Adam's Peak

by Heather Burt

  Clare nodded. She herself had spent the day considering the possibility of Quebec sovereignty giving her a legitimate reason for going to Vancouver.

  “Well, you should’ve seen my dad. He was happy as Larry, sitting in front of the TV, watching the results seesaw back and forth. You would’ve thought he was watching a big cricket final.” The cowbell rang again. Adam frowned. “God, I hope I’m not boring you. I was wanting to get to know you better, and here I am doing all the talking.”

  Clare shook her head. If she’d been the type of person to say such a thing, she would have told her neighbour that he was perhaps the most interesting person she’d ever spoken with.

  “No, no. It’s fine. I mean, it’s really interesting. So, what do you think was the real reason your father wanted to leave?”

  “Well ...” Adam jutted his jaw back and forth a few times. “I think it was something about Sri Lanka. You know, something older than the war, or more specific or something.” He nodded to himself. “Take his choice to come to Montreal—instead of Toronto, I mean. My dad knew lots of people in Toronto who would’ve helped him get settled, but he refused to go there. My aunt says he would-n’t hear of it. Instead he comes here, where you’re about as likely to find a Sri Lankan as—Well, how many Sri Lankans do you see around here?”

  “Uh ...”

  “Exactly. And when he filled out the immigration papers? He changed the spelling of our name. It used to be two words: Van—Twest. Now it’s just one.” Adam bent down and picked up his helmet. “I know those are just details, but I think they mean something.”

  Taking the helmet to be a cue, Clare opened the dairy case and reached for a carton of eggs. But Adam kept talking.

  “My father grew up on a tea estate.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. His father was the head honcho. I think they were quite well off, by Ceylon standards. Anyway, his sister—my aunt—always tells these fantastic stories, about the fancy parties they went to, the workings of the factory, the servants. It’s great. But if I ask my dad about those days, he just gets edgy and strange.” Adam reached out and took the eggs from Clare. “My guess is he was getting as far away as he could from that whole scene. Not that the political stuff was irrelevant. He really worries about my brother and my aunt. He worries about all of us.” He shrugged and smiled. “It’s kinda stuffy in here. Should we get going?”

  Digesting this sudden glut of information, Clare followed Adam to the checkout, where he placed the eggs on the counter then took out his wallet.

  “Et les deux réglisses aussi,” he said to the grocer, in perfectly adequate French.

  With a start, she realized he was about to pay for her eggs.

  “Oh, no. Wait.” She fished for her money.

  Adam, however, shook his head. “No, let me. Next time Dad and I run out of eggs, I’ll come over and get some from you. We can be real neighbours.” He slid a twenty-dollar bill across the counter, and the wrinkled grocer stabbed a button on his cash register. Clare stared at the “Oui” sticker on the side of the register then glanced back at Adam, putting away his change, and smiled awkwardly.

  Outside, the temperature had continued to rise, and the air smelled of springtime mud and thawing dog shit. As Adam helped her with her chinstrap, Clare studied the dark whiskers peeking out from his light brown cheeks and the flat, dark mole at the base of his throat.

  “I’m thinking of moving to Vancouver,” she blurted, pleased with the remark and the unexpected surge of confidence that prompted it.

  Adam’s eyes widened. “Wow! Big change!”

  “Yeah. But I think I need it. It’ll be good for me.”

  She readied herself to explain, somehow, why such a change would be good for her. Adam seemed, for a few seconds, to be considering what she’d said. Then he nodded.

  “Yeah, I know what you mean. When I was in Vancouver for the Gay Games, I started thinking I could really make a life for myself out there. It’s such a different scene.” He put on his own helmet. “But I don’t know. There’s a lot keeping me here. What about your mom? You’d move that far away from her?”

  It wasn’t at all what she’d expected. It was possibly a criticism, though she wasn’t sure.

  “I haven’t planned anything definite yet. It’s just an idea.”

  “Yeah? Well, keep me posted.”

  They mounted the motorcycle. Adam advanced a few inches with his feet, then he looked back. “I thought I might take a ride up Mount Royal. Would you like to come?”

