Vital Signs

by John Metcalf

  Oh, no, she’d said, I’m a floater.

  He still wondered what she’d meant and why he kept on thinking about it.

  Despite the air conditioning, the cheques were wilting in his hand. Beside him, a rack containing deposit slips, brochures about Registered Retirement Savings Plans, copies of that month’s Royal Bank Letter entitled: Regarder la mort en face. The next shuffle forward brought him round the curve of the furry blue rope and closer to the counter; he stood watching the outline of panties beneath the slacks of the teller who was waiting at the central cage for cash.

  He walked on up Elgin past the National Gallery and the National Arts Centre. Before crossing towards the Château Laurier, he paused to glance in the window of the Snow Goose at the latest display of native Canadian arts, alleged Haida masks, horrible great green lumps of Eskimo soapstone. Not, he thought, with sudden heaviness of spirit, that he could afford to feel superior; they were no worse than Indonesian frogs with hats on. He decided to phone the Snow Goose later to see if they’d like a nice grizzly bear; just the thing to pull in tourists and their kids. Stick it out on the sidewalk opposite the London double-decker tour bus.

  He had promised Jennifer and Alan to bring home those plastic things from the bank for saving a dollar’s worth of pennies and had forgotten; he had promised Jennifer bubblegum with Star Wars cards inside. If he could have raised ten thousand dollars, he’d have bid the night before in Montreal on all the Sepik River lots, bid against Mendelson, and against Lang, Klein, too. What a delight it would have been to have mounted a genuine exhibition, authentic tribal art, masks, and boards made long before the luxury boats started pulling into the river-bank villages to disgorge the corruption of tourists. But the whole game was climbing beyond his reach. He thought of the dinner he’d had on rue St. Denis before the auction, a street completely changed since his day. And walking along Sussex Drive towards the Uhuru, he found himself thinking for some reason or other of a rented room in a house on rue Jeanne Mance.

  Strange that after all those years he could still see the room so clearly after he’d been in it only once; strange, too, that he had only the vaguest memory of the girl. He could see the frayed central hole in the threadbare carpet, the paperbacks on the mantelpiece between two white-painted bricks, empty Chianti bottles strung above, the mobile, tarot cards, Braque poster of white dove, vast glass carboy containing moulting bulrushes, the brass incense-burner in the shape of a Chinese lion . . .

  He remembered how intensely excited he’d been returning with her to her room after an afternoon drinking Québerac—that was what he remembered so clearly. The intensity of it. It wasn’t simply sexual anticipation but something more complicated, more difficult to think about, mysterious. A room—bed, hotplate, washbasin—was so much more private than a house. Being in a stranger’s room, a room that contained the bed in which she slept, a room which was furnished with the things that were hers, entering into that privacy was somehow at that moment more intimate, more exciting than nakedness. There had been a pink facecloth, he remembered, draped over the edge of the basin.

  It was the revealing, the unfolding, the unfurling, the opening up of what had been closed that excited him, the sense that this intimacy—difficult to put this into words, difficult to think of the feeling—the sense that this intimacy could draw him into a new . . . well, current suggested the sort of thing, a current that would carry him out from the mundane shores, sweep him into the violent invigoration of white water.

  So far as he could remember, the intimacy had dissipated in suddenly awkward talk. Of what, he wondered?

  Some comically pretentious nonsense.

  The wisdom of the Upanishads, perhaps.

  In those now-distant undergraduate days at Sir George Williams University, he’d spent much of his time with the arty crowd in the various cafés on Stanley Street, the Riviera, Carmen’s, The Pam-Pam, The Seven Steps, Marvin’s Kitchen. Sitting for hours over a single cup of coffee, he’d yearned after the arty girls, the girls who sat with guys who’d published poems. Arty girls then had all looked much the same. Hair very long and straight with bangs, faces mask-like with makeup, eyes rimmed with black. Black turtlenecks, black skirts, black mesh stockings. The way they all looked, it all had something to do with Paris, Sartre, existentialism, and a movie starring Juliette Greco. He wondered if Sartre was still alive and hoped not.

