by Ann Birch
“Yeah. But I’m not promising nothing unless you promise me, no cops.”
“No cops. It’s a deal then.” And she hands the money to Hester.
“Thanks.” There is a long pause while the girl tucks the bills into a dirty little cloth purse that dangles from a cord around her neck. There’s a smile now, not much of a one, but definitely a smile. “You’re a good person, Roberta, and this … talk we’ve had … it’s one nice fucking memory.”
28.
AS ROBERTA WAITS WITH HER CAN of hairspray in the lineup at Pharma Plus, she notices what the man ahead of her is clutching: A copy of Mira, no less. He’s a middle-aged man with stubby fingers and a dirty scarf thrown over a scruffy topcoat, and since the lineup is not moving — the cashier having gone off somewhere to get more change — he looks back at Roberta, sees her staring at his book and says, “Read this one?”
“Yes,” she says. “Sickening.”
“I Googled it,” the man says, evidently proud of his computer savvy. “And wow, the reviews. It’s apparently a new take on the Lolita thing. You know, I get sick of the guy always getting blamed. And with this one,” he waves the book at her again, “it’s the kid who’s to blame. Heard what that cop said on the morning news today?”
“Mmm.” Oh God, where is the cashier?
“And I agree, one hundred percent. If a girl dresses like a slut, she deserves to get raped. Right?”
“No.”
“No? You gotta be kidding. But maybe you don’t know what I’m getting at. In this here book, there’s a kid called Mira. She gets into bed with her old man, well, her stepfather actually — believe it, totally nude — and he’s turned on. That’s what I mean. She’s the slut, isn’t she? She’s asking for it. This Renee Meadows person gets it right for a change. So it’s worth the fifteen bucks I’m shelling out for it.”
Roberta stares at the floor, trying to shut out the man and the book. She tries not to think about the interview she has later this morning with John Schubert. What’s he going to say to her? More questions about George Korda?
“Well, guess you don’t wanna talk. Okay by me.” The man turns his back on her , and then the cashier mercifully arrives and the lineup moves forward.
To get to the damn exit, she’s got to pass the book rack and a pimply girl with spiky green hair who has picked up a copy of Mira. She’s looking at the cover. It shows a young girl in a white bra and briefs about to climb into bed beside a much older man, his face barely visible in a dark room. Roberta doesn’t know who designed it, but it certainly sums up what’s inside.
Oh, just let me out of here, Roberta thinks. Even the fumes of traffic along Bloor Street West are preferable to the poison of this place. She looks at her watch. Time to catch the subway for her ten o’clock class at Trinity.
And all the way to the university, she steadies herself against a metal pole and looks down at the passengers reading in the seats in front of her. She’s always been interested in what people read on the subway. This morning’s choices range from text messages to the Toronto Weekly to Nora Roberts. But the encounter with the Mira reader has made her uneasy. What next? Will there be someone else this morning who will be reading it? The Spadina subway stop, her exit, comes as a relief.
Her Classics in Translation class is quiet, thank God. Not a mention of Mira. Perhaps it’s the time of year. The students are much more serious and much more focused than they were a few weeks earlier. It’s the worry over the final exams, Roberta suspects. She delivers her lecture on T. E. Lawrence’s translation of The Odyssey in a silence punctuated only by the rattle of the radiator and the tapping of fingers on laptops.
As she asks for questions at the end of her lecture, she sees Jason Grubben’s hand in the air. Uh, oh. Is the great axe about to fall?
“This guy’s Lawrence of Arabia, right?”
“Right.” She gives some details of Lawrence’s biography. Tap, tap, tap on the laptops. Jason scribbles away in his notebook. Will this be on the exam? That’s what they are probably thinking.
And now comes the part of her day she’s been dreading. Up the stone stairway in front of her second-floor office, John Schubert is waiting for her on a bench. He’s looking at his watch as she approaches. “You did say eleven o’clock, didn’t you?”
“Yes, it’s five after now. Sorry about that.”
