Childhood Page 10
The night is always warm, and there are only a few trees between us and the water, and the ground is wet. I hear the soft and familiar words
…Anyan, and Magellan, and Gibraltar.
And I’m up to my waist in water.
In the distance there’s a white shroud floating on the ripples towards me, and above the shroud are dozens of white moths.
It frightens me to see the moths over water, and then, turning to get out of the lake, I find I can’t move.
– I can’t move, I say.
But my mother is gone. There is only the lake, the trees, the moon, the moths…
* * *
—
I’ve had this dream so often since, it surprises me that it has a first night. Sometimes, the shroud that floats towards me holds my grandmother’s body; her eyes are open beneath the surface of the water, and her mouth moves as she struggles to disentangle herself, or to speak.
At other times, it’s my mother’s body in the shroud.
In either case, what frightens me are the moths, and the fact that I can’t move, that I’m held in the silt beneath the water.
I can’t remember who it was beneath the surface that night, Edna or Katarina, but I frightened myself awake and was not at all comforted to find myself still in the place from which I’d awakened.
It was like losing hope.
VIII
For a moment there, remembering Marmora, I was reminded of the shape of our journey, the lay of the land. And it amused me to imagine Southern Ontario as a correlative to my mother’s relationship with Mr Mataf.
I even drew myself a graph:
figure 1
The y-axis is Level of Affection.
I don’t actually know how “in love” the two of them were at any time, but I assume maximum affection at the point of departure: Petrolia (o, 100).
The x-axis is Time.
Another approximation. I’m not certain what we were doing or where we were at any specific time, but I think it’s safe to assume the moment of least affection is Manotick, and it took us some three days to reach: Manotick (72, o).
No sooner had I finished plotting its points than I began to have serious doubts about my graph. For instance, why not use latitude or longitude for the x-axis?
Ontario begins at around 95° latitude, 42° longitude. It ends around 74° latitude, 56° 51’ longitude. Being able to discriminate between, for instance, 77° 45’ (just before Marmora) and 77° 40’ (just after) would allow for greater precision in finding correspondence between sentiment and the land, wouldn’t it?
How wonderful it would be to write
• latitude 77° 45’ as the sun began its decline on Crow Lake, Pierre Mataf and Katarina MacMillan experienced sadness and a waning of their feelings for each other, emotions both of them would forever associate with the sun’s decline on this body of water, on such and such a date, at such and such a time, with a sullen child in tow…
• latitude 77° 46’ …the previous sadness gracefully modulated into speculation (by Katarina MacMillan) on their whereabouts, and speculation (by Pierre Mataf) on their final destination on this melancholy evening…
My choice of a 24-hour scale (o to 72) does have something vague about it, but the imagination required to write precisely of other people’s emotions is quite beyond me. The vagueness of my x-axis is perfectly suited to my memory and imagination, or lack of memory and lack of imagination.
Equally vague is the idea of “affection” I’ve used for the y-axis. Here, however, emotions of any sort being, by definition, vague, it’s clear that precision is likely to create more problems than it solves.
Let’s suppose, for instance, that on a more precise scale of the affections
100 equals “sexual intercourse without resentment”
and that
0 equals “no sexual intercourse without devastating emotional consequences.”
That sounds almost reasonable to me, though its problems are obvious under scrutiny:
Is “sexual intercourse without resentment” a suitable definition of the highest sentiment?
For the sake of argument, and on the principle that outward manifestation of emotion is the most reliable proof we have of the emotions themselves, the answer is an extremely qualified “yes.” (For convenience, we leave aside the question of “resentment,” whether it must be registered before, during, or after intercourse.)
Could my mother and Mr Mataf have had “sexual intercourse without resentment” in Petrolia?
In all honesty, I don’t think so. I can’t believe one would break up such a relationship after three days. That is, if they could have had unresentful sex in Petrolia, it’s highly unlikely they would have separated so soon afterwards. They must, then, have been closer to o on our new scale than 100. Even so, because emotions often fluctuate wildly (rather than declining steadily, as I have it), it’s entirely possible that, either in Petrolia itself or somewhere on its outskirts, they may both have drifted onto that part of the scale that offers tolerable feelings of resentment and makes sexual intercourse a possibility. Imagine, for instance, that they both suddenly remembered their first meeting, first starry night, first passion for each other. A memory like that could push them as high as 50, say, and then all bets are off.
So, our answer is a rather unsatisfying “perhaps.”
If emotions can fluctuate enough to allow for such intimacy so soon before a final break, can we say precisely when, or even if, they fell out of love before their break-up?
No, we cannot, and being unable to answer this particular question makes a mockery of any graph, any plot that includes “affection.”
And yet…
Though I was inclined to throw my graph away, if only because I wouldn’t want you to think I’m hypnotized by geometry, there was something in the gentle fall of the line that was suggestive of the things in simultaneous decline as we made our way across Ontario:
my mother’s relationship to Mr Mataf
the version of my mother I’d inherited from Mrs Schwartz
my sense of belonging
my early childhood.
