Yet, the more time she spends with him, the more she feels the need to keep her admiration of him in check. But that is becoming rather difficult. He had coaxed her into spending the day with him cycling the Toronto Islands instead of finishing her report for this morning’s meeting. To be fair, there was not much coaxing. All he did was ask her. She loves visiting the Islands that appear far away from the city although only a twenty-minute ferry ride from downtown.
After biking, they had dinner at a Harbourfront restaurant — with a Queen Mother special, a bottle of merlot, and a cognac — sitting at a patio overlooking the lake. He had suggested a nightcap at his place. She had nodded in agreement. Her head was swimming and she’d wished the night would never end. There was also this want to be at his place, to sit at the sofa where he sat, to walk through his kitchen with the juicer always ready for a new health-booster, to run her palm along the table where he had the breakfast of granola he made from scratch, to smell the garlic bread he keeps in the freezer for heating up in the oven — the oven where he baked the bread he brought to the picnic. His bed.
At this, she sobered up. His bed — that place of magic where her body blends with his and her mind flies off to the moon and makes her think of the mythical Chang — has she also become addicted to his bed?
She had turned down his suggestion for a nightcap. She needed to go home and get ready for work. He said that was fine. If she wanted to be a good girl — a diligent civil servant — as he put it, in a tone she saw as patronizing, as if he had this power over her he could exercise at will. She was glad that she had gone home and was in her own bed before midnight.
She could not sleep. Could not get him out of her thoughts. The scent of his skin warmed by the sun, that look in his eyes each time they were about to kiss, the taste of tobacco on his lips. She, who has never smoked, is now addicted to the flavour of tobacco? But it’s not the tobacco. It’s David I’ve become addicted to — David’s kisses. I am now craving them like people crave tobacco.
The realization makes her cringe. David the unpredictable? The man who vanishes for days, and then just pops up next to her at the park by Flower Power where she usually spends her Friday afternoons updating the reports? He turns on his charm and clowns around. His favourite put on is imitating Charlie Chaplin, begging forgiveness with flowerless stems until he makes her laugh. And that would be his tip-off that she’d forgiven him.
He said he would be gone for a few days, maybe five, maybe a week, to work on the upcoming demonstration. To meet with other organizers. She can hear him now.
“What about your classes?” she asks.
“Got a colleague to cover for me. Not a problem.”
He did not say where he was going nor with whom he was meeting. She did not feel comfortable asking. At least this time he told her he’d be gone. She knows his commitment to the antiwar movement comes first. Everything else takes second place — everything, including her. Perhaps Anna has a point. She wishes she could have a chat with her — now that the silence about David has been broken. Find out why Anna dislikes him. Why she disapproves of her relationship with him.
But that’s another problem. Anna and David seem to know each other much better than they are letting her believe. She can tell from their conversation — careful around her. Afraid of hurting my feelings? Don’t they realize this is much worse? Liza is so wrapped up in her mental discussion with herself that the trip to her office is but a flash.
And now, her heart sinks. Her schedule for the day is daunting. She has not finished the report over the weekend. Working on it the previous night proved futile. Her thoughts kept drifting off to David. Then to James. She had kept her last Friday’s discussion with him short and agreed to a meeting this afternoon.
Would this be about David again?
David told her about the conversation he and James had — almost the same one she had with James.
A group of teenagers — an older group of “artists’ children” — that hung out in the park on the night of the theft saw a flatbed truck with its headlights turned off. They did not see a company name, nor logo, nor the vehicle’s license plate.
“It must’ve been covered. Clever move,” James had said.
But they did see a man wearing a Maple Leaf baseball cap. They were fairly far away — about seven or eight car-lengths. One of the teenagers pointed a flashlight and the beam caught the white maple leaf patch of the cap one of the men wore. And a silhouette of his bushy beard. Her discussion with David plays out in her thoughts.
“James thinks it could’ve been you, David. That you could’ve hidden your hair under the cap. He said you spend a lot of time at the sites.”
“That’s preposterous, Liza. This unruly shock of hair under a baseball cap?”
“I’ll tell James you were with me that night, David. And end the questioning.”
“Promise me you’ll never do that, Liza. Lie for somebody. I already told James I was home that night. Alone.”
“The teenagers told James they know you. They said it wasn’t you. The bearded man was shorter and skinnier. But James is not convinced.”
“That cop is under pressure to find the culprit and appease the community.”
“I’m still worried, though. What if somebody else witnessed the theft? Anyone with a beard could be a suspect. What if somebody picks you out in a line-up, David?”
“It’s all speculation, Liza. I spend a lot of time at the sites, yes. I am a sculptor — what is so strange about my interest in the biggest art symposium in Toronto’s history? Why should I have to provide an alibi? And how could I? I was sleeping in my bed like the rest of the world. They’re targeting me because I’m a draft dodger. Let them find proof. Evidence. Let them lay charges. I have nothing to hide.”
