The thought crushed her. She had done something to bring this all upon herself. She had tried so hard to be righteous but she had failed. She deserved the whipping wind. And she deserved whatever was to come. Tears and the flow from her nose soaked the scarf and made breathing difficult as Joyce struggled to carry her burden down the hill. The world, already murky through the dusty glass of the goggles, was now blurred by brimming eyes. Joyce tripped and dropped her basket as she tried to right herself. The food scattered. Turnips and potatoes began to roll downhill. The wind caught the lighter bunches of herbs and spread them across the slope.
Screaming and sobbing, Joyce dove after her precious provisions. Then he was there again. Losing his hat while scrambling after the herbs so that his yellow hair flew in the wind. He captured the errant bunches, returned them to her basket, and then joined the pursuit of the rolling tubers. Joyce wanted to shout at him until he went away but the words could not find their way past the grief. She could not stop him. She could not drive him off. All she could do was watch as he captured each wayward vegetable and stuffed it into his coat until all could be returned to the basket.
When they were done, he stood over her like a conquering hero all red-faced and expecting praise.
“I hate you,” she spat. Suddenly she was angry. All the pain and the fear and the guilt were gone in one white-hot flash. She was not to blame. She had always tried to do the right thing. She was humble, austere and generous as the deacons had taught her. All this grief was the doing of others. It had been done to her and one of her tormentors stood before her now. She picked up a stone and warned, “Get away from me.”
“It is okay,” the young man said. He had retrieved his hat and was wringing it in his hands. “I spoke to the others and they understand.”
“Understand what?” She threw the stone at him, missing by a good margin. She picked up two more. “Get away. You know how wrong that was. To hold me like that.” She let a second stone fly. This one found its mark, striking the young man on the left arm. It stung. He put a hand to the wounded spot and straightened, suddenly looking much sterner.
“This is not proper behavior.”
“Proper?” Joyce threw the other stone. “Proper?” She bent down and picked up additional ammunition. “I am a promised woman.” Another stone flew. “I told you that.” The next stone struck the middle of his chest. “And still you… you handled me.” She knew the others must surely be watching this scene as well but all care had been burned away by the rage. It was at least satisfying to see the stiffness go out of the young man as he retreated before the stoning. Beaten, he stood aside in silence at a safe distance as Joyce recovered her basket and stormed down the hill. The tears were back but there was something triumphant about them now.
If she was to be married, then so be it, but she would not be crushed by it. To be the wife of the priest was to hold a position of respect. She would have influence in the Convocation. Then that blond satyr would learn his place.
Safely back in the tent and bent over her table, that thought propelled Joyce Collingwood through the afternoon. She scarcely heard the hubbub of the other merchants as her cleaver fell again and again like judgment, true and resolute. Even the dowager passed unnoticed as Joyce poured all her energy into the production of another dog stew. She knew it was not right to dislike someone so. God was love even when he corrected his people in wrath. But she could not shake the feeling of his arm around her shoulder and the comforting pressure of his chest. It was not right for a man to embrace a woman like that unless they were joined by blood or vow. If the others had seen anything, they had seen that he had embraced her unasked. Then Joyce faltered. She had pressed herself into him, so very grateful to be held in a moment of despair. She had been complicit.
The realization struck her suddenly, the memory rising up without warning to extinguish her righteous fury. In that moment, the tent flap parted and a severe figure stepped through. Her heart sank.
There was no mistaking a priest of the Convocation Penitent. His bearing alone marked him, the iron collar and scourge of correction being mere confirmation. He took in the interior of the tent in a single, sweeping gaze before striding directly to where Joyce worked. This man was made of the same stuff as his collar and was as ancient as the hills. A lump formed in her throat as she watched him approach.
“You are Joyce Collingwood?” he asked, though it was not entirely a question. She was the only Penitent selling food in the tent and the only woman of her age in the local Convocation. He knew who she was.
“Yes,” she managed.
“I have come to discuss the arrangements for the wedding.”
Joyce could only lower her gaze and nod.
“Please, do not let me interrupt your work,” he said. “I will tell you how it is to be. You will be honoured to know that the bishop himself will be conducting the service.”
“Yes, Father,” Joyce said. There was a slight quaver in her voice. She was slicing onions and doing it badly. She sniffed. Her eyes watered.
“There is no need to fear this, child.”
Joyce looked up into the priest’s face. She wanted to tell him that she was not afraid, that it was only the onions that made her cry, but that was not true and she could not lie. Not to him. Especially not to him. She managed a weak nod.
“It will be a happy marriage,” he told her.
Joyce wanted to believe that with all her heart. No words could express how she felt.
“You think that because I am old, I have forgotten the ways of a young woman’s heart. I have not. I know what is in yours. I know that you are afraid now but I also know that in the years to come you will find that this is a good match.”
Joyce was finding it hard to breathe. Something had her by the throat and all she wanted to do was run. She kept her eyes on the work table, trying to think, but all thought and, indeed, all feeling seemed to have drained from her. All she managed was to mutter, “Water.”
