotel. “And don’t scrimp, Mr. Greenwood,” he says insistently. “Make sure you get two suites. One for you, and one for Mr. Feeney. I’m going to call them now to ensure they accommodate you properly.”

  “A fine suggestion, Mort,” Harris replies, roughly slapping Baumgartner’s back. “Two suites it is.”

  When they arrive at the Imperial Hotel that evening, Harris, still a bit puzzled by Baumgartner’s odd parting request, skips his nightly poetry reading and elects to eat alone in his suite, leaving Mr. Feeney to fend for himself.

  A FLANNEL

  LOMAX RISES FROM the trash heap, brushes away any refuse sticking to his trousers, and rechecks the sky for what was indeed no phantom: a baby’s flannel hung high in the alley’s foul air.

  His spirit quickened, Lomax slaps his cheeks and drags his fingers through his oiled hair, then he enters the building to which the line is attached. This time he pays the clerk to escort him upstairs to a single mattress that smells of sour cream. Since the large room has no chairs, Lomax sits on the mattress with his back to the wall and waits, smoking Parliaments, reading scraps of yesterday’s Star. But none of the men who enter match Greenwood’s description. Too derelict. Too young. Too old. Too destroyed. Too blonde. Not woodsy enough for a hermit. Then, after a few hours: a lean, hard-looking man of about the correct age, though he’s beardless with close-cropped, dark hair. Lomax watches him draw some horsehide gloves from a suitcase, stuff them in his back pocket, then go to the window on the opposite side of the room, where he reels in the flannel and begins folding it with the care of a housewife.

  “Everett, that you?” Lomax calls out warmly.

  Though Lomax could swear there’s a tremor in his cheek and a subtle stiffening of his composure, the man continues folding.

  “I said that you, Everett?”

  “You’ve got the wrong fella,” the man says, tucking the folded flannel into the suitcase without glancing over.

  “My mistake, friend,” Lomax says. Then, so as not to appear over-eager, he lights another Parliament and takes a long inhalation. “See, I’ve got an old War buddy named Everett Greenwood,” he begins. “We go way back. And you know he’s your spitting image? The thing is, he’s recently been placed in a tight spot. He had a child fall into his custody, for which I don’t imagine he was prepared. To his credit, he’s managed quite well so far—”

  “I got no idea what you’re talking about, mister,” the man interrupts.

  “Oh yeah, then what’s with that flannel?”

  “I’m washing it for a girl I’m sweet on.”

  “That’s real friendly of you,” Lomax says, realizing that the man is now loading the last of his few belongings into the suitcase. “But this girl of yours,” he adds delicately, “she does have an infant in her care? Does she not?”

  The man hesitates. “She does,” he says carefully. “She takes fine care of it, too, despite everything she’s facing.”

  “Well, I work for a powerful man who wants to express his deep gratitude to your girl. And he’s eager to relieve her of her burden. Which could include a patch of woods where a quaint little shack was accidentally constructed on his property. I have his assurance that the land could be made available in perpetuity, as well as a tidy sum of money. Especially if a journal were also recovered.” Lomax notices the man’s jaw tighten at the journal’s mention.

  “What would become of the baby,” the man says measuredly, “supposing all this played out like you said?”

  It’s him and he still has it, Lomax thinks, and his pulse jumps like a cricket. He considers lunging to his feet to take a run at him, but Greenwood is far across the room and there’s a good chance Lomax’s back will seize up. Besides, Greenwood seems amenable to a deal, which is always the quietest way to do things. “I would personally see her returned to her safe and rightful home,” Lomax says.

  “Her mother?”

  “Sir,” Lomax says, putting his hand over his heart. “I’m sorry to report that she’s deceased. An unfortunate accident. All the more reason for her father to want the baby home. He’s just sick over the whole thing, and he’s eager to put it behind them.”

  “The same father that was looking out for her when she got lost? The one who allowed her to end up with some stranger?” Greenwood says sharply. He buckles his suitcase, hefts it, and darts across the room to the door.

  “Things can get real mixed up following a birth,” Lomax says, trying to buy time as he strains to heave his great body upright. “People aren’t always themselves.”

  Greenwood pushes open the door. He’s twenty paces away and light on his feet. There’s no way Lomax can catch him now. Especially not chasing him down three flights of stairs.

  “Be sensible, Everett,” Lomax says in his warmest tone. “With the Mounties hunting you for that man you beat, this is the only chance you’ll get to slip away to some quiet place where no one will bother you again. My employer Mr. Holt feels no need to involve the authoritie
s. He simply wants his lost child returned.”