And so, though I hate to misuse graphs, this one was more significant to me as a picture than as a graph strictu sensu.
(I often wonder what the contour of our time will be: from the library to a touch (accidental) at the corner of O’Connor and Laurier; our kiss near Lyon, your touch (purposeful), the moon through a window on Percy…)
* * *
—
The morning after my dream of a shroud and moths, Mr Mataf woke us early. He stuffed the tent into the trunk of his car, smartly closed the hood, and slammed the driver’s door shut when he got in.
– Okey doke, he said without enthusiasm.
– Trou d’cul, my mother answered softly.
Though the days are generally sunny in my memory, this one is conspicuously wet. Mr Mataf was wet when he woke us, his jacket mottled. It must have started raining at night. It certainly rained as we drove. I remember a rebuke from Mr Mataf.
– Ferme-moi cette fenêtre, veux-tu? he said when I opened a window to put out my hand.
We still stopped to let the engine cool, to fill the radiator, but I spent most of the day in the car, in daytime darkness and turbulent silence.
Though I’d watched them closely for two days, the distaste my mother now had for Mr Mataf, and he for her, was traumatic for me. I was certain this was all my fault; the silence, the tension, maybe even the weather.
When Mr Mataf tried to speak to me
– Ça va en arrière?
my mother said
– Leave him alone
making the boundary clear. I was on her side in the skirmish. To speak to me
was to speak to her and, as she and he were not speaking, he was not to speak to me.
I’m convinced this was the moment Mr Mataf abandoned ship. Not that I remember him saying, in so many words, that it was over between them, but that’s just it. Being such a spirited man, his lack of response, his silence was the “in so many words.” I don’t remember him saying another word to my mother, not “goodnight,” not “goodbye.” He defiantly spoke to me, though. He said
– Me passerais-tu les biscuits, s’il te plaît
and
– Non, c’est moi qui va dormir dans l’auto ce soir. La tente est pour toi et ta mère
and
– Bonsoir, Tom.
* * *
—
To me, now, the road to Manotick seems like a slow ritual, as if things had to be played out this way, in this theatre.
My mother could certainly have soothed Mr Mataf’s feelings, if she’d wanted. The slightest consideration might have brought him back, but she made no effort; not a word to him, after the warning to leave me alone, and very few to me.
Then again, she may have been waiting for an apology, and she had a thing about apologies. I don’t quite understand her thinking, but I believe it went like this: “If I’m wrong, I’ll apologize, but if I’m wrong and it’s obvious to both of us that I’m wrong, then my being wrong is a humiliation and you should apologize to me.” (My mother and I, both waiting for an apology, once went two months without speaking to each other.)
I have no idea how Mr Mataf behaved when they were alone. Perhaps she was entitled to an apology. On the way to Manotick, though, she was so clearly the stronger, I could feel her crush the spirit from him.
* * *
—
Besides the tension and the weather, there was nothing remarkable about the day. It rained and then it stopped.
When it was time to eat, the last tin of sardines was rancid, but the tin of oysters was good. Mr Mataf said
– Me passerais-tu les biscuits, s’il te plait?
When we stopped near Manotick7 for the night, my mother turned to me and asked
– Are you comfortable, Thomas?
Mr Mataf turned to me and answered
– Non, c’est moi qui va dormir dans l’auto ce soir. La tente est pour toi et ta mère.
He put the car keys in my hand.
My mother immediately got out of the car. It would have been beneath her to argue. Instead, she behaved as if it had been her idea the two of us would sleep in the tent rather than the car. It was not raining. We were near the river. She took the things that belonged to us from the car: sweater, food, books.
And when we had dragged the crumpled and sighing mass of tent from the trunk, I gave the keys back to Mr Mataf.
– Bonsoir, Tom, he said.
* * *
—
This night was even more unusual than the previous, near Marmora.
First, there was the tent, a blue canvas pup, with metal rods for support and wooden pegs for anchor. It was low, and there was scarcely enough room for two. The canvas was damp and smelled of mildew.
It was colder inside the tent than out. We quickly took off our shoes and crawled into the sleeping bag, which was just wide enough for us both.
It was like being trapped with a stranger.
* * *
—
We had already accepted our roles (mother and son) and each had accepted the role of the other, but it was not enough to alleviate the awkwardness. How can I put it? My mother was pretending to be a mother, and her version of “mother” included love of her offspring. I was pretending to be a son, and my version of “son” included a certain ease with my progenitor.
I don’t know how she felt, but I had less trouble accepting her as “mother” than I had thinking of myself as “son.” My discomfort, the reason I tried to keep absolutely still, was a discomfort with myself as much as it was a discomfort with my mother.
And what did I expect of my mother?
What I expected was the woman I’d built out of the stories I’d heard in Petrolia. I expected a woman unlike my grandmother. I expected Katarina, but my mother obliterated all of that.
