Serafim and Claire

by Mark Lavorato

  After this setback, Claire was finally given the break she’d been waiting for, her ticket out of the vaudeville scene. She landed a contract at Midway, a successful burlesque theatre on St. Catherine Street, and was ecstatic about it. In America at the time, burlesque was synonymous with scandal, but the French-Canadian version was much less salacious. It was still lowbrow and ribald entertainment, but it was much less explicitly sexual, having yet to delve into the risqué striptease that was ruffling feathers in the United States. Instead, the French-Canadian way focused more on trendy choreographed dance. It was performed in both French and English, and had become a form of entertainment that was positively flourishing in Montreal.

  The director at Midway was taken with the idea of having his dancers perform to “black jazz” — which at the time was being stiffly emulated by white musicians, playing with anaesthetized smiles — in hopes of giving the club a more exotic flair. It allowed their club’s patrons to feel “less threatened” than if they were to go to one of the authentic black jazz clubs on St. Antoine Street. The director, who appreciated Claire’s energy and commitment, also decided to give her several pieces to choreograph, with complete artistic freedom. What she came up with were temptingly racy numbers, as impressive as they were suggestive, and her work soon became the most successful acts of the night.

  Feeling she had reached a sort of high in her career, Claire told her parents about it during a Sunday lunch at their place. As the years had gone by, her mother and father had asked fewer and fewer questions about her work, or what she did with all her time; and whenever she offered information freely, in passing, they seemed tense and discomforted, which baffled Claire. When she told them the news about her choreography work in burlesque, while her father passed a plate of boiled potatoes over the Sunday table, the air suddenly congealed, as if she’d told them she had a terminal illness. Even her grandmother was incapable of grasping the significance. Affronted, Claire promised herself never again to mention her achievements to her parents. They had been growing in opposite directions for some time, but Claire felt they were now so far away from each other — like land masses drifting apart until they’d blurred out of range — that they could no longer decipher what the other’s world even looked like.

  The following Thursday, she was shocked to see them after her final act, sitting small and pale at a table near the back. She approached them elatedly. “Maman, Papa! What are you doing here! And what did you think of my act?” She kissed her hellos and pulled up a chair. Her parents didn’t answer. Instead, they lowered their gazes, studied the surface of the table. “Is . . . is everything okay?” asked Claire.

  Finally, her mother looked up, lips atremble. “Well . . . it’s no wonder we don’t see you in church anymore. I think . . .” She pressed a fist into her mouth, as if physically muscling her tears back into her throat. “You know, I think . . . that we don’t know our little girl anymore. I think our daughter . . . I think she’s lost.” Her tears began to stream.

  Claire’s eyes darkened, deepened, a slow smirk crossing her face. “Exactly, Maman. Your daughter is lost. Which is where she was designed to be. Where she belongs. And if you don’t know that, I really don’t think you know her.”

  Her mother, crying audibly now, stood up from her chair, tugging on her husband to do the same. “Let’s go. I will not sit here with some woman I do not know, with some . . . some common prostitute.” She pulled at Claire’s father and together they turned, taking several steps towards the door before her mother paused, spinning round impulsively, and declared, “And nor will I allow such a woman into our home. She is not welcome.” As they left, Claire’s father looked back at her as he tried to keep up with his wife. And tried not to.

  As soon as they were out of sight, Claire slumped in her chair. The music was bouncy and upbeat. A passing waitress paused to see if she wanted anything to drink, but she hesitated before asking, looking Claire over. She decided against it, and continued on her rounds. Claire eventually lifted herself from the table and took a taxi home, where she crawled into bed, her body on the mattress feeling as heavy as limestone. Like sediment, she sank into sleep.

  When she woke in the morning, however, it was with certainty and vigour. She interlocked her fingers over her stomach, pointed her toes. She didn’t need her parents. She didn’t need them or their petty judgements, their antiquated views and conventions. What she needed was to be precisely where she was, and further, always moving further along, pushing the envelope of her success. Nothing would deter her. Not even her own blood, who happened, she thought sadly, to be too simple and ordinary to see how their duty was to encourage her dreams, not deflate them. One day she would become someone on whom they would deeply regret having turned their backs. One day.

  She was sure of it.

  [TWO]

  VENTURING OUT

  Medium:Gelatin silver print

  Description:Man standing in marina at night

  Location:Oporto, Portugal

  Date:1926

  A man stands alone on the paving stones of an embankment, between two overexposed street lanterns. Massive ropes stretch into the frame as if reaching out at the subject and, slacking, tired with the effort, moor themselves instead to cleats and bollards that can just be seen in the dark of the foreground, a few metres in front of the man.

  His posture is strong, as if he is heaving with a deep breath. His body is not squared to the camera but askew, thoughtfully angled, while his head is turned to look directly into the lens. He is wearing a dark suit, and his collar, framing a light-coloured tie, is the only white object in the frame, and appears to be shining, providing a glow that illuminates his facial expression.

