If Clara

by Martha Baillie

  The goatherd, in a fit of sadness, tore his clothes to ribbons. His wife, standing next to him and holding a bowl of beans, asked, ‘Husband, what ails you?’ The goatherd answered her, ‘My clothes are torn, Goat’s horns broken, River murky, Tree bare, Crow silent, and Namlush unkempt, because Prince Zikri has died in a fire while looking for a needle.’ The wife, in shock and sorrow, spilled the bowl of beans down her front. The goatherd’s daughter, who was embroidering with a long needle, looked up, saw her mother covered in beans, and asked, ‘Mother, what have you done?’ The mother replied, ‘I am covered in beans, your father’s clothes are torn, Goat’s horn broken, River murky, Tree bare, Crow silent, and Namlush unkempt, because fire has turned Prince Zikri into ashes while he was retrieving a needle.’ The daughter, much distressed, used her long needle to gouge out her eye. The daughter’s husband, rising from his seat too late to prevent this terrible act, beseeched his wife, ‘Wife, what have you done?’ She answered her husband, ‘As you can see, I’ve gouged out my eye, Mother is covered in beans, Father’s clothes are torn, Goat’s horn is broken, River murky, Tree bare, Crow silent, and Namlush unkempt, because Prince Zikri has been devoured by fire while retrieving a needle.’ Her young husband responded, ‘Is it true that one small problem has caused so many tragedies? What foolishness to be upset over a problem so easily resolved. Leave this to me.’ Her husband then caught a flea and married it to Namlush, wishing them both a joyful and prosperous life together. Namlush, whose name means flea, rejoiced by combing and braiding her hair. She even stuck a flower in one of her braids. Seeing Namlush looking so lovely, Crow cawed loudly, River listened and became pure, Goat tasted river’s clear water and grew new horns in celebration, the delighted goatherd removed his tattered clothing and put on his best outfit, his wife, seeing her husband so well turned out, bathed, then slipped into her favourite dress. Only the daughter, who’d lost an eye, could not undo her unhappiness.

  If you grieve, do so in moderation. Celebrate within limits. Take always a rational approach. Sloppy, hasty thinking leads to bad results. These, dear reader, are the morals often attached to this tale, F. H. Homsi assures us. I am growing dangerously fond of F. H. Homsi. I could say much about the portrayal of women in this tale, but I won’t. I have fallen in love with a novel, Homsi’s novel. Possibly I will burn to a crisp and be reduced to ashes through my love of this novel. But that will happen only if I jump into the fire to rescue Don’t Get Me Wrong La Tafhamni Ghalat.

  Maurice

  I knocked on his door. His blue, blue door. The moment he answered, I glanced at his feet, which were bare. His breath smelled sweet, his lovely auburn hair was a mess.

  ‘How can I help you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve come to confess.’

  ‘Are you sure it isn’t money you want?’ he asked, grinning.

  ‘I don’t want money, no.’

  ‘Most strangers going door-to-door are hoping for money.’

  ‘I have a confession to make.’

  ‘So you said. Do I look like a priest?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who are you? I’ve never been good at games.’

  ‘My name is Maurice. I’ve come from the art gallery across the street.’

  ‘Have you stolen an artwork? Are you hoping I’ll hide a large painting in my basement?’

  ‘You’re the artwork.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘We watched you through binoculars. We. Anyone who came into the gallery. For two months the binoculars were aimed at your front door. Several times, I saw you come out and go down the street. Twice you stepped out but went nowhere and retreated back inside. The show at the Kleinzhaler Gallery is over now, replaced by a new show. I kept meaning to tell you before it ended. But if you’d complained, they might have had to shut down the show early, which would have caused all sorts of awkwardness and disappointment. The curator is a close friend of mine. I didn’t want her to face any awkwardness or blame. I was happiest when you wore your two-tone shoes.’

  ‘My shoes? They’re from Milan. Exquisitely made. I’m glad they’ve provided you with some happiness.’

  ‘May I buy you a drink? I feel I owe you.’

  ‘I don’t drink. That’s one thing I don’t do. But I’ll tell you where I bought my shoes, and you can get yourself a pair. You have a good eye.’

