“Everyone’s out,” she said, coloring deeply for no reason he cared to know. “Anne is playing tennis. I’m not keen … so … Nanette, well, I don’t know where she is. She didn’t say. Mrs. Moser went to visit the bees in case the thunder frightened them. She tells them everything. When Mr. Moser died she told the bees. She told them you were coming, and she’s told them she is moving your things out of the house and into Mr. Moser’s garden pavilion, and that you are his … his …” Unfolding her arms, stooping, she clutched at grass, as though weeding; she straightened up, she took courage, and announced, “You are Mr. Moser’s spiritual heir.” He was not listening to her. “If you don’t tell the bees everything, Mrs. Moser says, they go away. But my mother,” she added urgently, “says this is nonsense.”
Like all English voices, hers sounded to him underdeveloped. He stared down at the cardigan, drooping and empty-armed, at the tight belt and bulging seat of what he supposed was a dainty frock. He had avoided one sort of Canadian girl all his life, and here was the pure, the original mold. He asked, “Did you know Adrien Moser?” It seemed impossible.
“Oh goodness, yes. This is the fourth time I’ve been here.” She was gasping, as if he had splashed her with seawater. “I’ve been here a summer, and a Christmas, and an Easter, and this summer. Of course, he’s not here now, is he?” If only Ramsay would say, “He must have been charming” – something like that. She pretended he had: “Oh he was charming! He used to do so many kind things. Once he offered to buy me a bicycle. I refused, of course. But imagine! He’d hardly known me five minutes then.” Chewing on grass, airy and worldly now, she said, “I’ve been wondering.… No one’s told me. Are you a composer?”
“I’m studying with Jekel in Berlin.” And I am his best and strongest pupil, and if you knew anything you would know that, his mind continued. He had heard, for years, “Are you really only twelve? … only sixteen?” The voices had stopped; no one is ever likely to say, “Are you really only twenty?”
“Don’t you want a chair?” said Peggy, wiping the seat of one with her cardigan sleeve. “You’re not supposed to stand too long. I’ve heard … there’s something wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong. I was in a smash-up about two years ago, that’s all. This girl was driving,” he said. “It wasn’t even her own car. There was all hell with the insurance. No one was killed.”
“Oh, good.” Having offered Moser’s kindness, and had news of Ramsay’s health, Peggy said, “Do you like Switzerland?” But she had lost him. Katharine Moser, with her cat in attendance, came toward them, smiling. The shadows that bent over her hair were cast by trees whose bark was like the skin of a snake. He had imagined another face for her; until a few days ago, he had known her only in letters. He had given her soft hair streaked with white, and humorous, intelligent eyes. His idea of a great man’s wife was very near a good hospital nurse. Even now, when he thought, I am in Moser’s house, he was grateful to the intelligent hospital nurse, who did not exist; at least she was not Katharine. Her eyes were green, uptilted. The straight parting in her hair was coquetry, to show how perfectly proportioned was her face. The only flaws he had seen were the shape of her nose, slightly bulbous at the tip, and the too straight body, which was a column for the fine head. The bees’ scent, which clung to her hands and dress, was like incense. She was impressive, beautiful, fragrant, and until she lifted her arm to point to the pavilion where he would now sleep, and saw the skin of the arm, palely freckled, spotted, slack, he almost accepted her own idea of herself, which was that she was guileless, a child bride, touchingly young.
“I wanted to know you before I put you in the pavilion. You do understand why? It mustn’t be a museum, but I want it kept alive just by people he liked, or might have loved. It’s furnished with – What is it, Peggy?” The smitten girl was following them across the grass. Katharine watched Peggy Boon skip off (pretending joy) and become excluded. “That girl is having a rotten time. My daughter is so rude,” she said, and sighed, and forgot all about it. “Now, Moser’s bed and his tiled stove came from the curé’s room in a château. I bought them at an auction.”
