Swann

by Carol Shields

  SARAH (CAMERA close-up on her face): Lord! (Dissolve.)

  Fade to: Interior, San Francisco Airport. Early morning.

  MORTON JIMROY, a middle-aged man in a cheap light-coloured cotton suit, is waiting his turn in an immigration line. SOUND: the usual hubbub of a busy airport underlain by MUSIC: something symphonic and emotional.

  LOUPEAKER:Flight 492 for Toronto now boarding. Flight 492 boarding now at Gate 77.

  IMMIGRATION OFFICER (bored): How long do you intend to be in Canada, Mr. Jimroy?

  JIMROY (testily): Four days. And I happen to be a Canadian citizen, and I am not obliged to stand—

  IMMIGRATION OFFICER (mechanically): Business or pleasure, Mr. Jimroy?

  JIMROY (annoyed; he is a man who takes all questions seriously): Business. Pleasure. Both. (He pauses; the immigration officer eyes him sharply.) A meeting. A symposium, to be precise. I will be attending a —

  IMMIGRATION OFFICER: Nature of meeting? (He holds a rubber stamp in his hand.)

  JIMROY: I resent this interrogation. As a Canadian citizen I am not required —

  IMMIGRATION OFFICER: Meeting you say? Nature of which is? (He waves the stamp in the air.)

  JIMROY (shrugging): Scholarly. Literary. (As though addressing an idiot): Poetry, if you must know. You know, as in “Jack and Jill went up the hill —”

  IMMIGRATION OFFICER: Okay, okay. (He stamps the paper and hands it to Jimroy.) Next.

  JIMROY (bitterly): Thank you. (CAMERA follows him as he disappears into the crowd. Dissolve.)

  SOUND: noise of the airport crowd blends with the rushing sound of the train.

  Fade to: Interior of the train. Daytime.

  CAMERA focuses on Cruzzi and Rose who sit facing each other on the train. They are drinking coffee out of plastic cups, stirring it with plastic spoons, and behind them flash the snowy, rounded hills of eastern Ontario. The sky is grey and wintry, but the sun struggles through so that the top of the scene is pink with light. The ongoing rumble of the train blends gradually with the sound of Rose’s voice.

  ROSE: … well, you must of thought I was dippy, I mean, writing you a letter and suggesting we, you know, go to Toronto together, but, well, it’s one thing to travel alone and another, well, I was saying to a friend of mine, another thing to have someone to chat with on the way, and, well, it was really Professor Lang … I suppose you know Professor Lang —

  Cruzzi grunts and nods.

  ROSE: Well, Professor Lang was in Nadeau, must of been three, four years back, you lose track of time, don’t you, one year sort of blends in with the next one, doesn’t it? And anyway, along he came one day, middle of the week I think it was … yes, because I remember I was sitting in the library surrounded by cataloguing. Even in a little library like our town has, you always seem to be cataloguing. It’s surprising how much work, every time a new book comes in, you have to do. Of course it’s different in the bigger towns what with computers and all, but I say it’ll be a major miracle (laughs) if Nadeau ever gets a computer, not that I’m overly fond of mechanical things myself, but anyway, it’s not very likely, financial restraint and what have you.

  CAMERA close-up of Cruzzi’s face; he is nodding, struggling to stay awake, yet something peaceful in his face shows that he finds the garrulous Rose more comforting than irritating. Rose, on her part, is blithely unaware of his inattention.

  ROSE: … well, anyway, Professor Lang came along, just sort of dropped in, and he said he wanted to get a … feel … for where Mary Swann lived, her roots and all. You know what he said? He said we should have a sign at the edge of town, you know, like “Nadeau, Ontario, Home of Mary Swann, Distinguished Poet,” and I said, Heavens, I didn’t know she was that famous, and he said, Well, people were starting to take notice of her and in a few years … and I said lots of people right in this town maybe remember Mrs. Swann, at least the older ones, but hardly a one of them’s ever read her book. Of course there’s a copy in the library, at least there was up till recently, we’re always losing books, people just walk off with them, kids! A real problem for librarians, the same everywhere I guess … Well, Professor Lang was so interested, had all kinds of questions and wanted to look around town real good, even drove out to see the old house where Mrs. Swann used to live before … well, you know … before! He even went out to the cemetery to see where she was buried, imagine, just a bitty little stone, and well, as I said, this was a few years back, she’s a lot better known now, more famous, that is, and Professor Lang, I guess it was his idea, having a symposium about her, and you could of knocked me over with a feather when I got an invitation to come. I mean (laughs) well, this sounds crazy, but I’ve never been, well, to a symposium, I’m just a librarian, part-time. And town clerk, and I never … does that sound crazy to you? Me, never been to a symposium?

