Wait. Wait a second. Way back in Chapter 12, Patience was born to a soundtrack of Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks, and Sarah’s birth had William Byrd’s Mass for Four Voices playing. So, which one is true? The answer is, yes. If you’re thinking that at this point, it doesn’t matter what music was playing, well, you’re catching on.
* * *
In 2015, Patience is eleven years old. Sarah is ten. Sarah still wets the bed. Her bladder has to catch up to the rest of her body, that’s all. That’s what her doctor said. There are pills now that let her go to sleepovers without too much anxiety. They work. Tulah and Ray are still anxious – did she remember to take her pills? Did some kid ask her what the pills are for? What did she say?
And Patience has been hiding the fact she can’t see as well as she’d like, or needs. Just in the past few months, she has noticed things that once were sharp, are now a bit blurry. She worries that glasses will make her look nerdy – that she won’t be popular anymore. She gets headaches because she’s been squinting so much.
Tulah noticed her daughter squinting and asked her about it. Patience shrugged it off as being tired but Tulah suspects she will need glasses.
* * *
Claude Garamond probably could have used glasses. He was continually squinting at his letters and despite having a glass that allowed for the fine work of punch cutting, he had frequent headaches. This afternoon, he is sitting on a rock with his feet in the river. It is so hot he could not work any longer. The new letters will have to wait until this horrible heat has eased. He couldn’t stay in the studio beyond noon. Marie Isabelle has gone back to the house to get a bottle of wine, some bread and cheese.
She brings two bottles. One, Garamond opens and the other, he wedges between the rocks in the cool flow of the water.
He loves it that she is quiet with him. He has been with women who do not stop talking. His first wife, who died of a fever, was lovely, but talked continually. At least it seemed so in his memory. Marie Isabelle measures her conversation and leaves the silences alone.
Yesterday, they saw troops on the road, headed toward Italy. Garamond had asked them where they were going but the soldiers were silent – either they didn’t know, or they knew and weren’t saying.
A week ago, with Garamond at ease in his favourite chair in the small tavern in the village, he looked up at Gauguin and envied him for the simplicity of his life. He grows grapes and then turns those grapes into wine. Then he sells the wine in his tavern and to the villagers. Garamond does not underestimate the work. He knows from their conversations that Gauguin works hard and long. But still, there is a simplicity that the punch cutter craves. There are days when his struggle with the letterforms feels overwhelming. He is constantly seeking perfection and presence, and at the same time, submission to the written word. The font should not matter. The font should disappear. It should get out of the way and let the poem, or story, or message come forward unhindered, always. It is a surrender of ego to make these letters so they are both elegantly beautiful, and almost invisible. And the family of the letterforms must appear to be related. There’s got to be consistency and unity, or it won’t work.
Marie Isabelle looks at her husband. He is lost in a reverie, stunned by the heat, and something is adrift in him. “Is this dappled?” she says, looking up into high branches that sway in the soft breezes above the river. She wants to bring him back from wherever he is in his mind.
She knows it’s dappled. She knows and yet she unfurls that word as if she wants to gently nudge him into seeing it – she wants him to notice the sun through the high branches, and what it does to the ground and the water in the river. She wants him to see that it is magic. She also wants to quietly remind him to see her.
“Oui,” Garamond says. “Elle est tachetée.”
She curls into him and they are quiet. The trees hush and the river lulls. But Garamond’s mind is racing. He wants to tell Marie Isabelle he is sorry they had to leave Paris, her friends and her family. He wants to apologize for the danger they are in. And he wants to ask her if she would have married him had it not been arranged and massaged into being. He wants to ask about her attraction.
“I want to ask you a question.”
“Mmmm,” she says.
“I am wondering about your attraction. I am wondering if we would be together if it was not arranged. I ask this because I have put you in danger, and this must anger you. Are you angry with me? Were you attracted to me?”
She leans up and looks at his face, the creases on his forehead and the anxiousness in his eyes. “I am not angry,” she says. “And if I was not attracted to you, I would not be with you. If I did not feel love for you, we would not be married.”
“You would disobey your grandmother?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“So you love me freely, with no regrets?”
“I love you freely, Claude. With all my heart. I have regrets, but not about marrying you.”
“What are your regrets?”
“Another time, Claude. Let’s enjoy this day.”
“I am sorry I took you from Paris.”
“I know, Claude. I know.”
* * *
Good lord! You’re probably asking yourself – will this incessant dipping into the world of Claude Garamond ever stop? Maybe you’re wondering about how much of his story is a lie. Well, Garamond married twice – first, to a woman named Guillemette Gaultier, and after her death, to Ysabeau Le Fevre. The name Ysabeau is Medieval French and it is a variant of the name Isabelle. Beyond an insufficient family tree on a French website, there’s not much information about Ysabeau. So, her question about whether or not the forest bottom is dappled, is a big, bald-faced lie. But you’d like to believe it’s true, and maybe that’s enough. It could have been true. It could have happened.
