Frances Itani - Requiem

Mr. Owen also introduced the use of watercolours to our class, but I found this to be a difficult medium. We had many discussions—just the two of us—about the artists I had read about in his books. He gave me hope that some day I might be fortunate enough to stand before some of the great paintings I had seen on the pages, and witness them for myself.

At the end of the year, on the report card that would be presented to the college I was moving to in Ontario, the one where Okuma-san and I would once again restart our lives, I was given an A plus for my work in Mr. Owen’s class.

The two of us talked after our last class, Mr. Owen and I, and he told me, “Ben, there will be a great deal of pressure put upon you to be ordinary, to follow the norm, never to raise your head. Because of this, your art will become the most private part of you. The secret possession that you will guard the most.”

Okuma-san and I left the plank keyboard behind in the chicken coop, and Mr. Boyd drove us to the train station. Before we departed, I walked to Mr. Owen’s house and presented him with a watercolour I had painted. It had been a struggle, but I had done my best and I had created my own representation of the golden hills that edged the town. The golden hills and the sun-hazed sky that fell upon them. I signed the painting Bin Okuma , using my real name. It was the first time I had ever signed anything I had drawn or painted. Never again did I use any other name except my own, after that day.

Life’s wayfarers drink from one and the same stream .

Ihaven’t been successful in reaching Kay by phone, but I leave a message on her answering machine and tell her I’ll phone from the next stop. Basil and I are in Alberta now, just beyond the border, sitting in the sun at a picnic table that’s next to a gas station and truck stop. Basil has been well fed but he’s eyeing my hamburger, watching me chew as if he’s about to expire from starvation. We’re both happy to be out of the car, enjoying the spring air. It’s warm enough to be outside here, as long as I keep my jacket on.

A family, parents and two children, a girl and a boy, come out with hamburgers and fries, and join us at the picnic table. The boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, reaches for Basil, runs his fingers through his coat, and Basil responds with his groaning, contented noise, mouth open. When the boy lifts his hand, Basil nudges him for more, and then gives himself a good shake.

“His hair is pretty matted,” I tell the boy. “We’ve been on the road for over a week and he needs a good bath.”

The boy tells me they have a dog at home, a Dalmatian named Putty. Basil is on his best behaviour with this family. The boy tells me he’s going to study to be a veterinarian after he finishes high school. His mom and dad are ranchers, and his younger sister rides. She has her own horse and that’s what interests her. She gives me a shy grin and looks down, and she, too, gives Basil a few pats. The boy is so comfortable and easy around his parents, and around Basil and me, he reminds me of Greg not so many years ago.

When we’re back in the car again, I think of Greg the year he finished middle school. That would have been 1989, and Miss Carrie had invited us for dinner—a family night I had not forgotten.

HE IS A GOOD CITIZEN , Greg’s homeroom teacher wrote in a note home, the day final reports were given out. What a pleasure to have him in my class .

“I’ve heard of parents writing teachers to thank them, but not teachers writing parents,” Lena said. “Do you realize that’s the second teacher who has written to us with the same message, both using the word citizen? ”

I’d noticed, yes. And Greg was listening, smiling to himself.

“What was it like at your schools, Bin, when you were a child?” Miss Carrie asked. “After the war, I mean.”

Three faces looked at me, waiting for an answer. But I rarely talked about my schools.

“I learned to use my fists,” I said. That was all. But my mood had changed and I had altered the mood at the table as I’d tipped into darkness. Too late to catch myself. Lena watched as I shut down.

“Pass your plate,” said Miss Carrie, promptly changing the subject. “We’re having plain stew. No luxuries, I’m afraid, even though it’s a celebration: Greg finishing middle school with straight A’s; the butcher donating bones for the stew; you returning home after being out and around the Empire.”

At the word Empire , Lena rolled her eyes and laughed out loud. We were seated at the long walnut table in Miss Carrie’s dining room. Despite her claims about no luxuries, there were ample chunks of beef in the serving dish, along with the donated bones. The stew, one of her specialties, was thick with dumplings on top, and potatoes, onions, carrots and tomatoes under the steaming surface.

I had recently returned from a trip to both Malta and Gibraltar. I was still earning part of my income from magazine and book illustrations—especially from two loyal editors. They knew I would travel, and they sent work my way or sent me away to the work. My paintings had been selling, and I was buoyed by that. But I was looking forward to a time when I would not have to rely on outside work at all. I was obsessed with supporting the family—Lena told me often enough—even though we both had earnings. I was also trying not to repeat myself on canvas, feeling frustrated just as I was trying to move in a new direction. I had had two exhibitions of my own, both held at Nathan’s gallery. I had participated in many group shows, but other responsibilities had a way of moving in on my time. I had a show coming up and Nathan had great hopes for it, as did I—although, as always, I had doubts. There were always doubts.

After dessert, we moved to the living room and Miss Carrie brought out an unopened bottle of Daddy’s decades-old brandy. For Greg, she had made fruit punch. There was an upright piano along one side of the room, but the cover had always been pulled over the keys. This night, the cover was rolled back and the ivory keys exposed. Miss Carrie saw me looking that way and remarked that the piano had been purchased before she was born. She had taken lessons as a child, but the piano had been placed in storage when Daddy marched off to the Great War and she and Mommy followed as far as England.

“We rented this house for the duration of the war while we were away,” she said, “but the piano was never the same after coming out of a damp warehouse. We kept it, nonetheless, and I’m glad I still have it. I suppose I’ll sell it someday, when I can no longer pay my taxes. I wish I had learned to play properly when I was a child. But I was more interested in what was happening around me than in practising scales. The teacher Mommy sent me to before the war provided lessons in her living room, and for years I was compelled to go to her house every Thursday after school. Heavy maroon drapes were pulled across the double windows right next to her piano, and not a speck of natural light was permitted in the room. There was a musty odour, too, disagreeable and depressing. I felt that the drapes had sealed in the century before mine, and now I can’t help but associate piano lessons with that jowl-cheeked woman and the smothering odours of cheek powder every time she squeezed onto the bench beside me in that airless room. Still, our own piano was played after the war. This old house hosted many parties, and there was always someone who knew how to play. We even hosted the famous war ace, Billy Bishop, one evening. He was staying at the Château Laurier, and Daddy bumped into him there and invited him. A dashing officer. His uniform is in the War Museum here but whoever arranged the display did not do justice to the great pilot.” She looked back to the piano. “Bishop stood in that very corner during a singsong at one of Mommy’s parties.”