In Fond Remembrance of Me

by Howard Norman

  Helen again read: “‘Shortly afterwards, we imagined that we could distinguish the sound of voices through the fog; we immediately beat the drum, to point out our situation; and, in a few minutes, we plainly heard the shouting of the Esquimaux: they soon came alongside the ship, with the usual expressions of delight. It is really surprising that this people should venture so far from the land, in such frail barks, through a mass of ice which is enough to daunt an European, even in a stout-built ship.’”

  “That passage could apply to one of Mark’s stories,” Helen said.

  Toward the end of our stay in Churchill there was a particular evening and night on which Helen fell into a near-stupor of pain that seemed bereft even of the humor Helen could mine from her own despondency. I felt a definite panic, that the cancer her physicians predicted would give her more time—months, in fact, if not a full year—had opted for murder now. Her groans, paleness, and grimaces scared me. It felt like an invisible murderer had entered the room.

  “Helen, I think we should get you to a hospital, right now,” I said.

  “I’m not doing what you think I might be doing.”

  “You look pale, Helen. Your hands feel clammy.”

  “I’ve been pale and clammy, as you say, ten thousand times. I ache deeply inside, and I’m having stupid, bad thoughts. Mark would say, ‘Spirits are using her.’ Maybe they are.” She dozed off for a moment, opened her eyes, and said, “Would you consider reading Lieutenant Chappell’s report to me?”

  “Of course. Yes.”

  “Just until I nod off. I like that phrase, ‘nod off.’”

  This was about eight o’clock or eight-thirty at night. I began to read from the preface, which, in Chappell’s day, was called the Advertisement: “‘Towards the close of the year 1814, a young naval officer, Lieutenant Chappell, of His Majesty’s ship Rosamond, who had recently returned, for the second time, from an expedition to the North-eastern coast of America, brought to Cambridge a collection of the dresses, weapons, &c. of the Indians inhabiting Hudson’s Bay; requesting that I would represent these curiosities to the Public Library of the University.’”

  The notion that Helen’s exhaustion and medications, in concert with being read to, would act as a soporific proved false—or, as Lieutenant Chappell wrote, a falsehood of some note—because Helen stayed awake through my reading of the entirety of Chappell’s report, Advertisement all the way to page 246, where he ends the narrative proper by writing: “I shall here conclude this Narrative; merely adding, that the Rosamond and her convoy again sailed from the Orkneys on the 7th of November, and arrived safe at the Nore on the 17th of the same month; when an inspection having been made of the Rosamond’s defects, she was reported to be totally unfit for sea, in consequence of the damage she had sustained amongst the ice of Hudson’s Straits; and she was accordingly put out of commission, and immediately advertised to be sold out of His Majesty’s service.”

  (I did not read the Appendixes: “Statement of the Variation of the Compass,” “Table of the Voyages of the Company Ships, since the year 1773,” “Thermometrical Observations,” “Dresses, &c. OF THE ESQUIMAUX INDIANS in Hudson’s Strait,”A Vocabulary of the LANGUAGE of the CREE or KNISTENEAUX INDIANS,” though the language in those was decidedly evocative.)

  It was now about 2 or 3 a.m., I think, though more likely I had lost track of time, which is the best way to read, or listen to someone read. “Thank you, Howard Norman,” Helen said when I set the book down on the bedside table. “You’re second only to the CBC announcers. Of course, they’re not available upon request, are they.”

  SEAL HUNTERS LIVE ON THE ARK AWHILE

  A big wooden boat appeared on the horizon. Some village men paddled out to it in kayaks. When they got to the boat, they heard, “Two of you can stay—the rest of you go away!” The villagers saw a long wooden stick with bristles waving in the air and ravens flying off the bristles. The ravens landed on another part of the boat.

  “I’ve seen that tool before,” a man said. “I saw it in a dream.”

  “Let’s find out who’s sweeping ravens,” another man said.

  “Yes, it’s not right, to invite two to stay and tell the rest of us to leave,” another man said. “Very selfish.”