Listen, do you think old Claude Garamond was attracted to the vintner’s wife, Natalii? The woman was nowhere near as beautiful as Marie Isabelle but there was a resigned playfulness to her that Garamond enjoyed. He looked at her as is if she were a blank canvas – she was all beautiful, busty potential. He enjoyed talking with Natalii a great deal.
And Natalii was intrigued by this man who talked about printing presses and books, wars and love, and then waited for her to voice her opinion. He listened in a way that made her feel attractive. It was as if what she had to say was important. She suspected Monsieur Garamond was interested in her sexually. She did not question this attraction. She did not want to know what it was about her that pulled at Garamond. Instead, she accepted it and held her head a little higher – she looked at him with admiration and flirtatious disdain. After all, she was a married woman.
* * *
Around this time, Martin Luther wrote his Ninety-Five Theses on the Power and Efficacy of Godness Power – it sounds better in Latin – and nailed them to the door of All Saints’ Church in Wittenberg, Germany. Historians say he never actually nailed his ninety-five theses to the door of that church – that it’s just a myth – but it’s a hell of a story. He started a revolution, also known as the Reformation. Why was he able to do this? Because people had Bibles and they could read for themselves what was in the Bible. Why did they have Bibles? Because of Gutenberg’s printing press, mechanical movable type and a booming publishing business. Who worked as a punch cutter in Paris? Claude Garamond. It all leads back to Garamond.
Maybe you’re curious about the Latin – Disputatio pro declaratione virtutis indulgentiarum.
* * *
“And when will we go back to Paris, Claude?” Marie Isabelle says one morning. The birds started singing before the sunrise and this reminded her of where she was, which was not Paris, and she is grumpy. She is a long way from Paris and she is itching to see her friends, to catch up on the gossip. As much as she loves her husband and loves his company, she wants different company – she wants her friends. She is bored in the country. Eve
n though it is a lot of work to make a life, to tend the chickens, and prepare meals and do the washing, she is bored. It is starting to be the same thing every single day.
“I do not know, my dear,” Garamond says. “Our days in Paris may be over…”
Marie Isabelle reads him. She watches his hands and surmises he is uncomfortable about this conversation. She looks at his eyes, and finds he will not meet her eyes with his. He’s hiding something. “What are you not telling me?”
“We’re safe here.”
“What do you mean we’re safe here?” she says. “What have you heard, Claude?”
He sighs. “There were some men. They came to our house in Paris seven weeks ago. I got word of this two days ago – a letter arrived at the vintner’s, by way of Geneva, Lyon, and then Dijon, and then Grenoble.”
“What men?” She is wondering why this letter travelled in circles before coming to them.
“Men with many questions, none of which were answered.”
“Are we in danger?”
“In Paris, perhaps. Here? No.”
“But how can that be, Claude? Either we are in danger, or we are not in danger. There is no middle.”
“We are safe here because nobody knows where we are,” he says. “And in the village, we are known as Monsieur Emile Durand and his lovely wife, Madame Claire Durand.”
“And you have been so insistent that I learn how to ride because we are completely safe?”
“That is just a precaution,” Garamond says. “It’s good to have developed this skill. In case some day we both need to ride.”
“You mean run,” she says.
“You have mastered the horse,” he says. “This pleases me.”
She looks at him as if he has just said something ridiculous. “This is what I live for. Each moment of my day, I devise new ways to please you. It is the sole purpose of my life.”
They stand at the edge of the corral and look at the horses. They are restless and Garamond wonders if there is a bear in the woods, or a wolf. He reaches into his pocket and brings out an apple, which he breaks in two. Two of the horses come toward them, pushing their soft noses through the boards and Garamond holds out the apple halves in the flat of his hand to each horse. He and Marie Isabelle rub them, give them attention, in silence. Finally, Garamond looks at his wife. “It was my typeface used on the placards,” he says.
“Oh, Claude.”
“They will suspect I had something to do with the placards. They are probably looking for me right now.”
“Merde,” she says. “Double merde. This is the King, and the Roman Catholic Church. This is the Protestant Reformation. This is a dangerous thing.”
“I am aware,” he says.
“Should we leave France, Claude? Has it come to that?”
“No. I do not think so. But we must be ready to leave quickly, and in the meantime, we have Monsieur Gauguin’s protection. And Switzerland is not too far away.”
“We are our own country now, Claude,” she says.
He likes the idea of being a country accountable to only themselves. “And what is the religion in our country?”
“I think we have no religion,” she says.
“What about God?”
She wants to say that God can kiss her ass but she restrains herself. “God can go elsewhere. He is not welcome in our country. All the trouble that God brings is not wanted, or needed.”
“I like our country more and more,” Garamond says.