“You’re forgiven, but if I’d known you were going to be late, I’d have smoked a Gitanes in the quadrangle.”
Schubert is dressed in a beautiful double-breasted grey suit and he has a small leather satchel — on a woman, it would be a purse — over his shoulder. His black hair with the distinctive white stripe is carefully slicked back. The Skunk. Roberta hates the sight of him, especially now that she knows about his abuse of Hester. But she agreed to the interview a couple of weeks ago, before she heard the girl’s story.
He takes a seat without waiting for an invitation and pulls out a digital voice recorder from his purse. He fiddles with it for a few seconds, then puts it away and gets out his leather notebook and fountain pen. “More comfortable with this, I confess.”
“I’m with you there,” Roberta says, trying to smooth down her anger. Exposure in The Gazette will probably promote sales of her translation. But more important, it will put focus on the good side of her writing life.
“As you know, I’m here to talk about The Cretan Manuscripts. You got this big-time review in the TLS — congrats on that, by the way — and I thought a major interview for The Gazette might be in order.” He looks at his watch again. “The photographer should be along by now. I told him eleven—”
There’s a knock on the door, and the photographer comes in. In contrast to Schubert, he’s wearing an open-necked shirt and jeans with holes in the knees. “Joe,” Schubert says, his only effort at an introduction. “Now let’s get to it. I’d like a shot of the professor behind her desk with her bookshelves as background.”
“Bit of a cliché,” Joe says. “How about in front of that nice leaded-glass window?”
“Behind the desk with the bookshelves,” Schubert says, as if he were Norman Jewison directing Michael Caine. “Let’s not waste time.” He looks at Roberta. “Maybe you want to fix your hair a bit, dear. There’s a teeny strand sticking up.”
“This is how I am, and this is how I’ll have to be,” Roberta says. Behind Schubert, Joe gives her a wink.
He takes a dozen shots in rapid succession, then waves his hand and hoists his equipment onto his back. “Can’t stand that cretin,” Schubert says, as Joe shuts the door behind him, “but he’s one of the burdens I bear on a daily basis.
“Now, let’s get to the important stuff, the interview.” He picks up his leather notebook and uncaps his pen. “What were the major problems you encountered with your translation?”
“Deciphering the script on the parchment, definitely. But really, I was lucky to have a parchment version because we think that the stories were originally written on papyrus, and that would have meant trying to piece together broken bits and pieces. But it seems someone copied it over on the parchment.” Roberta goes on to describe the hours spent looking at the long scrolls in the Heraklion Archaeological Museum, magnifying glass in hand. As she talks, she remembers that her whole family had been with her in Heraklion for eight weeks. While she worked, James had spent his days in a neighbourhood taverna sipping raki and working on journal articles on Anthony Trollope, while the boys, who were teenagers then, had loved the hours of surfing and sunning on the beautiful beaches. Almost every evening they’d spent on Paniota Andriopoulos’s terrace drinking the local wine — fresh orange juice for the kids — and eating pilaf. Those were happy days.
“You seem a teeny bit out of it today, Roberta.” She snaps back to attention and tries to concentrate on the interview: questions on her university pedigree, the course content of her present-day classes, her conce
pt of the role of a good translator, and on and on. She has to concede that Schubert knows his stuff.
At last, it’s over. Schubert puts his notebook away. “Thanks for this.”
“I’m impressed with the understanding you have of the problems translators face,” Roberta says. But she cannot stop herself from adding, “You’ve come a distance since that backyard review you gave of my poetry book.”
He’s caught off guard for a moment. Then he laughs, only it’s more of a sneer. “Well, perhaps that’s because The Cretan Manuscripts is just not in the same league as your little poetry offering.”
“I guess I asked for that.”
“This is big league stuff, my dear. I liked the stories, except the ‘Pygmalion’ one. I’m a teeny bit miffed by what Euripida has done with that one. The original story is lovely. To me, it describes the perfection every artist should strive for. You know, in a way, I look on Ovid’s Pygmalion as a sort of role model. I too seek perfection.” Schubert has beautiful hands, and he flips his palms up whenever he makes a point.
