by André Alexis
– Well, he’d said, your Dostoevsky idea about treating convicts like human beings was pretty good. Everyone in Cabinet understood, but a quarter billion is just too much, “Djustawhiskey” or not. It looks like most of the buildings will have to go, if we want to keep a least some of these plans. I don’t have to tell you how people get when big money is involved.
Though Franklin had expected a scaling back, he’d been struck by Rundstedt’s almost casual tone. Had Rundstedt given up on the penitentiary? Was Cabinet on the verge of shutting it down? Or was it that Rundstedt had begun the long process of campaigning and had simply distanced himself from MacKenzie Bowell?
– I’ll have to talk to the architect, said Franklin.
– Yes, answered Rundstedt. You talk to him, but make sure you tell him there’s no way it’s going to go forward like this.
As if the idea had just occurred to him, Franklin said
– Maybe we could use other material.
– It’s a thought, said Rundstedt, but I don’t think that’ll make the kind of difference we need. Talk it through with your architect and let me know what he thinks. I don’t have a lot of time to go over details, just now, but since Brian put me in charge of this himself, I feel personally responsible to bring it in under $100 million. Say, around $80 million…
– But, said Franklin, if it’s just another pen…
Rundstedt had put his hand on Franklin’s shoulder and said
– I know, I know
and turned away, already on to something else, preoccupied as usual.
But there it was: nothing approaching Reinhart’s designs could be built for $80 million. MacKenzie Bowell Federal Penitentiary would not be anything like Alba. And yet, though the moment had come as a shock, Franklin had not panicked. The first thing he’d done was arrange a meeting with Reinhart and he’d begun furiously thinking what it was the penitentiary could lose while retaining its essence. If it were not to be the Mona Lisa, might it be a Venus de Milo, armless but serene?
As it happened, Reinhart seemed not to care. When they spoke, it was almost as if he were a different man. Reinhart referred to the “architect” (that is, himself) in the third person. He understood that a proper architect might be horrified by this dissection of his art by philistines. He understood that a vision realized is part of the usual process, for architects, but he himself had been satisfied by his drawings, by the lines he’d made on paper. And he had moved on. As in:
– The man who drew these plans isn’t here any more, Frank. And I don’t feel like his agent. I don’t feel a connection. I’m not surprised the government’s too chintzy to go ahead, but you do what you think’s right, okay? I’ve got complete confidence in you.
His words should have been bracing but, somehow, they weren’t. It was as if, in abandoning ship, the captain had hastily given Franklin his cap and formal jacket, transferring authority just before the ship went down. Still, it meant Franklin would have, briefly, a certain leverage vis-à-vis changes to the design, not much, enough to put forward his suggestions as to which buildings in the complex ought to be dropped, which kept, suggestions, also, as to materials. It was important, for Franklin, that marble be used, enough to allow its influence to be felt, its cool and beauty.
So, Reinhart’s abdication was, to a minute extent, promising. On the other hand, Franklin would now have to get Rundstedt’s attention. Formerly, that would not have been a daunting task. It had become daunting.
Lately, Franklin was anxious and often sleepless. It took all his concentration to maintain equanimity, to perform his duties conscientiously. To say the least, the image of St. Pierre and Mickleson invading a home and brutalizing those within was not conducive to poise, and neither was the thought of Edward’s fear and the chaos it might lead to.
{43}
A SUDDEN AND UNEXPECTED DOWNFALL
At the moment Edward and Franklin sat down to discuss St. Pierre and Mickleson (noon), Rundstedt was working hard in Vancouver, preparing for an election and trying to decide how best to report to Cabinet on the costs of MacKenzie Bowell. He had, in spite of his conversation with Franklin, decided to deal with the matter himself, and he’d already chosen, without Franklin’s counsel, the buildings that would stand. More than that, he’d just received a report from Bush, Boshari, and Hawes, the quantity surveyors, on the price of what was, now, a rather lovely medium-security prison in the Gatineaus: $60 million. In view of how much the Liberals had spent on museums of Art and Civilization, no one could object to that.