CHAPTER 22
AFTER A DAY of intermittent rain, the evening is dark and humid. The low churning clouds weigh heavily on the tree crowns that overhang the narrow sidewalk along Colborne Lodge Drive. A few late joggers scamper by and a lone cyclist whizzes along the pavement heading south toward the lake. David’s arm is wrapped around Liza’s waist as they turn toward sculpture sites and slog down the rain-sodden slope. Flashes of light illuminate the hill and the looming trees as if the whole landscape is a scene from a science fiction movie. Armand Vaillancourt’s foundry, built in the north-east valley of the park, in which he casts iron cubes for his as yet unnamed sculpture, has become the focus for local residents. They flock to the site for an evening show of light and fire and the pouring of the molten metal. The whole city is brewing with anticipation of this colossal project.
They pause to take in the scene. The workers’ silhouettes lumber about the site, coming into view against the glowing fury of the foundry furnace and then vanishing into the darkness.
David chuckles. “He’s a night owl, isn’t he? The man doesn’t sleep. He’s been here night after night.” They move several steps to get a better view. “Any news on the sculpture? Any decisions?”
“Just what we already know.”
Vaillancourt had revealed some of the details — it will consist of about a hundred cast iron cubes, weigh several hundred tons, and be, in his words, a reflection of his will power and all that is inside of him. The Globe and Mail referred to it as the sculptor’s seven-hundred-ton torture.
Liza takes David’s hand and presses it against her cheek. How the aroma of tobacco takes on a pleasant scent on his skin. He certainly has a keen interest in the project. He keeps an eye on the sites as if he was a self-appointed night watchman of Sculpture Hill.
David shakes his head in disbelief. “Quite a venture he’s taken on. Convinced the City to pour in more money for the foundry. And he still doesn’t know what the sculpture will look like. Now, that troubles me.”
“Each cube will be lifted by a crane and moved around until he decides on the location. Then the pieces bolted
together. And the whole installation could end up about thirty yards. Maybe more. He hasn’t decided yet.”
David whistles through his teeth. “Ah! The man might’ve bitten off more than he can chew.”
It would be a few years later when the project is abandoned and the cubes of cast iron lay scattered at the site in High Park, many Torontonians would comment that hundreds of thousands had been wasted. Some would argue that the sculpture was not completed because of Vaillancourt’s refusal to be confined by a blueprint. Others would claim it was his lack of vision. Yet others would point to the controversy over the potentially unpatriotic name he chose for the piece.
“He wants the installation to grow in a fluid manner,” Liza says. “Without a blueprint to constrict its form.”
But David is not convinced. “Those blocks weigh tons. He’s looking at a colossal assembly. The sheer mass of those pieces . . .”
“He’s determined,” Liza says. “The spirit of the Symposium! Loves the crowds. The inquisitive minds, as he calls them. Unlike a few others who keep to themselves. Like Bill Koochin. Glued to that granite slab. I can’t get a word out of him. He ho-hums and nods. And that’s the sum of his conversation.”
“Bill’s great. Keeps his nose to the grind. Has a family to support. Eager to get the job done and get back home.”
“You know him?”
“Collaborated on a project. Have much respect for him.”
“A project? When was that?”
“Some time ago. At Emily Carr College in Vancouver. Where Koochin lectures. We were featured at an art exhibit. I was living in Boston then.”
“You’ve known him for a while? You never said anything.”
“Not much to say. We met some years back. The first group travelling with Contiki Tours. It was organized by a New Zealander. He’s now the owner of the company. Clever guy. Came up with the way to finance his own tour of Europe. Brought together a bunch of backpackers and offered himself as a guide. I happened to be there. So was Koochin. And Anna. That’s how we all met.”
“Wow, David. You’re full of surprises. Didn’t know you and Anna go way back.”
“Not much to know, Babe.”
“Not saying anything is a little strange, wouldn’t you say?”
“Sure, Babe. But what’s to say?”
Heat rushes to Liza’s face. No, she will not confront him, no. What would be the use? But anger builds in her until she can hardly breathe. Why had Anna and David kept their friendship a secret? After the evening at the Mynah Bird, she had accepted their explanation — keeping their involvement in the antiwar movement covert. Although the reasoning does not sit well with her. Now he tells her they go way back. What else are they hiding? Even if they had been lovers, she could see no reason to keep it from her.
Liza takes a deep breath and tries to sound calm. “Well, perhaps you could talk to Koochin. Isn’t the whole Symposium a type of an outdoor art gallery? An art-classroom of sorts. Which means the public is welcome to watch and ask questions. Isn’t that what it’s all about?”
David laughs. “I’m with you. But the artists have to eat and feed their families. If they answer every question, they’d never get done. Some people hang around here killing time, quizzing these men as if it’s the Spanish Inquisition. And not only about their work. As if the miserly honorarium they get gives people the license to dissect their lives. I know I wouldn’t like being asked piddly things like what I had for breakfast.”