“I guess there’s nothing wrong in seeking perfection. But it seems to me that Pygmalion wants to sculpt a perfect ivory woman because there isn’t a human one good enough for him. You think that’s lovely? Sick might be a better word.”
“I’m not here to argue, dear Roberta. You’re the star of this show. Moi, I’m merely the humble conduit for your opinions.” He waves his fountain pen at her and bares the teeth in what passes for a smile. Oh, the miracles of modern dentistry.
“And by the way,” he continues, “you’ve rekindled my interest in Ovid. Not only have I reread ‘Pygmalion’ in one of those translations my Chapters card pays for, but I’ve segued into ‘The Rape of Philomena’ — now that’s sick — and ‘Myrrha’ — well that one’s even sicker. Oh, the depths to which humanity can sink. But fascinating, n’est-ce pas?”
“Glad to know I’ve contributed to your fund of sick knowledge, John.” Now how to get rid of him? She looks at her watch.
“Oh, I see you’re busy too, dear, so I’ll take off.” He moves to the door. “Ciao.”
Roberta watches him cross the quadrangle. Oh God, probably heading for the parking lot. And a big black car with leather seats? She tries to remember the kind of car she’s seen in his mother’s driveway. But face it, she’s always had zero interest in cars. He does work in a big grey building farther downtown. But that description fits a thousand buildings. His hair with its white stripe could certainly earn him the name of “The Skunk.” But perhaps hair had little to do with the name that Hester and her friend called their attacker. She said the person who hit them smelled bad. Well, today Schubert had a stale smell: cappuccino and cigarettes — correction, Gitanes — along with that dreadful cologne he’s so fond of. So what? It’s all what a lawyer might call “circumstantial evidence.” Nothing to prove that he’s the person the girl was talking about.
Roberta takes out an essay from the never-ending stack she keeps in a bottom drawer of her desk. She reads two pages but has no idea what she’s reading. She cannot get Schubert out of her mind. Was he telling me something when he mentioned Ovid? What was that all about? Or am I getting paranoid?
More important: Should I have put my own fears aside and said something about his extracurricular activities? Am I so self-centred that I try to find excuses for not tackling him head-on about his abuse of a vulnerable child? I cannot fool myself. It was Schubert. I’m pretty sure of that. I’ve seen him in action in his mother’s backyard. What was James’s word? Groping the young housecleaner. But what am I going to do about his abuse of Hester?
She picks up her pen, sighs, and starts again on the essay.
29.
ROBERTA SPENDS THE REST of the day in her Trinity office, working through the pile of essays. Or hiding, if she wants to be honest. Outside her office, there’s the noisy tide of students going by, but no one disturbs her. At five o’clock, she comes downstairs, passes the Porter’s Lodge, and goes out the front door without having to talk to anyone.
By the time she gets home, it’s after six o’clock, and Ed and Charlie have made grilled cheese sandwiches and are eating them in the breakfast room.
“Guess you’ve seen the book around town today?” Ed says. “I had to go into Chapters to get Antique Furniture of Quebec for Ashley’s birthday, and there was Mira, right on the front table. Maybe it’s not as bad as you thought, Ma, if it’s featured in mainstream bookstores.”
“And in every drugstore, Walmart, and subway toilet too, probably.” Roberta tells them about her encounters at Pharma Plus.
“You’re going to have to live with it, Mom,” Charlie says, putting a sandwich on her plate. “We’ve just got to hope that nobody will figure out who Renee Meadows is, and there’s no reason anyone should know, is there?”
“I’m worried about Mrs. Schubert’s son. You know, the big-time book reviewer for The Gazette? He had an interview with me today, ostensibly about The Cretan Manuscripts. It seemed to go well enough, except that at the end of it, he made a point of telling me that he’s reading Ovid. He even mentioned the ‘Myrrha’ story and told me how sick it was. Maybe it was all chit-chat — he does like to blather — but I think there could have been a bit of a threat there.”
