WOMAN: That’s what that what’s-his-name fellow said, wasn’t it, hon? That real nice little man we met in Yokohama —
MAN: That’s what the man said. Little fellow, but real smart; look to your markets, he said, keep an eye on your markets.
WOMAN: Only makes sense. (She laughs. To Jimroy): You use your own name?
MAN: On your books, she means. Or like a —?
WOMAN: Like a pen name? Made up?
MAN: You know something? When I saw you getting on this plane this morning, in the waiting room there, with your newspaper and all, I thought to myself: That fella looks, well, I’ve seen that fella before —
WOMAN: Ron always stays up for Johnny. Me, I need my beauty sleep. Ha!
MAN: But she’s the reader in the family, always reading at something or other.
WOMAN (throwing up her hands, blushing, resisting this compliment with flustered modesty): Well, you see, Ron, he’s so darn busy, the business, visiting the branch offices, his volunteer work, he works with the —
MAN: What kind of books you say you write?
JIMROY (determined): Well, my books are really —
MAN: I’ve thought of writing a book, but you know, I’ve never learned to use a typewriter and —
JIMROY (relentless): Biography’s my field. I write biography.
MAN: Your life story, eh?
JIMROY: Not my life story. I’m writing the life of a poet. Her name is Mary Swann.
FLIGHT ATTENANT: Breakfast! (She briskly hands out three trays.)
MAN: My favourite meal of the day, breakfast.
JIMROY (insistently, gesturing crisply): Actually, my books are about —
MAN: Hon? (He reaches across to take his wife’s hand; their hands meet in the vicinity of Jimroy’s lap; they bow their heads.)
WOMAN (urging): You.
MAN: No, hon, you.
WOMAN (capitulating): For what we are about to receive, for the blessings of warmth, love, fellowship, and heavenly guidance, we offer humble thanks and beg that —
Her voice fades. The CAMERA focuses on Jimroy, pinned between the praying couple, his mouth open as though he is about to speak. His eyes, bewildered, gaze at the joined hands on his lap. Dissolve.
Fade to: Exterior in front of Toronto Airport. Daytime.
CAMERA follows Sarah Maloney as she emerges from the airport door, her suitcase in tow. The wind is blowing and there is snow on the ground; she tugs her coat closer; then stops and addresses a redcap.
SARAH: The downtown bus? Over there?
She points; the redcap nods and points. Sarah walks over to the waiting bus, and the CAMERA follows her as she boards, pays, stows her case, and settles herself by a window. Other passengers are boarding, and the bus is crowded with luggage. Next to Sarah sits a woman of about forty, snuggled into a fur coat. The bus starts, and the CAMERA follows for a moment as the vehicle makes its way out of the airport area.
FUR COAT (darting looks at Sarah, who is staring out the window and shifting her purse and coat): Sorry. You have enough room?
SARAH: Fine, thanks. (She reaches for a paperback.)
FUR COAT (continuing to steal little glances at Sarah): Excuse me. I … I can’t stand it any longer, but you look like … are you by any chance Sarah Maloney?
SARAH (smiling): Yes, I am.
FUR COAT: I knew it. I knew it. I’ve got your book at home and of course your picture’s on the back—and I’ve seen you interviewed on TV. Twice, I think. This is surreal. Sarah Maloney. But I had an idea you’d be —
SARAH: Older. (She’s heard this before). Everyone does. (She shrugs.)
FUR COAT: You sounded, in the book, I mean, so … (she searches for the word) so positive about everything.
SARAH: My wise days. (She smiles.) Actually I’m a little less positive now. About everything. A little more flexible, I’ve been told.
FUR COAT: You still feel the same way about female power? That a militant position offers our best —
SARAH: Yes. Absolutely. But with certain exceptions —
FUR COAT: What about men?
SARAH: Men?
FUR COAT: What I mean is, do you still feel the same about them? In your book, in the middle part, you talk about men as the masked enemy and —
SARAH (smiling, shrugging, acknowledging a joke on her younger self): I just got married. Last week.
FUR COAT: Ah! So you do believe in love.
SARAH: Love?
