I Don't Want to Know Anyone Too Well, and Other Stories

by Norman Levine

  But I left before it did.

  I took a light plane, from the snow-covered field with a short runway. From the air, for a while, I could see the small town. But soon it was lost in a wilderness of snow, trees, and frozen lakes.

  THE GIRL NEXT DOOR

  In october 1976 I came back to Ottawa and rented three rooms in an old house on Cobourg Street just below Rideau. It wasn’t anything—plain bare rooms with brightly coloured wallpaper—but the windows looked out over a small park. And that made all the difference.

  For the first two days—apart from going out to buy some small cigars and groceries—I stayed in and looked at the park.

  It’s a lovely little park . . . made for the human scale. People look right when they are in it. The two Lombardy poplars. One, at the edge of the park, by the sidewalk, in front of the window. The other, towards the middle of the park but off-centre, raised, where the earth formed a mound. And on top of the mound, on a small plateau, a gazebo. And beside the gazebo—with its open arches, its sloping brick-coloured roof—this other, very tall, Lombardy poplar.

  I could not only tell a wind’s direction by the arrow on top of the gazebo but, from the near poplar’s leaves showing their light green underside, I could also tell its strength. Elsewhere there were maple trees—young and old—their leaves in autumn colours, some lying thick, underneath, on the grass.

  I was quite happy to stay by a window. There was always something moving. A leaf from a maple, people walking, grey and black squirrels, boys throwing passes or kicking a rugby ball, others rolling from the gazebo down the slope. Pigeons, sparrows, and the occasional gull flying slowly over.

  I watched until the park lights came on. Then it was too dark to see. That’s when I switched on a small radio and listened to the news (the local, national, international), the sports, the time, the temperature, the weather forecast, and the commercials in between.

  On the third day I woke up, drew back the curtain, and there was snow. It was the first snow I had seen in years. I made some coffee, lit up an Old Port cigarillo, and watched a man dressed in black with a black umbrella above his head walk through the all-white park. The wind picked up some loose leaves and moved them swiftly on top of the snow. Fascinating to see fallen leaves lifted then carried by the wind across the snow. They look like small birds. They are small birds.

  I decided to go out. I had no destination. I walked along Rideau to the Château Laurier. In the lobby I took off my coat and sat down in a leather chair, as if I was waiting for someone. There were others also sitting down and watching.

  I left the lobby as the bell in the Peace Tower was ringing ten and walked across Confederation Square, down Elgin, to the National Gallery, and found this Monet.

  There was a Renoir to the left, of a mother and child. And a Braque to the right, of the Port of Antwerp. And elsewhere in the room: a red landscape of Vlaminck, a red nude of Duchamp, a Derain, a Léger, an Epstein, some Cezannes, Pisarros, Sisleys, and Gauguins, several Degas, and a Van Gogh of some irises.

  But it was this Monet, Waterloo Bridge: The Sun in a Fog (1903), that I kept coming back to see.

  When I was close to it, it was just paint. But when I went back, about ten feet, the sun was round at the top coming faintly through the fog. The sun was orange on the water in the front and further away, on the water through an arch of the bridge, while the darker shapes, of the bridge, the barges, came visibly through.

  At the end of the second week, Lynn moved into the apartment next door. I had pulled back the curtain and saw that the little park was almost hidden by fog. Only the gazebo—the arches filled with fog—and the near poplar and the near maples were visible. The rest was fog and the sun trying to come through. When a taxi drove up, a slim girl with long hair that almost hid her face came out. She was about five foot six or seven, dressed in jeans, a black sweater, and a black duffle coat. The taxi driver helped bring in her few things.

  Next evening I knocked on her door.

  “I saw you move in yesterday. I live in the next apartment.”

  “Come in,” she said quietly.

  The room was like mine. But she had put up art posters of Chagall and Picasso. And a Snoopy poster that said:

  No problem is

  So big that you

  Can’t run away

  From it.

  There were picture postcards and a row of paperbacks by the wall. There was a small wooden table and two wooden chairs.

  “I haven’t had time to do this right. Would you like coffee? It won’t take long.”

  She filled an electric kettle and plugged it in. I noticed that she was left-handed.

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “Will you stay?”

  “I don’t know. How about you?”

  “I’ve got to sort myself out,” she said.

  I saw Jung’s Modern Man in Search of a Soul, Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar, books on psychology, poetry, philosophy, and art books on Klee, Magritte, Kandinsky, Munch.

  “I go to the National Gallery,” I said. “They have a lovely Monet.”

  “I like Monet,” she said.

  “Where are you from?”

  “From New Brunswick,” she said, “near Fredericton, in the country.”

  “I’ve been to Fredericton,” I said, “about ten or eleven years ago. I deliberately go to places—some I know, some I don’t—and isolate myself because I want to work. Why don’t we go to my apartment? I have a bottle of wine and some records.”

