The Intentions Book

by Gigi Fenster

  Morris said, ‘I can’t go out. I’m not well. And my mother doesn’t like foreign food.’

  But it seemed that Pearl was only too pleased to go. Norman had already discussed the matter with her.

  In the silence while Morris tried to understand this, Norman said, ‘She’s happy for you. She wants the naches.’

  ‘I’m sick. ‘

  ‘It will do you good to get out.’

  ‘I’m not well.’

  ‘Twelve o’clock tomorrow. We’ll come and fetch you. And Morris, Morris, wear something smart. We’re going fancy.’

  Pearl wore a dress which Morris didn’t recognise. And red lipstick. When they got in the car, Joan said, ‘Isn’t that the lipstick we chose together? I knew it would look good on you.’ Pearl said, ‘Thanks,’ and she took a little mirror out of her bag and touched up her lips.

  Norman said, ‘Who’s ready for a little French?’

  ‘French,’ said Pearl, ‘but that means we must be going to—’

  Norman interrupted her. ‘I know. I know. My treat.’

  ‘Oh but Norman, it’s expensive. It’s not necessary.’

  ‘For my nephew,’ said Norman.

  ‘For Morris,’ chipped in Joan.

  ‘Nothing is too much,’ they said together.

  ‘My goodness,’ said Pearl, and she nudged Morris.

  Morris edged away from her.

  ‘A little French,’ said Norman. ‘Who’s ready for a little French?’

  Pearl nudged Morris again. He kept quiet and she said, ‘I am.’

  Norman said, ‘Well, that’s good because I hear that French waiters are very short.’

  Pearl gave a little sigh which could have been laughing or maybe breathing out. Joan said, ‘Oh, Norman and his silly jokes. He’s just pulling our legs.’

  ‘Legs,’ said Norman. ‘Frogs’ legs. D’you think they’ll serve frogs’ legs? What do you think, Morris?’

  Morris saw Norman trying to catch his eye in the rear-view mirror, and looked away.

  Norman ordered wine. He joked with the manager, with the waiter. He waved the folded serviette in front of his face as if it were a fan. Joan laughed and said, ‘How I put up with him I’ll never know.’

  Pearl said, ‘I never thought I’d see the day when I would eat in a place like this. Thank you, Norman.’

  ‘Don’t thank me. Thank Morris. He’s the one who’s given us something to celebrate.’

  ‘It’s nice to have something to celebrate,’ said Pearl.

  Norman poured wine for Pearl and Joan, said to Morris, ‘When the waiter’s not looking I’ll sneak you a sip.’

  Joan gave Norman a pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t be naughty now. The law’s the law. And teenage boys like Coca-Cola. Don’t they, Morris? Don’t they?’

  Morris looked at the French flag, the picture of the girl on a bicycle, the menu. When he glanced up, he saw that his mother was staring at him. She’d probably been studying him for some time. Her mouth was set in a tight smirk of distaste.

  Joan was laughing and Norman was laughing. Pearl was studying her son and her red lips seemed to say, ‘I don’t think I like you.’

  She caught his eye, then looked away. She twirled her glass and said, ‘Isn’t this nice? It is so kind of you, Norman, to take us out.’

  Then Norman said, ‘A toast. To my nephew.’

  Pearl looked down at her glass and Morris was able to consider her expression. There was no distaste in it. He had misread her face. The red lipstick had confused him. He said, ‘Thank you, Norman. This is very nice.’

  Pearl smiled at him. She sipped at her wine. Morris laughed at Norman’s next joke.

  During dessert, Joan said that she was jealous of Morris, going off to study. She would have loved to have gone to university. She would have liked to study law. Norman said she’d be good at that. She could certainly argue circles around him.

  ‘Why didn’t you go?’ Morris asked, and Joan said that women didn’t do it in her day and someone had to help her parents in the shop.

  Pearl said, ‘I also would have liked to go to university.’

  ‘You too,’ said Joan.

  Norman said, ‘What would you have studied?’

  Pearl ran her spoon along the outside of her bowl as though she was scraping the edge of a baking bowl with a spatula. ‘I don’t know. I would have made myself someone new.’

