The Essential W. P. Kinsella

by W. P. Kinsella

  At supper that evening, when a Toyota commercial came on the television, I began flipping carrots at the TV.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The All-Blue streetcar

  I suppose it was logical that Allan should have come to me for help. Outside of Viveca I was probably the only living person who knew. Beatrice may have suspected but we never discussed the matter.

  Allan’s secret. What exactly is it that I know? That seems to be a real point of contention. I really only know what Allan has told me and what I think I have seen.

  I never liked Allan. I didn’t like him in 1943 and I don’t like him today. I do like Viveca. I would do anything for Viveca. She was the only reason I tried to help Allan.

  I have lived in this city all my life. I joined the Army on my sixteenth birthday, 3 October, 1942. Two months later I met Allan, or rather Allan sought me out as a friend. He was lonely. I have never liked to be unkind to anyone. I tolerated him. He had the look of an English schoolboy, cheeks like two apples floating in a pail of white paint, very blond hair, pale blue eyes, a mouth that looked like he was wearing lipstick.

  “My parents came over when the war started. Money, you know. Horrified that I joined up.”

  I was noncommittal.

  “I can do some rather unusual things,” he said.

  I started to tell him I was not interested but instead remained silent.

  “My family is unique,” he persisted. “We all have powers. They begin at puberty, reach full potential by about 30, then decline to nothing by 50.”

  “So what?” I said. My father fought with the IRA, claimed to have killed seven Black and Tans. “There’ll Always Be an England” was not my favourite song. Allan was somehow insulted that he could not rouse my curiosity, but it didn’t keep him at bay for long. He offered no demonstration of his uniqueness. I continued to reluctantly accept him as my friend. It was a few weeks later, on top of a railway trestle, in a streetcar that had jumped the tracks, that I got to observe Allan in action.

  The All-Blue streetcar was not, as the name may suggest, painted blue. Instead of having names and destinations the streetcars bore a small metal plate about a foot square on the front and rear. If one wished to get around the city, one learned quickly that the All-Blue streetcar travelled west to south, the Red-and-White streetcar went east to south, while the Green-and-Red went east to west.

  On a dismal March night in 1943 we were travelling to a movie on the south side of the city. The All-Blue streetcar had to cross the river valley on top of a railway bridge. Halfway across the car bucked and pitched sideways. We were seated, Allan and I, at about the middle of the car, the only other passengers two girls about our age who were sitting at the very back. I thought we were certainly going to die. I could already feel the streetcar hurtling the 400 feet toward the ice of the river below. The lights went out as the car swung sideways, the rear of the car hanging out over the water. At the last instant the front wheels caught on the outside track and the car hung, balancing like a poorly constructed teeter-totter. The conductor scrambled to safety. Allan and I edged toward the front. I looked back. The two girls were huddled together in the back corner. An instant later they were beside us and the four of us climbed from the front of the car, the white-faced motorman helping us down onto the deck of the bridge.

  There is documentation of the incident, if not of Allan’s act of moving the girls to safety. On the front page of the 15 March, 1943, issue of a long-extinct daily newspaper is a photograph of two servicemen and two girls. My copy, yellow with age, is framed and hangs on the wall of my bedroom. The photograph was captioned The Survivors. The short blond youth with the chipmunk cheeks is Allan, the taller, raw-boned young man is me. The girls! If I could produce even one of them to document the events of that night. One person in the world who could testify that my recent actions are not those of a madman. The girl beside me in the photo, the pale, blondish girl about whose waist I have my arm, protecting her as best I could from the bitter wind, is Beatrice. We were married in 1946. She died in 1974. The girl beside Allan, the one with green eyes and wine-coloured hair spreading over her shoulders, is Viveca.

  CHAPTER THREE

  J. Walter Ives is a transvestite.

  Day nine. I have taken to writing short notes and dropping them around the hospital. The attendants are all spies as are most of the inmates.

  Last night, they brought into my room a whimpering drunk who smelled like wet newspaper.

  “Why are you here?” he asked me. He had little red eyes like a rat. A spy’s question if I ever heard one.

  “I go around killing drunks,” I said, which ended the conversation.

  My first note read: I am capable of great destruction. It was signed with a triangular Japanese flag. Triangles have great significance to the doctors here. At every opportunity I work the conversation around to the male menopause. A black doctor with an Afro moustache and a red-and-yellow caftan listened for some time before saying, “I’m a rat man myself, and rats don’t have no male menopause. I don’t believe in none of that jive.”

  Beware the Ides of March, I left taped to my pillow. That afternoon one of the doctors carried a copy of Julius Caesar with many little bookmarks in it.

  Isn’t everybody a chipmunk? I wrote that on a piece of cardboard and slipped it into a deck of playing cards in the recreation room, in place of the jack of diamonds which I cleverly concealed in the toe of my slipper.

