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Five

The Man Who Wouldn’t Talk

Ronit took the idea of a new life in a new country in her stride. She didn’t complain about leaving Montreal except for the separation from her father and grandmother (her grandfather was no longer alive). However, she was easily reassured when I promised both her and Shimon that if she was unhappy I would return her to Montreal and that, in any case, she would visit often. The idea of living in England appealed to her. By now horses were her passionate interest. For several summers she had gone to a horse-riding farm owned by a friend and had learned to ride and to care for the horses. She had won ribbons for showjumping and she longed to be with horses. We both had the mistaken notion that England would provide that opportunity. As it turned out we were always so short of money that she went riding only a few times in the years she was there.

We all looked forward to the trip. Brian had never crossed the Atlantic, neither had Ronit and I was happy to be travelling again even if it wasn’t the kind of travel I had in mind. Our ticket to Greece had a London stop-over. We stayed with Ruth, persuading her to join us in Athens. I had met Ruth through Rachel. They had been childhood friends. Rachel would be delighted to see her. In Athens we decided to rent a car and drive through the Peloponnese so we could see something of the mainland before going on to Lesbos. Brian was especially anxious to see Olympia and declaim in the ancient amphitheatre. None of us spoke any Greek and once leaving Athens and driving in the untouristy villages of the Peloponnese, we found few people who spoke any English. It became increasingly difficult to communicate even on the basic level of finding food and a place to sleep, until Brian conceived the brilliant idea of miming and dancing our needs.

His performances worked wonders. The Greeks adored him. They were so responsive that he went from the expression of simple needs to conducting entire conversations, able to convey complex ideas non-verbally.

Once we met Costa and Yani, two young Greeks, both deaf mutes. Brian was in his element. They invited us to an old-fashioned dance hall where people still danced only in couples. There were few females present making Ruth, Ronit and me very popular. Costa kept asking Ron it to dance and although he didn’t especially appeal to her, she complied. After one very slow, very close, dance she said, “1 don’t want to dance with him any more. He keeps touching me in a creepy way.”

But when he asked her again, I convinced her to oblige on the grounds of compassion. “He has enough problems being deaf and dumb, don’t give him any more. It’s only a dance. You’ll never see him again. Bring him a little joy.”

But I was wrong and she was right. He put his hand into her tee shirt and down her jeans, holding her so tight she was unable to free herself. She was in tears. Brian took Costa aside. He pointed to Ronit and formed his arms like a cradle, swaying them from side to side, rocking the cradle, indicating that Ronit was young, still a baby. Then, pointing to me, he rocked the cradle again miming that I was big, the mother and Ronit was small, the child. He reinforced the message improvising additional mother and child mime. Costa nodded in understanding, indicating surprise that I was Ronit’s mother and that Ronit was still a child — at thirteen she was taller than me. The realisation put a new complexion on things. The boys became models of decorum. Costa apologised first to Ronit, than to me, falling on his knees and begging forgiveness. He continued to dance only with Ruth, politely, respectfully.

Brian’s mime had triumphed.

He was eloquent and inventive with a remarkable talent for externalising subtle perceptions through movement. Our Peloponnese trip was wonderfully enhanced by his ability to make contact with people and to elicit warm response. He got so good at his mime-dance creations, polishing them into mini entertainments, mini silent movies and was so inspired by the response they evoked that by the time we returned to Athens to board the ship for Lesbos, he had made a massive decision. He decided to give up talking. In one of his last verbal communications he explained that he wanted the discipline of expressing himself only in movement, the experience of internal meditation, of “noble silence.” He had a captive audience on the ship and communicated and entertained around the clock, developing his silence into a fine art. During the two day voyage all the passengers grew to love him. He was deluged with wine, cheese, sausage and inviting looks, accepted by the Greeks like a family member. Considering this was his first time with foreigners, he was spectacular.

Everyone grew to love him, that is everyone but me. Ronit enjoyed him, Ruth was amused and impressed, but I grew increasingly disenchanted and needy. At first I sympathised with his experiment, but when I realised he wasn’t going to talk even to me, I began to resent it.

He was high on a solo flight from which I was excluded. When he wasn’t performing, he was silent, absorbed in thoughts I couldn’t share, enjoying his internal meditation. Rather than appreciating his noble silence, I became increasingly jealous of it. It was like a devotion to a new love. I wanted him back. Ronit, on the other hand, went along with him, relishing his complicated communications, patiently interpreting his desires. “Brian says he’s not having lunch with us, he’s eating with that Greek family, you know the one with the little girl who wears that big bow in her hair. He says we should bring our wine and join them after we’ve eaten. The father is teaching him to play the bazouki.”