The twenty-nine-year-old who said
– Goodnight, Thomas
(and kissed the back of my head) was the person to whom my first ten years led. Everything had to be re-interpreted with her in mind.
My grandmother was different in light of her daughter. The house I’d lived in was different now that I knew the secret signs of Katarina’s presence. The town of Petrolia was different because it had driven this woman away (and later called her back). Even recent events changed in significance the more I knew my mother.
The most poignant dilemma that night was how to say “goodnight.” It seemed so important at the time. My mother said
– Goodnight, Thomas.
What was I to say?
– Goodnight, Katarina (?)
– Goodnight, Mother (?)
– Goodnight, Mom (?)
– Goodnight (?)
I said
– Goodnight.
* * *
—
The following morning, Mr Mataf was gone.
He’d left our suitcases by the side of the road, but aside from that there was no sign of him.
I rose first, so it was I who called my mother from sleep.
– Mr Mataf’s not here, I said.
My mother got out of the tent. She walked to the side of the road where our suitcases stood, and then, after a moment, unleashed a torrent of language such as I’d never heard from an adult.
– You didn’t hear that, Thomas.
I’d felt it, rather.
We stood by the side of the road for what was, in my memory, a very long time, with my mother looking at the river and myself not knowing where to look, until, as if the water had decided for us, we picked up and began walking along the riverside, north.
We left the tent where it was, the sleeping bag unfurled within. My mother carried the suitcases and I tried to keep up to her without complaining.
We walked north, but she didn’t tell me where we were going. For years I assumed the time she’d spent in silence by the side of the road was time spent trying to decide where to go for refuge, but it may be she was trying to discover an alternative to the river, an alternative to Henry Wing.
Whatever she was thinking, it was a fateful moment in three lives: mine, my mother’s, and Henry’s.
I can’t recall much about the walk to Ottawa. In my version, we walk for hours along the road and the river, and my mother carries our suitcases. When we’re hungry she takes the package of mock chicken from her purse and folds the slices onto the last of the crackers.
So I remember it, at least.
7 I’ve often wondered how we ended up in Manotick, not only because it’s more northerly than one would expect for people on the road to Montreal, but because of the pestilential number of villes that afflict the northeastern tail of the province: Frankville, Kemptville, Domville, Stampville, Brouseville, Keelerville, Mainsville, Marvelville, Mayerville, Merrickville, Middleville, Wagarville, Hallville, Orangeville, Innisville, Spencerville, Hainesville, Ellisville, Ramsayville, Marionville, Ettyville, Stanleyville, Chesterville, Maxville, Philipsville, Clydesville, Riceville, Bonville, Bainsville, Mitchellville, Charlesville, Andrewsville, Judgeville…There’s something almost deliberate about ending up somewhere other than a ville. (Well, a ville or a Corners.)
THE SCIENCES
The Sciences, Divination: by oracles, Theomancy; by the Bible, Bibliomancy; by ghosts, Psychomancy; by spirits seen in a magic lens, Cristallomantia; by shadows or manes, Sciomancy; by appearances in the air, Chaomancy; by the stars at birth, Genethliacs; by smoke from the altar, Capnomancy; by currents, Bletonism; by the e
ntrails of animals sacrificed, Hieromancy; by the entrails of fishes, Ichthyomancy; by the entrails of a human sacrifice, Anthropomancy; by mice, Myomancy; by birds, Orniscopy; by winds, Austromancy; divination in general, Mantology; by a cock picking up grains, Alectryomancy; by passages in books, Stichomancy; by a balanced hatchet, Axinomancy; by meteors, Meteoromancy; by numbers, Arithmancy; by writings in ashes, Tephramancy; by dropping melted wax in water, Ceromancy; by sacrificial fire, Pyromancy; by fountains, Pegomancy; by the dough of cakes, Crithomancy; by a balanced sieve, Coscinomancy; by dots made at random on paper, Geomancy; by pebbles drawn from a heap, Psephomancy; by mirrors, Catoptromancy; by nails reflecting the sun’s rays, Onychomancy; by ventriloquism, Gastromancy; by the mode of laughing, Geloscopy…
figure 3
(an abbreviated list of the sciences of divination)
IX
And which to talk about first, the city or Henry Wing?
Ottawa has changed so much and so often, I don’t know which Ottawa is Ottawa. The city as I first saw it, walking in from Manotick? I barely remember that one. I was tired and miserable. It would have been little more than a convergence of buildings and glass, with a few monuments thrown in.
It’s a strange thing to contemplate, strange in the same way meeting my mother was strange, but there was a time I didn’t know the Parliament Buildings, the Chateau, the Canal. Perhaps I saw them, coming in from Manotick, but they were not significant to me then and I don’t remember.
A great deal of my past is lost through the inattention of my younger selves, but what I miss most are first impressions of certain places.
The Parliament Buildings meant nothing to me for years, and then suddenly they did. Now, they persist in my imagination even when I dream, so that when I’m running from a knife-wielding lunatic, say, the buildings recur time and again: