Читать книгу The Dying Poem - Rob Budde - Страница 6

Dee knows Henry has killed himself. ‘Henry.’ Out of nowhere, for no reason, she mouths his name and knows he has killed himself. The knowledge a sensation that rises – a new language, a barely whispered utterance. Then more, bursts of syllables, and these sounds form limbs, eyes, hunger. Dee’s countenance, her stiff social exterior, so practiced and precise, remains undisturbed. It is 4:24 p.m. and she knows he is dead.

Henry. He is no more.

The knowledge, a shift in chemicals.

In that instant, the feeling fans up from her fingertips as if a cold glass of wine has just been handed to her. He is dead. The knowledge slides up her shoulder blades and settles around her neck. Henry is dead. She, outside herself, saying the words, ‘He is dead.’ This impossible knowledge coming to her without doubt. ‘Dead.’

The word resounds. She remembers his face as he stands at her door that first night fifteen years ago. He is holding fruit, of allthings: a pear, two peaches, a kiwi and a mango. They squirm in his hands like puppies and begin to tumble down the steps. His eyes are on his hands, trying to control them. His hair is unkempt and he is wearing the same clothes he wore the day before, cords and a baggy grey sweater. He seems ancient standing there, a stranded poet, decrepit and pure. Exuberant Athens, brooding Milan, weary London – any setting would have held him. He is a product of Western history standing there on a rainy night in suburban Toronto. He is a lyrical figure of speech, breathless and confident.

It is not raining but it should be. Standing on the steps outside her door, he knows she is watching his face and will not help him with the fruit. Even though she stands barring the door with her arms crossed, he knows she will let him in and tell him what mango trees look like. His eyes flash open as he tastes one as if for the first time. Then, he tells her how desperately he wants to be a great man, how he wants people to remember his name, to read his writing. She is stunned by his blunt honesty but does not believe him. Instead she humours him, shushes him. Makes love to him. This last she does reluctantly, knowing it is a trap, knowing that men like him build monuments around their lovemaking, as if it is something significant. He does not know how to make love very well, she thinks afterwards; he has a lot to learn about subtlety. She does not tell him this but instead looks across the bed with pity, wondering if she should try to save him. He is dozing off.

But this memory now teeters on the edge of absurdity. He is dead. That first night, even though in the past, sits precariously present on the edge of the idea of his death. That chasm, billowing into her imagination, swirls to fill all her concentration. And it is concentration. Part of her consciousness has followed him. She is curious more than anything else. Dee’s mind addresses knowledge as if it were an intruder, as if she has caught language in her backyard late at night, as if it stands between her and peace. The loss of Henry seems almost trivial in the face of the question.

Yes, the question. She stops and looks directly into a light-bulb in the lamp beside her. She is not sure where she is for the moment. Herarm droops behind the chair and she lets her wine-glass drop delicately onto the carpet. She does not even bother to imagine the red fanning out into the weave of the white berber.

The Goldheft Art Gallery reception is winding down, dwindling into cleanup. The cheese platters are nearly gone; glasses and smudged napkins cover the tables. The room smells like old wine on old lips.

While all this is swirling in her mind she has managed to shut out the gallery crowd. It does not take much effort. She has suspended a conversation with a Winnipeg editor who is probably going to ask her out for a drink. White salt stains spatter the bottoms of his pant legs. He published one of her short stories, a fairy tale that begins with a dream and ends in what then seemed like chaos. That was about three years ago and he has tried, in a cloying, pawing way, to keep in touch ever since. Henry has not come up in the conversation.

She leaves the party graciously. No one notices her change in mood as she pulls on her long coat and waves goodbye from the foyer. They mistake her urgency for an elegant exit and blame it on the demands of a literary star. They imagine the glamorous rendezvous she is hurrying off to.

But there may not even have been a change in mood. Dee puzzles over her reaction as she walks down the wet sidewalk to her sedan. If there was a change, it is from an absence, like from not eating enough. There is no shock. It is not surprising. It seems fitting.

As she drives, Toronto is reduced to light and dark shades, angles and space. She imagines what it is like to die as she descends under the Gardiner. Her thoughts straddle his image and the unanswered question of his absence. (There he is, smiling and bitching about something in the paper. His bathrobe is open and she can see his ribs jutting out of his lanky torso. His teeth are crooked, endearing.) How to be so lost in anything, so immortal, so caged.

As she re-emerges beneath the belligerent dark clouds, she begins frantically shrugging out of her coat. Like grappling with an attacker, she twists and lunges forward and to the side. The car swerves towards the curb. Finally, she tugs the coat free and shoves it out the window. It lands in the street like a body tumbling to a stop.

The streets are wet and empty and the dim outline of moon is jeering.

She vows to never speak of Henry again. Ever.