“What was that, child?” the old priest asked.
“I need to get water to make the stew.”
“Ah. Perhaps I can help?”
“No,” she said, more forcefully than she intended, and the priest raised an eyebrow. Joyce cowered slightly and amended her tone. “I meant that I am used to getting it myself, Father. It will only take me a few minutes.”
“Of course, child.”
Joyce lifted two buckets from the table and started toward the flap.
“Joyce,” the priest said behind her.
She froze.
“You must call me Matthew. After all, we will soon be related by marriage.”
Joyce swallowed, carefully pronounced, “Yes, Matthew.”
It was difficult not to run out of the tent but she managed a steady pace. There was no thought to what would happen once she left. All that was important for the moment was reaching the open air.
Outside, night had fallen and the fog was thick once more. Out of habit, Joyce moved to the cisterns where the dew traps emptied. She stopped at the door, sagged, and looked hopelessly out into the night as though seeking an answer.
Instead, her eyes found guardsman Otis with his two friends following her out of the market tent. Their eyes locked for a moment. Something flickered across his face she could not identify and then he smiled his idiot smile.
“Hey, Joyce, I hear you’re getting married. They say you’re going to marry a priest. Is that the guy, that old fossil at your table?” Otis and his friends swaggered closer. They were bloated with laughter. “He looks stiff as a poker. Of course, it’s good to have a stiff man. You know what I mean, Joyce?”
Otis was far too close now. He had always been at least the width of a table away from her. Now she could smell him. He seemed so much taller, so much stronger as he loomed out of the fog.
“Bet you like stiff men but you need a young one.” His hand reached out for her shoulder.
It never touched her.
Something
hissed out of the dark and struck the guardsman on the wrist. He yelped. The hand withdrew as he turned to face his attacker. The young man with the blond hair was standing there.
“You will not speak to a sister of the Convocation Penitent in that fashion and you will certainly not touch her,” he said, and there was iron in his voice. The friendly face he had worn that morning was gone.
“You know what you get for hitting a guardsman?” Otis asked. His truncheon was out now.
The young man said nothing. Instead, he stared hard at Otis while tapping something against the palm of his free hand. It took Joyce a moment to realize what it was. Her eyes widened and she looked up in search of a collar but he still wore the scarf wrapped tight around his neck.
One of the other guardsmen, either brighter or better informed than Otis, had noted the scourge as well. He seemed to realize what it signified and now looked wary of continuing the conflict. Otis had no such reservations.
“I am going to make you so sorry,” he announced, and tried to step forward only to be restrained by his more prudent companion. Otis shook the hand off and demanded, “What?”
“Look what he’s holding.”
“I know what he’s holding. He just hit me with it,” Otis snapped. “I’m going to shove that whip down his throat.”
“He’s a priest,” the other guardsman croaked under his breath. “We can’t touch him.”
“This bone rack? No way,” Otis retorted. “Anyway, I don’t care. He hit me.”
“We can’t. You know that,” the other insisted, and then added in a hiss, “We have orders.”
“Shit,” Otis spat, and then looked squarely at his opponent. “Let me see it.”
The blond man raised his chin and pulled the scarf down. In the dim light, iron glinted at his throat. Otis swore again, longer and more fluently, and then warned, “You watch your back, Wrather. People like you have accidents. You know what I mean? One night, you’ll have an accident.”
The young man said nothing back, neither did he move nor look away. Otis stood before him quaking in impotent fury, trying to contrive a graceful retreat. In the end, all he could do was spin on his heel and curse his friends into following him. Joyce watched in astonishment as they left, leaving her alone with her saviour.
“You idiot,” she scolded him. “I have to live here. I have to see them every day.”
“You will be protected,” he assured her.
“Just because I am married to a priest?” The word stuck in her throat and she repeated it. “Priest.”
“Yes, because you will be the wife of a priest. After the riots last year, none of the guardsmen and not even the Caretakers would dare touch you. Not you and not me. You saw that here tonight.”
“You are a priest,” Joyce said. She was shaking now.
“Yes.” He stepped closer to her. She could feel the heat of his body and realized that he was breathing hard. He was all iron and fire. It seemed that he might reach for her, take her in his arms again. Abruptly, Joyce backed away two paces.
“Don’t touch me.”
The words hit him hard. His shoulders fell and the eyes with them. The iron was gone. The fire was out. He said, “I am sorry. I don’t know if I can do this.”
“Do what?”
“Any of it. Face them. Lead this Convocation. Marry you. I don’t think I am worthy or strong enough. My uncle expects it, but I don’t know if I can.”
Joyce could not find her voice for a full minute after that. She could only stare at the young man. In the end she asked, “Marry me? You are going to marry me?”
“If you are willing. Didn’t the archdeacon tell you that I was coming today? From what you said at the farm, I thought you knew all about it and had decided to accept.”
“He said you would be coming tonight.”