Besides, I became weary of the sympathetic looks and sad smiles which said to me “you have such a fine young man, what a pity he’s a mute.” When the boat docked I didn’t mind having to make all the travel arrangements, a taxi into town, bus tickets from town, food, schedules, while he entertained, but I did mind his total preoccupation with his new love.

By the time we got to Molivos, the small fishing village on Lesbos, I felt totally alienated by Brian’s refusal to talk, and hoped that meeting Irving, Rachel and Leonard, would induce him to give up his vow of silence. But it didn’t. He remained silent, preferring his art, foregoing the contact he had so looked forward to, for its sake. There were several Westerners in Molivos. Up until now he had performed almost exclusively for Greeks. Trying to communicate with Westerners through movement was a new challenge, stretching his capacities, making him even more remote from me. We stopped making love. I felt hurt and rejected as his silence consumed him, leaving little for me. I needed his attention feeling vulnerable after my separation from Shimon. There were longer and longer periods of silence as I stopped trying to decipher what he was thinking and stopped bothering to tell him what I was feeling. I spent more and more time with Rachel.

When Lloyd, a New Yorker, began to pay me attention, I found it a relief to detach myself from Brian. I began to disappear with Lloyd and brought him, instead of Brian, on our outings to secluded beaches and remote villages. It was a joy to have verbal contact. Brian seemed unconcerned. There were many people intrigued by him, Westerners who appreciated his experiment with silence and Greeks who, thinking he was mute, paid him special attention — they could never comprehend that his silence was deliberate. I spent more and more time with Lloyd encouraged by Rachel who resented Brian’s treatment of me.

Then suddenly a note appeared from Ronit. It read: “First daddy, then Brian, now Lloyd. What do you think I am?” I sprang to attention, shocked. I had been so entrenched in my involvement with Brian and Lloyd that I hadn’t bothered to see how it was affecting Ronit. I was forced into some serious considerations. I had to reassess my motherhood. After all I had a daughter to consider, a daughter whose feelings I had been blissfully oblivious to, concentrating on my problems, first with a husband, then with lovers. How ironic. I was always teaching Ronit to be aware of the needs of others. Thank goodness she was able to articulate her anxieties. She refused to be invisible. I made my own vow, vowing to devote myself to her needs. I was reminded of the cardboard carton incident many years before when I had vowed to be a more careful mother. That vow was in dire need of renewal. I had taken Ronit from the father she loved, from the love of her grandmother, from her friends, from everything familiar, and was bringing her to a strange land with people she didn’t know because it suited me. I suddenly appreciated the trauma I was subjecting her to. I decided to stop seeing Lloyd immediately and that once my relationship with Brian was ended, there would be no men in my life until Ronit was secure in hers. Affairs of the heart would be on hold. She would be my focus. That was her right. From the cardboard carton days I always tried respecting her rights just as I wanted her to learn to respect mine. I felt much better after sorting out my priorities.

That evening, fortified by the zeal of a new resolution, I announced to Brian that I didn’t want him to come to the Yeats Summer School with me. He said nothing, but slowly, very slowly, his eyes widened, the blue turning to black, and his mouth opened forming a great “Oh,” in the terrible sadness of a bewildered Pierrot. He rose to his feet and began to dance, slowly, intensely, his body vivid with regret. Then he took my hand and looked at me, his face a knife-edge of pain. And I realised I had no right to keep him from the thing he so much wanted, to spoil his dream. I was, in a way, using the Summer School as one parent, in the throes of rejection, uses a child, as a weapon against the other. Finally I struck a bargain. We would go to Ireland together but once he was ensconced in the Summer School, we would go our separate ways, have our own rooms, own schedules. His eyes filled with tenderness and he embraced me so completely my resolve was almost done in.

When it was time for Brian and me to leave Lesbos for London and Dublin, I made final arrangements for Ronit. She would remain with Rachel and David for most of August, then a friend would take her to the port, making sure she was safely aboard the ship to Athens. In Athens, Tamila, another friend would meet her, and take her to the airport. She already had a ticket to London. Ruth would meet her in London and I would be at Ruth’s several days later. The arrangements did not intimidate her.

