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THE LIBRARIAN, THE LODGER, AND THE LANDLADY

Vera Maude was peeking through the curtains in the vestibule. “Well, well, well,” she muttered to herself, “you’re running a little early today.”

She watched him trot down the front steps and waited until he advanced a little up the block before following him down Tecumseh Road.

The man’s name was Braverman. He had moved into the spare room at Mrs. Cousineau’s back in May and he’d been a source of curiosity to Vera Maude ever since. At first it was the garb, sort of rustbelt bohemian. Then it was the paint-splattered briefcase: it always appeared to be heavier when he was leaving than when he was arriving. She thought about asking her own landlady if she knew anything about him but was afraid of getting tangled up in the Clothesline — Mrs. Richardson’s network of neighbourhood gossips.

As the commuters converged on the waiting streetcar Vera Maude stuck close to Braverman. He sat himself street-side near the exit. Vera Maude sat on the bench at the rear and examined the homes along the tree-lined Avenue as they sprung to life. People were taking in the milk and the paper, pushing their kids out the door, and generally cranking their piston-driven lives into action.

“Ha-a-a-NUH.”

The conductor hollered street names like he was calling plays at a ball game. Two chatty, smartly dressed women boarded at Hanna Street. Vera Maude recognized them from Smith’s department store, the ladies’ undergarments to be exact, or the girls’ bait & tackle counter.

She had considered bringing up the subject of Mrs. Cousineau’s mystery man with her in the course of conversation by saying something like “oh, and I happened to notice” or “I haven’t seen your lodger lately,” but Vera Maude nixed that idea because she didn’t want to appear to be looking for an introduction. The Misses Cousineau and Richardson were always asking if there was a special man in Vera Maude’s life, and Vera Maude was always saying yes, even if that wasn’t the case. The absolute last thing she needed was the Clothesline playing matchmaker. She’d wind up with somebody’s idiot nephew, or worse, some yolk with a face like an elevated railway.

“SHE-E-E-P-herd.”

When Vera Maude found out that Braverman actually lived in Detroit, she became even more suspicious. It made her wonder if Mrs. Cousineau’s lodger wasn’t a bootlegger. That was when she decided to turn detective and try to gather some more facts.

Traffic was light and the streetcar continued to make good time. Half the city seemed to be on vacation. Vera Maude once considered going on one of those weekend excursions to Colchester Beach, but she needed someone to go with and couldn’t bear the thought of tripping with any of her co-workers getting paired with some loathsome, giggling girl who had a crush on her cousin and wore a nightgown to bed.

Wait — why hasn’t Mrs. Cousineau tried to set me up with Braverman? Does she know something?

“E-e-e-llis.”

The streetcar was starting to fill up. Vera Maude watched the long faces pile aboard, the folks that already used up their vacation time, the folks without an electric fan, the folks that couldn’t stand the heat and were staring down the short end of what was going to be a long week. In a few months these same people would be complaining about the cold. Last winter, when Mrs. Cousineau took ill and was practically bed-ridden, Vera Maude brought her magazines from the library. It became a habit, and now Mrs. Cousineau was used to her regular rotation of American Cookery, Ladies’ Home Journal, House Beautiful, and Chatterbox.

A few weeks ago Vera Maude decided to use one of these visits to try and learn more about her lodger. She found Mrs. Cousineau turning soil in the flowerbed. She was wearing her enormous, straw sunhat and oversized garden gloves, and they made her look like a little girl playing in the dirt. Vera Maude was feeling reckless. She asked her if there was anything she might bring the gentleman in her next parcel.

 Do you know what sorts of things he likes to read?

 I couldn’t say, dear. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him with a book.

 His work probably keeps him very busy. What line did you say he was in?

Well, that got Mrs. Cousineau’s gums flapping, and that’s how Vera Maude learned that the man’s name was Braverman, worked as a commercial artist somewhere downtown, and though he resided in Detroit, he had taken this room in Windsor in case he worked late or felt like spending the weekend.

 Why doesn’t he just move here?