Rundstedt’s four years in Cabinet had changed him. He was more exacting (of himself), more forgiving (of others) and, lately, more absorbed by work. His closest friends thought him deeper and more conscientious, and though he was also a little more preoccupied, they approved of the change and, at times, complimented themselves on their premonitions of his greatness.
His wife, Edwina, also heard the talk about him and felt not pride exactly, but satisfaction that the world now knew the worth of a man she had loved and admired from the moment they met. There was something “off” about him, though. His public self had never entered their home before. She could, without exaggeration, have said she did not know well the politician who shared her husband’s name. Albert Rundstedt MP was a federal politician who represented her riding (rather well), shook hands with anyone who extended their own, believed in the values they shared: home, family, education, protection from lawlessness, protection from money-grubbing Liberals who, you could be certain, were rooting around the stinkpit for another Pierre Trudeau.
Lately, however, it was Albert Rundstedt MP who walked under the lintel, Rundstedt MP who, in his crowd-oiling voice, praised her cooking, her housekeeping, and, once, her body as she undressed. She’d been naked save for a brassiere and she had slapped his face, not playfully: the first time she’d done anything like that, so surprised had she been that Albert could, even inadvertently, humiliate her that way. Her slap had brought him ’round. He behaved as if his words had all been larks, but he’d returned to her. The incident was, perhaps, more resonant for her than it was for him. It made her wonder if there were something deeper at work, and wonder if she was right to let him go off on his own: months in Ottawa while she took care of home and children in Calgary. Still, he had returned to her, and it was as if they had passed through a mirage together, although, from then on, she could not fully share in the joy Rundstedt’s success brought his friends, his constituents, his children even.
Rundstedt had felt slightly embarrassed at Edwina’s slap. He had laughed at their mutual discomfort and downplayed the misunderstanding between them. He himself would not have said he “returned” to Edwina thereafter. He was more attentive to her, yes, but that was in part because, despite himself, he often thought (and not happily) about the woman who was now constantly on his mind: Gudrun Lindemann.
The peculiar relationship of Albert Rundstedt and Gudrun Lindemann had begun innocently, in Paris, had continued innocently, with an exchange of presents, and, until Osaka, was still innocent, though it might, in a certain light, have been taken for a more carnal relationship.
But wait…
After Paris, Ms. Lindemann haunted Rundstedt’s imagination. (And how suitable the cliché: she seemed to move about the world with him, sitting in this chair or that before he did, parting the curtains of a room, turning down the bedclothes in an anonymous suite.) They had been chaste and intimate, a situation both wonderful and agonizing, for Rundstedt. Wonderful, because it involved no physical contact. It’s true he had seen Gudrun in a state of undress, but they had had nothing but the most perfunctory touching: greeting, farewell. Nor did he take her lack of clothing for provocation. It seemed to him, simply, that Europeans had different standards of modesty. Had his family, the von Rundstedts, not moved from Deutschland generations ago, he would not have noticed Gudrun’s lack of clothes. In other words, Rundstedt could be
with Gudrun without the twin oppressions: copulation and frottage. (They were oppressive, because he could not keep himself from desiring them. So it was: the more chaste and innocent their intimacy, the more he thought of her in carnal terms. And that, of course, was the source of his agony.)
Their second meeting, in Osaka, was like the first, though there were severe and unfortunate variations.
He and Gudrun had not spoken or corresponded at any length, so she could not have known he was to attend a conference in Osaka. He himself had not known until rather late. The justice minister had declined to attend, but it was a formal invitation. Someone with some symbolic weight had to attend, and so Rundstedt attended.
It was a conference on international law.
He arrived the day before he was to give a commencement address.
He delivered a short address, dry as toast.
He departed two days later.
