Exhilarated by the prospect of achieving the breakthrough he had always sought, Richard returned to his desk. As he expected, Thea’s editorial changes were a lot less drastic than she seemed to think. From the tone of her letter one would think she was taking enormous liberties with his precious prose, whereas in reality her notations were little more than copy editing; substituting a word here, eliminating one there. But she liked James Hunt! That was the important part. Richard’s contented smile deepened as he read.
Erika’s stomach rumbled noisily, reminding her that, almost unheard of for her, she had forgotten to eat her lunch. She switched off the computer and shrugged into her jacket. She would eat out on the deck.
Winter was beginning to relax its grip on the mountains. The light morning snowfall had stopped and the sun had come out, melting the snow into little puddles on the path. Unzipping her jacket, Erika spread out the abundant lunch the kitchen staff, knowing her remarkable appetite, had packed. It was the shadow that made her look up. John Smith’s bare feet made no sound as he mounted the solid plank steps, and Erika suddenly found herself staring directly at his genitalia. He stepped back several paces and said, “Hello, Erika,” his voice echoing hollowly inside the donkey mask, which was all he was wearing. John Smith’s sexuality might be problematical, but physically, he was undeniably a man, as his present costume, or lack of it, made abundantly clear.
“Hello yourself, John Smith,” she replied coolly. “Aren’t you rushing the season a bit?”
He shrugged to indicate her question didn’t deserve a reply, then brought his right hand out from behind his back. “Look what I found in the woods. Do you know what it is?”
Erika stared at the dead bird with distaste. “As it happens, I do,” she replied. Geoff was an avid birder and his interest had awakened her own. One of her first purchases in Banff had been a copy of Birds of the Canadian Rockies. ”It’s a nutcracker. Clark’s nutcracker to be precise.”
“That’s right,” John Smith’s muffled voice sounded somewhat disappointed. “Do you know what a nut-cracker does?” As he spoke he grabbed his scrotum with his free hand and began to squeeze. Horrified, Erika saw the tendons on the back of his hand standing out as he increased the pressure. She turned away and stared calmly into the distance.
His fingers relaxed their pressure and he stood there, still holding the carcass of the handsome grey and black bird in his hand.
“Finished?” she asked coolly. She heard the hiss of his indrawn breath as he stomped off.
“Oh, no!” Erika groaned aloud as she saw Isabelle leading her family down the path. Isabelle was giving them a tour of the colony and they were on a collision course with the naked John Smith who was in a sulk and liable to do anything. It would have been funny except for the little girl. But the child’s presence must have inhibited even John Smith, for he turned aside and melted into the woods. Isabelle’s husband, his hand covering his daughter’s eyes, turned and stared disbelievingly after the apparition. He still looked shaken as they accepted Erika’s invitation and joined her on the deck.
“I guess one has to be prepared for anything around an art colony,” he said with a game smile as Isabelle introduced him. His name was Dennis, and the dark-haired little beauty was Jessica. The child’s eyes were wide with unasked questions as she smiled shyly at Erika.
“John Smith is a little extreme, even for an art colony,” Erika said. “I think he’s put years on poor Kevin’s life. Kevin Lavoie is the colony coordinator,” she explained to Dennis.
“I’ve met him,” he murmured noncommittally. And probably got a pretty cool reception, thought Erika. Kevin did not approve of visitors. He thought they were disruptive of colony life.
Saying, “We mustn’t keep you from your writing,” Isabelle stood up to leave the moment Erika finished her dessert, a generous slice of apple pie and a chunk of cheddar cheese.
Dennis blinked, then scrambled hastily to his feet. “I must say you’re a remarkably dedicated bunch around here. I can scarcely persuade Isabelle to have dinner in town tonight with me and Jessica.”
“I already explained it to you, Dennis,” she said, the strain in Isabelle’s voice was evident, and Erika’s heart went out to her. “I’m way behind my schedule. I’ve still got two Schubert sonatas to add to my repertoire before I leave here. And I have a recording session in Chicago the third week of May.”
“Our time here is a rare and wonderful chance for us to concentrate on our work free of distractions from the outside world,” Erika said, unsure this was the most tactful way of putting it. But perhaps it would help the doctor understand why the family reunion was not turning out to be the joyous event he undoubtedly had anticipated.
Richard’s euphoria over his editor’s comments served him well that night. Henry Norrington was holding court in the lounge of the Sally Borden Building to an audience consisting of several of his graduate students and a few members of the colony. They were grouped around two tables that had been pulled together in the far end of the lounge. The celebrated writer-cum-lecturer, fuelled with a couple of after-dinner cognacs, was in fine acerbic form as he held forth on the subject of modern fiction.
“Sounds like you’re practicing for our television show,” laughed Richard when Norrington came to the end of a lengthy and perceptive discourse on the unlikely, but intriguing, parallels between the Argentinean novelist Manuel Garcia, and the American Roger Newbury.
Norrington’s large nose swung majestically in Richard’s direction. “I’m scarcely in need of practice for that,” he sniffed.
It was only two days before the television “debate” between Norrington and Richard Madrin was scheduled to air. It was a much-anticipated event and one of the main topics of conversation in the colony. An Edmonton station, supported by public funds and with a mandate to spread culture throughout the province, frequently invited various luminaries who visited the Banff Centre to appear on its programs. The presence of both Henry Norrington and Richard Madrin on the campus at the same time was a natural. Norrington, as well as being the author of several widely acclaimed books on philosophy, was also a noted critic and a frequent, and much sought after, guest on television talk shows. Getting the famous guru as a visiting lecturer had been a real coup for the Centre. As part of the inducement for him to come, he had been assigned a studio in the colony — the award winning chapel-like studio designed by Calgary architect Fred Valentine, with its sloping roof and glassed-in porch. The consensus in the colony was that Norrington, with his sarcastic wit and biting contempt for the kind of books Richard wrote, would make mincemeat out of the thriller writer. But Laura wasn’t so sure. Besides the kind of good looks that the camera would love, Richard had an easy-going self-confidence that might serve to blunt Norrington’s barbs.
Now Norrington was telling Richard, in tones of one conferring a signal honour, that he was going to use one of Richard’s books in his creative writing class.
“Oh?” Surprised and pleased, Richard asked, “Which one?”
Norrington shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I only managed to get halfway through