It wasn’t that we were restrained or polite with each other. No. Everything was perfect and calm between us—even when we were euphoric—as long as it was just for a visit.
33
When Aron called to ask me to help him with his installation, he seemed distracted and a little down. But when the day came he was full of energy. He might not have been absolutely clear on all the decisions he had to make, but he was in a very good mood. Was it because I was there? I wouldn’t presume to grant myself that kind of power. It’s just how it worked between us. That’s who we were.
34
I had known Aron for a long time, without even realizing it. His father ran the little grocery store by the lane at the corner of Bannantyne and Lydia where we lived when I was eight or nine years old. I attended the French school, Sacré-Coeur, one street over. Aron went to the English school across the street.
He and his sister worked at the store in the evenings and on weekends. Whenever I had a couple of pennies to spend, I went there to buy candies. It seemed to me that there were always delicious things to be found in that store. It was quite a bazaar. I remember finding it extremely strange that a young Jewish boy should have such red hair.
It was only later, when we met again, that this shared memory came back to us.
35
Aron surveyed the installation. “How does it look?” he asked me.
“Oh, yes, I think it’s going to be just perfect.”
“You see, you don’t actually have to do anything. You just have to be there and everything comes together.”
36
Aron’s sister Sara arrived at about one-thirty and the three of us decided to have a bowl of soup together in the Chinese district, which was a short distance from the gallery.
Aron didn’t stay very long, because he had a lot to do and he was caught up in the momentum of his work. Sara and I stayed a long time, talking and drinking tea.
37
All the other customers had left. The man I took to be the owner was sitting down at a table in the back with the cook, smoking cigarettes.
The waitress, an older woman who was no doubt the owner’s wife, came over to our table.
Sara and I had relaxed into a playful mood, and we were like two little girls in a sandbox.
The old woman seemed to nod her approval as she asked, “Mo’ tea?”
I felt like my bladder was already bursting.
38
Sara was six years older than Aron. She worked the presses at Rinella Printers in Saint-Boniface. I had developed as strong a friendship with her as with her brother. We’d hit it off immediately when Aron had introduced us.
Sara and I had developed the habit of getting together on Friday afternoons when the printer’s closed early.
I very much liked her boss, Frank. And I liked visiting the shop. I loved the smell of ink that pooled invisibly in the air.
39
Frank was a small Italian man who sometimes looked very serious, but who was always friendly and welcoming. His hoarse voice was pleasing to my ear. And he always kept several jugs of homemade wine in the basement.
“The ink hides the smell of the alcohol,” he would say.
It didn’t mean much to me at the time, but as I became more familiar with writing and writers, I became convinced that ink did indeed cover up the smell of alcohol.
40
Despite his mystical tendencies, Aron was obsessed with existentialism. At his house I came upon one of Simone de Beauvoir’s journals. In it she recounts how, towards the end of his life, Sartre would hide his bottle of whiskey behind the books on a shelf.
41
Frank always wanted us to taste his wine. We sometimes accepted more than one glass. He would tell us stories about “the old country.” He himself had been born here, long after his father had arrived from Italy and started the printing establishment. The family had been in the business for 65 years. His father was the one who’d commuted back and forth between the New World and the Old, but Frank told those stories as if they were his own.
On those days when we followed him down to the basement, we’d come back up in a wonderful mood.
Alcohol had such an effect on me that I couldn’t drink very much. Frank derisively called me Miss Magnum. Sara, however, was shameless.
On Friday afternoons when we refused his offer of wine because we wanted to go off on our own, he would offer us a cigar.
Of course we left empty-handed.
42
I’m coming to the reason why I’m telling all this.
Rinella’s had to keep pace with the automation of the printing industry, but Frank had held onto some old-style lithographic and platen presses. I call him Frank because he would never let me call him Mister Rinella.
Artists and writers from Western Canada and the United States came to Rinella’s to have their art books printed.
Sara operated one of these presses. Frank himself had taught her how.
They made a beautiful couple. I mean this in the most platonic sense, because Frank was married, with children. None of the members of his family showed any interest in the shop, so Sara had become, in a way, his business confidante.
43
While Sara and I sat in the restaurant talking about Aron’s installation, I suddenly mentioned having met Ueno at the opening of Jack Crow Wing’s exhibition. I don’t know why. I wondered whether he made a practice of going to art shows—I couldn’t remember having seen him before—and whether he would come to see Aron’s.
Sara exclaimed, “You mean Ueno Takami, the poet?”
“Yes. You know him?”
44
Ueno wouldn’t be coming to Aron’s opening, although he’d get to see the exhibition anyway. But that’s another story.
“Sort of,” Sara replied to my question. “He’s having a book printed at Rinella’s.”
“In Japanese?”
“In English.”
“Is it a translation?”
“No, he writes in English.”
“Really?”
“He teaches English literature at the university.”