  It is a contemplative look, seemingly tight-lipped beneath the man’s bushy moustache. His eyes gleam moist. It is as if he is trying to communicate something to the photographer. Something where words will almost certainly fall short. Or already have.

  Coming from the anchored boats in the night around him — one of which, it appears, the shot was taken from — one can almost hear the single, lonely clink of a bell. Other than that, the scene appears to be perfectly quiet.

  A fog looks to be brewing, swarming the lanterns as if with wispy insects, while a thin film coats the dark space between the cameraman and his subject, like an opaque curtain, drawing closed.

  12

  Serafim opened his eyes to an unfamiliar room that was almost completely dark. He could detect a few unidentifiable shapes and angles but could not quite recognize his surroundings. His muscles were stiff from the fetal position he’d fallen asleep in. His head smarted. He clenched his hair, moaned, and sat up to look around, sorting through the shadows. Then he remembered, leaned forward, and buried his head in his hands.

  Floating on the unseen floor at Serafim’s feet was a choice he knew he had to make, because there was only a very small amount of courage left in his veins to make it, the brave conviction that had burned in his chest only hours ago depleting rapidly, fading, as is the nature of cinders. If he were going to take this merchant acquaintance of his up on his offer, he would have to do so in the next hour. Or never. He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh that stunk of hunger and alcohol.

  Serafim stood up and began fumbling towards the noise of the quay outside, which was still bustling at night. Opening a doorway in front of him framed by artificial light, he flinched at the brightness of a gas lamp nearby. The soapy smell of the Douro made him queasy, and as he stood, grimacing, a man passed the doorway and looked him over with disapproval. Confused, Serafim inspected himself. His vest and jacket were still unbuttoned, his clothes creased, a shoe untied. He patted the top of his head to discover tufts of unruly hair sticking up in the back. He’d apparently lost his hat somewhere along the way.

  The mast of a ship in front of him swayed on the river, pointing rigidly into the night. He heard the shout of a man in the distan
ce, asking if there was room enough for one last box, the reply to which was unintelligible, muffled, swallowed by the dark. On a street nearby, an automobile cranked into life, accelerated, shifted gears.

  With a sudden, invigorating certainty, Serafim knew what he had to do, his decision made. He set off as quickly as his headache would allow towards his uncle’s house, back to his room and his things. He would need to gather them up quickly. He stepped into the apartment, thinking about eating, and realized that he’d missed supper without finding a way of letting his aunt know, which was inconsiderate and something he hadn’t done once in the ten years he’d lived there. The smell of warm food was hours old, and as he passed the dining room, he saw no place setting ready for him. This meant they’d heard the news and knew that he had probably taken it hard. He found his uncle and aunt in the sitting room, waiting anxiously.

  Serafim stood in front of them with a hand on his forehead. “I’m sorry I missed dinner. I am leaving Oporto. Do we have any aspirin?”

  His aunt and uncle exchanged a look, reluctant to respond. Finally his aunt spoke up. “In the bathroom cabinet, on the right.”

  “Thank you.”

  Serafim swallowed six aspirin and pocketed another handful in case he needed more, then went to his room and began rifling through his belongings. In his closet was the trunk he’d packed his clothes in when he had moved from his father’s house. He hoisted it onto the bed and hinged it wide open with a creak. Folding pants, shirts, ties, pinching pairs of shoes together, he began to fill it. Looking over his shoulder, he noticed his uncle in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

  “Are you heading to Lisbon, to join Álvaro?”

  Serafim halted in the middle of the room for a moment, a heap of socks in his hands. Interesting — he hadn’t even thought of that as an option. “No. I’m heading onto a boat.”

  “I see. Bound for where?”

  Serafim himself was surprised to hear the words. “I . . . don’t know.” He was sorting through his underwear now, dividing the new from the old and uncomfortable. “I think it’s going to France.”

  His uncle stood quietly for quite some time, his eyes following Serafim back and forth through the room. “Serafim, . . .” He paused to bite his lower lip. “I am not . . . sure this is the kind of thing you can run from.”

  Serafim slowed his movements, a shirt in his hands hovering over the open trunk. “You know” — he flipped the shirt over, lifted the collar, frowned — “I’ve always hated this shirt. I’m not bringing it.” He carried it to the closet and hung it back up.

  “And when does this boat leave?”

  “Before daybreak. I’m expected to sleep on board tonight.” Serafim put two more articles of clothing into the trunk and turned to see why his uncle hadn’t responded to him, but he was gone.

  His uncle returned when Serafim had just closed the latches on his trunk and had stepped away from it, admiring his packing job with no small degree of satisfaction. He realized that he could fit his entire life into one small box. It was incredible somehow. People, he thought, could be so much less encumbered than they imagined themselves to be.

  His uncle interrupted Serafim’s thoughts, suddenly standing beside him with a thick envelope in his hands. “I have been to see Mr. Moreira downstairs.” Mr. Moreira, Serafim knew, was a businessman who lent money as an aside to his regular trade. “Because . . . I have known you all your life, Serafim, and luck is something, you must understand, that is not on your side. You will need this where you are going.” He handed Serafim the envelope. When Serafim saw how much money was there, he refused, and tried to give it back. But his uncle held up a stiff palm, not willing to budge. “You will need it where you are going.”