  Clare stared down at the carton of eggs wedged between the two of them. “I need to get back,” she said. “But thanks.”

  She regretted it, of course. Even before Adam dropped her off at the end of her driveway, she regretted her refusal, but there was no easy way to let him know she’d changed her mind. The parting didn’t seem to be final, however. As she unzipped his jacket, he waved his hand dismissively. “Just hang on to it. I’ll come by for it later,” he said, smiling, then he sped away in the direction of the Boulevard.

  LYING IN BED THAT NIGH, she tried to imagine Adam’s eyes, but their colour had escaped her. She got up and raised the blind, and the bedroom flooded with the glare of the street lamp outside. It was past midnight, and it seemed that in the dead of night, winter had returned to Morgan Hill Road. “Like a patient etherized upon a table,” Clare recited, though she couldn’t remember where the line came from. Across the street, the Vantwests’ house was dark. Adam hadn’t been by yet for the jacket. It hung in Clare’s closet, secret and exotic as the vibrator.

  Wrapped in her bathrobe, she went to the studio and picked up the phone. She’d been trying Emma’s number all evening, getting the answering machine every time. She’d wanted to tell her about the ride, but strangely the desire was waning. She sat on the loveseat with the receiver in her hand until the disconnect signal struck up its panicky alarm, then she hung up. Falling asleep was out of the question, so she crept downstairs, the sound of her steps muffled by the steady respirator-drone of the furnace. She went to the den and turned on the light.

  Her father’s presence here was unmistakable, especially at night. Clare remembered waking regularly as a child to the squeal of the swivel chair, the click of the desk lamp. She didn’t know what her father did in his den in the middle of the night—it never occurred to her to find out—but she imagined that he just sat, and that in those moments of quiet sitting, he was more himself than at any other time.

  From a crammed collection of buckled hardcover volumes on the bookshelf, she extracted Alastair’s atlas. The dried glue of the spine crackled when she opened it. Its pages were lumped together in musty parcels, weathered along their edges, though surprisingly unblemished inside. She turned first to the map of Canada at the front and eyed the distance from Montreal to Vancouver. It was at once too far and not far enough. Searching for her next target, she discovered that the book opened quite naturally to page seventy-two, where, next to the pale pink triangle of India, she found Ceylon. It was a tiny green drop, marked only with the capital city, Colombo, and a few other places. She pictured Rudy Vantwest lecturing to a group of uniformed students in a classroom furnished with teak desks and leather-bound books. Then she looked around at the furnishings of her father’s den—Time-Life books, wall-to-wall carpeting, functional shelves. In this room, her ride on Adam’s motorcycle seemed as distant and unreal as the country represented by that tiny green mark on page seventy-two. As irretrievable as the colour of Adam’s eyes.

  4

  RUDY SAT AT HIS GRANDFATHER’S DESK with a stack of essays and his brother’s letter. The essays, barring Kanda’s, were tedious. Adam’s letter needed a response, but he’d been stalling, grateful that the post office wouldn’t be open for another couple of days. With a determined breath, he slid the thing out of its crumpled envelope and opened it for the hundredth time. It was written in red ink, in a large, loopy script.