FUR COAT: Love and marriage. That they don’t necessarily cancel each other out as you said in —
SARAH (with confusion): That’s a tough one.
FUR COAT: And what about your idea that marriage is a series of compromises that necessitates —
SARAH: Actually, this is my second marriage. But this time it feels better. (She says this wistfully, her brightness clouded by a drop in pitch that suggests a fugitive sense of fear or uncertainty.)
FUR COAT: What about motherhood? How did you put it? “Motherhood is the only power conduit available to —”
SARAH (shrugging again, confidingly): I’m pregnant.
FUR COAT: Pregnant!
SARAH: Just a few weeks.
FUR COAT: Good God, you shouldn’t be sitting in all this smoke. (She waves cigarette smoke away.) Even a small amount is damaging at —
SARAH: Lord! (She tries to open the window but it is stuck.)
FUR COAT: I tell all my patients—I’m an M.D.—that side-stream smoke is just as bad as —
SARAH (trying window again and succeeding): What else? Flying okay?
FUR COAT: As far as we know.
SARAH: I’ve got a conference here in Toronto. Four days. After that, though, I’m going to sit on my fanny and eat green vegetables and (putting her hand on her belly) feel it grow. You know something?—this is what I’ve always wanted only I didn’t know it.
FUR COAT: But in your book, didn’t you say something about childbearing being the—(Dissolve.)
Fade to: Interior of the bus, which is now in the city centre. Sarah and Fur Coat are talking with great concentration and energy and with the intimacy of old friends.
SARAH: Take Mary Swann, for instance. She’s the reason I’m here, the one the symposium’s all about. Okay, so she had zero power. This woman was a total victim —
FUR COAT: I’m not sure how you define a female victim, but don’t you have to —
SARAH: Yeah, I think we over-simplify the whole thing. Victims get squeezed into corners and they either die or they invent a new strategy. I think that’s why —
FUR COAT: And this woman? Mary? …
SARAH: Mary Swann. A classic case. She had a rotten life, dead end, lived on a marginal farm with a husband who wasn’t even marginal—he was off the map, a bully, a pig. You know the type, doled out a few bucks every couple of weeks for groceries —
FUR COAT: And she survived?
SARAH: She wrote these poems. Not many, just over a hundred, but they’re … there’s nothing else like them.
FUR COAT: Is she still writing?
BUS DRIVER (calling out): Harbourview.
SARAH: Oh, I get off here. She’s dead. Since 1965. Her husband finally —
FUR COAT: Her husband finally what?
Sarah hurriedly gathers her things together. The two women start to shake hands, then embrace quickly. Sarah gets off the bus, turns and waves.
FUR COAT: (shouting through the open window): Her husband finally what?
SARAH: (shouting from the pavement in front of the revolving doors): Shut her up.
FUR COAT: Did what?
SARAH (waving and shouting as the bus starts to pull away): He shut her up. For good. He —
She realizes her words can’t be heard, turns and enters the hotel through the revolving doors. The CAMERA focuses on the large notice board. Between “IODE Annual Reunion” and “Dominion Leather Goods Sales Conference” there is a line that reads: “The Swann Symposium.” The CAMERA lingers for a moment on the sign. MUSIC:
fife and drums. Dissolve.
Director’s Note: This scene marks the end of film SET UP. All major characters have been introduced and brought to their destination, the Swann symposium, at the Harbourview Hotel. Occasional motivational suggestions will be given to the actors, but it is hoped that directorial comment will remain non-specific.
Fade in: Interior, hotel reception room. Evening.
Overhead CAMERA, wide shot of about fifty heads moving about in the hotel reception room. The room is gracefully proportioned, designed to accommodate medium-sized gatherings. The look is opulent; updated traditional, but rather heavy with swagged velvet and ornate furniture. Waiters can be seen from above, moving among groups of people with trays of drinks and canapés. Lively background MUSIC mingles with the rich sound of conversation and the tinkling of glasses. CAMERA lingers for a minute or two on the assembly. The scene is that well-known cocktail reception that precedes most conferences and symposia. Very gradually the CAMERA lowers, coming closer and closer to the crowd, and the murmur of voices becomes, finally, audible. Random phrases rise and fall in the festive air.