  ‘I’d be happy to buy you a coffee. Not today, of course. May I give you my number?’

  Julia

  I’ve not yet gone to knock on Clara’s door. I am often the source of her fury. What she needs me to believe, I cannot believe: Clara, as a child, was taken to a university laboratory where tests were performed upon her, and her parents, who are my parents, belong to a cult – this tale her present medications suppress only two days out of five.

  Finding the most effective medication has required time. The discontinuous search has taken decades. My sister is courageous. Of that, I’m certain. The trouble is that we’ve known each other far too long. And we both have the same parents, and when we were children they set a certain equation in place. Not on purpose, I say. On purpose, says Clara.

  The first drugs, when she was in her twenties, worsened her condition. She felt grains of sand shifting beneath her skin. She had difficulty ordering her thoughts, uttering a full sentence. One morning she walked out of the hospital, unnoticed, free as a bird, as the saying goes, and entered the nearest subway station, where she jumped off the platform, hoping to end the itching. As the train hurtled into the station, she flattened between the rails. Several cars passed over her, while the train’s brakes wheezed into action. She was pulled out and returned to the hospital ward. A new medication gradually improved her condition, and the day came she was declared ready to function in society.

  Clara applied for a job in a bookstore and was hired. Without fail, she took her medications. At that time there were still a great many bookstores in Toronto. She worked, acquired a small circle of friends, and led a quiet, not entirely unhappy life of contained distress. Would this attempt of mine to summarize her life amuse or enrage Clara? I am the last person anyone should trust when it comes to my sister. I feel too much awe and resentment. A look from Clara, a gesture, and our mother’s world trembled. There was our father. He had a playful energy and a short temper. I adored him. Clara, he frightened, until she became a teenager and resisted his authority, breaking his unspoken rules and our mother’s taboos, which were different from his. Clara and our father argued, and our parents argued about Clara. She increasingly withdrew. But now and again, she would open her bedroom door. She would offer advice and affection, the advice and affection I craved. Today, I am unskilled at knowing when Clara’s using her threats of self-destruction to extract compliance from me, and when her cry is genuine.

  When she worked at the bookstore, she and I met once a week for coffee. I was pursuing my university studies, focusing increasingly on the history of visual art. I had no ambition to make art myself. That I received reasonably good marks and the approbation of several professors surprised me. It was Clara who should have been enrolled and receiving degrees. Her mind was far quicker than mine. My parents were convinced that her brilliance lay at the root of her troubles. Her extreme sensitivity, combined with her mind’s need to make logical sense of everything she experienced, resulted in her finding connections where others perceived none. All this had caused her to fall ill, my parents believed. About this they agreed. They also believed that my ability to socialize, and to choose (to some degree) what I took to heart and what I dismissed, defined me as normal and stable. The equation was simple, unstated, and wormed its way inside me: the child who can’t cope can’t because of her intelligence, therefore the child who can cope can because less intelligent. I can think of nothing more valued in my family than intelligence. I sometimes imagine Clara, recovered and opening a gallery down the hall from the Kleinzahler, people flocking through her doors, Canadian Art and the CBC tripping over each other to praise her superlative cu
ratorial talents.

  Where was I? I’ve married. I’ve divorced. I’ve produced no children. Yes, I’ve had lovers, though none at the moment. For children it is too late. This does not greatly sadden me. I’d be curious to hear Clara summarize my life. I’d far rather think about the new show at the gallery than think about me. With visitors to the gallery, I try to be gracious. I hope that many are finding the new show engaging and provocative. I want it to be loved.

  When our father died, our mother, Alice, enjoyed living on her own. Yet she continuously worried about Clara. She invited her to move back home. As Clara’s salary from the bookstore barely covered her expenses, she decided to accept Alice’s invitation. Within a few months of settling into our childhood home, Clara grew suspicious of Alice. When Clara and I would meet for coffee she’d report that Alice delighted in observing Clara’s every gesture. Clara described a certain way Alice had of holding herself poised and listening, face calm but eyes hungry. ‘She has the gaze of a hawk,’ said Clara. ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘I can imagine what you’re describing. I’ve felt that hunger in her gaze.’