She looked forward to travelling on her own. (Was it in the genes?) But I had some bouts with my conscience, defending the long-standing charge of irresponsible mother. I knew that neither Shimon nor my mother would approve. She was only thirteen. But I won the battle. She was armed with travellers’ cheques, hidden cash, telephone numbers and an incredible resourcefulness, besides she had learned enough Greek to make herself understood. The Greeks were honest, gentle and incredibly helpful. She would be fine. It was her psyche that needed protection and care at this time of her life. If she exhibited emotional dependency, fragility; physically, she was robust, independent, confident. Or was I breaking my vow already, putting my needs before hers? I walked a thin line. It was hard balancing, getting it right. She kissed Brian and me goodbye with a happy smile.

When we got to London I insisted that Brian organise our tickets for Dublin. If he didn’t want to talk that was his decision, I wasn’t going to serve it. He was no longer being indulged by a soporific Lesbos. This was the real world. I was determined to make him accountable. The fiasco at Heathrow strengthened that resolution. Although I had warned against it, he boarded the plane in Athens wearing almost see-through macramed shorts, made for him by a Greek admirer, a thin cotton shirt with an embroidered edge open at the chest and held together by a sash, and a pair of leather thongs — a great outfit for Greece but hardly appropriate for Heathrow. As he danced his way into the customs hall, I made sure to enter a different queue. When the customs officer questioned him he would make no verbal response but could produce no identification indicating he was mute. When the officer asked if he could talk, he nodded his head indicating that he could. Baffled and annoyed, the officer took him away. After a difficult search I discovered he was being held in the detention centre. When I was finally admitted, I found him looking bright and cheerful despite a body search and brusque officials. I explained that he had taken a vow of silence. “It’s part of his religion,” I improvised. They had no idea what to do with this information, but since he had enough money for his stay in England, and a return ticket to Canada, and not wanting to be accused of religious discrimination, they released him. The officer in charge gave his attire a last scathing glance, but being English, said nothing.

I had booked our tickets to Dublin by phone but insisted that Brian collect them and pay for them. It was important that he did this right because if he didn’t we would miss our connections and the opening of the Summer School. It was his first time in the West End of London, the main downtown area, so I was understandably apprehensive. Before he left I made him promise to phone me. I devised an ingenious plan.

“I know you won’t talk,” I said, “but I’ll ask you questions and you click your tongue once if the answer is yes, and twice if it’s no. That way I’ll know if everything went alright, if you got the tickets and if there’s anything I have to do.” By this time I wished I had gone for the tickets myself, the principal didn’t seem worth defending. I could see that Brian wasn’t convinced by the plan, would it be violating his silence? But for the sake of peace, he relented.

On edge, I waited for his call. One hour. Two hours. Three hours. Four hours. But no call from Brian. Surely he would have called had he got the tickets. Something must have gone wrong. By now the ticket office was closed. We were supposed to leave early next morning. What was I to do? Why hadn’t I left him in Lesbos dancing for the Greeks?

Suddenly the phone rang. “Did you get the tickets?” I shouted into the silence. One despondent click, “yes.” What a relief. But why had it taken him so long to call? “Are you alright?” Two clicks, “no.” No?

“Are you hurt?” One click. Oh my god, he’s hurt. “Where are you?” He couldn’t answer that. Quick, rephrase the question. “Are you in the hospital?” One click. My god, he’s in the hospital. Suddenly a woman’s voice.

“I’m nurse Murphy. A very kind couple found your husband unconscious in Regent Street. They called an ambulance and brought him to hospital. He injured his head and required several stitches. He’s fine now and we’re arranging for a taxi to take him home. He’ll be right as rain after a good night’s sleep. But do have a doctor check the stitches in a week or so. Nothing to worry about.”

I was so overwhelmed I couldn’t think what to ask. I thanked her and she hung up. Within an hour Brian was home, looking pale and subdued but proudly producing the tickets.

When I finally unravelled the story, told to me in mime and dance punctuated by guilty clicks, I learned that all went well until Brian collected the tickets and was on his way home. On Regent Street he was suddenly inspired. He would treat the English to some street entertainment as he had so often treated the Greeks. Only London was not Athens. The English were not only indifferent, but disapproving, even hostile. They hurried past him, their eyes averted, as though by looking at him they would be condoning some obscene activity. No laughter, no cheers, nothing. Brian grew more and more determined to make them respond, to bring them joy. Finally, executing a mad desperate twirl, he went smashing into a lamp post and fell unconscious beneath it. Then the English responded. They were good at tragedy, not so good at comedy. My poor Brian, he was learning the hard way. I put him to bed with kisses.