  With a reluctant hand, Serafim put the envelope in his pocket. “Thank you. Now I have to get this trunk to the ship.”

  “I’ll help you carry it. That way we can stop off at the studio and you can retrieve any archival film you’d like to keep, and that lens for the enlarger you saved up for, which you need for that thirty-five-millimetre film you use. I suspect the use of the moving-picture format for still photography is a passing fad, so you’re best to take that enlarger lens wherever you go, just to be able to develop what you shoot.”

  “Of course,” Serafim said, somewhat aghast. He hadn’t thought of any of these things. What else was he forgetting? It was such an impetuous act that there were bound to be things he was forgetting. But the thought of stopping to compile a list or go through a set of priorities petrified him. If he hesitated for even a moment, his bravery would slip away forever. In the same way that it was slipping away right at this moment, making him want to sit down, eat a warm meal, and rest his throbbing head. He turned to the bed and grabbed hold of the handle on one end of the trunk. “Then we should get moving.”

  He said goodbye to his aunt, who insisted he take several pastéis de bacalhau, wrapping the salt-cod cakes in layers of serviettes, their oil bleeding out to form transparent stains in the tissue. He and his uncle dropped by the studio, added a few more items to the trunk, and made their way to the quay. As they walked silently, words formed on Serafim’s lips that felt so empty and thin that they eventually just evaporated. They passed a tavern where Portuguese guitar was plucking out a plaintive tune, a fado singer joining midway through, a coarse female voice singing a doleful melody.

  At the quay, they ascended the long plank into the boat and were greeted by a shipman hustling to meet them, presuming they were mistaken. “Is there something I can do for you?”

  “Yes, my name’s Serafim Vieira. I believe I have a room on board.”

  The sailor looked amused. “You mean a berth. It’s that hatch, first door on the right, top bunk.” He hurried away.

  When they’d placed the trunk in the room, Serafim accompanied his uncle back outside, where they stood awkwardly on the cobblestones facing each other, again not knowing what to say. Finally Serafim offered, “I imagine I’ll be back in a year or two.”

  “Of course.” His uncle gave a perfunctory nod. “Of course.”

  Serafim took his uncle’s hand and shook it. “Well, wish me luck.”

  His uncle smiled as if with a dull pain in his abdomen. “Take very good care of yourself,” he said, then embraced him, speaking over Serafim’s shoulder and towards the river that flowed out to the sea. “Adeus.”

  Serafim walked up the gangplank, pinching his throat that ached with tears he refused to let fall. He turned on the deck to see that his uncle was still watching him, standing between two of the gas lamps on the quay. Not knowing what else to do, he took his Leica out, rested it on the ship’s railing, set the shutter speed to Z — which he’d read stood for zeit, “time” in German — and released the shutter. He kept it open for a second or two and pressed it again to close it. Then he waved at his uncle and went below deck, knowing, as he took another four aspirins and settled onto his berth, that in this life anyway, he wouldn’t see his uncle again. The aspirin slowly lulled him into a numb and welcome sleep.

  He awoke to the ubiquitous growl of a steam engine, the ship, having already embarked, swaying gently from side to side. Feeling strangely panicked, Serafim sprang from his berth and climbed the stairs to the early dawn above. There was a river fog, as there often is during the mornings in Oporto, shrouding the city that was already well behind them, hazing the last of the bridges, which they’d already passed beneath. A few straggling fishermen could be seen casting their lines out from the banks of the Douro, baskets on the ground beside them, wicker mouths open wide and waiting. They passed the final tributary as well, feeding into the river where it began to splay into the delta, a siege of herons standing in the water at its entrance, statuesque and inspecting their own reflections, seeing through them and to the life on the other side. Above the boat and fog, seabirds pencilled their shapes into the sky, V-notching every layer of the horizon out to s
ea. As the ship headed north, the smoke from the stubby stack dragged parallel with the undulations of the waves.

  Farther up the coast, Serafim could hear music as they passed a fishing boat, and he went to the tip of the bow, as far from the engine drone as he could, to listen. Men were hauling nets over the gunnels, singing a rhythmic song in a minor key to keep the task synchronized, fluid, and efficient. Watching and hearing them, he found himself holding on to the railing and squeezing it. What he felt was both a consummate adoration for his homeland and a consummate loathing, both so powerful and simultaneous that each pierced the skin of the other, making them bleed into each other, become muddled and murky. On the hunch of his slouched back, he waited to be lifted by the inspiration that he felt was owed to him. He wanted to feel the wings of freedom and adventure, the release of his burdens and disgrace, the quickening air of his plunge from the treetop. But all he really felt was the cold of the metal in his hands, and the clothes on his back.

  Ville de Québec, le 8 octobre 1926

  Ma douce, ma sœur,