  Alice, the Alice we knew when we were growing up, was a person who refrained from responding until she’d carefully assessed the territory she was entering (in old age she’s changed, become more spontaneous, less guarded), and she frequently tailored her responses to ensure they received the approval she longed for. Over the years she’d squirrelled away the approval of a wide range of people. She was fiercely independent but also wanted very much to be liked. This contradiction tore at her. All her life she’d felt she was an outsider. She’d obstinately lived according to her own desires, but discreetly. She’d cultivated an opaque and elegant exterior. She’d denied the existence of certain traits in herself. She had a beautiful voice and loved to sing but claimed to loathe being heard singing. The gentle and accepting person that she aspired to be was unblemished by jealousy, or any desire to dominate, to wield any control over others. Directness, in Alice’s opinion, was a sign of crudeness. If she felt hungry and desired an apple, Alice would not ask for one, or reach out and take one from the bowl on the table, but would inquire if anyone else might like an apple, and if there were no apple-takers present, she’d try to convince someone that they wanted an apple, using arguments of nutrition, of aesthetics, or of morality. Unless someone else took an apple, she could not allow herself to do so, not publicly. Only in secret could she enjoy apples if others refused to join her in apple eating.

  I had no trouble agreeing with Clara, that our mother was a complicated woman and that knowing Alice’s true thoughts or feelings often felt next to impossible. And yet, when Clara, encouraged by my response, went on to suggest that Alice wished to undermine Clara’s mental equilibrium so as to silence Clara, thus ensuring that Alice’s past crimes against Clara, crimes that only Alice and Clara knew of, could never be revealed and receive recognition as truth, I would turn away, muttering something about the day disappearing. I’d glance at my watch.

  One weekend I took Alice to the countryside for a few days of relaxation. What Clara had not told me was that she’d been taking over-the-counter pills to enable her to sleep at night and that she felt she needed stronger medication but had parted ways with her psychiatrist and her regular doctor, and her health card needed renewing. The prospect of visiting a government office to have her health card renewed terrified her. The inevitability of having to do so hung like the blade of a guillotine. Increasingly jittery, and with the house to herself, Clara swallowed non-prescription pills by the fistful. Hovering just below the kitchen ceiling, she observed herself doing so. A neighbour with a key to the house by chance let herself in, hoping to borrow Alice’s vacuum as her own had stopped functioning. She discovered Clara unconscious and curled on the kitchen floor.

  Upon Clara’s release from the hospital, I found her a basement apartment in a pleasant and central area, replete with cafés, bookstores, cinemas, galleries, and grocery shops. All she might need was within walking distance. This was important, as taking the subway frightened her. One of many voices might urge her to jump. Through her own determination, Clara tracked down, on foot, a psychiatrist whose name someone had given to Alice. The overbooked psychiatrist reluctantly took on Clara.

  For several years Clara accepted her basement apartment. At what point the centipedes grew in number, I’m unsure. By then she’d decided that Alice and I were untrustworthy. Her landlord made sporadic, ineffectual attempts to curb the infestation. Unable to tolerate the invasion of her small living space by many-legged creatures that moved with frightening rapidity and materialized out of nowhere, Clara eventually risked reconnecting with us, her family. We were threatening, but less so than centipedes. Alice increased the monthly payments she deposited in Clara’s bank account, and we found her the sunny ground floor of a house, again in a pleasant neighbourhood.

  It is on the door of this new home of Clara’s, with its wide front porch and wide front window, which she keeps covered at all times, that soon I will knock loudly. I have no choice. Repeatedly, Alice asks if I have news of Clara. I too want news of Clara. However much I fear her, and fear for her, I too want news of Clara. I would like Clara to come to the Kleinzahler Gallery. Her enthusiasm would be unstinting, if the show appealed to her.