  And the artiest ones of all, he remembered, wore green nail polish and white lipstick. How had he forgotten that? That lipstick. And ballet slippers. And handmade silver earrings. And carried huge handmade leather bags. And they’d all looked anorexic and temptingly unwholesome, as though they’d lend themselves, impassively, to amazing sexual practices. Not that Polly Ongle was at all like those girls. But there was something of all that about her. Something of that sort of stance. She was, he suspected, the same sort of girl.

  * * *

  “Tabarouette!” said the waitress, depositing on their table a bowl of potato chips. “Me, I’m scared of lightning!”

  Turning the glass vase-thing upside down, she lighted the candle inside.

  “Cider?” she repeated.

  “No?” said Paul.

  “Oh, well,” said Norma, “I’ll have what-do-you-call-it that goes cloudy.”

  “Pernod,” said Paul. “And a Scotch, please.”

  “Ice?”

  “They feel squishy,” said Norma, stretching out her leg.

  “Umm?”

  “My sandals.”

  He looked down at her foot.

  It was Happy Hour in the bar on the main floor of the Château Laurier. People drifting in were pantomiming distress and amazement as they eased out of sodden raincoats or used the edge of their hands to wipe rain from eyebrows and foreheads. Men were seating themselves gingerly and loosening from their knees the cling of damp cloth; women were being casually dangerous with umbrellas. Necks were being mopped with handkerchiefs; spectacles were being polished with bar napkins.

  “Well,” said Paul, raising his glass, “home and dry. Cheers! Thank God for that old umbrella of yours.”

  She smiled and made a small gesture with her glass.

  “What’s this obsession you seem to have with cider?” said Paul.

  “It’s not an obsession. It’s just that it doesn’t have chemicals in it, that’s all. It’s just straight juice.”

  “Well, not quite straight,” said Paul.

  She shrugged.

  “But I don’t use alcohol much at all usually.”

  “Not like this stuff,” said Paul, tapping his glass. “It’s supposed to be full of some sort of stuff—estrogen?—no, a word something like that. Esters, is it? Some sort of oils. Begins with ‘e,’ I think. Anyway, supposed to be very bad for you.”

  “You shouldn’t do things that are bad for you.”

  “Well, that sounds a bit boring,” said Paul, smiling. “Now and again, things that are bad for you are fun.”

  Norma stirred her ice cubes with the plastic paddle.

  “No?” said Paul.

  “Maybe,” she said.

  Small talk, chat, flirtation, all were uphill work with Polly. Silence didn’t seem to bother her one bit. She was usually rather taciturn and—not grumpy exactly—but perhaps “contained” was the word. Or “detached.” She gave the impression of being always an observer. She reminded him uncomfortably at times of Jennifer. Once, when Jennifer had been four or five, he’d taken her to a zoo where she’d considered the llama over which he was enthusing and had said,

  “What’s it for?”

  He was painfully aware that he seemed unable to strike the right tone, that his chatter sounded less flirtatious than avuncular. The whole situation made him feel like an actor in a hopeless play, plot implausible, dialogue stilted.

  He glanced again at the dangling sandal. They were rather elegant. They w
ere what he thought were called buffalo thongs, just a sort of leather ring which held the sandal on the foot by fitting round the big toe. Her toes were long and distinctly spaced, nor cramped together, the little toes not at all deformed by shoes. He wondered how that was possible. They were almost like fingers. He felt an urge to trace their length with his fingertip.

  “Pardon?”

  “I said, ‘Do you know where the washroom is?’”

  He watched her threading her way through the tables. The black harem pants were loose and baggy but in places, as she moved, very much not loose and baggy. All through the hot, close afternoon he’d been disturbingly aware of them. Her slimness, the tautness of her body, her carriage, she moved like a dancer; the silk scarf knotted round her waist as a belt added to the suggestion. In the patches of spotlighting, the white cotton top glowed blue and purple.