  CRUZZI (jerking away and blinking once or twice, looks kindly at Rose and speaks gently): No, Miss Hindmarch, not crazy at all.

  ROSE (pleased and relieved): Really?

  CRUZZI: Not in the least.

  ROSE: Whew! Well, I’m glad to hear that. Anyway, I got this letter from Professor Lang, the beginning of December, no, maybe it was the last week in November, I remember it was a Monday, blue Monday, ha, it always cheers me up, getting some mail on a Monday, I guess everyone feels that way, and, well, he said that Mr. Frederic Cruzzi, you, were planning to go to the symposium too, and you were going to give a talk and all, after all you were the one that published Mrs. Swann’s book, it makes sense you’d be going, and he thought maybe I could give you a lift, but as I explained in my letter, I don’t drive a car, just never learned, though a friend of mine, Daisy Hart her name is, says five lessons and I’d pass the test just like that, but I’ve never … anyway, I thought, it just struck me (laughs) that we could, you know, on the train, we could—(She falters at last.)

  CRUZZI (waking up): … keep each other company.

  ROSE (leaping in): Exactly, exactly. And then he also wrote to ask me if I’d mind bringing along the photograph of Mrs. Swann, which, well, you know it’s the only one there is now. (She grimaces.) And he wanted —

  CRUZZI (wide awake and interested): Ah, you have a photograph of Mrs. Swann?

  ROSE: The only one! So they say, anyway. We keep it in the little museum we have in the old high school, just local history and so on, but … would you like to see it, Mr. Cruzzi? The picture?

  CRUZZI: With pleasure.

  ROSE: I’ll just—(She stands and reaches for her overhead suitcase.) I’ve got it right here, I’ll just—(She struggles, then takes off her shoes and stands on the seat; Cruzzi makes an attempt to help her, but she holds up a restraining hand.) Oh, no, Mr. Cruzzi, you mustn’t strain … I’ll just —

  CRUZZI: If it’s too much trouble, don’t —

  Rose stands on her toes in stocking feet to open her case. She fishes blindly for the photo.

  ROSE: I put it in at the last minute, just slipped it in, didn’t want the glass to break. (She continues to struggle, sweating slightly.) Not that it’s the best likeness, blurred you know, just an old snapshot someone went and stuck in a frame. I’m sure—(She struggles, pulling the suitcase down; it opens, spilling clothes, a toilet case, a nightgown and, to her shame, a shower of underwear.) Oh! (Embarrassed, she gathers up the clothes and stuffs them back.) Oh, what a mess, oh, everything happens to —

  CRUZZI: Can I help? (He says this doubtfully.)

  ROSE (frantically stuffing clothes away): No! (She steals looks at Cruzzi and at the passengers at the far end of the car.) Here! Here it is. (She closes her case, unwinds the photo from its tea towel wrapping and sits down again, this time beside Cruzzi on the double seat; she is breathing hard. The sun can be seen through the window, shining on the fields and lakes and woods.) Here! There she is. Mary Swann!

  CRUZZI (taking the photo and regarding it quizzically, then discerningly, as though it were itself a work of art. He reaches in a breast pocket for spectacles so he may observe her even more closely, th
en says, with an air of pronouncement): Mrs. Swann.

  ROSE (rattling on at full speed): As I say, not a good likeness. The sun’s in her eyes, but, well, there she is! (She laughs nervously, still panting a little.)

  CRUZZI: Of course I met her only once. My impression was—(he waves a hand)—fragmented.

  CAMERA close-up of photo.

  ROSE (looking on companionably, relaxed now): I’d say this was taken, well, around the mid-fifties, maybe earlier. She never seemed to age. What I mean is, she always, well, looked like this, sort of tired out. And old. Sort of sad and worried. But you know, she had, well, a kind of spirit about her, I guess it came out in her poems, like inside she was … like a young woman … not so, you know, down in the dumps, not so worn out. You can’t tell from the outside what a person’s really like, even when a person knows a person real well.