… personally, I see Swann as being blinded by innocence, and by that I mean —
… no use pretending the woman’s a feminist when she makes it perfectly clear she’s accepted the values of—
… well, when you consider that Nadeau, Ontario, is not exactly the centre of the world —
… remarkable, yes, remarkable. I agree, yes, remarkable!
… Emily Dickinson never …
It’s the love poems I’m waiting for.
… now this is only a suggestion, but if you look at what Swann does with the stanza and think of it as the microcosm …
… time for another edition. Past time, if you ask me.
… is it true old Cruzzi’s here? My God, the man must be a hundred years old.
… It’s a pleasure, an honour, as I was saying to Mick here —
And this, ahem, is Frederic Cruzzi.
… read your article on Swann in the October issue, or was it the September —?
… all these faces. Wouldn’t our muse be amazed if she saw all these —
… giving the keynote address when it would have been more appropriate for —
… when, and if, Lang lets go of those love poems. What in Christ is he doing —
… wasn’t quite what Sarah Maloney said —
… sweet as baby Jesus in velvet trousers!
… He’s gone electronic, she’s gone electronic, even the president has —
It’s a good line, but it’s not a great line.
Cosy.
… sibilance, don’t you think?
The fragments of conversation intensify, grow louder, a roar, then once again becomes indistinct; the tinkling of glasses and shrieks of laughter begin to recede, replaced by the insistent sound of a spoon being struck against a glass. CAMERA close-up of a hand striking the glass with a spoon, and then the face of Willard Lang. His is a large, soft face masked with heavy naivety. Achieving silence, Lang raises his glass. He has the air of a man slyly keen to please.
LANG: Ladies and gentlemen. (He pauses for effect). My name is Willard Lang and it is my pleasure to welcome you (another dramatic pause) to the Swann symposium.
DRUNKEN VOICE: Hear, Hear.
SOBER VOICE: Shhhh.
LANG: I would like to extend a special welcome from the Steering Committee, which has worked long and hard to make this symposium possible, and to remind you that tomorrow morning, at nine o’clock sharp, we will be assembling in —
He is suddenly interrupted. The room is thrown into darkness. There is a great deal of evident confusion, and overlapping voices can be heard.
… the lights —
… power cut or, ahem, else —
… someone find the bloody switch …
Ladies and gentlemen —
Good heavens!
My God, talk about chaos —
… sure that if we remain calm the power will be restored.
Christ!
… so if you will be patient, ladies and gentlemen.
Ouch, that’s my foot.
Sorry, I didn’t mean —
If you think this is a nightmare, remember —
Someone in the crowd strikes a match; someone else lights a lighter. Gradually the matches and lighters go on around the room, revealing the assembled faces, buoyant only a moment ago, now ghostly with shadow and looking surprisingly frail, a look of having been caught doing something foolish. Very slowly the hubbub begins to build again; there is even some laughter, thought it is nervous laughter, ignited perhaps by drink. An instant later the overhead lights go on, blinding, brighter than before, so that people are caught off guard, dazed.
… at last. I just about —
About time —
… talk about timing, I mean he just —
… miniature theatre of the absurd —
… major power cut, wouldn’t be at all surprised —
… Mary Swann putting in an appearance —
Ha!
… as I was saying, ahem, Swann is a kind of symbolic orphan who voices the —
… wouldn’t you think a hotel like this would have an emergency power source, or else —
Remember that time at the St. Thomas in New York —
My briefcase!
It was right here.
… Oedipal darkness as symbol of, but only a symbol, let me say —
… is going to publish those love poems. You know, the ones he found under the kitchen floor—the linoleum, actually.
It was a black leather briefcase, the standard size and shape— … let’s hope that tomorrow will —
It was sitting right here by this table leg before the lights went out, and —
CAMERA close up: Jimroy is talking heatedly to two or three waiters. As a crowd begins to gather around him, CAMERA slowly withdraws, rising to overhead position once again. We see the cluster of people around Jimroy increase, and over the murmuring crowd his voice rings out with extreme clarity.
