by Cary Fagan
My mother laughed. She laughed again, flinging back her head, and the boarder looked up at her as if she might be a little mad.
“When I grow up, I’m going to move to New York. Going to be a singer. A big star.”
We were walking down Yonge Street on Saturday night, past Muirhead’s Cafeteria, Scholes Hotel. Laughter from a tavern door as it opened, smell of beer and cigarettes. Women with cheap fur collars held on to their men.
“Why do you have to go to New York?” I said, not quite understanding my envy.
“You can’t be a real singer in this town. Here they like the Andrews Sisters. Bing Crosby. All that smooth stuff. This is a cowtown.”
“It isn’t.”
“Where’s your coloured section? Where’s your Cotton Club? It isn’t a big city without Negro people.”
We stopped in front of Heintzman Hall and looked through the plate glass at the shining black pianos. I wondered whether she was right. In truth, the farthest I’d managed to imagine was leaving the house of my parents. It had never before that moment occurred to me that I might go somewhere else, and I felt almost as if the wind had been knocked out of me.
A sailor stumbled into me and kept going.
“Anyway,” I said. “You can’t be a famous singer. You’ve got a voice like a washing machine.”
“Take that back.”
She grabbed my arm and bent it behind my back. Grimacing, I tried to pull myself free, but she had me good. I squinted through the tears and saw the marquee for Brant’s Vaudeville. All Live! Shows Running Continuously Till Midnight.
“I’ll let you go if you come in with me,” she said.
“But . . . we don’t have . . . any . . . money.”
“So? We’ll sneak in. The doorman isn’t even there. Probably on a piss break.”
“We might get caught.”
“Will you come with me or do I twist your arm a bit more?”
“Okay, okay.”
Corinne let go, only to grab my sleeve. She pulled me down to sneak under the ticket booth and then rushed me through the door and across the red lobby carpet. She yanked open the inside door and then we were in the dark of the theatre. We stood letting our eyes adjust. A man with a dog act was on. Every time he bent over to pick something up, one of the dogs jumped on his back.
“Those dogs are smarter than you,” she whispered. “Come on.”
She skipped down the aisle and slid into a seat three rows from the front. I took the seat beside her. The man and the dogs took their bows and the curtain came down. Three girls came on and did a fake cancan.
“Those women are all so ugly they must be sisters.”
True, but I looked at their frilly underpants anyway. After them came a violinist and an Irish singer, followed by a husband-and-wife comedy act. I was thinking about putting my hand onto Corinne’s knobby knee, whether I’d get a slap to the head, when the curtain came up on a man in tails and top hat. He was drunk, or seemed it anyway, trying to keep himself upright as he patted his pockets in search of a cigarette. When he came up empty, he shrugged, but when he put his hand to his lips, a burning cigarette appeared. Surprised, he dropped it onto the stage and stamped it out. But another appeared in the same hand, and then a third in his other hand. He threw them down too, but more cigarettes replaced them and then one seemed to jump into his mouth. He staggered about in increasing dismay, burning cigarettes appearing faster than he could drop them.
The audience laughed, but I leaned forward, riveted. How did the cigarettes just appear? I hated the drunk act, the slurred voice, the cheap humour, but none of that mattered. Anyone could learn to dance, or tell a joke, but this man broke the laws of nature. He made a tear in the world and put his hand through it. I didn’t know that he was one of a hundred imitators of Cardini, one of the greatest sleight-of-hand magicians of the time. I only knew that I too wanted to pull objects out of the air.
When we left the theatre, I couldn’t talk. Corinne gabbed on about this or that act, but I had no words. Instead, I made her walk quickly up to College Street then past the market, up to deserted Harbord, and through the back alley into the back garden of my house. Most of the garden was taken up with an old, high shed where years ago my father had kept a horse. He had left the factory and for a year or two, while my uncle was beginning to make his fortune, had sold pots and kettles from a wagon. I had been three or four, but I could still remember that old sway-backed horse. Once, my father had let me feed it some carrot tops.
“What are you up to?” Corinne said when I pushed the shed door open and led her inside. It was dark but for slits of lamplight leaking in between some of the slats. Mouldering straw still lay on the dirt ground. Some rusted tools leaned in a corner. “I bet there are mice in here. Maybe spiders . . .”
I grabbed Corinne and kissed her. I didn’t even know how to kiss; our teeth banged together. She started to push me away, her hands flat on my chest, but I pulled her tighter and pressed my pelvis against hers. My body was a fire of pain. “You can’t . . . tell . . . anybody,” she said, pulling off her shirt. She smelled of sweat and lemon soap. We stepped away from each other and, eyes down, took all our clothes off and laid them over the straw.
“Don’t you think I ever did this before,” she said.
“I don’t.”
“You’re only fourteen.”
“You’re only sixteen.”
“You don’t have one of those rubber things.”
“I do have one.”