  Norman said that she’d never escape being his sister, and Joan said that wasn’t the point. The point was that men got to go out and make something of themselves. ‘Doctor. Lawyer, architect. Women of our generation never had those choices. That’s what Pearl means. Isn’t it, Pearl?’

  Pearl nodded, but Morris knew that Joan had it wrong. Pearl really did mean making herself someone new. She would have gone to university and re-created herself. She would have come back a different person. One who wore red lipstick every day.

  Over the years Morris had made innumerable resolutions to be a better person. With every new school term: I will keep up in class. I will not forget my books at home. I will keep a focus in every single lesson. I won’t be scared to read aloud in class.

  With every school holiday: I will go to the public swimming baths. If I see boys from my school there I will talk to them.

  With every Yom Kippur: I will help my mother more. I will let Joan hug me. I will attend social events at the synagogue.

  In primary school Morris spent the last week of the summer holidays designing the title pages of his exercise books. They were always neat, always painstakingly illustrated, always optimistic. In primary school these neat title pages gave Morris hope. By secondary school all hope was pushed out by the certainty of unravelling, the inevitability of ink splotches and unfinished sentences.

  In his sixteenth year he decided not to fast on Yom Kippur. Having thus denied God, he didn’t see that he could also pray for a better year ahead.

  The next year he returned to fasting, the guilt of not doing so being greater than the spike of liberation which eating on the High Holy Day offered. But still he didn’t make any resolutions for the year ahead. He didn’t even pray for a sweet new year. He wrote ‘I resolve never to make another resolution’ on a piece of paper and threw it in the bin.

  That resolution lasted until Pearl’s red lips said, ‘If I went to university I would have made myself someone new.’

  And so Morris came to be at the first meeting of the Canterbury University Tramping Club, listening to an extremely hairy man introduce himself as Craig, the club president.

  ‘You can all congratulate yourselves,’ Craig told the meeting, ‘for having the good sense to join the only club on campus worth belonging to.’

  A few days earlier Morris had gone to a friend of Norman’s for Friday night dinner. (Norman had arranged it so that Morris could have an introduction to the Jewish community in Christchurch.) Norman’s friend asked what Morris’s first impressions of university were, and Morris blurted out that the men there were very hairy. The children at the table giggled. Their father said it was refreshing to hear such a sensible young man. He himself was increasingly disturbed by the facial hair and messy locks which were sprouting all over campus. There was something, something—Norman’s friend paused, choosing his words—wanton. That’s it, wanton. All that hair on campus was wanton.

  Morris was ashamed of himself for agreeing with Norman’s friend. Ashamed of being a sensible young man. But the hair on campus was wanton and Morris thought slightly scary.

  The president of the Canterbury University Tramping Club was not wanton. Craig was no lazy layabout, too drunk or too lazy to have a proper shave. His hairiness spoke of strength and purpose. He was too busy to shave. He had mountains to climb.

  He was also, according to the boy sitting next to Morris, the guy who led that party that got stuck in the snow in that national park.

  Morris said, ‘Oh,’ and the boy said, ‘They built an igloo.’

  Morris said, ‘Oh,’ again, an
d then, remembering his resolution, put out his hand. ‘I’m Morris.’

  The boy took it. ‘Murray. I suppose I’d better shut up so we hear what he has to say.’ He smiled and Morris, without even thinking of his resolution, smiled back.

  Everyone had to say their name and what made them join the club. Craig pointed to Morris. ‘We’ll start with you right at the back. Name and reason for joining.’

  Morris thought, I want to be someone new. He said, ‘I’m Morris. My father was a tramper.’ And immediately wondered where those words had come from.

  Craig said, ‘Brilliant. So was mine. Actually, he helped build some of the huts that we stay in.’

  It was as if someone had lifted a corner of the failure that flattened Morris to his bed in the mornings.

  Morris is four years old, in his pyjamas and dressing gown. He’s waiting with his father on the front steps of their house. Pearl brings him hot milk with honey mixed in. It’s just getting light.