 He says his situation is only temporary. He’s planning to move abroad.

 How interesting. Did he say where?

 No, but if I were to guess I would have to say Paris.

 Paris!

 Mm-hm. A few days after he took the room he got a giant carton from Paris. Had to be delivered by truck. Supplies for work, he said. And he gets letters all the time.

 Supplies?

 That’s right. Paints and varnishes. It looked heavy. Nice fellow. Always pays his rent on time.

 Does he ever —

 Have any plans for the long weekend, Maudie? I know a young man who —

 Oh — got to run, Mrs. Cousineau. I hear Mrs. Richardson calling me for supper.

Since then Vera Maude had made several attempts at trying to find out where Braverman works. All she knew for certain was that his office was nearer the river than the library because she always got off the streetcar before he did. Today, however, with the extra time she was determined to go through with her investigation and see where it took her.

“Gi-i-i-i-iles.”

Some professional-types got on, the new midtown crowd. They kept their noses wedged in their morning papers, counting the days until they saved up enough for this year’s Cadillac and they could be rescued from public transit.

Cadillac: What a Wealth of Satisfaction.

A milk wagon halted on the tracks. The horse was either harbouring a grudge against the modern age or coping with a belly full of bad grass. People were pulling at both ends of the horse. Vera Maude suddenly imagined the word “Vexed!” on a movie dialogue card in her head. If her plans were foiled by this old nag, she would have to start advocating a prohibition on milk.

She looked over at Braverman. He was gazing out the window and drumming his briefcase lying flat on his lap with his fingertips. He had a far-away look in his eyes, like he was imagining elegant cafes, romantic cul-de-sacs, and ancient bridges; artists, lovers, and ex-soldiers walking the streets, basking in the glow of the city of light. Vera Maude had never noticed before how handsome Braverman was. There was something vaguely aristocratic about him. Surely he was one who could move comfortably through a range of social circles.

From saloon to salon.

Vera Maude liked the sound of that. She thought it would make a good title for her memoir. The horse was finally coaxed off the tracks and the way was clear.

“E-E-E-E-rie.”

The stop outside St. Joe’s Hospital seemed to last an eternity, and it cost Vera Maude a bit of her surplus time. She started working on her lateness excuses for Miss Lancefield.

I overslept. The streetcar derailed. There were these sailors on leave, drunk, vandalizing public property. They wouldn’t quit. Let’s just say I made the ultimate sacrifice.

She studied Braverman some more. She thought about his hands holding a brush, and then she looked at her own small hands. She had been biting her nails again.

“Wy-y-y-yn-DOTTE.”

The blocks were shorter now. This was the city in one of its earliest incarnations. On the older maps the river was the main street with little lanes running off it into farmers’ fields. On the newer maps the streets intersected the Avenue like steps up a ladder towards the river. In a little over a decade, streetcars and the automobile had completely shifted the axis of the city.

Some uniformed schoolgirls were skipping down the Avenue towards the sound of a bell. St. Mary’s Academy was coming up after Maiden Lane. Had her great-grandfather, a Catholic farmer, not decided to re-invent himself as a Methodist linen merchant, Vera Maude might very well have found herself a graduate of St. Mary’s.

And got me to a nunnery.

She wondered how the other branches in her family tree were managing their inheritance, especially those still in Ireland now living through a violent revolution. Maybe some wished they had remained Catholic. Perhaps some had even converted back. To Vera Maude, it was all a bit like those people jumping on the Giants bandwagon at the beginning of the World Series.

Some old codger was looking her over, and she made a face at him. He kept staring so she looked away. She would much rather have belted him one.

“Pa-a-a-rk Street.”

On any normal day, this was her stop. She could still potentially make the library on time, provided Braverman wasn’t going all the way to the ferry dock. Vera Maude stood up and grabbed one of the leather straps that hung in the aisle. She needed to be able to bale out as soon as Braverman made his move.