“Doesn’t sound good to me,” Ed says. “You’re right to be worried. He’s bound to hear about your version of the story, as it’s his business to know about new releases, and he’ll put it all together. From what you’re saying, he’s a creep, but probably a smart creep.”
“Hey, bro, let Mom finish her supper without all the doomsday stuff.” Charlie pours her a glass of white wine. “Drink up.”
She takes a sip, then sets her glass down. “Sorry, even the wine doesn’t soothe. I have another worry about Schubert. But before I get into it, Charlie, I just want to tell you that all the kids in my volunteer program seem pleased with your food. Annie, the counsellor, told me that it’s a factor in getting them there on time for my classes. She says she doesn’t have to round them up like a sheepdog anymore.”
“I was a bit worried about the pears and walnuts — an oddball combination — but it was our lunch special for the food snobs who come to The Fig Leaf and I didn’t have time to get anything else ready. I like Big Chris. He’s reliable. I’ve also noticed how clean he is, and that must be one big problem living on the street. You know, I think I might be able to find him something to do at the restaurant that would pay him more than what he gets on the street. And it would be safer too. Maybe dishwasher or security or gofer. Anyway, I’ll work on it. I’m getting quite palsy-walsy with Mr. Fig Leaf himself.”
“So what’s the other worry about Schubert?” Ed asks.
Roberta tells them Hester’s sad story. “I’m not sure where I can go with what she’s told me. I can’t talk to the police, she made me promise.”
“It’d be useless anyway,” Ed says. “You haven’t got that much proof, have you? And even if you had, you might not get far. Cops like to put people into compartments, and she’d fit into their ‘slut’ slot perfectly. What I know from their testimony in courts, it would be an open-and-shut case if it ever came to trial. She asked for it. She lay in wait for him, got into the back seat when he asked her to, so what’s more to be said?” He sighs. “Face it, folks, we live in a fallen world.”
“But she’s only sixteen. And he’s what? Fifty? What the hell, Ed? You’re turning into a cynic, big-time.” Charlie shakes his head.
“Well what could be proved? He’d deny everything. ‘A big grey building’ is not exactly compelling evidence of where he works. And the lot the car was in is just one of acres of public space given over to downtown parking.”
“Man, doesn’t the skunk description point to someone specific?”
“Come on, Charlie. I heard the term today from Mr. Peabody, no less. I was in his office getting my day’s work laid out for me,
and the phone rang. So he turns on his timer, even though he spent all of two minutes with the caller. But two minutes at eight hundred bucks an hour, well, he finds that significant.
“But I’m getting off topic. I hear him say ...” Here Ed swings into his Mr. Peabody impersonation. ‘The firm of Plumtree, Pogson, and Peabody has no dealings with drug dealers or other forms of the common criminal.’ Then he hangs up, waves his manicured paw at me and says, ‘Our dealings are with elephants, not skunks!’”
“‘Elephants’ being a metaphor for big-time white-collar stuff?”
“You got it, my boy. Enron and Madoff? They’re elephants.”
“And ‘skunks’ are the lower orders. I see what you mean, bro.” Charlie rubs his hand across his shaved head. Everyone is silent for a minute. Then Charlie bangs his fist on the table. “Got it!”
Roberta and Ed stare at him.
“What I mean, is this: We pretty well know that this Schubert prick is the skunk. I know, I know,” he continues as Ed tries to break in, “there’s nothing we can prove in a court of law. But we do know what’s what and we can scare the guy.”
“To what point?”
“Well, let’s say Mom gives him a phone call, drops a few innuendos into the conversation just to let him know that she knows what he’s been up to with Hester. That would work, wouldn’t it?”
“Ah, I get you,” Ed says. “A little blackmail.” He leans back in his chair and looks at the ceiling for a minute or two. Then he sits up straight, smiling. “Good thinking, Charlie. It could work.”