Читать книгу Duet - Carol Shields - Страница 10

It was on the first day of the new year that I discovered the reason for Martin’s secret cache of wool; the explanation was delivered so offhandedly and with such an aura of innocence that I furiously cursed my suspicions. What on earth had I expected – that Martin had slipped over the edge into lunacy? That, saddened and trapped at forty-one, he might be having a breakdown? Did I think he nursed a secret vice: knitting instead of tippling? Or perhaps that he had acquired a mistress, a great luscious handicraft addict whose fetish it was to crochet while she was being made love to? Crazy. crazy. I was the one who was crazy.

On New Year’s Day Martin sat talking to his mother and father who had come from Montreal for the weekend. His father is a professor too, himself the son of a professor; he teaches history at McGill. Gill of McGill, he likes to introduce himself to strangers. He is a spare, speckled man, happiest wearing the loose oatmeal cardigans his wife knits for him and soft old jackets, frayed at the pockets and elbows. His habitual stance is kindly (a Franciscan kindness) and speculative; he is what is known in the world as a good man, possessing all the qualities of a Christian with the exception of faith.

The relationship between Martin and his father is such as might exist between exceedingly fond colleagues. Like brothers they flank Martin’s mother, Lala to us, a small woman who except for an unmanageable nest of sparrow-brown, Gibson-girlish hair is attractive and bright, known to her friends in Montreal as a Doer. Her private and particular species of femininity demands gruff male attendance, and she is sitting now in our family room between ‘her two men,’ although that is a phrase which she herself would consider too cloying to use.

We have had a late breakfast, coffee and an almond ring brought by Lala from her local ethnic bakery in Montreal. The sun is pouring in through the streaky windows making us all feel drowsy and dull. Richard and Meredith, both of them blotchy with sleep, sprawl in front of the television watching the Rose Bowl Parade. There are newspapers everywhere, on the floor and on the chairs, thick holiday editions. And cups and saucers litter the coffee table. Lala leans back on the sofa, lazily puffing a duMaurier.

Grandpa Gill asks Martin how his course load is going and whether he is doing a paper at the moment. Lala leans bird-like towards them, eager to hear what Martin has to say. I too am roused from torpor. We all wait.

Martin tells his father about the paper that has been turned down. ‘I’ll show it to you if you like,’ he says. ‘Apparently it just didn’t measure up in terms of originality. One of the referees, anonymous of course, penciled “derivative” all over it.’

‘That was bad luck,’ Grandpa Gill nods.

‘What a shame, Martin,’ Lala adds.

I marvel for the thousandth time at the constancy and perfect accord with which they underscore their son’s ability.

‘To be honest,’ Martin continues, ‘it was pretty dull. But I’m working on something else now which might be a little different.’

‘Yes?’ his mother sings through her smoke.

‘Well,’ Martin says, addressing his father automatically, ‘I think I can say that I actually got this idea from you.’

‘Really?’ Grandpa Gill smiles.

‘Remember that chart you showed me. In your office last fall? A coloured diagram with the structure of world power charted in different colours?’

‘Oh, yes. Of course. The Reynolds Diagram. Very useful.’

‘Well, after I saw that I got to thinking that it might be a good idea to use a diagram approach to themes in epic poetry. To Paradise Lost specifically.’

‘But how would you go about it?’ his mother presses him.

‘I thought it might be possible to make a graphic of it,’ Martin says. ‘Like the Reynolds Diagram, only using wool instead of paint since the themes are so mixed. In places it’s necessary to interweave the colours. Sometimes, as you can appreciate, there are as many as four or five themes woven together.’

His father nods and asks, ‘And how have you gone about it?’

‘I thought about it for a long time,’ Martin says.

Where was I while he thought so long and hard?

‘Finally I decided on a large rectangle of loose burlap for each of the twelve books. That way the final presentation could be hung together. For comparison purposes.’

‘I don’t get it, Martin,’ I say, speaking for the first time.

He looks faintly exasperated. ‘All I did was to take a colour for each theme. For instance, red for God’s omnipotence, blue for man’s disobedience, green for arrogance, and, let’s see, yellow for pride and so on. But you can see,’ he says, turning again to his father, ‘that one theme will predominate for a time. And then subside and merge into one of the others.’

‘And how do you know just where in the text you are?’ Grandpa Gill asks.

‘I wondered about that,’ Martin says.

Where was I, his wife, when he wondered about that?

‘And I decided to mark off the lines along the side. I’ve got them printed in heavy ink. The secretary helped ink them in.’

She did, did she?

‘I think that sounds most innovative,’ his mother says nodding vigorously and butting out her cigarette.

‘Is it nearly finished?’ his father asks.

‘Almost. I hope to present it in March.’

‘Present it where?’ I ask, trying to control the quaver in my voice.

‘The Renaissance Society. It’s meeting in Toronto this year. I’ve already sent in an abstract.’

‘I’m anxious to see it,’ Lala says. ‘Is it here at home?’

‘No. I’ve been putting it together at the university. But next time you come down I’ll show it off to you. It should be all done by then.’

‘But Martin,’ I say, ‘you’ve never mentioned any of this to me.’

‘Didn’t I?’ He gazes at me. ‘I thought I did.’

I give him a very long and level look before replying, ‘You never said a single word about it to me.’

‘Well, now that I have told you, what do you think?’

‘Do you really want to know?’

All three of them turn to me in alarm. ‘Of course,’ Martin says.

Wildly I reach out for the right word – ‘I think it’s, well, I think it’s absurd.’

‘Why?’ Martin asks.

‘Yes, why, Judith?’ his father asks.