It hadn’t been easy to get, but I had made the effort because I didn’t think that Corinne would agree without it. Everyone knew there was a Parents’ Information Bureau worker who would supply you as long as you didn’t look like a cop. All I had to do was pay a guy who worked at one of the stalls to tell the woman he wanted it for himself and his wife. Now I pulled the package out of my pocket to show her.
“You mean you’ve been planning this?”
“I don’t know how to use it exactly,” I admitted.
“We can figure it out,” she said.
I could not believe the softness of her skin. But we were both rough with each other, like children wrestling. That first time was more a relief than a pleasure. But there would be the next day and the day after that and the day after that. At other times we would talk just as we did before, as if nothing had changed. But there was something new between us. Something precious that would protect us.
My mother did not have the needs of an adolescent but the hunger of someone who believed that her time was running out. If it hadn’t been the German, then someone else? But it was the German.
So she put her ear to his door and listened. It was only nine o’clock, but perhaps he was already sleeping. He did keep unusual hours, sometimes going out at ten in the evening, sometimes not leaving the room at all.
His voice startled her. “Is someone there?”
She backed away. “It’s only me. Mrs. Kleeman. Bella. I brought you a piece of cake and a cup of tea. But if you don’t want it . . .”
The door opened. He stood in his undershirt tucked into his trousers. “Yah, please come in. It is most kind of you.”
Without his glasses, his face looked even rounder, his eyes smaller. He stepped aside to let her in. “Here I am two days with the rent late and you bring me cake. But I have half of it for you.”
There was no table, so she put the oval tray on the dresser. He had rearranged the room, moving the bed against the wall to make a small space by the window for an artist’s easel. She had never seen one before except in the movies, and it was almost exotic. Small jars of paint rested on a wooden stool spotted with colour.
“I see you have brought two cups. You will join me?”
“Yes. You’re an artist?”
“No, no. Not at all. I just make little pictures and sell them. Down on the boardwalk b
y the lake, where people like to stroll on the weekends. Come and see if you like.”
He led her to the other side of the easel. A board rested on it, divided into twenty small squares. Each square was a little painting in progress: a girl with a balloon by the Eiffel Tower, a dog asleep with the Colosseum in the background. The red and blue had been painted in all of them, but the rest was only sketched.
“They’re so pretty.”
“I have no imagination. I paint the same over and over. Children like them. Young men buy them for their sweethearts. They make the world small, like a story, a plaything.”
“You have paint on your face,” my mother said. And because she hungered for tenderness herself, she put the tip of her finger to her tongue and then touched his face.
“Bella.” He held her hand there. With his own hand he reached up to touch her birthmark and then, his fingers caressing her neck, pull her close.
At dinner, a spot of paint on my mother’s neck. She kept touching it with the tip of her finger.
I wanted to know more about what the man in the tuxedo had done onstage, and the library was the only place I could think of to go, although I didn’t feel optimistic. And although I believed that most, if not all, of human knowledge was contained within the walls of the Gladstone Library, I doubted that the sort of knowledge I sought could be found in books. Still, as soon as I thought of it, I headed to the library, not considering the fact that it was after dark and the place might be closed. And sure enough, I stood on Bloor Street and looked at the dark building, outlined by a spill of light from the gas station beside it. I was about to turn away when I noticed a single bulb above a side door, and at that same moment the door opened and a woman stepped out. She juggled a set of keys to lock up. Tall, in a cloth coat and a hat that looked too small for her head. What would Corinne do? is what I thought to myself before walking quickly up to her.
“Please, miss. I want a book.”
She turned around and looked at me. She had a long, appealing face, like a horse. “I’m sorry. The library is closed until morning.”
I must have looked crushed, because her face softened. “Do you have a library card?”
“No, miss.”
“You look familiar. Have you been here before?”
“Sometimes.”
“And no library card. All you have to do is have your mother and father come in. This is just the sort of hurdle we have to overcome with you immigrant families. Well, my evening engagement was cancelled anyway. It wouldn’t hurt to go get some work cleared off my desk.”
She put the key back in the lock and opened the door again, turning on a light. I followed her in through the back rooms, past coat racks and crowded desks and a battered lunch table, up the stairs and into the broad reading room. I was naive enough to believe that she must have read every book on the long rows of shelves.
“I think it best if we keep most of the lights off,” she said. “We might draw the interest of the local constable and have to explain ourselves. Now, the card catalogue is right here if you haven’t used it. What is the book you’re looking for?” She took a flashlight from a desk.
“I don’t know which one exactly.” The truth was, I didn’t know if there was such a book.
The librarian pointed the flashlight at me. “Can you tell me the subject?”
“Magic.”
“You mean witches and sorcerers, that sort of thing?”
“I mean what a man does in the theatre. With cards and cigarettes and making things disappear.”
“Conjuring. So that’s what has brought you so urgently to the library. As good a subject as any. Let’s look under the subject heading. You see here? We have just a few titles. Most are for children. I believe that Hoffmann’s Modern Magic is the best, but it’s hardly intended for someone your age.”
“I want to see it, please.”
“We’ll just write down the Dewey number. And now to the books.”