It was a bland and formal duty undertaken by Rundstedt, though it meant time away from his campaign, because Rundstedt’s seat was certain. He did not need to campaign as vigorously as others. His flight left on a Wednesday and arrived on Friday, with Thursday disappearing somewhere west of Hawaii. The flight left him so tired, he booked into his room at five in the afternoon and slept until eight when, too tired for anything else, he ate at the bar of the Kitahachi, his hotel.
The Kitahachi was anonymously “Western.” Its chief virtues seemed to be a relative absence of occupants and a relative proximity to the university where he would speak. There was, then, no compelling reason for Gudrun Lindemann to have chosen the Kitahachi. And yet, she had.
Rundstedt walked into the bar, which was brightly lit in spots, dim in others: lurid light and dark shadow. It was meant to be both convivial and intimate, no doubt. There was music playing that sounded like hymns shot through with electric somethings. The place was not busy. He sat at the bar, ordered a rather expensive cocktail with lychee, and did not look up until he had finished eating what tasted like a North American version of Japanese food. When he did look up, he discovered he had been sitting beside Gudrun Lindemann for some time.
Difficult to describe the emotion. He felt her presence before he saw her. He turned to look for the hostess, noticed how familiar the woman beside him seemed, turned away, turned back (she looking straight ahead) convinced it was Gudrun, turned away (aware of how ridiculous the very idea, though…), turned back (she now looking at him, smiling quizzically, not in recognition…), and said
– Miss, uh…Lindemann?
And, now, she was startled.
– Excuse me, ya?
Bewildered to find herself next to…
– Herr Rundstedt? Liebe Gott. Was tunen sie hier?
And again
– What do you here?
as if forgetting her English in the turbulence of their encounter.
– I came to lecture at the university, said Rundstedt.
They embraced, turning towards each other while sitting on bar stools that did not swivel. There was, for Rundstedt, a pleasure in recognition, a tincture of home in this place so far from it. Gudrun was not from home, except in the limited sense that Europe, being closer to Canada, was “home” when he was in the Far East. Yet, he associated her, instinctively, with the familiar, with that which belonged to him. What Gudrun felt, beside surprise, was difficult to make out. She did not seem unhappy to see him, but he got the impression she blamed him for this intrusion into her private life. Perhaps she felt unlovely. Her hair was so short, it was as if she had been brush cut. She was thinner than when he had seen her last, and he supposed that her illness had made its way to some deeper place.
Well, all things come to an end, he thought. We must all die.
– Are you travelling through Japan? he asked.
– Yes, she answered. I will go to China after.
– China, eh? That sounds interesting.
(Now, why would anyone want to go to China? he wondered.)
– You’re going to Hong Kong? he asked.
– Yes. Hong Kong and then Kowloon.
There was, then, an awkwardness between them. The bond that surprise had created loosened. Who was this woman, after all?
He was tired. He wanted to sleep.
– Well, said Rundstedt, it is late.
– Yes, said Gudrun. Good night, Herr Rundstedt.
(It gave him an indefinable but intense pleasure to hear his name spoken as she did, spoken as if he were his great-great grandfather.)
– Good night, he said.
Rundstedt was in bed, having perused his itinerary for the following day, and he was on the verge of sleep when it occurred to him how improbable it was to have met Gudrun in this place (Osaka). It was so improbable it seemed like a sinister design, and he felt a momentary panic. He was in the midst of something; he was sure of it.
Yet, life was made of these serendipitous encounters. His grandfather had, at a country fair, vomited on a duck that belonged to the farmer who would, weeks later, introduce him to his future bride. His father had, in the Second World War, been taken prisoner by the man who, after the war, bought the house next to theirs in Calgary: Mr. Reineke. He himself had, as a boy, saved from drowning the boy who would, years later, as a man, save his (Rundstedt’s) son’s life.
What if this? What if that?
It was all God’s doing, part of a design it was not ours to fully see. Better to allow these moments to run their course. It might take years before their significance were known. Still, it was sad that they had not had occasion to speak, he and Gudrun. There was something about her, especially here (in his hotel room) and now (on the verge of sleep). And, convinced he would not see Gudrun again, he allowed himself to feel disappointment.