I don’t know why, but this information surprised me.
“It seems he’s an authority on Pound.”
It made me laugh.
45
“He’s very charming,” she continued.
Fascinating, I thought to myself.
“He speaks at least five languages. He talks to Frank in Italian.”
That didn’t surprise me, because we had exchanged a few words in French. And his English sounded flawless to me.
“It’s a limited edition. Thirty poems at most, and a dozen woodcuts.”
“Woodcuts? Is he an artist, too?”
“I suppose so. Not that it looks like much. They resemble slabs of wood that have been scratched or rubbed or scored. They look very...”
“Japanese?”
“Yes, absolutely. Taoist or something like that. As if they had been taken straight from the tree bark or the wood.”
46
I was curious, excited. I still needed to go to the washroom, but I wanted to hear what Sara had to say even more.
“What’s it called?”
“The Night Pond.”
“Because there’s also a day pond?”
“That’s what he says, and that the night pond is very similar to the day pond. But he maintains that it’s not at all the same thing.”
I could just hear him saying it.
47
The dining room suddenly became busy. Waiters and waitresses were washing down the tables and laying fresh tablecloths for the evening trade. The clock in the belly of the big golden Buddha read four o’clock. We’d been talking for over two hours.
We paid our bill and I got up to go to the washroom.
We parted at the restaurant door. I made my way back to Artspace to help Aron finish up.
There was a rumbling of thunder in the distance.
&
nbsp; I was still hungry.
48
By the time I left the gallery it was almost eleven o’clock. Aron had invited me to get a bite to eat, but by then my hunger had disappeared. And I wanted to go back to my apartment. The worst of the storm had passed but it was still raining softly. I lived just a few minutes away. The rain was almost warm, which was very unusual for that time of year.
I realized as I walked along that during the entire time I’d spent with Aron that day my mind had been elsewhere.
For that reason I can’t see how I could have been very “magical” for him. He didn’t mention it.
I’d been thinking of just one thing: How lucky Sara was to be working with Ueno. I was jealous.
49
Still damp from the rain, I took a hot shower as soon as I reached my apartment.
Then I put on the old striped flannel pyjamas I’d filched from Aron when we split up. They were so cozy.
I turned on the television and collapsed on the couch. I thought to myself that Ueno would possibly be at Rinella’s the following Friday, and I had every intention of being there myself.
50
I fell asleep on the couch and woke to the buzzing of the television. I’d had a wonderful dream. In a vast evergreen forest, owl calls echoed like drops of water in an empty barrel, intercut with the tinkle of tiny crystal bells. I had the sensation that my hearing was being transformed into sight. I was waking from a sleep and my vision—I seemed to be nothing but a pair of eyes—zoomed in like a camera lens on small bells of pink crystal. I suddenly realized that I was stretched out under a magnificent flowering cherry tree surrounded by a carpet of grass.
51
I got up. I went to the refrigerator and poured myself a glass of fruit juice. Only half-awake, I made my way to the bedroom. I was very aroused.
I had not admitted, when I went to work with Aron, that I had a great desire to make love that day. Instead, I went with him to have some soup, as I’ve described.
52
By the time I’d climbed back into bed, I knew that life would no longer seem ordinary to me.
I wasn’t in the habit of making love to myself. For the past few years, when I wanted to be satisfied I would find myself a man. It wasn’t that I walked the streets. I mean that I would count on my boyfriend. It always seemed like the right thing to do.
53
On Friday I headed for Rinella’s at one o’clock. Frank planted a kiss on each of my cheeks and right away invited me down to the basement to try a new batch of wine that had just aged enough.
I cast around for a glimpse of Sara. Frank must have noticed, because he said, “Sara will be back soon. She went to deliver some business cards to a client. Karl isn’t here today, so she offered. Come and have a glass.”
We poured ourselves a glass and took it back with us to the shop. On Fridays Frank brought up a bottle and also opened a case of beer. His staff members were not fond of wine in general and of Frank’s concoctions in particular. But it was a friendly way to end the work week. It never lasted very long and it was simple and unpretentious. People really seemed to enjoy working there.
Frank and I made the rounds while the presses were cleaned and materials put away. I searched the place with my eyes. At Sara’s work station I couldn’t see anything that resembled a Japanese art book. Not a single galley, nothing.
I was so disappointed.
54
Then Frank happened to say, “Next week the poet Ueno Takami will be coming to oversee the printing of his book.”
He said it as if he took it for granted that I would know Ueno.
“When will that be?” I asked nervously.
“All weekend. Friday, Saturday, Sunday. I’ll have to make some sake,” he added, laughing.
I didn’t know why the presence of Ueno Takami, or his name, should make people so cheerful.
55
I must have been in a Japanese phase. That Saturday I went and bought a lovely round bowl and a goldfish.