  Hey there Rudy,

  Happy Easter big
brother! What will you and Aunty be getting up to for the holiday? One thing I can say for sure is you’ll be eating better than us! As Susie and I discovered at Christmas, we don’t have a freakin’ clue what we’re doing when it comes to Sri Lankan culinary delights. Susie’s pretty ho-hum about it all anyway. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but she and Mark seem to be on the outs again. Yep. Rumour has it he’ll be staying in Toronto for Easter, I think this may be the end of it. But anyway, S. and Z. are supposed to be here Friday night. It should cheer Dad up. Things between me and him have been up and down as usual. I wonder sometimes if I should get a place of my own or maybe even get out of Montreal altogether. Sometimes I think it’d be best for me and Dad both, but as a professional student it’s hard to give up the perks while I’m still working on my thesis. (Don’t worry, I won’t bore you with any more details on that front right now, although I have to say that Dad has developed quite a surprising interest in the post-colonial politics of Ceylon!) Anyway, my financial woes aren’t the real issue re. moving out. The big thing is I wouldn’t want Dad thinking I’ve abandoned him. He hates my “lifestyle” as he calls it, but he loves me. I don’t mean this in a nasty way but I think Dad loves me most, in a way. Just the circumstances, you know. And despite everything, I love him. Me staying here with him and him not kicking me out is the way it gets acknowledged I guess. But I tell ya, it’s murder sometimes. He’s on this thing now where he tells me that if there’s anything he did wrong in the past, could I just forgive him and try to get my life on track. Meaning: “convert” (or at least pretend I’m straight), finish the damn thesis, and get a real job. He gets almost choked up, and I feel so helpless. Sometimes I really do wish I could change for him but it’s not gonna happen. And you know, even if it would have been possible for Dad to somehow influence the way I’d “turn out,” it wouldn’t have made any difference. The way I am has nothing to do with Dad. I’m the way I am because of Mum. I’m sure of it, Rudy. When she died, I became two people, her and me. It’s the reason I feel so connected to her home-land, even though I’ve never been there, and it’s the reason I have this feminine spirit I can’t deny, not even for Dad. I assume other people are born gay or bi because of their genes, but it’s different with me. It’s like my body has two souls. Anyway Rudy, I hope you won’t think I’m turning into some kind of wing-nut. I know my explanation would sound flaky to most people, but it makes perfect sense to me. I just wanted someone to know these things, and you being so far away makes it a bit easier, if you know what I mean. (Can you imagine me trying to tell Dad that my queerness is a tribute to Mum?!?) Anyhow, sorry for getting deep on you. You and Aunty have a happy Easter, okay? Ciao, machan.

  Adam

  P.S. Write to Susie if you get a chance. She’s pretty down in the dumps.

  P.P.S. I love you.

  He wished, in a twisted sort of way, that the letter had been what he’d expected. A resentful clearing of the air would have been easier. He would have understood his part and played it out dutifully. But this letter complicated everything. In a way it was more accusing than the one he’d anticipated. I hold no grudges, he imagined his brother thinking. What’s your problem?

  He wished he knew.

  With another determined breath, he took a sheet of paper from the desk drawer and wrote quickly.

  Dear Adam,

  Thanks for your letter. I appreciate it. I know you’re busy with the thesis and all, but what would you say to coming to S.L. for a visit? You must have research to do in this part of the world, no? It’ll be my treat. Don’t worry, my expenses here have been ridiculously low. (Although I’ve decided, just now actually, to find a place of my own over the Easter holiday.) We’ll talk, okay?

  Say hi to everyone for me.

  Rudy

  P.S. If you come soon, we can climb your peak before the season ends.

  It seemed the right thing to do. He folded both letters, eyed the pile of unmarked essays wearily, then went to his room for his diary.

  March 28, Saturday. Hey, Clare. So what are you getting up to this weekend? I like to imagine you reading, curled up in one of those window benches with a bunch of ruffly cushions and a cup of tea. I know, I’m sorry. You’re probably out socializing with your friends, or painting Easter eggs with your kids. Me? Slouching around as usual. Listen, Clare, you wouldn’t happen to know what went wrong between my brother and me, would you? Anything you noticed from over there on your side of the street? I keep trying to remember a certain summer day when I tried to be a decent big brother and fucked up completely. Adam and I built something out of stones, and I think I got pissed off or impatient or something and destroyed whatever it was we made (maybe even worse). I don’t think that day was the cause of our lousy relationship, but it seems characteristic somehow. Anyway, I’ve invited Adam out here for a visit. Don’t worry; I have no delusions that I’m going to make up for all the past problems and suddenly have a cozy, brotherly thing going with him. I really can’t imagine what being with him would be like at all. We’re almost strangers. I have an easier time imagining you coming out here to visit. But we’ll see. God, Clare, what the hell happened to that feeling I had when I found out Mum was pregnant? I don’t know. I may chicken out of inviting him. I will start looking for my own place and setting up my own life, though. It’s about time, don’t you think?