He ducked his head to enter the pavilion. The first thing he saw was the piano, small and gaily colored, looking like the piano sometimes given a little girl for her first lessons. He could not see the name of the maker, which had been covered over with paint.
“Those engravings belonged to a fervent German monarchist who collected caricatures of the new rich, unaware that he was mocking himself. Moser liked objects that came from rich houses, providing they looked poor. He always thought he might die of hunger any day. He saved screws and tacks and elastic bands – you’ll find boxes full of rubbish, all labelled. Moser told me that the walls of his family’s house were covered with rugs they would not put on the floor, and that there were sheets over the rugs to protect them from light. I hope you will like your bed.”
The bed was carved and bore a coat of arms and an angel’s head. The angel had a squint; Ramsay could not tell if it was looking reproachfully to Heaven or out of the window. The pavilion had been prepared in secret, while Ramsay was down in Montreux at a movie. He saw roses, a reading lamp, and then he saw the last photograph of the old man. The old man sat on a bench, in sunlight, holding a scarf. Katharine stood with one hand on his shoulder. Moser’s eyes were wild and fixed.
“This is a great picture,” he said, taking it up. “It was in the papers when he died. Someone in Berlin said it looked like a famous picture of Freud going into exile.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that. Moser was never in exile. He died in his native country.” She shifted ornaments on the washstand. A shell porcelain soap dish was moved from the extreme left to the far right. The vase of roses took its place. “Now, there are things you can look at, if you want to. Testimonials. All the obituaries. Boxes of caramels – I found them after his last stroke. He loved them, but wasn’t allowed to have any. When we found the empty boxes I knew he’d been eating on the quiet. I’ve kept them – I don’t know why. This one wasn’t opened.” When she spoke of something she touched it. When she finished speaking she touched Ramsay’s arm.
“Here’s what they’ll find after me,” he said, and tumbled out of his pockets the marbles, the Yo-yo, and the sponge ball that were part of the reëducation of his injured hands. He was arrogant, he never doubted; it was a joke only in part. When Douglas Ramsay died, his Yo-yo and the plastic marbles would be placed on a shelf and labelled and dated, and dusted every day. He had never had parents; there was nothing behind him, nothing to come; the first plant life on earth had never existed; the cities would be reduced to mossy boulders; he would never have children; he would be mourned nevertheless. The curé’s bed, Moser’s bed, was Ramsay’s bed. “How did he sleep in it?” they would say. “He was so big, and the bed is so small!”
The first night Ramsay spent in the pavilion a large moth brushed against his face. He knew it would not bite or sting, but its touch was pure horror, and his reaction uncontrolled. The moth was paper-white until it blundered against the pillow, and then he saw it was cream. Indigo eyes were painted upon its wings. He shot XEX out of the blue can Katharine had left for mosquito-killing. The battle the moth put up for its life now frightened him witless. It flapped its way under the bed. The frantic wings were louder than his heart. During the fight, scores of incidental casualties – gnats, midges, spiders, flies – dropped from the ceiling. He was afraid to open the window or the glass doors in case any more creatures came in, and he lay in the poisoned room blowing his nose all night long. He was on a mattress of straw that was just slightly too short. He was covered with tons of eiderdown. In his mind he had an image of his mended bones beginning to slip. If he got up now, he would not be able to stand. He could see, in moonlight, the paved terrace and the chair that had been the old man’s. The pavilion was like another beehive, and the old man had been sent here, with a curé’s bed and a doll’s piano, and told something: “You
will be alone in eternity.” “Don’t eat sweets.” “If you think you are dying, ring that bell.”