  “A little girl ain’t no ring of keys that gets lost, mister,” Greenwood retorts, preparing to step through the door. “Seems like a hard thing to misplace, especially if you aren’t trying to. Someone hung that baby from one of my tapping nails on purpose. At first I thought they wanted to be rid of her. But now I figure they were trying to protect her. And after meeting you, I suspect they’d good reason to.”

  “Don’t throw away your entire life over this!” Lomax roars, trying to frighten him, anything to keep him in the room.

  “You’re mistaken there,” Greenwood says, unfazed. “Because there was nothing to throw away to begin with.”

  YOUR LITTLE HELL

  “IN YOUR VIEW, Mr. Greenwood, how do you see this arrangement playing out?” asks the chairman of the Imperial Railway Purchasing Group, by way of the translator.

  “Frankly, sir, Mr. Greenwood doesn’t have a view,” Feeney remarks with thorny frustration. “But what he does have is trees. Trees that he’d like to cut up into neat little strips and sell to you at a fair market price, so you can go and build your Emperor’s little toy railroad.”

  With Baumgartner back in Vancouver, Feeney has expanded his role beyond Harris’s describer into more of a co-negotiator, and so far he’s done well at curtailing the irreverent candour he displayed during his job interview. But clearly his restraint is beginning to fray.

  Now the chairman himself replies in crisply spoken English: “It is the Emperor’s wish that we proceed according to the guidelines—”

  “Why don’t you tell your Emperor,” Feeney says, “to stop all his wishing and pull a reasonable per-foot price out of his—”

  “That’s enough, Liam,” Harris interjects.

  Feeney is clearly overstepping—Baumgartner was never so bold—but it cheers Harris to have someone battling at his side, the way he and Everett used to throw their fists while standing back to back in the schoolyard when the other boys teased them for being orphans.

  “Look, can someone please explain to me what it is we’re doing here?” Harris asks the room. “My lumber crews are at the ready. The saws of my mills are spinning. I’m fixed to deliver you these sleepers. And all you want to do is hide behind your translators and ring your bells. Why don’t you go cut down your own trees and save us all this trouble? You have a garden outside that is full of them!”

  “Our trees are sacred to us, Mr. Greenwood,” the Chairman says.

  “Our trees are sacred to us, too, sir,” Harris replies. “We just have a billion more of them than you do. So all I need is your fucking per-foot price.”

  “Mr. Greenwood,” the Chairman says in a flustered tone, “perhaps in your rough country it is customary to speak this way to—”

  “Gentlemen! It’s nearly lunch, and you all look famished,” Feeney interrupts, before dragging Harris from the room, past the dining area, out through the main palace doors, and into the ornamental garden.

  “I’m sorry for losing my cool in there, Harris, but I hate the belittling tone they take with you,” Feeney says as they walk. Sometime after Baumgartner’s departure, Feeney started calling Harris by his Christian name, and Harris has yet to correct him.

  “And I’m still unsure if it’s in our best interests to go through with this deal,” Feeney continues. “Japan has invaded Manchuria and withdrawn from the League of Nations. They talk about this Hirohito as though he’s Jesus Christ’s older brother, and you couldn’t throw a baseball into the harbour right now without hitting a warship. Looks to me like they’re itching for a fight. Guess who with?”

  Harris shakes his head. “We can’t walk away now, Liam. This is too important. If they buy our lumber, they can do whatever the hell they like.”

  That evening, at the bar of the Imperial Hotel, Harris strikes up a conversation with a man from the Ford Motor Company. When Harris relates his negotiating troubles, the man says: “They gave you the whole guest house-and-translator routine, huh? You just need to shove a hot poker up their asses. It’s the only play they respect.”

  The following morning Harris cables the Imperial Railway Purchasing Group, claiming that the Indian government has ordered a significant number of railway sleepers and he needs Japan’s answer by noon or he’ll sell his timber to India instead. An hour later, an agent arrives at their hotel with a draft purchase agreement for three shiploads of sleepers, at a board-foot price better than expected. The Imperial Railway Purchasing Group will pay ten per cent up front, and the remaining ninety upon delivery.

  To celebrate, Harris and Feeney share an opulent meal of various creatures plucked from the sea, a cuisine which both have come to enjoy. “It’s zippy, tastes of licorice and camphor,” Harris says of the warmed liquor they bring to the table. Amid the afterglow of their monumental agreement, one that will cement Greenwood Timber’s long-term prosperity, this sake tastes to Harris like the distilled nectar of victory.