  A few men climbed up the side of the boat. While they were climbing, winter arrived. Sometimes this happens, winter lands suddenly as a raven. Now it was winter.

  The men stood on the deck of the boat. Then they saw a European man dressed in a white coat, but it wasn’t made of sealskin. “Hey—was that you shouting? Was that you sweeping ravens away?” a man said.

  “Yes—get off my ark,” the man in the white coat said.

  “Is that what this boat is called?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your name?” a villager said.

  “Noah.”

  “Noah,” the villager said, “you can’t blame ravens for coming around. That’s what they do. Ravens are curious. Every time a person paddles out in a kayak, ravens come by, to see if a fish is being caught or cleaned. They like the fish guts, for one thing. They’ll squabble right on a kayak, if fish guts are seen. Gulls, too. They beg for food. Hey, hey—what’s that smell?”

  “I have a lot of animals below deck,” this Noah said.

  “Noah, what kind of animals, Noah?” a villager asked. “Seals, white bear, ptarmigan?”

  “I don’t know those,” said Noah. “I don’t have those with me.”

  “Where is your family?”

  “They died.”

  “Did any of the animals kill them?”

  “No.”

  “How did it happen, then?”

  “One by one, they jumped from the ark and drowned.”

  “Come to our village, tell everyone what happened. We’ll find you a new wife. It’s winter now. You’ll starve out here.”

  “Go away. I’m staying on the ark.”

  “Well, can you eat the animals below deck?”

  “I won’t. Go away!”

  “Noah-no-family says go away,” a villager said. “All right, we’re off to hunt seals, then.”

  When they arrived at the seal grounds, they spread out and leaned over seal breathing-holes. Soon many ravens arrived. “We’re curious about the ark,” a raven said. “We’re all flying over to it.”

  “Watch for Noah’s broom, it’s got sharp bristles,” a man said.

  “We heard about it,” a raven said.

  The ravens flew to the ark. A villager said, “Let’s hunt seals a few more days. Then we’ll go to the ark.”

  They caught seals, lashed them to their sleds, then went to the ark. When they got there they saw ravens swirling about. Some had broom bristles in their beaks. “Hey—hey—Noah!” a hunter shouted.

  “Get these birds out of here!” Noah cried. “I know you sent them!”

  “We told you ravens are curious.”

  “Get them away from me!”

  “Give us some planks of wood, we’ll chase off the ravens,” a man said.

  “All right,” said Noah.

  He pried off some planks. He dropped them to the ice. The hunters spoke to the ravens. Most of them flew off. “We know what it’s like having too many visitors,” a hunter called up to Noah. “One time all of my cousins stayed the winter, my wife’s cousins, too. But we took them in. It was winter. They were hungry.”

  With this, the hunters climbed up onto the ark. They started living there. They ate what animals they found on the ark. They liked the taste of some; they hated the taste of others. “This is good—this isn’t!” “This isn’t a bad place to live awhile,” one man said. “Yes,” another man said, “we can visit our families easily, then come back out here. There’s unusual things to eat.” They settled in for a long visit.

  Finally, Noah said, “I’ll give you many more planks, go away.”

  “No,” said a hunter. “Stop complaining. We’re not poking you with knives, we’re not poking you with ice chisels, we’re
not making you get rid of our dogs’ fleas. Stop complaining. Sit and eat a meal with us.”

  Many days went by.

  Some colorful birds flew off, but otherwise the hunters ate most of the animals Noah had on the ark. There was much talk about this, how they tasted, what they looked like, what their voices were—“That one was unusual—that one was unusual.” When the ice-break-up arrived, the hunters paddled kayaks back to their village. There were many holes in the ark where planks had been pried off. The ark sank away into the sea. But the hunters had left behind a kayak for Noah and he paddled it clumsily to shore. “You can stay here,” a woman said.

  “No, I’m leaving,” said Noah.

  “Do you know how to travel without an ark?” a man said.

  “I can walk.”

  “You no longer have a family where you came from. Stay, we’ll find you a new wife.”

  “I’ll try and find one where I come from.”