  CAMERA side shot catches their two profiles side by side; Cruzzi’s eyes are starting to close again; Rose, in a trance, talks on, her eyes straight ahead.

  ROSE: It’s funny. People always say I was the only one who knew Mrs. Swann, personally, but I didn’t, not well. Well, no one really knows anyone really well, not the things they’re worried about or scared to death of or what they’re really thinking, people keep it all locked up like they’re too shy or something. I don’t know why that should be, do you?

  There is no answer from the sleeping Cruzzi; Rose shifts her eyes, takes in his sleeping presence, and continues.

  ROSE: Like all fall. (She glances at Cruzzi). With me, ever since September, well, I’ve had these … health … problems and, you know, I kept putting off going to the doctor. Next week I kept saying to myself, and all the time I was, well, getting weaker and weaker, just not myself. “You’re not yourself, Rose,” people were saying, but I just said, “Who, me? I’m fine, just losing a little weight, that’s all,” and it … it kept getting worse and worse. (Rose steals another look at Cruzzi). You know how it is when you’re going about your daily life, how you’re always getting ready for something. Like, for example, a vacation coming up or Christmas or a bridal shower or something? Well, toward the end of November—(She pauses, looks again at Cruzzi; can she trust him?) I guess I got a bit … down, feeling so poorly and all, and one morning I woke up, it was after a real bad night, tossing and turning, and I said to myself—I live alone—I said, “Rose, kiddo, you’re not waiting for a single thing, unless” … well, I’m not the morbid type, lucky for me, but I really did believe that I was going to, maybe … and so this dear old friend of mine took me in hand, insisted I got to a doctor, wouldn’t take no. Which I did, and she, the doctor, it was a woman doctor, said it was only fibroids! and all I needed was a simple little operation, routine, she said, it’s a sort of woman thing, next month they’ll be doing it—I won’t bother you with all the details, but the thing is, just when I thought everything, everything had stopped, it all of a sudden … just started up again. (She laughs.) Oh, it was wonderful. I thought, so this is what flying is like, when we were driving home from the doctor’s in my friend’s car, my bones felt … so light, like a little kid’s bones. I know it sounds crazy, Mr. Cruzzi, but—(Rose turns her head to face him). Mr. Cruzzi! (Alarmed): Mr. Cruzzi!

  For an instant Rose is certain he is dead; she half-rises, peers at him, passes her hand in front of his eyes, but is reassured by a low melodious snore. She sits down again beside him, puts back her head, closes her eyes. CAMERA focuses on her face, on her lips, which part in a smile, and on her closed eyes. She is still clutching the photo of Mary Swann on her lap. Fields and small towns are seen flashing by. SOUND: the rushing of the train fades into sprightly organ music. Dissolve.

  Fade to: Interior of an Air Canada jet. Daytime.

  SOUND: the music merges with the humming motor of an aircraft. At the end of the aisle a flight attendant is demonstrating emergency procedures; she is pretty, blonde, and possessed of a dead, wooden face. Her monologue is indistinct; its rhythms are discernible, but the words blend with the words of one of the male passengers sitting in an aisle seat next to Jimroy. This man (about sixty) is rangy in a Lincolnesque way with a thick thatch of white hair. He wears horn-rimmed glasses, jeans, a neat silk cowboy shirt with a string tie, and a casual outdoor jacket. His wife, a heavy woman in a navy pantsuit with glasses on a chain and enormous diamond earrings, is in the window seat, and Jimroy, squashed between them and snapping his briefcase open on his lap, has the look of a trapped, elderly child.

  MAN (to Jimroy, speaking loudly): So! You’re getting right down to work, eh?

  WOMAN (wearing a headset, beating out music on her knees, and smiling loopily at Jimroy and at her husband): Da, da, da dee da.

  JIMROY: Hmmm. (An affirmative grunt; he shuffles his papers and nods vaguely.)

  MAN (clearly anxious to strike up a conversation): I expect you’re involved in the world of commerce, right?

  JIMROY (considering this for a moment): Yes. (He looks straight ahead, as though steeling himself, then returns to his papers, pencil in hand.)

  MAN: I’m retired myself, the wife and myself. (He gestures to the woman, who continues to beat out music and smile.) Only my wife says I’ll never really retire. (He chuckles.)

  JIMROY: Hmmmm. (He writes something rapidly in the margin, not looking up.)

  MAN (after a long pause): What kind of business you happen to be in?