  I put on Bix Beiderbecke and Sidney Bechet. And she took off her shoes and began to dance in heavy white woollen socks. She danced, for a while, by herself. Then she came over and stretched out her hands.

  “Dance.”

  I got up and we danced. She was very firm, no fat at all.

  After that we would see each other every day.

  She had dark straight hair that she parted in the middle that almost hid her face. Now and then I caught a glimpse of her blue eyes, the longish straight nose, a small mouth, and, occasionally, a shy smile. When she smiled she also seemed to look amused. I liked her from the start.

  After I told her I was a writer she would turn up at the door with a piece of paper and say, “Do you know this?”

  When Spring comes round

  If I should be dead,

  Flowers will bloom just the same,

  And trees will be no less green than they were last Spring,

  Reality doesn’t need me.

  She wouldn’t read it aloud, but give me the paper that she had written it on. It was through Lynn that I got to know the poetry of Pessoa and Osip Mandelstam. She also gave me several paperbacks of Herman Hesse. I think he was her favourite. But I didn’t get very far with Hesse. I didn’t try. I don’t read much when I’m writing. And I was working on a long story, a novella, and I was often thinking of that even when I wasn’t writing.

  She would come to see me in the morning, in bare feet, a Hudson’s Bay blanket draped around her shoulders.

  “Walking in bare feet,” I said, “that’s the quickest way to get a cold.”

  “It’s the way I grew up,” she said.

  She would light a cigarette and we would have coffee together and talk about writers, books, painters, movies, music, the weather . . .

  After the coffee she would go out shopping. She always asked me if I wanted anything. About twice a week I would ask her to get some apples, grapes, tins of soup, salmon, coffee, rye bread (if she was passing Rideau Bakery), or nuts, if she was going near the mall. She always came back with a small white paper bag full of warm nuts from the Nut House. That’s another thing we had in common. We both liked nuts.

  She also went out every day for walks. And she would come back and tell me what she saw. She didn’t tell me right away. The
re was this reserve—the silences—the shy smile—then she would say:

  “I saw some gulls. Against the snow they looked dirty.”

  Or else I would have to guess what took place when she said, “I went to the cafeteria at the National Gallery to have a cup of coffee and listened to the conversations around me. People talk a lot of nonsense—don’t they?”

  “Do you know anyone in Ottawa?”

  “Only you,” she said.

  “Why did you come here, Lynn?”

  “I had a quarrel with my boyfriend. He’s white. But he works for a black revolutionary organization in Africa. We were together nearly a year. I let my heart rule my head. Because I was in love with him I became interested in politics. Then we had a quarrel. And he left.”

  “What did you do before?”

  “I went to college for a while. Then to art school. I was trying the wrong things. I left art school after two years. They were all on an ego trip.”

  “Can’t you go home?”

  “There’s only my father. We don’t get on. He wanted boys. But he got three girls. I’m the eldest.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “You’re young,” I said. “You still have your life ahead of you.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “There are times when I don’t see any point—”

  I thought, if I was twenty years younger it would be different.

  “I’m the wrong person for you,” I said.

  She didn’t say anything. But she appeared at the door more often. And now I found that she began to stay too long. Her visits became more like interruptions. I would say, “Yes, come in, Lynn. But you can’t stay long. I have to do some work.”

  Finally I said, “I’m sorry, Lynn—I’m busy.”

  She went away. But the next time I became annoyed.

  “Lynn—I can’t see you. I’m working.”

  “Work. Work. That’s all you do. What’s so important about work?”

  “Without my work,” I said, “I’m nothing.”

  She walked away, slamming the door.

  I didn’t see her next morning. But in the afternoon the phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  Silence.

  “Hello,” I said. “Hello—”

  I thought I heard a voice but far away.

  “—Is that you, Lynn?”

  Silence.

  Then quietly she said, “I’m going to kill myself.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In a phone box—by the Château Laurier.”

  “Stay there. I’ll be right over.”

  I got a taxi on Rideau and saw Lynn inside the phone booth, leaning in a corner with her head down. Her hair hiding her face. I put my arm around her and brought her to the taxi.

  “I’m sorry,” she said when we were inside her apartment. “I’m all right now. I feel tired. I’ll lie down. You can go now.”

  Next morning she came around for coffee—in her bare feet, the Hudson’s Bay blanket around her—and we talked as if nothing happened. She asked me if she could do any shopping. Was there anything I wanted mailed.

  “No thanks,” I said.

  When she came back that afternoon from her walk she came back with a small present, a jar of honey, that she wrapped up very neatly in Snoopy wrapping paper.

  She left me alone, but not for long. The following day she came around and wanted to talk. We did for a while. Then I had to say, “You’ll have to go now. I must get back to work.”

  She went out. A few minutes later a piece of paper was pushed underneath the door. On it she had written, “I’m going—and I won’t come back.”

  That afternoon I found myself going to the window, looking out to see if I could see her.

  She did come back as the light in the park was fading.

  “Where did you go?”