  Joe says, ‘We’re going to build a new hut on Mount Ruapehu. One day, when you’re older, we’ll go there together and you’ll sleep in the hut your father built.’

  Joe’s friends come in a big truck. Two men in the front and two at the back.

  Joe picks Morris up to show him the water tank in the back of the truck. He says, ‘If Huey is kind to us I’ll be back on Sunday afternoon and there’ll be a new hut on Ruapehu.’

  Pearl says, ‘Be careful.’

  She takes Morris from his father and puts him on the ground. Joe throws his pack on to the back of the truck. Then his axe. Then himself. Morris waves and waves.

  Morris’s father carried an axe into the wilderness.

  Joe’s axe and Pearl’s red lips. They said ‘Go’ when the first annual meeting of the Canterbury University Tramping Club moved to a bar for a drink.

  Joe’s axe and Pearl’s red lips and Murray, who pushed Morris into a seat next to Craig’s and said, ‘You make sure no one takes these seats. I’ll get us some drinks.’

  Murray returned with a jug and three glasses. He handed one to Morris.

  Morris sipped on his first beer and realised he was breaking the law. He looked up at Murray, who winked and said, ‘The barman knows my brother,’ then turned to Craig and said, ‘Speaking of friends of my brother’s—one of them was with you that time you did Milford in the snow. He reckons he’d do it again any day. D’you think you would?’

  Morris listened.

  Joe’s axe. Pearl’s red lips. Craig’s stories when the first tramp turned out to be little more than an outdoor drinking session. When the second tramp was rained out and Morris had to spend a night huddling under a tarpaulin with five other people. When naked swims were suggested and crude jokes made about double bunking and pit swapping.

  Joe’s axe. Pearl’s red lips. Craig’s stories. And Murray.

  Morris could go weeks without seeing Murray. Then one day there’d be a knock on his door or a note with his mail: ‘Weekend tramp leaving Friday. I didn’t see your name on the list.’ ‘Mount Oakden. Snow snow snow!’ The first time he received such a note (‘Have you put your name down for Walker Pass yet?’) Morris wrote to Norman and Joan that he would not be having Friday night dinner with their friends because he had been invited to go tramping with other members of his club. He pictured Joan reading the letter out loud to Norman, underlining the words ‘invited’ and ‘other members of his club’ with her voice.

  As the year progressed Murray’s notes changed from ‘I’ve booked you a place on Bush Skills for Beginners’ to ‘Glad to see you’ve already signed up for the weekend of 15th.’

  Around October there was a note reading: ‘Some guys are putting together a group of four to try Nelson Lakes. Are you keen?’

  They met in Murray’s room. Murray introduced him to the other two as ‘Morris Goldberg. He’s level headed, always punctual and a damn good tramper.’ They discussed routes. They discussed supplies. Morris took notes. He left with a shopping list and an excuse not to attend the spring ball.

  After Nelson Lakes there was Richmond Forest. After Richmond, Arthur’s Pass. During the evening of one tramp they planned the next. They spoke of doing Mount Aspiring one day.

  Morris bought a new pair of pants. The shop assistant recommended a modern style, saying that Morris’s old style was cut for a completely different body shape. He bought two new shirts with short sleeves. Sometimes in a lecture he’d sit with his elbows on the desk, gripping his upper arms. He started lingering over getting dressed, allowing his body to be caught in the mirror. His muscles were getting harder. His legs were getting stronger. He was improving.

  Once, on returning from a three-day tramp, Morris found a group of guys playing cards in the lounge. They groaned about hangovers and disinterested girls and the month’s money gone in a single weekend. Morris found himself overtaken by an unfamiliar feeling: he felt better than them. His legs throbbed with it. He was not Morris Goldberg, too scared to ask a girl to an informal social. Not Morris Goldberg, too terrified to take part in a night raid on the other hall of residence. He was Morris Goldberg, tramper, club member, buddy of Murray.

  Morris wrote to Joan and Norman about Murray and how they’d shown their slides at a club meeting. He referred to the weather as ‘Huey’ and his sleeping bag as his ‘pit’. He described how Murray had exaggerated their exploits to get the attention of a female club member.