  He closed the book and drummed its black cover with his fingers. He wondered what had become of his grandfather’s diary, the one Grandpa had read from on the day of the big news. It had to be around somewhere still; Aunty had held on to junk of a much less sentimental nature than that. But then again, if Dad had gotten his hands on it when he came back to settle Grandpa’s affairs ...

  Rudy went out to the front garden, where his aunt was hanging clothes on the line. He spotted a pair of his boxer shorts in the laundry basket and reached down to pluck them out.

  “Hey, Aunty?” he said, pinning the shorts to the line. “Do you remember that diary Grandpa used to keep?”

  Aunty Mary frowned, then nodded. “Yes, yes. He used to write in it about the plantation goings-on and whatnot, isn’t it.”

  “That’s the one.” He took a T-shirt from the basket. “Any idea where it is?”

  Again Aunty Mary paused. He thought she was trying to remember where the diary might be, but her answer suggested something else.

  “Why do you ask, son?”

  It was a fair enough question, though an odd one, coming from Aunty.

  “I was just thinking about an entry he read out to me when I was little, and I thought I’d try to find it. About Adam’s Peak.”

  “You want to read the diary?”

  “Well ... yeah. If you have it. If it’s okay.” He suspected he’d intruded in some way—asked for a privilege he hadn’t earned. But the idea that his grandfather might have written things that Aunty wanted to hide made him all the more curious.

  Aunty nudged the laundry basket along with her foot then ran the back of her wrist across her forehead. “Let me finish this,” she said, “then I’ll find it.”

  Of the four books she found—for Grandpa had filled up that many volumes—the one Rudy remembered was a lot like his own. A little thicker and heavier—nevertheless, he half expected to open it up and see his own handwriting. At the same time, the book was secret and unsettling. The last time he’d seen it he’d been six years old. It had been with him in Grandpa’s study, and it no doubt remembered the day perfectly. I know who you are better than you do, the diary seemed to say.

  Perched on the edge of his aunt’s bed, he opened the book somewhere near the middle. The writing looked to be done with a fountain pen, and in the script there was a preponderance of straight, almost vertical lines. Most of the entries were short—a telegraphic date, followed by three or four sentences of what Aunty had called plantation goings-on: yields, shipments, weather conditions, meetings with the assistant manager or the factory manager. Flipping the pages, however, Rudy noticed that a few
of the entries went on a bit longer.

  “It’s what you were looking for?” Aunty said.

  “This is it. Do you mind if I hang on to it for a few days?”

  His aunt’s manner had given the impression she was reluctant to hand over the diary at all, but to Rudy’s surprise she said, “You keep it, son. Keep all of them. You seem to have an interest in this journal writing, isn’t it. Best that they go to you.”Then she shut the drawer the books had come from and dusted her palms, as if, having gone this far, she now wanted nothing more to do with the matter.

  Rudy thanked her, then he took the diaries outside, to the bench under the jack fruit tree, which the sun hadn’t yet reached. Selecting the black-covered diary that most interested him, he sat down and began his search. He found the entry quickly enough, and for a moment he simply stared at the fact of the date.

  “Nineteen-forty-four,” he whispered. “Shit. The war was still on.”

  And yet, it wasn’t so much the date that moved him as the sudden jolt of connection to the six-year-old Rudy who’d first listened to the entry. With the strength of a long-lost smell, his grandfather’s words yanked him back to the padded wooden chair in the study, the under-sides of his thighs sticking to the cracked leather. He hadn’t remembered anything very specific that his grandfather had said that day—just vague notions of the glory of the peak—but as he read, the words were magically familiar. So familiar that he imagined he would have noticed if any of them had been missing, or altered.

  He read slowly, for the old man’s writing wasn’t easily legible, and when he got to the part that quoted James Emerson Tennent, he heard his grandfather’s smoke-clawed voice reciting the audacious words of the colonial adventurer. Grandpa’s own follow-up was just as audacious. Rudy read aloud, in concert with the voice in his head: “The greatness of the peak lies in our ability to conquer it, and in so doing, to conquer our own weaknesses. The view that Tennent describes is the reward we earn for attaining that goal. This is what I wanted Ernie to understand, but didn’t I find the—” Here he stopped, just as his grandfather had. He backed up then read on silently.