  “To the Château Laurier,” she said. “I sat in the lobby and watched people. I did that for an hour. Then I went to the National Gallery and looked at the Monet. Then I walked. I walked until I got cold. So I went into department stores to keep warm. What’s wrong with me?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Just wait. Time has to go by. Things have to happen.”

  “You’re lucky,” she said. “You are doing what you want to do. I don’t know what I want to do. I like going out for walks. I like looking at things—paintings, reading books.” Tears appeared in her eyes. “Isn’t there a place for someone like me?”

  I went over and kissed her.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “There’s always that.”

  For the next three days it went more or less all right. She still went out for her walks. But instead of telling me about them when she came back, she showed me sketches that she did. Of the market, and people in the market, of people crossing near the cenotaph, of the mall, the frozen Rideau river with the snow, the trees, and the white Minto bridges.

  On Friday she came in, around noon, with her sketchbook and a pencil. She wrote something on the paper, tore the piece off, and gave it to me. It said,

  “I can’t talk.”

  “Of course you can,” I replied.

  “No,” she wrote. “I woke this morning and I wanted to speak but I couldn’t.”

  “It will come back,” I said.

  Silence.

  “Has this ever happened before?”

  “No,” she wrote.

  Silence.

  “I had a letter from my boyfriend,” she wrote. “He wants me to come to Toronto.”

  “Why don’t you go?”

  “Do you think I should?” she wrote.

  “Yes,” I said.

  She must have packed before she came to see me, for when I saw her again, a half-hour later, she was ready to leave.

  “Thanks for talking to me,” she said. “You don’t know how much all those talks we had meant to me.”

  And I felt bad. All I could think of was how abrupt I was with her. How little I did give of myself.

  I watched her go with her few belongings into a taxi.

  A month later I walked to the National Gallery to see the Monet again. And as it was a particularly cold day I decided to go to the Lord Elgin, into Murray’s, to have a cup of coffee. The large room was crowded with civil servants having their morning break. I found a seat by a table in a corner. It was pleasantly warm. The coffee was hot. I sat and smoked a small cigar and looked at the lights near the ceiling. They were set in round wooden circles, like wooden crowns. I noticed a lively group of boys and girls come in. They were talking and joking together. They all looked excited, handsome. Lynn was one of them. Her hair was short. She wore a bright yellow sweater. A tall young man was beside her. And like the others, she smiled and laughed a lot.

  TO BLISLAND

  Sunday morning on a hot warm August day. And we were in a train that was going to London. Two hours later, at Bodmin Road, we got off in the country. A long outside platform with upward-sloping green fields, trees, and hedges. The sun shining on them.

  We crossed the tracks, to the other side, by the covered wooden bridge, and to a waiting small green bus.

  Marie carried a carrier bag. I another. Hers had a carton of six eggs that she had boiled with onion skins to make the shells dark brown, a jar of gooseberries that she had cooked the night before, some panties, socks, soap, and writing paper with envelopes and stamps. I had several comics, grapes, apples, bars of chocolate, a paperback, and a kite.

  It was warm in the bus. We were the only passengers. After twenty minutes it drove along a country road, then a small bridge, over a narrow river, and onto the main road.

  Fifteen minutes later we came to the town. It was deserted. The bus went, slowly, up the rising main street. (The houses, the buildings, looked as if t
hey had resisted change.) At the top, at crossroads, we got out and began to walk along a straight wide road.

  On the side we were walking were small houses with small front gardens and, at the back, farmers’ fields.

  On the other side was a continuous brick wall. Behind the brick wall, cut grass lawns and, further away, Victorian brick buildings. The brick buildings had many windows and fire escapes—an institution, looking stark against all the greenery around it.

  About a quarter of a mile down the road, the brick wall had a gap. A drive went from this gap, down a short slope, to a small new bungalow-like building.

  Carol was sitting outside on a wooden bench.

  She saw us.

  We both began to walk quickly towards one another.

  “Hullo love. Happy birthday.”

  Tears appeared in her eyes.

  “You both look so handsome,” she said quietly.

  Marie wore a light blue summer dress with short sleeves. I had a light grey summer suit with a dark blue sport shirt open at the neck. Carol was all in black—black trousers and a long black sweater. Her black hair almost hid her face.

  “We got some things for you—”

  I took the kite. It was made and painted to look like a red butterfly.

  “I don’t think we can fly it today. There’s not enough wind,” I said.

  “We brought a picnic,” Marie said. “Shall we leave the other things in your room and tell Mister Patrick? Is he on today?”

  “Yes,” said Carol.

  We went into the bungalow-like building, into the corridor. It was dark. A door was open, the office, and an outgoing young man in a white coat was sitting behind a desk. He was medium sized, stocky, with dark hair.

  Marie went with Carol further along the corridor to her room.

  I went into the office.

  “We thought of taking Carol out for a picnic.”

  “It’s a good day for it.”

  “Can you suggest anywhere?”

  “Have you been to Lanhydrock?”

  “We were there a few weeks ago.”