  Clara

  Boltanski woke. Blinding light and the voice of a policeman yanked him to the surface. Christian Boltanski slept in a car at night. It was his parents’ idea for them all to pile on top of each other in the family automobile, ready to drive off at a moment’s notice. Their apartment they reserved for daytime life. In his parents’ postwar estimation, no apartment was safe at night. They curled in the cramped quarters of their car. Notice the moment! I’m not preaching Buddhism. I’d rather chew gum than go down that road. Unenlightened, peering out of the dark, see the moment scurry under the chair, see it disappear between the floorboards. White noise, from the ceiling fan above my bed, eats all the other sounds in the room. Oh, happiness, my happy, cannibal fan. Consume my dread. Dead without it, dead from lack of sleep, that’s how I’d be. Light blaring in his face, his body crumpled and sore from sleeping in a car, he, they, the Boltanskis, survivors of the Holocaust, had reasons to hide, legible reasons. He fogged the cold window with his breath, wrote fear with his fingertip. Or he chose a different word. When he wrote sky it meant fear, when he wrote glass it meant fear, as did the word toes. The words I write acquire meaning only by repetition. No singular image of hell comes to mind. I fails to contain and to command. The multiples run amok. Family. Write, write, write, and they can’t catch us. Hatch me, if you cancan. Ha, ha, ha. Boltanski turned himself into a metal box, and another, and another. He stacked himself in rows, flooded his boxed selves in bright beams of cop light. As for me, I am stocking-tied between the legs of a chair. I am an empty bathtub cradling a burning brain. Let nobody in. Do not enter.

  Daisy

  Clara Hodgkins has agreed to meet with me.

  This afternoon I got up from my red sofa and, supported by two metal crutches, hopped toward the kitchen, feeling pleased that I’d chosen a red sofa, years ago, as an antidote to grey weather. I glanced into the hallway. A paper, fallen through the mail slot, lay on the carpet. The hall carpet, rough in texture and dark grey, I selected years ago for its ability to conceal dirt and to withstand the brutality of winter boots and of salt. Swinging and hopping, I advanced into the hallway and picked up the note.

  Dear Daisy Harding,

  I am the author of Don’t Get Me Wrong. All of it is original except the folk tales, which I took from a collection called Syrian Tales from the Hearth. I did not lift them verbatim but modified the wording while remaining true to the original. Thank you for your kind words regarding my novel. I can meet you at Clafouti on Queen, tomorrow at 4 p.m., if that works for you? I will only agree to the novel being published if it is attributed to F. H. Homsi, for whom you may invent whatever biography you like. If these are terms you can’t respect, we needn’t meet
.

  Regards, Clara Hodgkins.

  I’ll ask Ralph if he’ll give me a ride to Clafouti, then pick me up afterward. I’m not sure that I can agree to her terms. I may not be willing to pose, after all, as an author with a Syrian surname. Kamar, the novel’s narrator, is who she claims to be. She is fiction, and fiction can make whatever claims it likes. Kamar is, according to Kamar, a refugee from Syria. The reader can believe her or not. But F. H. Homsi is a fake, and his Syrian surname lends authority. Kamar doesn’t need Homsi’s help to ring true. She needs only to be true to herself. I’ll suggest F. H. Holmes, a more suitable pseudonym for C. Hodgkins. Clara says that I may attribute whatever biography I like to F. H. Might she permit F. H. to change surnames? If we fail to arrive at an agreement, she may approach another writer whom she admires. I will feel jealous of that other writer. I could have suggested we talk here, in my living room. She’s familiar with my front porch. We could have sat together on my red sofa, Clara and I, F. H. observing us from across the room, F. H. impeccably dressed as always, cigarette releasing a thread of smoke, legs loosely crossed at the ankles, far more at ease than either of us. But instead of chatting on the sofa, Clara and I will meet in a public space. The leg has made me less willing to open my door to a stranger. I’ve become a cautious, one-legged reluctant, who hesitates to invite the world in. Before. Before no longer exists.

  Clara

  My psychiatrist, Dr. Burns, took me on because I insisted, because I kept walking across the city to sit in her waiting room. I was told about her and went looking for her. I was told she was smart, respectful, and kind – rare qualities in a shrink, rare in anyone. I like her. ‘She’s got you wrapped around her little finger,’ hisses Kevin, and sticks his finger in his ear, searching for wax, one of his more disgusting habits. If I listened to him, I’d fire Dr. Burns. But I won’t, because I need her. We need each other. We’re not a bad pair. Except that she doesn’t understand art and thinks she does. ‘Tell your beloved Dr. Burns she’s a self-important cow,’ Kevin urges me, smiling his most innocent smile, while secretly smearing his earwax underneath the chair.