  It was irritating him that he couldn’t remember the name of the carcinogens that, according to Peter, Scotch was supposed to contain. He had, God knew, heard it often enough. And Polly’s saying that she didn’t “use alcohol much” also reminded him of Peter; it was an expression always used by Peter in some such formula as, “Older people use alcohol but young people prefer soft drugs”; the expression irritated him on a variety of fronts.

  At the next table, the two ghastly government women were still trading acronyms. The older, dykey woman’s voice was husky. In front of her was a large, round tin of tobacco and a packet of Zig-Zag cigarette papers. Her lipstick was thickly applied and shiny; when her face was in the light from the candle, he could see a faint smear of lipstick on her front teeth. Her bechained spectacles hung down the front of her beige linen suit. She kept relighting the cigarettes with a flaring Zippo lighter. As she talked, she was scattering ashes. Paul thought that, in some way he didn’t understand, she was being cruel; there was something in the conversation of cat and mouse. The younger, softer-looking woman had fluffy hair and was wearing a blazer; the brass buttons glinted.

  Oh, I do so agree! said the older, rapacious one. David’s a heaven guy. Just a heaven guy! But there’s the problem of Beth, baby girl.

  But Beth’s just not a mainstream person.

  Well, yes, darling, agreed—and therewith you win the coconut.

  Paul signalled to the waitress for another round.

  What Beth needs, baby girl, is a vote of confidence from life.

  But I thought there was consensus . . .

  Darling, said the other, sticking out the tip of her tongue and picking off a shred of tobacco and then leaning forward and placing her hands over the younger woman’s hand, let’s approach what one might call the nub.

  He saw Polly coming back through the tables and stood up.

  “Look, I’ll just be a minute,” he said. “Got to go myself.”

  Once out of the bar, he wandered into the hotel lobby in search of a public phone. He was directed past a florist’s and a showcase exhibiting portraits by Karsh. He found that he’d travelled more or less in a circle and had ended up at the rear entrance to the bar. The phones were between the two washrooms. As he was looking for a quarter, a woman in an elaborate bridal outfit came out of the washroom. Two other brides followed her. Pinned on the bosoms of the brides were buttons the size of saucers which said: Happy Occasions Inc.

  “Honey?” an American man was saying. “Yeah. I’m in Ottawa. It’s the capital of Canada. We’re coming into Kennedy tomorrow in the morning.”

  Paul listened to the ringing.

  “Martha? Everything okay?

  “I’m in the Château Laurier having a drink.

  “No, just a bit damp. I managed to get in here before it really got started. And you? Did you get a cab?

  “What? Can’t hear you. It’s all crackly and your voice keeps fading.

  “Well, that’s what I’m phoning for. I’m not sure exactly when. I’ve arranged to meet a guy here to look at some photographs of carvings he wants to sell. If he ever shows up in all this. So I don’t really know.

  “No, no. You go ahead. Eat with the kids and if I get back I’ll get a sandwich or something. And if I’m going to be late, I’ll probably get something out somewhere. Okay? So don’t worry about it.”

  “No. There’s no reason why I should be. But if I am, don’t wait up for me. But I won’t be.

  “Don’t forget tomorrow’s what?

  “Garbage day! Thought you said ‘Harbour.’ Yes, I’ll put it out when I get back.

  “The meat tray in the fridge—I got that bit.

  “Salami. Good.

  “What do you mean?

  “How can I be careful? Please, for God’s sake, don’t start one of these. If lightning is going to strike me, Martha, what can I do to prevent it?

  “Yes, okay. I promise not to go near metal street lights.

  “No. I’m not just saying it.

  “Love you, too. Bye.

  “What?

  “Alan lost his what?

  “I’ll speak to him tomorrow.

  “Bye.

  “Yes.

  “Bye.’”