JIMROY: My briefcase! All my notes for the symposium, my talk, the program, everything! I had them in my briefcase. My papers. And a fountain pen, a very valuable fountain pen. It was right here! Someone must have picked up—yes, of course, I’m sure. How could I possibly not know where my own briefcase was? It was right here beside me, you idiot, right here.
Jimroy has started to shout; his face, so smooth and amiable before, has grown red and has a furious boiled look; he is mortally offended, embarrassed, and angry; clearly he sees the blackout and the loss of his briefcase as damaging to his dignity. The CAMERA focuses on the image of his angry face and freezes.
Fade to: Interior of a meeting room. The next morning.
The frozen image of Jimroy’s face slowly dissolves into Willard Lang’s face, which is genial, smiling, perhaps a little ingratiating. He is eager, despite the catastrophe of the night before, to launch the symposium on the right note. People attending are seated in rows on folding chairs. Some of them have pens in hand, ready to take notes; others sit with books or papers on their laps; many are in conversation with one another. Lang is at the front of the room, standing at a small lectern equipped with a microphone. He clears his throat, but the buzz in the room persists.
LANG: Ladies and gentlemen, assembled scholars. (The voices die.) Good morning. Once again I welcome you to the first, but let us hope not the last, Mary Swann symposium. And let us also hope—(the microphone gives a jarring electronic squawk)—that the electricity will not fail us as it did last night. (Another squawk.)
MAN WITH OUTSIZE AFRO: Hear, hear.
LANG (slightly annoyed): Just two items before I introduce our keynote speaker. I wish to draw your attention to a display that has been set up in the corridor. Some off-prints of recent articles have been assembled, and also, you will be happy to hear, a photograph of Mary Swann, which has been brought along by Miss Rose Hindmarch of Nadeau. Ah, is Miss H
indmarch with us this morning? (There is a brief stir: people turn their heads looking for Rose, who is seated in the last row.) Ah! Perhaps Miss Hindmarch would be good enough to stand and be recognized.
Rose, enormously embarrassed, rises slowly, her shy smile showing pleasure, awkwardness, confusion. She manages a gawky nod, a slight shake of her newly permed head, then sits down again to scattered, somewhat indifferent applause.
LANG: Thank you, thank you. And now for item two. A personal plea, if I may, concerning our mini-disaster (laughs dismissively) yesterday evening. If anyone should find himself, or herself, with an extra briefcase, black leather, initials M.J. on the clasp, Mr. Jimroy would appreciate its speedy return. And now, ladies and gentlemen, fellow Swannians, if I may address you in such a manner, it is my great pleasure to introduce our speaker. Not that Morton Jimroy, holder of two honorary degrees needs a—yes?
CAMERA picks up Jimroy sitting in a chair a little apart from the others. He is somewhat tense, a little strained. Almost bashfully apologetic, he lifts his arms in a shrug; he is holding up three fingers.
LANG (comprehending): Ah, excuse me, Morton. Three honorary degrees, of course! The most recent from Princeton University, I believe. Everyone in this room is familiar, I am sure, with Morton Jimroy’s esteemed biography of Ezra Pound, A Perverse Pilgrimage, and his equally fine biography of the American poet John Starman, entitled Verse, Voice and Vision … (he becomes distracted). Yes? (He catches Jimroy’s eyes once again.) Yes, Mr. Jimroy?
JIMROY (quietly, shyly, half-bobbing from his chair): That’s Voice, Vision and Verse, just a small correction. Sorry.
LANG (in tones of pompous injury): I stand corrected. Voice, Vision and Verse. As I was saying, Ezra Pound! John Starman! Giants of our literature. And now the question might be put—what is it about the obscure Canadian poet, because we must face the fact, ladies and gentlemen, that the seminal work of Mary Swann is not as widely known as it deserves—what is it about this woman, this writer, that attracted the attention of the world-famous biographer of Ezra Starman and John—(A murmur from the audience tells him he has stumbled again, and he quickly corrects himself.) Ezra Pound and John Starman. A little early in the morning, I’m afraid. What was it that drew—but perhaps it would be best if I let our honoured guest tell you himself, (He gestures broadly). Mr. Morton Jimroy!
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