At a quarter to six the sunlight on the wall made a stately shadow of the roses. The sun was smaller than a marble. Hills and trees received its light at an angle that made them a single spongy substance. Birds were shrieking. Ramsay pulled the eiderdown up to his eyes, which left his feet bare. When he woke up two hours after this, he took inventory of the roses; there were four yellow, two pale pink, and two garnet, which were dying. These were probably sensitive – like him – to XEX. He had nothing better to do than count by color; he was in the grip of believing that he would fail, that he was ungifted, that his crushed body would betray him, and that the years of his life – fifteen out of twenty – involved with music were a waste. He had a premonition that he would be the victim of an inherited fault. His father should help him now. His father had willed his existence: he existed in his father’s mind from the moment his father knew he had survived the Dieppe raid in the last war. This extra time, when Ramsay existed in desire, gave him a margin of safety. He felt as if he had been given a present of time; no one else had this. He would outlive everyone. Moser had wanted to be outlived. His father was better than Moser. His father would never have whimpered and breathed through a scarf. His father had a calm, closed, gentle disposition. Patience and endurance distinguished his face, which otherwise might have seemed boyish. If only his father had not depended on love, or on an ideal of what a woman must mean in his life; if only he had not been implicitly certain he could expect only good of women, that love was the constant survivor; if only he had let his wife leave him when she wanted to – but then, what about Ramsay? After his accident, his father had put something in a letter that he was too reserved to say when he came to see Ramsay in the hospital. (Where had he written the letter, and how had he slipped it out to the mail? From his office, probably. Ramsay’s mother, having once tried to cast his father away, was now devoutly jealous – a wastebasket hunter, letter filcher, telephone spy. She thought his father’s pocket diary was written in code.) His father wrote, “I suppose two things have bedevilled our life. First, that I am hideously shy and totally lacking inwardly in any confidence. Second (and this is fact, not fiction), that I’ve puzzled and puzzled over what happened in 1942, over the hundred-million-to-one shot that landed me back among living people when I had joined the dead. The greatest denial of death is to love as I always shall love you and your mother.” Ramsay was too weak and too ill when he read it. He began to cry. They kept feeding him answers when he hadn’t asked for anything. He would never say (though he thought it), “You both make me sick.” There was still the early admiration for his father – not only for his unfaltering conduct but because of a childhood illusion that his father could, for example, look at the engine of a car and see what was wrong with it. And there was more – the conspiracy of two quiet men living in the same house with an intolerant woman.
As the sun above the dying spruce expanded, rose, became too brilliant to see, Ramsay surveyed his father’s life and found it simple. “I love you” or “I don’t love you” seemed puerile. His father had never had to cope – as Ramsay was doing – with doubts and terror and the possibility of lapsed genius. He had not even had to cope with a lot of women – only that one.
Owing to an exchange concluded with the enemy, Ramsay’s father came back to Montreal about a year before the end of the war. He was part of a contingent of sick, wounded, and tubercular prisoners taken at Dieppe. Bonaventure Station received him. This was a dusty building with, on both the front and the back, a wooden porch that is called, in Montreal, a gallery. The paint on the gallery was scrofulous and diseased, and the station itself was the dark dry red that deflates the soul. It was at the foot of a steep hill; streetcars stopped before it after an awkward turn. For a long time the station had been used only for freight traffic, and then the Army took it over entirely. The Army put up cardboard squares with the letters of the alphabet so the next of kin would know where to wait, and assigned dozens of men to make sure the next of kin did not trample one another to death. Ramsay’s mother was twenty-one. She sat under R for Ramsay the better part of a day, with her hands in the pockets of her camel-hair coat and her bare brown-painted legs stuck out straight before her. Ramsay knew, because she had told him, that there were no nylon stockings in those days, and that she wore her coat on a blazing hot day because of a guilty and confused desire to cover up. The men came through a door at the far end of the station, one by one. His father appeared; swung his kit down from his shoulder; stared into the dark. It was like a monkey house by then, with the dirt of the place, and the stopped-up toilets, and the children frightened, and the women screaming. She pushed her way up to him and with her fists in her pockets said, “I don’t want to live with you. I don’t want to be married at all. I couldn’t tell you while you were a prisoner. Anyway the censor might not have let it through.” Some women took their husbands home and lay like corpses so the husbands could see for themselves the marriage was over, but Ramsay’s mother wouldn’t have that. She was fiercely honest and saw nothing the matter with manslaughter. In the slow-motion film of someone else’s memory, Ramsay saw his father there, home, alive, yes, but in a sense never seen or heard of again. His father was Canadian-silent, Canadian-trained, and had to make an intellectual effort not to be proud. He struggled out of the station and walked up the hill beside his wife and sat down with her on a bench in Dominion Square. A Salvation Army band played “Lamb of God, Sheep of God,” which was taken up by a drunk woman sharing their bench. His father was so stunned, so exhausted, he forgot his name. He forgot what he was doing here – forgot the name of his native city. His wife said he would be an invalid all his life. He heard her say she hated sick people, and had married too young. Yet at the end of the afternoon she led him home and turned out the girl whose apartment she shared. Why? Pity, she told Ramsay. No, said his father; it was justice, the power of love. Bonaventure Station was destroyed before Ramsay could see it. Most of the buildings his father and mother looked at when they were deciding his existence or nonexistence stand only on old postcards and in their account of that day. The bed belonged to the girl turned temporarily out of the flat, and no one knows what became of her. She married some man, said Ramsay’s mother, and they left Montreal.