* * *
About six years ago, this happened. But then you already know this.
Tulah is sitting in front of the mirror, naked – her towel in a heap on the floor. She is about to apply a little makeup and blow-dry her hair. “Jesus, Ray. How long have you been thinking about this?”
He has come to her with his idea of quitting law and becoming an arborist. They are getting ready for work. Ray is in their bedroom, looking for socks.
“I know it’s a huge deal but I’m not happy there.”
“Happy? There?”
“Yes,” Ray says. “I am not happy there. I’m just not happy about what this job is taking.”
“Taking? What do you mean, taking?”
“Okay, maybe it’s about what I am required to give. And I give it freely because the money that comes back is pretty good right now, and has the potential to be substantial.”
She looks into the mirror at the reflection of Ray in his underwear. He is holding a small compact ball of a pair of socks.
“There’s a sleaziness that cannot be avoided,” he says. “A sort of built-in corruption. It’s a machine that begins to erode the soul. I know I sound like a yoga teacher named Butterfly, but I feel I am becoming a little less each day.”
“You’re becoming a little less?”
“Less human,” he says. “Less moral. Less decent.” He’s wearing trousers now, and looking for a shirt.
“Have you thought about applying at a different firm?”
“Yes, of course, but I’m with the best firm in the city right now. It’s the law – we’re not suited for each other.”
“I’m a bit shocked. No, I’m a lot shocked. You worked so hard and you’re a really good lawyer.” She wants to scream – You’re just figuring this out now? You couldn’t have discovered this aversion to the law in your first year of law school?
“I wanted you to know that I was thinking about this, that’s all.”
“That’s a hell of a bomb you just exploded in our life. You know the entire world is in a recession right now, right?”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
As shallow as it sounds rattling around in her own head, Tulah had been counting on the money. It was going to allow them to travel, and have a new car every now and then and maybe some time off work for her. They would have no debt and they would have savings. All this was about to change.
“You want to quit law and work with trees?”
“I was thinking about trees, yes. It’s something I know and love. I’ve been offered a job with the city.”
What does he mean, offered a job? To be offered a job, people have to know you’re available. Tulah realizes he has already decided, and it was not something he came to lightly. He knows the ramifications of this decision. She was there on the nights when the Basa case was being tried. She saw him suffer through that nightmarish case. At the end of the day it comes down to being moral, it’s a matter of being able to live with yourself. It’s a matter of looking in the mirror and not cringing. “Trees make you happy?”
“Yes, working as an arborist. Working with trees makes me happy.”
She thinks about the years of law school, years of studying, and struggling to give him space so he could study, and then when he got hired Tulah thought they were good to go. There was supposed to be a pay-off. “I want you to be happy, Ray, but…”
“I know. I just don’t think I can do it anymore.”
Tulah stands up and turns around. Ray is picking a necktie. Then it dawns on her. There was the anxiety issue a while back.
“Your anxiety attack. Is that what’s driving this?”
“That was just a symptom,” he says. “Look, I promise we’ll be okay. I promise. No matter what.” Ray suspects she doesn’t believe it’s going to be okay. He knows it’s going to take some work to get her to understand. He’s not sure leaving the law over something as intangible as happiness is the right thing to do. Maybe a good person would step up and do the hard thing, sacrifice his happiness for the happiness of his family. Maybe this sacrifice is a way he can act honourably.
Ray goes to bed that night with Abdul momit Basa’s smug face floating around in his brain, and Caroline Franks’s husband’s face, and Tulah’s disappointed face, and trees – he thinks a lot about the simplicity of trees. He’s not sure he can take the
job with the city and not ruin something with Tulah. Her life was ticking away on a clear path and now he was about to change direction. Ray decides he needs Tulah to be okay about this move. He sits up in bed at around 2 a.m. and looks around the room. He looks at Tulah’s back. He looks at the pillow on the floor. The light in the back lane throws the shadow of the Venetian blinds against the wall. He gets out of bed and pads down the hallway, fills the kettle, and makes tea. Tulah must be involved in this decision, he decides at around 5 a.m. If she’s not okay with it, he needs a new plan.
* * *
The woman who stormed into Tulah’s school demanding the theory of creation be included in her kid’s science class creates a bit of a media storm. She yips and yaps. She comes across as a caring and concerned mom, who just wants her child to have a full and proper education. Parents, she argues, should have a say in their kids’ education. She wants to make education great again. She blogs on her Christian Wives website and then there is a reporter on the front step wanting to talk with Tulah. Apparently, Lauren Smith has a robust following on social media.
Tulah parks out front, grabs her bag and the reporter approaches on the sidewalk.
“I was wondering if I could ask you some questions on school curriculum,” she says. “For a story I’m working on.” Her smile is disarming and shy.
Tulah pauses, takes a breath. “Sure,” she says, shifting her bag to her other hand.
This Is All a Lie Page 20