  To Pearl he wrote of the lakes and the silence.

  When Morris went back north for the long summer break, Joan quizzed him on student life. Morris spoke about tramping. When pressed for details he told her about the club’s rules—the express ones like filling in the proper forms before you headed out, and the silent ones which Morris was slowly learning: you don’t eat on a rest day. You listen to everyone’s suggestions about which routes are best.

  She asked about Murray, and Morris said, ‘We’re tramping buddies. It’s good to have a buddy like that when you’re tramping.’

  He almost but didn’t tell her that sometimes it felt as if Murray could read his mind. Like when they were choosing a path through the bush or when a decision had to be made about stopping for the night. He didn’t tell her that he and Murray could go for hours without speaking to each other, that sometimes a gesture towards the river bank was enough to say, How about this as a spot to stop for lunch?

  Morris had found a way to be amongst people and to be silent. When he did have to talk, it was about concrete things like what time they’d make a start in the morning and who would be responsible for putting the billy on. Even when they spent a whole day stuck in a hut or when they were sitting around the fire and someone had a bottle of whisky, the conversation was desultory and marked by long silences. No one noticed that Morris didn’t speak much. No one spoke much.

  To Joan he said, ‘I’m thinking of getting more involved in the planning side of group tramps.’

  She lifted one ear of the little dog that was sleeping on her lap. ‘Did you hear that, Sammy? He’s thinking of getting more involved.’

  In Morris’s second year of university he was asked to help plan the three-week Christmas hike. Joan and Norman glowed down the telephone lines.

  ‘How many of you did you say are doing it?’ Norman asked, then, ‘Fifteen, Joanie. He says there are going to be fifteen of them.’

  Back to Morris: ‘Is that boys and girls?’ and to Joan, ‘Yes, Joanie, girls too.’

  The next week a parcel arrived for Morris. An early congratulations on finishing your second year present—a new backpack. Joan had filled it with food.

  Morris already had a backpack. He’d got it when he came home for his first Easter break. The Easter backpack was waiting for him on the floor in his bedroom. His mother had laid an old towel down on the floor and put the backpack on top of that. Morris circled it a few times before kneeling down to study it. It was khaki canvas. It smelt damp and had discoloured patches on it like it had been dragged through dirty water. A Trapper Nelson.
It looked familiar to Morris, as though he’d seen it in a picture.

  When he thanked his mother for it, she said it had been in the basement gathering dust. When he asked where it came from, she said it needed to be washed. Morris wanted to say, There’s nothing dusty about this backpack. He wanted to say that it shouldn’t be washed. That its stains were something to be proud of. Something that told you it had been places.

  But it did smell mouldy so he spent an afternoon scrubbing away at it, and when he was done it looked good. Clean but still old, still experienced.

  Craig had a Trapper Nelson. People teased him about how heavy and uncomfortable it was. Craig laughed the teasing off. He said the backpack was based on a Red Indian design. The Indians carried theirs long distances. If it was good enough for them, it was good enough for him.

  The Trapper Nelson gave Morris unexpected cachet with the club. Someone drew a cartoon for the newsletter of Morris and Craig lying flat on the floor, pinned down by their packs. Two Trapped Half Nelsons. Murray stuck the cartoon on his bedroom wall. Morris considered sending a copy of it to his mother but decided against it. Instead he sent a photo of him in a group of trampers, their arms around each other.

  In Pearl’s next letter she said, ‘If you can get another copy of that photo for Joan that would be nice.’

  Morris got an extra copy. Joan had it framed.

  Morris didn’t mind the jokes about his pack, and he laughed along when Murray put it on and pretended to stagger about under its weight. The discomfort of the Trapper was somehow appropriate. Tramping was not meant to be a walk in the park.

  Even so, Morris recognised that the Trapper would not be suitable for longer tramps. He should have been grateful when the new pack arrived, and he should have been happy that it was filled with food. But the sight of Joan’s card made him feel ashamed. Her handwriting reminded him of the old man at the bus stop.

  For weeks he couldn’t look at the backpack without feeling that he was letting someone down.