She swung the flashlight beam to the carpet and led us to the shelves. She leaned down and ran her finger along the spines until she pulled out a small, thick volume. Standing again, she put it in my hands. The author was listed as “Professor Hoffmann.” The book fell open to a small picture, an engraving of a hand lifting up a pan to reveal flames rising from inside. I read the words underneath. Borrowed rings and live dove produced from an omelet.
“Can I take it home?”
“Unfortunately, it’s a reference copy, which means that it doesn’t circulate. You have to use it in the library. But I’ll tell you what. I’ve got some work that I can do. You sit down and read for an hour. I can give you paper and a pencil if you want to make notes. And afterwards, I’ll keep it at my desk and you can come in during regular hours. Would that do?”
“Yes, miss, thank you.”
“And what is your name?”
“Benjamin.”
“Very good, Benjamin. I am Miss Pensler. You sit over here. I think we can risk turning on one reading lamp.”
At the desk, I turned one page after another. What I saw was too wonderful, and too much to take in.
My uncle’s intention may not have been to keep his sister a prisoner in their home, but the effect didn’t look much different to me. The visits of Tobias Whitaker, accompanying her brother home, were at least a break from the monotony of her days, but it wasn’t as if she enjoyed them much. Mr. Whitaker was attentive to her, often bringing a box of chocolates or a bouquet or even the latest copy of Picture Play or True Story, which he supposed she might like. He looked pale as a china dish to me, whenever I saw him (Hannah slipping me the chocolates), like some kind of cold-blooded animal needing to borrow another creature’s warmth.
One early evening, Mr. Whitaker appeared at the door. Hayim was still at the factory — he kept long hours — and she had dismissed the maid in order to be alone. She stood holding it open to the cold evening air. Here was Hayim’s friend, weaving a little from drink and crumpling his handsome hat in his hand.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Whitaker, but my brother is out.”
“I’ve already been to see him. And now I’ve come to see you, if that’s all right.”
“Of course.” She felt the flush of her cheeks. Her brother had always encouraged her to be friendly to Mr. Whitaker, and now he was coming to see her by himself. She ushered him into the sitting room, walking slowly so as to make her limp less noticeable. But it was his own nervousness that alarmed her, how he fiddled and looked anxiously about and licked his lips. She sat first and he perched across from her on a silk settee.
“The maid has gone out, but I could make some tea.”
“Oh no, don’t bother. Perhaps I could just take myself a small drink.”
“Of course.”
She watched as he went to the side table and poured himself a glass of Seagram’s. He drank it down and sat again.
“Forgive me, Miss Kleeman. Hannah. I have been trying all evening to fortify my courage, you might say. And now I must say what I’ve come for.”
He stood up and startled her by immediately dropping to his knees, his hands flailing. She could see his red hair was thinning, which made her feel more warmly towards him. He reached up and grabbed her hands.
“Please, Mr. Whitaker.”
“No, I won’t let go. I’ve been captured by your sweetness, your goodness. These visits are the highlight of my days. I wake up each morning thinking of you.”
“You’re being horrible to me. I didn’t think you were like that. When my brother gets home —”
“But he knows I’m here. He says that the difference in our faiths isn’t a problem for him. He doesn’t object to your conversion. My family has a good name, and that counts for something in this town. I want you to marry me, Hannah.”
Her breaths came so quickly that she became almost faint. He had to support h
er arm. To be the deepest concern of a man. To escape this house. To be loved. Tears stung her eyes and sobs convulsed her. She felt absolutely stupid, but she just couldn’t stop.
Miss Pensler had told me to come during regular hours, but I would wait for her instead at the end of the day so that the two of us could have the library to ourselves. I think that it was already becoming my way, to operate in secrecy, in the shadows of near dark, and somewhere between the rules. Miss Pensler herself must have enjoyed our little conspiracy for, despite sighs and eye rolling, she always let us back in.
It says something about my feelings that, instead of keeping these visits always to myself, I decided to bring Corinne with me. And Corinne was eager to go. She liked reading much more than me; I wasn’t interested in any story but the one I was trying to write for myself. But really she wanted to come because she was suspicious of this Miss Pensler who didn’t mind spending some of her free evening hours with me. “Just don’t tell me that she’s got literature on her mind,” Corinne said, stretching out the word: lit-a-ra-toor. This jealousy by my sixteen-year-old lover made me uncomfortable and proud at the same time, and I didn’t know if I should reassure her or encourage it, but in any case I was far too inexperienced to attempt either.
And so one evening Corinne trailed behind me, suddenly unsure, as I went up to the door just as Miss Pensler was coming out.
“I brought a friend with me,” I said.
“Now Benjamin, you know the library has closed. Letting one person in is bending the rules enough. If Mr. Clare finds out, I could be dismissed.”
“Who’s Mr. Clare?”
“The head of the branch.”
“Aren’t you the head?”
“I certainly deserve to be. Well, come in, then, before somebody sees.”
Corinne followed and I could feel her wariness even without looking back. We went through the workrooms to the stairs and up into the reading room.