  Following dinner, partly out of the silliness imparted by the drink and partly out of his compulsion to test Feeney’s skills of description, Harris expresses his desire to “view” a Japanese film. They find a theatre and sit elbow-to-elbow in the dark to the clatter of the projector. Even after weeks abroad, the scent of the forest—fir sap and cedar tannin—still clings to Feeney, and suddenly, sorrowfully, Harris yearns for the early days of his career when he oversaw his sawmills personally, cruising the woodlands of North America for new timber. How did he wind up craving his office routine and the confinement of a desk, he wonders, caged there like one of his birds?

  Despite his scant grasp of Japanese, Feeney does his best to describe the samurai story, a talkie, paying particular attention to the lead actor’s face: “Like the expressions of an entire troupe of actors,” he says, “melted down then re-formed into one man.” As the film nears completion, amid the blare of trumpets, the deafening clash of swords, and the guttural battlefield grunts, Feeney’s mouth draws nearer and nearer to Harris’s ear.

  “You never said whether he’s handsome,” Harris says in a low voice.

  “Who?” Feeney asks.

  “This samurai fellow. The lead man. The one you mentioned.” Harris clears his throat. “In a universal way, of course?”

  A pause. Harris worries Feeney didn’t hear him and decides he won’t repeat himself if he didn’t.

  “Well, yes,” Feeney says. “He is. Quite.”

  “And me?” Harris says, nearly inaudibly, keenly aware of his inebriation yet allowing its belligerent momentum to carry him.

  “Sorry?”

  “Handsome, would you say? In the same fashion? If I were up on the same screen?”

  “Of course, these things are subjective,” Feeney answers.

  “Of course. Quite correct. A silly question,” Harris says, his face heating like a woodstove. “Disregard it.”

  “And besides, I’m unsure you want me to say.”

  “Think no more of it. A misfired joke.”

  Suddenly, Harris feels his breath in his ear. “Yes,” Feeney says. “You are. Profoundly so.”

  Without turning from the screen, Harris reaches over to feel Feeney’s unshaven cheek with his palm, finally allowing himself to take the measure of its shape—though he’s instantly petrified by how improper this gesture may appear to those in the theatre, even after he reminds himself that they’re all foreigners, with no power to wield over him.

  “You as well,” Harris says, drawing his hand back. “Universally so.”

  “If you must know,” Feeney says. “Like all true poets, I’m ugly as a pug. But thank you.”

  “I apologize for the intrusion,” Harris blurts, horrified as much by his impulsivity as by the odd riptide of sensations crashing around inside him. “I have a hell in me. A little hell. I hide it. But when I take alcohol, it rises up.”

  “Oh, don’t be so hard on it,” Feeney says, patting Harris’s trembling knee. “Your little hell.” Then he collects Harris’s damp hand in
his own. “We may need it.”

  THE BIG MAN

  WHEN EVERETT HAD returned to the rooming house to fetch his horsehide gloves, he’d noticed the unfamiliar lodger smoking on one of the mattresses. Initially, he thought against collecting the flannel with the stranger present; but it was threatening rain, and the big man’s clothes were sheened with filth and he seemed too haggard for a Mountie. But he was Holt’s man, no question. Though he’d remained polite, there was a dangerous note in his voice, and a grim menace coiled in his colossal body, his hands like sledges riveted to his arms, surely enough to ragdoll Everett around if he ever caught ahold of him. Just the way he spoke of the child and the journal was chilling. And his pinpricked pupils—as though the man had spent the past week staring into the sun—and his burnt voice. Demonic. There’s no other word for it. He intends her harm, Everett can feel it.

  After he and Monahan quit for the day, Everett retrieves the baby from Mrs. Papadopoulos and rents them a new private room, for which he’s gouged more than triple his previous nightly lodgings. That evening, with streetcars rattling the room’s thin windows, it requires hours of rocking and fourteen limericks to convince the child to even lay down her head, which she’s recently started lifting. Once she’s finally out, he transfers her to an ersatz bassinet he’s made on the floor and trudges to his old rooming house, hat pulled low. At the desk, the clerk, a bald man with misaligned eyes, passes him a message.

  “You mind reading it for me, sir?” Everett says, thumbing a shiny nickel onto the desk. “I’ve misplaced my spectacles.”

  The clerk frowns, unfolds the paper, and raises his glasses on a stick:

  Everett, it isn’t safe riding freights or staying in dives like this with a little baby. She isn’t yours and you don’t want her. We just need to talk this through. We want the book AND the child. No need for the law. If you knew me you’d know I won’t let you go. Not ever.