The streetcar driver was trying to motivate some of the taxicabs that were congregating in front of the Prince Edward Hotel. Insurance agents, dentists, physicians, and barristers, a host of characters Vera Maude preferred to avoid like the plague, were marching into the King Building. Next door the girls at the Laura Secord Candy Shop were putting the finishing touches on today’s window display. A fellow on a ladder was straightening the letters on the marquee at the Allen. At first glance Vera Maude thought it said The Man for Me. It actually said The Man From Home. It boasted “American millions, European titles, Mediterranean beauty, and smashing romance!”

Not to mention air-conditioning. I feel a double feature coming on.

“Lo-o-o-on-DUN.”

Braverman stood up as they approached the Bank of Montreal building at the corner. The streetcar came to an abrupt halt just as Vera Maude was letting go of the hand strap. She fell into a man standing in front of her.

“Pardon me, I’m sure.”

He helped her regain her balance. It was his pleasure. She made a beeline for the door and managed to wiggle through before it closed.

She spotted Braverman walking in front of the streetcar and followed him down Chatham Street. A couple people went into Wesley Radio, some went into the Chinese laundry. Others continued around the corner down Pelissier. The clock was ticking. Vera Maude stopped at Dougall and watched Braverman cross. She was about to give up hope when she saw him enter a building just up the block. She hustled over and checked it out.

CURTIS PRINTERS

She stared at the building for a moment. She was a little disappointed, though she wasn’t sure exactly why. What was she expecting?

A big sign saying Braverman & Co.: Bootleggers, Con-artists, and Petty Criminals?

She made a few mental notes then double-backed and turned up Victoria. She noticed the time and got going as fast as she could in heels. She slowed at London Street just long enough to let a streetcar pass and then almost got knocked down by a bicycle when she ran across Park without looking.

“Jeepers, fella!”

When she got to the top of the steps of the library, the janitor greeted her at the door.

“Don’t rush yourself, Maudie. They’re a little preoccupied this morning. And Miss Lancefield’s at another one of her meetings.”

“Thanks, Joe.”

Vera Maude strolled in and sure enough they were all huddled around Daphne, gasping and whistling like so many kettles on the boil. Daphne was telling them about the gunshots she heard early this morning from the direction of the rail yards. Mavis said she heard something that sounded like gunshots too, though she had thought it was just a truck backfiring.

“But, come to think of it, it did sound more like a gun.”

Yeah, like you know what a gun sounds like.

Vera Maude started sorting the daily papers. She was grateful no one noticed she was over a quarter of an hour late. Unless they were saving it for Miss Lancefield. Some of the girls were like that — walking around with an ace up their sleeve, waiting for just the right moment to slap it on the table. Vera Maude knew Miss Lancefield was getting tired of her excuses and apologies. One wrong move and Vera Maude would be facing a life sentence behind a counter at Smith’s department store.

There was another conversation wrapping up at one of the reading tables. Several members of the Music, Literature, and Art Club were discussing topics for the fall season. They were recalling a meeting held earlier in the year. It was an open meeting, Vera Maude’s introduction to the club.

She had to attend. Among the members were Miss Lancefield, a couple of assistant librarians, several schoolteachers, and representatives of the city’s cultural elite — the Merry Wives of Windsor. It was held up the street at the Bowlby house. The guest of honour was an associate of the Royal Academy of Music. He gave a talk and then later in the evening he and Margaret Bowlby played an arrangement of Beethoven’s 5th. In Reverend Paulin’s wife’s report on current events she touched on the so-called Art War being waged over a modernist exhibit at the Metropolitan Museum in New York. Vera Maude had to bite her tongue through the discussion that followed. The meeting closed with the singing of the national anthem.

It was all very pleasant and very civilized and done with the utmost taste and decorum. But it was quite different from the new world of music, literature, and art that Vera Maude was reading about in the journals from London and New York.

Veddy different indeed.

She tried to picture Braverman in the audience, dressed as he was today and with his paint-splattered briefcase on his lap. Part bohemian, part gentleman, and part gangster.

Gunshots from the direction of the rail yards?