I am confused. And unwilling to hurt Martin and certainly not wanting to upset his parents whom I like. But the project seems to me to be spun out of lunacy.

I try to explain. ‘Look,’ I say, ‘I can’t exactly put it into words, but it sounds a bit desperate. Do you know what I mean?’

‘No,’ Martin says, more shortly than usual.

‘What I mean is, literature is literature. Poetry is poetry. It’s made out of words. You don’t work poems in wool.’

‘What you’re saying is that it’s disrespectful to the tradition.’

‘No, that’s not really it. I don’t care about the tradition. It’s just that you might look foolish, Martin. And desperate. Don’t you see, it’s gimmicky, and you’ve never been one for gimmicks.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Judith, don’t make too much of it. It’s just a teaching aid.’

The children have turned from the television now and are watching us. Grandpa Gill and Lala, almost imperceptibly, shrink away from us.

‘Martin, you’ve always been so sensible. Can’t you see that this is just, well, just a little undignified. I mean, I just feel it’s beneath you somehow.’

‘I don’t see what’s so undignified about trying something new for a change. Christ, Judith. You’re the one who thinks the seventeenth century is such a bore. Literature can be damn dull. And especially Milton.’

‘I agree. I agree.’

‘What I’m doing is making a pictorial presentation of themes which will give a quick comprehensive vision of the total design. It’s quite simple and straightforward.’

‘Couldn’t you just do a paper on it?’

‘No. No, I could not.’

‘Why not?’

‘How can you put a design image into prose?’

‘What about that paper they turned down. Couldn’t you do that one over for them?’

‘No.’

‘So instead you’ve dreamed up this lunatic scheme.’

‘Judith, we’re talking in circles. I don’t think it’s all that idiotic. What do you think, Dad?’

Grandpa Gill regards me. Clearly he does not want to join in the foray, but he is being pressed. He speaks cautiously: ‘I think I partially understand what Judith is worried about. The publish-or-perish syndrome does occasionally have the effect of forcing academics to make asses of themselves. But, on the other hand, cross-disciplinary approaches seem to be well thought of at the moment. A graphic demonstration of a literary work, with the design features stressed, might make quite an interesting presentation if –’

I interrupt, out of exasperation, for I know he can go on in this vein for hours. ‘Look, Martin there’s another thing. And I hate to say this because it sounds so narrow-minded and conventional, but I, well, the truth is – I can’t bear to think of you sitting there in your office weaving away. I mean – do you know what I mean? – do you – don’t you think it’s just a little bit – you know –?’

‘Effeminate?’ he supplies the word.

‘Eccentric. It’s the sort of thing Furlong Eberhardt might dream up.’

‘And I suppose you think that reference will guarantee instant dismissal of the whole idea.’

‘Oh, Martin, for heaven’s sake, do what you want. I just hate you to look ridiculous.’

‘To whom? To you?’

‘Forget it. I don’t even know why we’re discussing it.’ I start picking up newspapers and gathering together the coffee cups. Lala springs to my side, but I tell her not to bother; I can manage.

I feel strange as I carry the cups into the kitchen. A nervy dancing fear is spinning in my stomach, and I lean on the sink for support. A minute ago I had been overjoyed that Martin’s wool was to be put to so innocent a purpose. What has happened? What am I afraid of?

Guilt presses; I should have been more consoling when his paper was turned down. I should take greater interest in his work. Year after year he sweats out the required papers and what interest do I show? I proofread them, take out commas, put his footnotes in order. And that’s it. No wonder he’s developed a soft spot on the brain. To conceive of this bit of madness, actually to carry it through.

And to carry it out furtively, covertly. For I am certain he deliberately withheld the project from me. Perhaps from everyone else as well. He probably even pulls the curtains in his office and locks the door when he weaves. I try to picture it – Martin tugging at the wool, sorting his needles, tightening his frame, and then pluck, pluck, in and out, in and out. My husband, Martin Gill, weaving away his secret afternoons.

It might even be better if he did have a mistress. One could understand that. One could commiserate; one could forgive. But what can be done with a man who makes a fool of himself – what do you do then?

Martin is crazy. He’s lost his grip. Or is it me? I try to think logically, but my stomach is seized by pain. I try to construct the past few months, to remember exactly when Martin last mentioned something about his work. I sit down on the kitchen stool and try to concentrate, but my head whirls. When did he last discuss the seventeenth century? Paradise Lost? The Milton tradition? Or something temporal such as his lecture schedule. When? I can’t remember.

And then I think with a stab of pain, when did we last make love with anything more than cordiality?

My head pounds. I open the cupboard and find a bottle of aspirin. And then, though it is just a little past noon, I creep upstairs and get into bed. The sheets are cool and deliciously flat. Below me in the family room I can hear the Rose Bowl Game beginning.

Hours later I awake in the darkened room. In the upstairs hall the light is burning brutally; long, startling El Greco shadows cut across the bedroom wall. Footsteps, whispers, the rattle of teacups. Someone reaches for my hand, places a cold cloth on my forehead.

‘Thank you, thank you,’ I want to say, but my voice has disappeared, in its place a dry cracked nut of pain. My lips have split; I can taste blood. The inside of my mouth is unfamiliar, a clutch of cottonwool.

‘Drink this,’ someone says.

‘No, no,’ I rasp.

‘Please, Judith. Try. It may help.’

Lala was sitting on the edge of my bed, a figurine, a blue-tinted shepherdess. She was pressing a teaspoon toward me. I opened my mouth. Aspirin. Aspirin crushed in strawberry jam; its peculiar bitter, slightly citrus flavour reaches me from the forest of childhood (my father crushing aspirin on the breadboard with the back of a teaspoon when my sister and I had measles, yes).