The following day, Rundstedt was shepherded through his duties. He was met in the morning by a well-dressed young man who, deferentially, guided him to the stations he was to visit, most of them at Osaka University. Though he was politely greeted, politely guided, and carefully supervised, Rundstedt had the impression it was resentfully done. The trip itself was something of a mild rebuke: second-class hotel, polite but cool guidance, and, after he had delivered the address, complete indifference. Perhaps, as he was not the man they wanted, his hosts had been offended. Perhaps, there was some dereliction of duty or confusion, on the part of his hosts. In any case, once his address had been given, his duties fulfilled, he was left to his own resources until his flight home.
Now, Rundstedt’s resources were fine, but his imagination was a little stunted where Osaka was concerned. There was nothing he wanted to see, nowhere he wanted to go. He did not speak Japanese, so the theatre did not interest him. He was not a drinking man, and he was not wantonly sociable. That left little for him to do save what he actually did: read (W.P. Kinsella), call campaign headquarters (Calgary), call home, eat, sleep, wander around the blocks closest to the hotel (cautiously, so as not to get lost).
There was the first day gone.
That night, he went to a restaurant called Painappuru, sat alone at a table for six, and was, as he considered ordering a dish that resembled fried chicken, accosted by Gudrun, who, as if they had made this engagement long before, sat in the chair beside his and said
– I think you are pursuing me, Mr. Rundstedt.
Because he was grateful for company, and because this second encounter was not as extraordinary, Rundstedt smiled and answered
– Miss Lindemann.
And invited her to dine with him.
She was a cultured woman. She had, she said, mastered only a basic Japanese, but she seemed to know the country, its theatre, its food. She pointed out that Rundstedt had chosen a wonderful restaurant. She congratulated him and, with his permission, she ordered for them both, taking pleasure in the sounds of the language, pleasing their waitress with the peculiar cadence of her Japanese.
yaki-nasu (broiled eggplant?)
kinpira-gobo (what exactly is burdock?)
oden (fried bean curd? sardine dumplings? who knew?)
and mochi (you could glue your hand to a plate with mochi).
They talked of food, of theatre, and, after a while, of Gudrun’s failing health. It pained her to admit that, yes, she might not live beyond a year or so. There would be fewer and fewer occasions for her to explore the world as she wanted: on her own. (It was a shame such a lovely and personable woman should be on such intimate terms with her own frontier.) Having encouraged her to speak of her health, Rundstedt felt as if he’d darkened the mood. How thoughtless of him. Here was a woman travelling the world in order to unburden, to lose the darkness, to, what was it, “break the surly bonds of earth”?, and the best he could do was remind her of her ties to this world.
– This was really good, he said, pointing to their meal. Let me pay for it.
– Thank you, no, she answered. It would not be…correct.
How circumspect she was. There was no one around who knew either of them: no one to see him pay for her, no one to see her acquiesce.
– Let me buy you a drink, then.
– Very well, she answered. I will have a…Pink Lady.
– A Pink Lady? You a socialist?
He’d smiled as he said the words, but it was clear she was offended.
– Not at all, she said. I am Green.
She was a member of the Green Party? As he understood it, that was a socialist word for socialist. Well, what of it? As far as he knew, half the Germans were fascist; the other half socialist, and as Edwina was Jewish, he knew which side he preferred.
– Let’s go somewhere else, he said. Is there a bar nearby?
– Yes, certainly, she answered. I know of one.
Ms. Lindemann’s choice was unusual. It was a French brasserie called My Cosey Corner Girl, and it seemed to be a strip club. No, it didn’t seem to be a strip club. It was exactly that. As they entered the smoke-filled room, there were four women on stage, dressed as English schoolgirls, dancing what seemed to be a combination of jig, cake-walk, and maxixe.