  A large, jolly-looking man with bushy eyebrows and eyes as blue as bachelor buttons sits beside me in the recreation room. “I am a latent homosexual,” he says, placing his hand on my knee.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Cosmo perfume

  Neither Allan nor I ever saw any action during the war. We spent our entire time stationed in our own city, although those who joined up both before and after us were shipped off to Europe, many never to return. Perhaps Allan had something to do with it. I never asked him. I am not a very curious person.

  After the adventure on the All-Blue streetcar, the four of us became friends. I must reluctantly admit that of the two girls I preferred Viveca. That, of course, was all it was, a preference. Allan and Viveca became inseparable. Like Allan, Viveca was an outgoing person. Besides being beautiful she had enormous vitality. Beatrice was the quiet one. On the assumption that likes attract we were paired together.

  A significant, I believe that is the word Allan used to describe Viveca, no powers of her own, but extremely susceptible to his. Once or twice, when we were alone in barracks, Allan gave small demonstrations of his abilities. He made objects fall from shelves, stopped and started my pocket watch several times while seated in a chair across the room. Once he shattered the glass in my shaving mirror simply by staring at it. I was not particularly impressed. I asked if he could make money. He said he couldn’t. He said he could, if he wished, dematerialize and inhabit inanimate objects. He said he could live inside a silver dollar, or a tree, or the fender of a bus. He said that because of Viveca’s susceptibility to his powers, he could allow her to experience the same phenomena. It seemed to me to be an extremely silly thing to do and I told him so.

  Allan tried his best to convert me to his point of view. He said that he and Viveca would travel the world, being able to inhabit great works of art. He had, he said, the command of a dimension of which ordinary mortals were unaware. He could step not only into paintings or sculpture, but could come alive in the time and place that the work represented. It seemed like a lot of trouble to me. I envied Allan only Viveca. Once, at a dance hall, I took Viveca’s hand to lead her to the dance floor. I could feel her pulse throbbing like something alive. She placed herself extraordinarily close to me as we danced. I could feel her breasts against the front of my uniform. Her perfume had the odour of cosmos, those tall pale pink and mauve flowers that sway beautifully in gardens like delicate children. I thought of kissing her. I’m certain she wouldn’t have minded. But Allan would have, and Beatrice. I don’t mean to
belittle Beatrice. She was a good and faithful wife to me and as loving as her fragile health would permit. She gave me a fine son and many years of devotion.

  “I wish things were different,” I said to Viveca as we danced. “I wish that you and I might . . .”

  She moved back slightly to look into my face. Her laugh was joyful, like wind chimes, and I remember her words, but I remember more the liquid green of her eyes and the pink tip of her tongue peeking between her lips.

  “Dear Charles,” she said. “You are of another world.”

  After the war ended we saw less and less of Allan and Viveca. Sometime late in 1945 they left and we never heard from them again. That is, until the night before I was first arrested.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Only you Dick daring . . .

  It was Viveca who came to the door. She was 18 when I had last seen her, she looked no more than 25 now; 26, she told me later. It was, she had decided, the ideal age. She held her hand out to me. The pulse was there, throbbing like a bird between us.

  It embarrassed me to see her looking so young. I have not aged particularly gracefully. It would be a kindness to say that I have the average appearance of a man dramatically close to 50.

  Viveca spent little time on amenities. Allan was in trouble, she told me, and because Allan was in trouble so was she. They needed the help of a third party. Would I be it?

  I am sure that Allan, with his inordinate perceptions, knew how I felt about Viveca. That was why he sent her ahead. He knew I could refuse her nothing. It was quite extraordinary, her reappearance after some 30 years. In recent times, and especially since my wife passed away, I have been fantasizing more and more about Viveca. I remember Allan once describing to me certain, to say the least, avant-garde, sexual practices, and intimating rather strongly that he and Viveca . . .

  “Allan must talk with you,” Viveca said.

  I agreed. Allan was like Dorian Gray; he looked scarcely older than when I last saw him. Side by side we could be mistaken for father and son. There was a desperate tone in his voice as he talked to me, a sense of urgency with just a hint of panic. I found great pleasure in Allan’s distress. I tried to remain very calm and feign disinterest, but secretly I was greatly stimulated. I recalled Viveca in my arms, Allan talking of his uniqueness disappearing at age 50. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was a chance. I would pretend to help but then at the last moment . . . As my father was known to say, a stiff cock knows no conscience. I would have followed Viveca over Niagara Falls in a teacup.

  His powers were virtually gone, Allan explained. He and Viveca had spent the last 30 years doing exactly as they said they would. They had passed like needles through the history of the world. They had visited nearly every time and civilization by means of inhabiting paintings and other original works of art. With Allan’s time running out they had decided on a final resting place: a Grecian Urn that was the feature exhibit of a travelling display currently showing at our museum. It was, Allan stated, the urn to which John Keats had written his immortal “Ode on a Grecian Urn.” I had no reason to doubt him as I had seen it advertised as such in our newspaper.

  “Why me?” I asked. “Surely you’ve made this transfer of dimension thousands of times before?”

