Frances Itani - Requiem

I can only guess at her companion’s response to the disconcerting eye movements, because the second woman has her back to me. I look down at the page again and wonder if Beethoven was being honest when he expressed the belief that he had no pride. He did not, I know, have the love of a woman. Though he spoke hopefully and frequently of love, especially in letters he wrote during his thirties.

Basil, full-bellied Basil, stirs beneath the table when the woman facing me says to her companion, “We could have our tea leaves read. Did you see the sign at the entrance when we came in?”

“I don’t think so,” says the other quietly. “I don’t tamper with that sort of thing.”

“What do you mean—that sort of thing? What harm can be done? Come on, it might turn out to be fun.”

The young woman seated with Rapunzel turns out to be Anita, the tea-leaf reader. No surprise there. She moves to the table of the two women as if tugged by a magnet, her brown hair swinging, one eye remaining half-closed, as if that is requisite for a seer. She pulls up a chair between the two.

I give up on the book of letters because a bowl the size of a mixing bowl, filled with muddy-looking chili, has been set in front of me. I feel I should have a scoop to shovel it in. I scan the bowl for remnants of shredded wheat, see none and think, Okay, safe to eat .

At the table ahead I hear something about a fork in the road. A decision could go either way. And I think, Pretty easy bet, Anita .

I look towards the creek, or river, whatever it is. In the final rays of light, last year’s grasses on the cleared part of the slope have taken on a touch of gold all the way down to the water. If I could create that colour, if I could mix that colour of gold …

Anita’s voice breaks through again. “This could go on for a long time.”

“Very long?” The woman speaks with a tremor. Her head dips forward.

“It seems so,” says Anita, with flat indifference.

“Maybe it means your research,” says the cheery friend. “Your research never ends, and don’t we both know it.”

This is followed by a murmur of assent.

And then, I hear the most astonishing prediction. Anita, the fortune teller, declares in a semi-tragic voice, “Oh!” As if she has witnessed the inferno itself. She stares into the cup. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Like, I have to tell you. It’s as clear as can be.” She pauses, for effect, no doubt. “You aren’t going to live a long life.”

Two small bowls of chili arrive at this moment and are set at the women’s table. My body pulls up taller in my chair.

“Will she at least live happily?” This has been blurted out by the woman with the fluttering lids.

Anita shrugs—who knows?—tucks her five-dollar bill into her pocket and returns to sit with Rapunzel.

“Don’t pay any attention,” the woman tells her friend. “It’s all nonsense, you know it is. She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

But the recipient of the news has stilled. She is staring out the window at what I am also seeing: the path she has just climbed; the narrow rays of disappearing light; darkness closing in; a small river that is no more than a murky blur as it curves around the base of a hill of shadows.

Should I stand up and shout? I could laugh or weep. If I start laughing, I’ll have to be carried out. I spoon down half the chili, leave money on the table, grab my book and head for the door while Anita calls after me in a singsong voice, “Don’t you want your fortune told? We’ll bring you a cup of tea.” She and Rapunzel are giggling as I push the door shut behind me.

Basil drags himself back to the cabin, reluctant to leave the warmth of the tea room. I should have intervened when I overheard the fortune. But what would I have said? And why would I interfere? Not my business.

Corpses of black bugs are squashed between tiles on the bathroom floor. I have no interest in identifying them and I don’t look closely. I know that Basil will paw anything that scuttles across his path in the night. As soon as I lock the door, he plunks himself onto the circle of braided rug and glares.

There are two single beds in the room. Both mattresses are lumpy and reek of must. There is an overhead light, no lamp. Between the beds a framed, glassless print hangs at a slant: a sampan afloat on dingy water, cotton-ball clouds puffed in the sky. I have an urge to slice across its surface with a knife. Instead, I straighten the frame, if only to gain control. We are, Basil and I, in what Lena would mercilessly declare to be a fleabag. As I think this, the light flickers once and goes out. I’m standing in blackness. No light in the bathroom, no light coming in from outside. I brush my teeth in the dark, splash water on my face, stub my foot against the tin shower and crawl into the nearest bed like a lame troll.

Basil has ignored my ablutions. I snap on the flashlight and shine it in his direction.

“One night, Basil. That’s all. The power outage is not my fault. We’ll be out of here in the morning. Make up for lost time. And it would be nice if you’d acknowledge my conversation just once. I did not, you’ll recall, abandon you at the kennel.”

Basil raises his head and looks into the cone of light when he hears the word kennel , but he knows he’s not under threat. He closes his eyes and makes it clear that I am the one, the only one, responsible for these unworthy digs.

There is no room to turn on this narrow mattress, so I lie on my back beneath the covers.

Why would I leave my comfortable home only to sleep in a fleabag?

Because your home is empty. Because it’s bleak. Because you want to finish the last few drawings—maybe even another painting. Because you have a deadline. Because this trip might lead to anything. Because you are chasing away your ghosts. Because you are trying to open a door, any door, to some random glimmer or prospect that might be waiting to attach itself to your loneliness…

Loneliness.

I should bring in the Laphroaig from the car, but it’s too much effort to pull on clothes and dash outside and back in again. Shredded-wheat-in-the-beard might be waiting out there with an axe.

I will myself to recall good times. Better times. At least I thought so, at the time.

In the fall of last year, just before Thanksgiving weekend, I suggested that we rent a cabin on the Gatineau River in Quebec, not far from the city, about an hour’s drive. Greg had phoned to say he wouldn’t be coming home. Too far for him to travel, and he’d been invited for dinner at the home of a classmate whose parents lived near campus. A girl? Lena and I wondered. We had always teased him about the day we’d have to find him a bride. “When you’ve finished school, when your student loans are paid off, then we’ll start looking.” Does he have a new girl? Let’s hear about her. Do we stop looking for a bride?

Miss Carrie usually joined us for holiday dinners, but she had a house guest, the nephew of one of her antiquarian friends, a single man of fifty-eight who had arrived to visit for five days. So far—she pushed her walker to our house and related this breathlessly but with a touch of despair—so far, his entire visit had been spent sitting at Daddy’s desk while reading the Bible in Greek. He’d brought the Greek Bible with him in his Gladstone bag. Miss Carrie had plans to cook a chicken for his Thanksgiving dinner. The man was humourless, she said. Hopelessly devoid. Humour could knock him over and he’d reach for his Greek Bible while lying on his back on the floor.

“I’ll need to hear Benny,” she said. “For survival. Will you lend me your old gramophone, Bin? Lena said it’s still working. Maybe you could carry up some of my records from the basement?”