  The villagers walked south with Noah a ways, then turned back—a few ravens kept going, too. They were curious. Noah never returned—nobody ever knew if he got home, either. That is what happened.

  THE MAN WHO HELD TWO KNIVES

  The Inuit Cultural Institute was in Eskimo Point, a community largely developed by whites, or Europeans, for administration and mining purposes and whose population in the late 1970s was growing rapidly. Eskimo Point, too, was justifiably famous for having amongst its citizens some of the most remarkable, prodigious, and skilled carvers and sculptors; work from Eskimo Point is in private collections and museums all over the world. Mark’s nephew Thomas accompanied Helen one day up to Eskimo Point, where she purchased a narrative sculpture called The Man Who Held Two Knives.

  When she returned the next day, I saw The Man Who Held Two Knives prominently displayed on her writing desk, among papers, books, and other paraphernalia of the basically makeshift situation of life in a motel. “There’s a wonderful cooperative up there,” Helen said. “I saw carvings in bone, ivory, antlers—lots of soapstone. But this one really knocked me out.”

  I picked up The Man Who Held Two Knives, not only to admire the craftsmanship but to feel its weight, its solidity, and observe its detail close-up. I referred to it as a “narrative sculpture” for two reasons. First, the sculptor, whose name was Lucy, had told the person who sold the work to Helen, “I dreamed what the man in the carving is doing.” Of course a dream is a narrative; in this instance, however, the artist herself defined the autobiographical origin, “I dreamed …” but also, to some extent, takes responsibility for the action depicted in the sculpture because she had dreamed it.

  “I don’t know if Lucy believes that dreams enter a person,” Helen said, “or if dreaming’s a creative act all on one’s own. I didn’t talk with her. The salesman in the cooperative told me what Lucy said. I didn’t hear it from Lucy herself.”

  The second reason I refer to the sculpture as “narrative” is that a folded-up written story had accompanied Helen’s purchase. Therefore The Man Who Held Two Knives depicts a moment frozen in time, even though the work itself is kinetic, it has animation, a kind of life force. When you look at The Man Who Held Two Knives, you are entering the life of the figure in medias res.

  He stands about ten inches high, made of gray, grainy soapstone. His head is almost perfectly round; his eyes are etched slants, his mouth askew, there is no nose. His upper body is a triangular mass, his legs thick and short, though each of his arms is of plausible human dimensions. His feet are not clearly defined as feet; it is more that the legs widen at the ground. His right arm is angled 45 degrees upward, his left arm is angled 45 degrees downward. There are no hands to speak of, but rather knives in place of hands, so that there is no question as to whether the knives (and violent action associated with knives) are a physical extension of the body. The figure is therefore not “holding” knives but is partly composed of knives—sculpturally, at least, symbolically, most definitely—no matter what Lucy had titled her work of art.

  The sculpture is a forensic tableau. At the figure’s left lies the head of a seal, whiskers included, and at the figure’s right lies the head of an Inuit man whose expression is a fixed grimace with broken teeth. Oddly, he is wearing snow goggles.

  A seal was hunted; a man was murdered.

  In a monograph, Eskimo Point/Arviat, published in Winnipeg, ethnographic art historian Bernadette Driscoll writes, “In a curious way, the procurement of food is implicit in the very act of Eskimo Point carving. In recent interviews a number of the artists responded to the question ‘Why do you carve?’ with the statement ‘To purchase the equipment and supplies I need to hunt,’ or, more explicitly, ‘To put food on the table.’ A very basic equation, that: sell artwork to make money in order to make a living in the more traditional, ancient manner. A dignified way to comport oneself on the planet.

  So, Lucy had dreamed of a man doing an ill deed within an altruistic context. Still, according to the written story that came with The Man Who Held Two Knives, this man had murdered in order to provide for his family, a stunning ethical complication.

  A man went out to hunt seals. He had his scrapers and a long, sharp spear. He also had two knives. He went many days with no luck. Then he saw another man who had just killed a seal. He offered the man something for it. When the man said no, the other raised both of his knives and with one stabbed. That is what happened. That is what I saw.