The Yeats Summer School in Sligo was a very verbal affair with lectures, seminars, discussions, analysis and readings. Brian’s non-verbal stance didn’t go down well. It was a thorn, an irritant to the professors, the literary critics, the Yeats experts. But there were also the poets. Some of Ireland’s finest poets were present. For them Brian was a wonderful enigma. Some, like Seamus Heaney, Brendan Kennelly, and Jimmy Simmons, considered joining him and forming a non-verbal contingent. Two camps developed, a pro-Brian camp and an anti-Brian camp. The professors were impatient, they had no time for him; the poets admired him, wanted to imitate him, invented their own soundless scenarios, discussed the advantages, the possibilities inherent in silence, the space between the words. I watched from a distance, enjoying the fray but unable to be objective, not knowing which side I was on.

The natives of Sligo responded much as the Greeks had, with delight. Once walking down the main street of Sligo I noticed a crowd and approached to investigate. In the middle of the crowd Brian was mine-dancing. I watched him for a while impressed. He was miming the pathos of two lovers separated by some overwhelming force, his own version of Romeo and Juliet. The crowd was enthralled. As he built up to the climax, I wondered how he would end the performance, there were no curtains, no lights and the drama was so intense it required a grand finale. Suddenly there was the shrill scream of a siren. A police van sped up to the crowd and screeched to a halt. Two policemen burst from the van descending on Brian, pulling him into it. Brian was unrattled. The police became part of the performance. With raised arms, like a helpless Christ, he submitted to his executioners. Then from the back of the van he saluted his cheering audience as he was driven off. It was the perfect ending. His offence turned out to be obstructing traffic. He was released with a warning and a smile.

For the entire two weeks of the Summer School Brian remained silent, but his presence was increasingly felt. The police encounter transformed him into a minor folk hero — the Irish being prone to the creation of folk heroes. His salute from the police van became a badge, a password, a salute to him. People saluted him on the streets. In the school he was asked to give illustrations of mime, dance, performances of Yeats.

Seamus Heaney, later to become the dominant poet of our time, a noble laureate, suggested that he present a dance from one of Yeats’ plays — a surprise performance for the closing ceremony of the school. Brian was delighted.

He decided on the climatic dance from At The Hawk’s Well, one of Yeats’ dance plays based on Irish mythology. He would dance the young hero, the warrior Cuchulain, seeking the well of eternal life. “He who drinks, they say, that miraculous water, lives forever.” I would dance The Hawk Woman, the Guardian of the well, who lures Cuchulain from the well just as the mysterious waters bubble up and begin to flow. “She is always flitting upon this mountain side, to allure or to destroy.” Cuchulain resists the Hawk Woman but finally, hypnotised by her dance, follows her, forsaking his chance for immortality. We practised all afternoon, improvising costumes and music, mainly drum beats and strange discordant sounds. The well, true to Yeats’ directions, was represented by a square of blue cloth. We painted our faces white to suggest the masks Yeats wanted for the plays.

That night Brian danced Cuchulain, strong, magnificent, his shins laced with leather thongs, his hand clutching a spear. I danced the Hawk Woman, an embodiment of the bird of prey’s cruelty coupled with a woman’s beauty, dressed in grey/black with a shawl whose dark fringe unfurled to suggest malevolent wings. “It flew as though it would have torn me with its beak, or blinded me, smiting with that great wing.” My cry of “Taka!” intermingled with the drum beats, the wild sounds. A bitter yet heroic duet, making tangible the “imagery of emotion,” ritualising a universal quest with mythological significance “beyond the scope of reason.”

The most powerful moment came when Cuchulain stood, his back to the well, hearing its water bubbling up, but unable to turn from the Hawk Woman, her power compelling him to abandon the well. In a last heroic effort to free himself from her, recollecting his past conquests as a Warrior King, he slowly raised his wrist and warned:

Run where you will,

Grey bird,

You shall be perched upon my wrist.

Some were called queens and yet have been perched there.

Brian’s voice shattered the silence, rich, intense, passionate, defiant, agonised. The audience held its breath. Brian had spoken.

The magical power of the play exploded with the miracle of his voice. The play, the dance, Yeats, the poetry, Brian, me, the poets, the school, we were all miracles together. And Brian’s silence was over.