  He wandered back into the hotel lobby and pushed out through the revolving doors. The wind was chilly. He stood under the noisy canvas awning. The rain was still lashing down with a violence that reminded him of the rains in Africa; it was as if the asphalt of Wellington Street had quickened into a broad river. He stood watching the rain pock the surface of the sheets and rills of water flooding down towards Rideau Street.

  Just off the main lobby near the entrance to the bar were the windows of an art gallery. He stood there. It had recently changed hands. The stock, however, looked much the same. He stood staring at all the landscapes, the still lifes, the flowers in vases, the paintings of decrepit barns and split-rail fences, the paintings involving horses, maple syrup, logs.

  He could have told her he was sitting out the storm with Norma without bothering her in the slightest. There was no reason not to have told her. Amazingly, she seemed to think of Norma as a pleasant-enough girl who was useful in the gallery; she’d once said that Norma would look so much more presentable if only she’d do something about her hair.

  He stared at a large, gilt-framed picture, which was exhibited on an easel; lumpy purple mountains, the central lake, the maple trees. It could as easily have been the other view: lumpy mountains, central lake, foreground rock, jack pines. It was all the same, the same sort of thing as Eskimo carvings and frogs from Suriname with hats on.

  After the Makonde, the Shona stone.

  As he walked through the archway and into the bar, he saw that the two government women had left, and felt an odd sense of relief.

  “It’s still absolutely pouring out there,” he said, sitting down and hitching the chair closer. “And the sky’s still black with it. Hasn’t that waitress come yet?”

  “Paul?”

  “What?”

  “You know, Paul,” she said, leaning forward to rest her arms on the table, “I’ve been thinking.”

  “What about?”

  “You really ought to take better care of yourself.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Well, you can’t just ignore it.”

  “Ignore what?”

  “The trouble you had with your . . . your chest. Those pains.”

  “You’re losing me. How did we get onto this?”

  “What we were saying before. About cider. About drinking things that can damage your body.”

  “Oh! I see. Well, what are you trying to suggest? That I drink too much?”

  “No, of course not. But . . .”

  “Sound,” said Paul, opening his jacket and tapping himself over the heart, “as a bell. Lively as a two-year-old. Chirpy as a cricket. Fit as the proverbial fiddle.”

  “Don’t joke about it!”

  He stared at her acr
oss the table, at her eyes, the long eyelashes somehow accentuated by the glow from the candle below. The candlelight was picking up auburn tints in the sweep of her black hair.

  “What’s all this great seriousness in aid of, Norma?”

  “You don’t have to treat me as if I’m a child!”

  “I wasn’t aware that I was. I don’t. But what I mean is, what brought all this on? I mean, so suddenly?”

  “No reason.”

  “Well, what are you so annoyed about?”

  She shrugged.

  “Norma?”

  She concentrated on stirring about the remains of her ice cubes.

  “Hello?”

  “It shouldn’t take a genius,” she said, “to work it out.”

  The waitress placed the Pernod and Scotch on the brown napkins, glanced through the checks on her tray, propped their check between the bowl of chips and a triangular cardboard sign advertising a specialty of the house, a drink involving rye whisky, piña colada mix, orange juice, egg whites, and a maraschino cherry.

  It was called Sunset Flamenco.

  He couldn’t think of anything to say.

  Norma was sitting back in her chair, head bent, plying the plastic paddle. He stared at the white line of the part in her hair.

  He felt—he wasn’t sure what he felt. It was many, many years since he’d played verbal footsie with girls in bars. If she’d meant what he thought she’d meant, the situation seemed to be opening up possibilities he’d tried to stop himself thinking about for months. But it was entirely possible that she hadn’t meant to imply what he thought she’d meant to imply, that the inferences he’d drawn were influenced by desire, by watching all afternoon the folds and furrows of the matte-black material of those harem pants . . . but it certainly felt as if the inference he’d drawn was what had been intended.

  He drained his glass of Scotch.

  ‘’Ah . . .” he said, “you know what I think would be a good idea? If it’s all right with you, I mean. If you haven’t got anything planned. Norma?”