“I was anxious to see you,” the young man admitted. “I came early. I was afraid you might be ugly but you were so beautiful and then you were crying and I felt so sorry about it. I just wanted to hold you and tell you it would be all right.”
“And I hit you.”
“Yes.”
“I hit a priest.”
“Yes. Please don’t tell Uncle Matthew.”
“Father Matthew?”
“Yes,” the young man said, squaring his shoulders a little. “He came to make the wedding arrangements and see that everything was prepared properly for the bishop.”
“Then when you put your arm around me,” Joyce paused. “We were betrothed already.”
“If you meant what you said about getting married, yes. It really was all right. The Convocation understands that. I spoke to them. It will be harder to explain you throwing stones at me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”
“I was going to tell you in the garden but you ran away before I could. I was going to tell you on the hill but you wouldn’t listen.”
Joyce felt the blush rising in her cheeks. The young man smiled and shrugged.
“Please,” he said, “never tell my uncle or the bishop about any of this.”
“No,” Joyce said. She was horrified that either should ever find out.
“I know I am a stranger to you and that we did not start off well. I hope we can start again. Maybe you can love me. At the very least, I hope that you will be content. We could make a life together and be happy if you will stop hitting me.”
Joyce half-laughed at that, not certain what to say.
“The Convocation expects a priest to give strength to the people he leads. I will need someone to give me strength. My name is Father Daniel Whyte and this will be my parish, though I do not feel worthy of that honour. I feel alone. I think that you feel alone too. We can change that. I wouldn’t deny that it is a hard life being married to a priest, but it has its rewards too. Will you share it with me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Perhaps we can talk about it more,” the young man said. “But we better get back. Uncle Matthew will wonder what has happened to us.”
“And I have a stew to finish.”
“What kind?”
“Dog.”
“I might just have some vegetables,” he told her.
MAXIM FUJIYAMA AND OTHER PERSONS
Claude Lalumière
Over the percussive noise of the rain, Maxim hears male voices shouting and cursing. The sound comes from the direction of his home. He detours half a block so as to hide among a patch of trees that affords him a good view of the apartment complex’s front door. Near the shore of False Creek, the downtown Vancouver neighbourhood where he currently lives, there are trees everywhere. Even more so now than before; even after only a little over a year of urban neglect, there are already signs of nature taking back the city.
Two middle-aged white men are trying to enter the building. But the old Chinese man who lives on the third floor is blocking the door. The Chinese man isn’t talking loud enough for Maxim to make out his words over the distance and the rain. The message of his body language, however, is unambiguous: you may not enter.
The white men are wearing drab business suits that have seen better days. Their hair is long, their beards unkempt. They do not look dangerous, merely pathetic. Four metres away from the door, they continue to shout obscenities and threats at the building’s de facto guardian. The Chinese man responds firmly, shaking his head.
The Chinese man takes a step forward. The two men in business suits take three steps back. They know they have lost, Maxim observes, but still they do not leave, nor do they cease their verbal abuse. The taller of the two men bends down to pick up a rock. He hurls it toward the front door. The throw is ineffectual; the rock lands half a metre short of the Chinese man, who again steps forward. The white men retreat twice that distance. Without saying a word, the Chinese man picks up the rock. He looks at the white men, flexing his forearm with the weight of the rock in his hand.
The men yell a few more threats and insults, but Maxim can hear the de
feat in their voices. Finally, the shorter man tugs on his companion’s jacket and the two are off, scowling back at the source of their defeat and humiliation. As the men leave, the rain tapers off.
This is not the first time Maxim has witnessed his neighbour – who is barely above 150 centimetres tall but powerfully built, his demeanour projecting a physical arrogance that seems unaffected by his diminutive height or his advanced age, which Maxim estimates at around 70 – chasing off people trying to enter the building. Once the white men are completely out of sight, Maxim emerges from his hiding spot. Careful to avoid the intimacy of eye contact, the Chinese man steps aside so that Maxim can enter.
As Maxim climbs the stairs to his apartment – a fully furnished tenth-storey luxury condo that showed no signs of ever having been inhabited before he claimed it – he recalls reading an article that discussed housing costs in Canada, back when there was such a thing as housing costs: Vancouverites, on average, spent 80 to 90 percent of their income on housing, compared to Torontonians, who spent 50 to 60 percent, and Montrealers, who spent 25 to 30 percent, which was the recommended ratio for sustainable living. If the so-called “invisible hand” of the market really worked, the article speculated, housing would not be so expensive in Vancouver; the city’s vacancy rate for condos and apartments hovered in the 20 to 25 percent range, which should have brought prices down, but it didn’t. Vancouver remained the most expensive city in which to live in Canada, regardless of how many housing units were left uninhabited, forcing people out to ever more distant suburbs. Most of the vacancies consisted of condos such as Maxim’s. Near the once-bustling Granville Island, it offered a breathtaking view of the downtown cityscape across from the water of False Creek.
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