I placed the little aquarium and the fish, which I had named Frankie—not for Mr. Rinella, but in honour of Frank Lloyd Wright—next to my cactus. I had also named the cactus. I called it Tony, in homage to Antonio Gaudi. Its spiky uprights reminded me of the spires of La Sagrada Familia Cathedral in Barcelona.
56
Sunday morning the city was bathed in a kind of white brightness. The air was dry, but there was a very thin veil of cloud that gave Winnipeg a patina, an opaque gilding.
I took a long walk, all the way to the Italian district on Corydon Street to have a coffee. The streets were almost deserted. Winnipeg has many trees, but I had the impression that I was walking alone through a natural landscape made of concrete. With no one around, my attention was drawn to the buildings, the streets, the empty blocks and parking lots. Despite my strong interest in architecture, I found this spectacle neither terribly beautiful nor very ugly. I mean that I didn’t at all analyze the structural forms and I passed no aesthetic judgements. It was simply there. As I said, I had the impression of walking through a forest of stone and cement and glass.
57
On my way back there were more people in the streets. I heard a car horn honking. It was Frank in his old bronze-coloured Cadillac with its chrome-plated fins.
“Get in,” he told me. “I’ll give you a ride.” He and his wife were on their way home from mass at Holy Rosary Church.
The construction of this particular church had been very controversial. The church itself was built on a vacant lot, but the parish had bought up several houses that they wanted to demolish to make room for a parking lot. Two houses had been torn down before the neighbourhood residents protested and brought the project to a halt. Now on Sundays the parishioners park in the supermarket lot across the street.
I must admit that when I thought about architecture in those days, I didn’t really think about such issues.
58
“Angèle, I’d like you to meet my wife. Sophia, this is Angèle. She’s a friend of Sara’s,” he explained to his wife.
“Hello, Angèle.”
“Hello, Mrs. Rinella.”
“Where are you going?” Frank asked.
“I’m heading home, to the Exchange District. You could just drop me at the corner of Portage and Main.” I impulsively kept on, “Frank, could I spend next weekend at your shop watching you print Mr. Takami’s book?”
“You’re interested?”
“Yes, very much.”
“We’ll have to ask Mr. Takami. You know, he’s a special case, a real perfectionist... Come by Friday, as usual. You can say hello to him. Why does this interest you? Do you know him? I thought buildings were your thing.”
59
I was ecstatic, I was floating, and I knew very well why; but strangely, I was thinking about something else: about Holy Rosary Church, the old one. The church was then situated a few streets from Sacré-Coeur where I also went to school.
My mother would sometimes take my sister and me there, to attend “the Italians’ mass,” as she called it. I don’t know what gave her the idea to go to pray at Holy Rosary, but every so often of a Sunday that’s where she would go, trailing us along behind her.
I don’t remember whether the mass was said in English or Italian or even in Latin back then. What I do remember is the structure. It had stained-glass windows, while Sacré-Coeur had none. Aside from that, there was nothing very special about it. Except that the space had a different feel to it, more intimate. The wood was darker than that of Sacré-Coeur, less reddish. And there was more of it, including cross-beams on the ceiling.
The loft was smaller. That’s where we would always sit. I believe my mother was fond of choir lofts, since she would sometimes substitute for the regular organist at Sacré-Coeur.
When I was very small she would tie me to the organ while she played, so I wouldn’t go off exploring during the service. I don’t remember that at all; she’s the one who told me.
My mother was also an excellent pianist.
60
I had just stepped into my apartment when the telephone rang.
It was my sister.
“Want to go for a walk?” she asked. “It’s a beautiful day.”
“I’ve just come back from one.”
Silence on the line.
“Why don’t we take out our bikes?” I suggested. “We could go for a ride in Assiniboine Park.”
“Okay. Will you come here, or should I go to your place?”
“I just got in. If you come here it will give me some time.”
“Fine. I’ll leave in about ten minutes.”
“Say hi to Mom.”
“See you soon.”
I wanted to change my clothes and to give myself a few minutes in front of the goldfish bowl.
61
The park was full of people walking and cycling. Children were running in the playground. Happy cries and a joyful feeling filled the air. The weather was so beautiful that the vendors were already out with their wagons. We bought ourselves ice cream and sat down on a bench near the Assiniboine Woods.
The vendor asked us if we were sisters.
“We’re twins,” said my sister, barely getting it out before she burst out laughing.
He just looked puzzled, and I’m sure he didn’t believe her.
There was certainly a strong resemblance. My sister was just over a year older than me. But we had different fathers.
62
“Why did you tell him that?” I asked her.
“I don’t know. I felt like it.”
She put her arm around me. We looked straight ahead of us as we ate our ice cream.
“We’re good buddies,” she continued, “and what’s more, we’re sisters.”
“Strong bonds, for sure. Especially for you, since you’re always dreaming about me. Incredible things... that come true.”
The Setting Lake Sun Page 2