  It seemed that they had attempted the transfer a few weeks before, in another city, and failed. Allan had been able to send Viveca on her journey but had no energy left to transport himself, and had barely been able to return Viveca to her natural form. They wanted me along as a safeguard in case something went wrong again. A mere precaution, they assured me. Allan had been conserving his energy for several weeks and everything would go well. Both went into ecstasies about the life ahead of them on the urn. The tranquillity, beauty, peace, they sounded to me like acquaintances of mine who had recently taken up organic gardening. They quoted lavishly from Keats’ poem, assured me that they both realized that they would be totally unable to cope with the everyday world without Allan’s powers, and that the ultimate in nth-dimensional living was waiting for them on the urn.

  I was not about to argue with them although my mind was in turmoil. I tried to think of ways that I could trick Allan into leaving Viveca behind. However, I am hardly a devious person, and as I watched Viveca’s face as she described the joys that lay ahead of her, her eyes flashed, and she laughed often, the magic bell-like laughter of long ago. Her perfume was the same and my thoughts moved to the rows and rows of gentle cosmos that had graced my garden the last few summers. I would help them both. It would be the last act of love I could ever perform for Viveca.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The importance of triangles

  Day twelve. Had a long session with one of the doctors today. He reviewed the results of my tests.

  “You are as sane as I am,” he told me.

  He is the one with the copy of Julius Caesar, who puts great stock in the importance of triangles.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Blue gnats

  The three of us visited the museum that same evening. The Grecian Urn was the central exhibit. They pointed out to me the spot they intended to occupy on the urn. They were as happy as if they were merely going on a holiday. I have a scant knowledge of art, but even to my untrained eye the urn was impressive. It stood some four feet high and there were three bands on it, each displaying a number of raised figures in Greek dress, in various postures, among pastoral scenery.

  I arranged to accompany them to the museum the following night. It was difficult to get close to the urn. It was behind crimson ropes and there was a constant line of people filing past. We waited until closing time. The circular hall was empty. Allan shook hands with me and gave me a few last moment instructions. Viveca kissed me, her mouth a swarming thing. Was I wrong to interpret the kiss as much more than one old friend saying good-bye to another?

  “Would you check the exit-way, Charles,” Allan said to me.

  I walked the length of the red carpet to the doorway, looked outside to be certain that we were alone. When I turned Allan and Viveca were gone: all that was left for me to see was a small swarm of bluish stars no larger than gnats disappearing into the side of the urn in a tornado shape. The urn was several feet distant from the restraining ropes. I looked carefully around, crawled under the ropes, and approached the urn. In the area that Allan and Viveca had pointed out to me were two new figures, a boy and a girl, looking as though they had been part of the urn since it was created. The operation appeared to have been a success. I was just bending to inspect them closely when a startled security guard entered the display hall.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded.

  I stuttered an illogical reply.

  “The museum is closed for the night, sir,” he said with an air of authority. He looked carefully at me, then all around the exhibit hall. “I thought I heard voices,” he said. “Are you sure you’re alone?”

  “I was checking for gnats,” I said, and laughing hysterically, fled from the building.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The limits of psychiatry

  Day thirteen. Another session with the doctors. Three listened; one spoke. The spokesman’s eyes were small hazel triangles. Their consensus of opinion was that I am trying to con them.

  After a long discussion about doctor-patient relationships, I admitted that I was trying to con them, and told them the complete story from start to finish. Then I asked their advice. They suggested that when I go to court I plead temporary insanity and not try to tell the judge my story.

  “He might think you’re crazy,” the spokesman said.

  They intend to certify me sane. Something is wrong.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Meanwhile, back at the museum

  Twice the following evening I went through the lineup to view the urn. It was impossible for me to get beyond the restraining ropes. I merely stood and stared at the figures on the third band of the urn until the people behind pushed me on. Allan had given me certain instructions to follow and in order
to do my job I had to get very close to Allan and Viveca. I had no choice but to wait until the museum closed. I hid in an alcove, then at the first opportunity rushed to the urn. I looked closely at the new figures. They seemed to fit in well. I traced the outline of Viveca’s body with my index finger. As instructed I put my ear close to the figures.

  “Help!” hissed Allan in the voice of a movie cartoon mouse.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything. This urn is not genuine. Seventeenth century at the latest. No character. No dimension . . .”

  “There’s no one around. Come on out.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “My powers are weak. It may be weeks, even months.”

  “You’ll just have to rest up.”

  “The urn is being moved to another city day after tomorrow . . . and by the way keep your hands off Viveca, I saw what you did.”

  “Viveca’s being awfully quiet.”

  As I spoke I touched Viveca again. I could feel her warmth and smell the faint odour of cosmos.

  “Remember it is I who maintain her in this dimension,” he said in an agitated voice, like a tape being played at the wrong speed. Then he told me what I must do. Detailed instructions on how to rescue him and Viveca. He had barely finished when the security guard appeared.

  “You again,” he said.

  “It is such a treasure,” I said. “I only wanted to get a close look at it.”

  “If I catch you around here again I’m going to have to take you in.”