  JIMROY (again considering): Books.

  MAN: Books, eh? You mean like to read?

  Jimroy nods crisply and turns a page.

  MAN: Interesting. (He pauses.) Books. (There is a longer pause.) Sales? You in sales? You in the book-selling business?

  JIMROY (puzzled): Sales?

  MAN: Your book business you’re in. You sell ‘em?

  JIMROY: No. (He returns to work, making an elaborate correction on the corner of his paper.)

  The man pauses, then folds his arm resolutely, determined to remain silent. But eventually curiosity wins.

  MAN: Well … what do you do with them then?

  JIMROY looks up, baffled. The wife is tipping her head back and forth to the music, her whole body bouncing and her earrings catching the light.

  MAN (somewhat cross): Your book business you say you’re into, What do you do with ‘em? (Loudly): Your books.

  JIMROY (calmly underlining a phrase in the text): I write them.

  MAN (galvanized): Books? You write books?

  JIMROY (affixing a note with paperclip, taking his time): Yes.

  MAN (grinning): Whaddaya know. (He reaches across Jimroy to his wife and taps her knees.) Honey, this here’s a book writer sitting beside you.

  WOMAN (loudly): Huh?

  MAN (to Jimroy): My wife here’s the reader in the family. The books she puts away! (To his wife, who has now removed her headset): Honey, this here’s a real author sitting here. Boy, oh boy!

  WOMAN: Well, well, you never know who you’re going to end up sitting next to. (She floats cheerfully into non sequiturs). You probably think it’s pretty weird, us, sitting like this, me at the window like this and my hubby there, in the aisle seat. Well, the honest truth is, I’m not the best flyer in the world. Ron, he takes it in his stride,just like a Greyhound bus, he says, a Greyhound bus that —

  MAN (emphatically, an old joke): A Greyhound bus with wings growing out the sides, I tell her.

  WOMAN (chuckling): But me, I get queasy, you know? Not scared of crashing, not a bit, but the old stomach doing flip-flops, so it feels, you know, more safe like by the window, probably just psychological, but Ron, with his long legs, he’s six-foot-six, he likes to have room —

  MAN: Closer to the washroom too. (He winks at Jimroy, as though urination is a male conspiracy.)

  WOMAN (confidingly): Oh, but we’re forever flying here and there, on account of Ron’s investments, he thinks it’s only right, even if he’s officially retired, to show an interest, and the branch offices just love when —

  MAN (leaning over and reaching into his wife’s bag): Go
t any gum, hon? My ears’re poppin’ again.

  Jimroy looks straight ahead. He is unable to fit himself into the scene; his body is rigid and his face has become a stiff mask.

  WOMAN (rummaging in large purse, chortling at the weakness of men and speaking with womanly authority): Coming right up. Dentyne? (To Jimroy): Go ahead, I’ve got lots. I never leave home without. Between Ron’s ears popping and my stomach doing flip-flops —

  FLIGHT ATTENANT (in her deadly monotone): Anyone care for a sunrise surprise before breakfast? Champagne and orange —

  MAN: Coke for me.

  JIMROY: Milk. If you have it?

  WOMAN: Glass of juice, please.

  FLIGHT ATTENANT (to woman): Orange, tomato, grapefruit, apple?

  WOMAN (with maddening hesitation): Oh, tomato, I guess.

  MAN: Oh boy, honey, you and your tomato juice! (He laughs uproariously at this, leaving Jimroy, milk to his lips, stunned, lonely, and lost. Jimroy does not “look down” on these people; he is puzzled by them, and in a curious way, deeply envious.)

  WOMAN (sporting a tomato-juice moustache): So! Well! You really are a book writer?

  MAN: A real one! What d’ya think of them apples.

  WOMAN: That’s the wonderful thing about travel, you meet people from all walks of life. Like once we —

  MAN (interrupting his wife): Pretty good money in it? I’ve seen these authors on Johnny Carson, my wife and I —

  WOMAN: Satin suits, covered with sparkles, just chatting away with Johnny, easy as you please —

  MAN: I suppose you use a typewriter? When you’re writing on your books?

  JIMROY (looking wildly from one to the other): Well, I actually —

  WOMAN: I expect you get used to it, being on the TV, talking away about —

  MAN (as though struck with inspiration): Say, I guess it’s pretty good publicity, pretty good market angle—creating the need, that’s how the Japanese got us licked —