Katharine Moser, companion of genius, generator of talent, dispenser of comfort, and mind reader as well, said, without leading up to it, “I suppose you were close to your mother?” They were in the car, and she was driving him he did not know quite where – to fetch drinking water from a spring, she said.
“I was closer to my father, actually” – this reluctantly. He pinched his lips together, for he had in his pocket one of his mother’s long, self-justifying letters, jumpy with dates: “In January 1946,” “Just after the Korean War,” “When we met at Bonaventure” – that was the important date, when he was not conceived, was not present, was not even deaf, blind, and upside down. She defeated him by making him present on that occasion. He was still her witness, as if she had wanted nothing more than a witness. He saw her belted coat, her curly hair brushing the collar, her straight bare legs. He was afraid of contamination; his father’s sweetness, his gentleness were in the blood. He knew – because many times told – how she had been persuaded. Victory for the man! Yet it was she who stood up abruptly, slung her handbag over her shoulder, and took him home to bed.
“You are so quiet – you live in music, I can see that,” said Katharine, driving. “Do you have” – she sounded eighty-five and senile to him now – “time for girls?”
He had slept badly, and his legs were too long for the Mini-Minor. He edged slowly around so that he was facing her profile and, after the second’s reflection in which he decided not to say, “Mind your own damn business,” he suddenly told her about Sabine. He handed over Sabine, the slut, the innocent, the admirer of her own body, the good-natured, the stupid, the avaricious, the maker and s
eeker of love. The first woman he had spent a whole night with became an anecdote. He said, “Finally, she met an Arab prince. I mean a real one, in skirts. Jewelled dagger. He gave her some crappy bracelets that probably came from Hong Kong. She was excited. Every time you’d see her she’d be trying to write him a letter. But she made an awful mistake. When he left Berlin she said, ‘Well, shalom.’ She thought it was a kind of Middle Eastern ‘Ciao.’ You know what the Arab said? He said, ‘That’s not exactly us.’ ” Ramsay’s laughter was loud.
“And that wiped her out as a wife for you? Her bêtise?”
“I’m not looking for a wife.” He wondered if she knew he was twenty and would have to live for a long time on grants and on the allowance his father gave him.
“Creative men should marry young. It stabilizes them.”
What was she getting at? He looked at her calm profile, at her competent hands. She had the habit of opening and closing her hands as she drove, and slightly lifting her foot, so that the car, for a fraction of time, had to drive itself – though never long enough to take them off the road. He muttered about affinities and someone whose interests, whose mind and background …
“That’s not marriage,” said Katharine impatiently. “You didn’t sleep with Sabine for her mind and background. Moser did his best work after he married me. I brought him back to the country, where he belonged. I made his life calm and easy, and kept him close to nature.”
Owing to a mistake in time, he was having a conversation with a very young girl who was somehow old enough to be his mother.
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