David had hit a sore spot — he certainly does not divulge much about himself. She would like to ask about the meetings he never elaborates on, about the people he mentions casually — Joe Young, Allen Ginsberg — clearly he knows them much better than what the newspapers write. He talks about them as if they’re friends. She does not ask questions. Does not invade his privacy. If he wanted to say more he would. But his absences and his preoccupation with the antiwar movement that first evoked her curiosity, and she must admit, admiration, are now causing her to worry about his safety. And there is this uncertainty about him. On the one hand, his mention of the meetings with the antiwar organizers implies that he is not hiding his involvement. And on the other, his caution of what he reveals reminds her that she is an outsider. Does he not trust her? Or is he prompting her to ask questions? Could he be using the snippets of information, the name dropping, as bait? Hoping she’d bite and join the movement. No, that doesn’t seem like him. Though, one never knows. If he trusts me, if he wants me to join the movement, he should ask me. She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, lets the tension dissipate.
Vaillancourt’s fiery demonstration lights up the park, and Liza is glad of the spectacle. She needs something to ease the tension. She claps her hands. “He’s pouring the molten iron. It’s spectacular!”
In the valley below them, the foundry blazes furiously, as the workers in silhouette tip the giant ladles and pour the glowing metal into the moulds lined up on a large base. Vaillancourt, in his sleeveless shirt, moves swiftly about the site, his glistening biceps highlighted by the inferno around him. Liza is enthralled, as if she were observing a scene from Greek myth.
Armand — he’d asked her to call him by his first name — this sparsely built and bearded man takes on Hephaestus’ proportions when working at the foundry. His otherwise reserved demeanour and offbeat wit morphs into unbridled energy and a steely determination no one could derail. Rumour has it that the name he chose for the sculpture was rejected by the Symposium Committee and tensions between the City and the artist are mounting. David’s belief that Armand had not decided on the name for his piece is not quite correct.
She recalls her conversation with Armand — the way he said the name of his piece left an imprint on her. Je me souviens. “I remember,” he’d said, with such pride and confidence. It will be so powerful, it will disturb, he’d added. She hardly ever used her high school French she considers inadequate, but with him she was at ease. Je me souviens. Since then, camaraderie has grown between them, and each conversation reveals something new to ponder.
Gossip has it that the name he’d given the sculpture refers to the founding of the Quebec separatist movement by René Levesque earlier that same year. A few of her colleagues mentioned that Vaillancourt belongs to the Parti Quebecois — the party that has apparently set out to divide Canada. The idea of using the Symposium which celebrates Canada’s Centennial as a forum to promote his separatist views is subversive, to say the least. Yet, one’s art is personal, she reasons. He has the right to name his artwork in the way it speaks to him, and she hopes the City would see it his way.
Eyes glued to the flames that bring into view the groups of onlookers who come and go, Liza sighs. “He has certainly raised expectations.”
David motions to the scene. “This foundry’s more of a nighttime happening. Putting on this blazing show.” He presses his cheek against Liza’s. “Ooh la la! You’re flushed just at the sight of that Frenchman.”
Liza pulls out of David’s embrace. “Armand? You for real? What do you think I am?”
“On a first name basis with Vaillancourt, to start.”
“So?” She cries out and steps away from him. “Talking to him is my job!”
David slowly moves closer and with the tip of his finger gently lifts her chin. He looks deeply into her eyes. “Just checking, Babe. That it’s me you love.”
Liza’s mouth drops open. “With all your secrets, how dare you? What else are you hiding, David?”
“Didn’t mean any of that. Didn’t know how to tell you, afterwards. But that man down there” — he points to Vaillancourt and makes a goofy face — “with his fire-breathing dragon. How do I compete?”
“Are you implying that I . . .”
He presses his lips to hers. After they kiss, David says: “Je t’aime, mon amour.”
“What’s this about?” she exclaims. “Why in Fr
ench?”
“Well, if it sounds better. But that’s all I know in French. You love me, Liza? In English or in French. I love you in any language.”
Liza blushes. “Why are you saying this? Why now?”
David pecks her gently on the lips. “Why not now? Do you love me, Babe?”
Hand over her face, she hides the tears stinging her eyes. Her chest heaves with sudden sobs.
David wraps her into an embrace: “What’s this about?”
“It’s about you, David. You,” she says between sobs.
“What about me? I love you. I told you many times.”
“I can’t, David. Don’t you understand?”
“You can’t love me?”
“No, don’t say that. Don’t ever say that to me.”
He whistles sucking in a deep breath. “Oh, Babe. What have I done? I know I was the first. Girls find that hard. Did I pressure you? Oh, Liza, I didn’t mean to.”
“Girls find that hard, you said? I’m not just some girl, you know.”
“You better believe you’re not just some girl. You and I — we’re real, Liza. We’re for good.”
She frees herself from his embrace and inhales deeply. “You did not pressure me, David. You know better than that. I wanted to be with you. I practically threw myself at you. So let’s not go there.”
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