  “Lucy’s dream has the quality of direct testimony—you know, as in a courtroom. Doesn’t it?” Helen said.

  “Yeah, like she’s been brought in as the star witness.”

  “‘Lucy, what did you see happen out there in nowheresville?’”

  I set The Man Who Held Two Knives back on the table. “Why did this one catch your eye?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I think partly it was knowing that a woman had made it. And partly, I suppose, because it’s so striking; you just feel so much energy from it. And sadness, too. Strange, the whole scene it depicts, don’t you think? I don’t know. It’s both grotesque and beautiful all at once. It’s like hearing a story you wish you’d never heard, about something you wished never had happened. But of course it did happen and you did hear it.”

  “Yes, Helen, but it was just a dream.”

  “Think what you wish.”

  A USEFUL MELANCHOLY

  Before I met Helen I had not heard of Ryunosuke Akutagawa. Then I saw the quote, “What good is intelligence if you cannot discover a useful melancholy?” taped to her typewriter.

  “He is my most beloved writer,” she said. “He is my favorite writer.”

  In his introduction to the collection Rashomon, scholar-translator Howard Hibbett writes, “To sketch the background and temperament of Ryunosuke Akutagawa is to risk a melancholy cliché. He was brilliant, sensitive, cynical, neurotic; he lived in Tokyo, went to the University, taught briefly, and joined the literary staff of a newspaper. Even his early suicide [in 1927, at thirty-five] only heightens the portrait of a modern Japanese intellectual, the double victim of an unsympathetic society and a split culture. But it is a vague composite portrait. For Akutagawa himself, aloof, elusive, individual, remains withdrawn behind the polished façade of his collected works. All that needs to be known about the author, besides the name stamped on the binding, may be found within these poems, essays, miscellaneous writings, and more than a hundred beautifully finished stories.”

  Helen displayed a framed magazine or book jacket photograph of Akutagawa on her desk. Looking at the camera, it’s as if Akutagawa wants us to dismiss his youthful handsomeness as a fraudulent representation of a tormented inner life. With his intense sidelong glance of preoccupation—or dismissal of earthly concerns—he seems to judge the sparse, café-life tableau of table and teacup as an annoying “writerly” cliché. Weary, sardonic smile, sensual mouth, disheveled black hair combed back from a high forehead on a long face, his is one of the most severely enigmatic expressions I have ever seen. I think it is safe to say that
in the West, Akutagawa is known best as the author of the collection of stories Rashomon; a story in that collection, “In a Grove,” which centers on the rape of a traveling wife in front of her husband by a thuggish stranger, an incident related from seven points of view, including that of a ghost, served as the basis for the famous film Rashomon, directed by Akira Kurosawa and starring Toshiro Mifune.

  When Helen translated the quote on her typewriter, I said, “Where did Akutagawa write that?”

  “In a letter, I think,” Helen said. “Or an essay.”

  “And do you agree with it?”

  “Well, it is a question, after all. It can’t be completely answered. But you can think about it. You can enter into a kind of philosophical dialogue with it, can’t you? But finally, yes, I do agree. Melancholy seems just the right mood to keep a clear perspective on life. Yes. Yes, I do agree. What do you think?”

  If Helen were alive today I would be able to answer, “I have thought about that question practically every day.” Which is the truth.

  Helen loaned me Rashomon and another book in an English edition written by Akutagawa, A Fool’s Life, whose fifty-one elegantly composed vignettes make for a kind of literary suicide note. It begins with a letter-dedication to a friend, Kume Masao; in part this reads, “I exist now in a most unhappy happiness. But strangely without remorse. Only that I feel sorry for those who had me as husband, father, son. Good-bye. In the manuscript, consciously at least, there is no attempt to justify myself.”

  After reading A Fool’s Life and Rashomon the world—and I search for diction that allows ebullience—“opened up anew.” I fairly begged Helen for a reading list in Japanese fiction, works in English translation, of course. On her list was Kawabata, Akutagawa, Soseki, Junichiro Tanizaki, Ibuse. “After that, you’re on your own,” she said. “But these will keep you for a good long while, I bet.”