‘I saw …’ he began.
She looked at him with plain puzzlement.
‘What?’ she said. ‘What did you see?’
‘I saw …’ he began again, and again faltered. His tongue refused the instruction he gave it; the words simply wouldn’t come. He looked away from her face at the Wailing Wall. ‘The pictures …’ he said finally, ‘… they’re an eyesore.’
A strange euphoria swept over him as he sailed so close to telling, then away. The part of him that wanted what he’d seen kept secret had in that moment won the battle, and perhaps even the war. He could not tell her. Not now, not ever. It was a great relief to have made up his mind.
I’m Mad Mooney, he thought to himself. It wasn’t such a bad idea at that.
‘You’re looking better already,’ she said. ‘It must be the fresh air.’
4
And what lessons could he learn from the mad poet, now that they were fellow spirits? What would Mad Mooney do, were he in Cal’s shoes?
He’d play whatever game was necessary, came the answer, and then, when the world turned its back, he’d search, search until he found the place he’d seen, and not care that in doing so he was inviting delirium. He’d find his dream and hold on to it and never let it go.
They talked a little while longer, until Geraldine announced that she had to leave. There was wedding business to do that afternoon.
‘No more pigeon-chasing,’ she said to Cal. ‘I want you there on Saturday.’
She put her arms around him.
‘You’re too thin,’ she said. ‘I’m going to have to feed you up.’
She expects to be kissed now, the mad poet whispered in his ear; oblige the lady. We don’t want her to think you’ve lost interest in copulation, just because you’ve been half way to Heaven and back. Kiss her, and say something fetching.
The kiss Cal could deliver, though he was afraid the fact that his passion was prompted would show. He needn’t have feared. She returned his fake fervour with the genuine article, her body warm and tight against his.
That’s it, said the poet, now find something seductive to say, and send her off happy.
Here Cal’s confidence faltered. He had no skill with sweet-talk, nor ever had. ‘See you Saturday,’ was all he could muster. She seemed content with that. She kissed him again, and took her leave.
He watched her from the window, counting her steps until she turned the corner. Then, with his lover out of sight, he went in search of his heart’s desire.
‘The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve; Lovers to bed; ‘tis almost fairy time.’
Shakespeare:
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
1
And then, to add insult to injury, he couldn’t find the damn street. He’d made his way to the house the previous day with his eyes on the birds rather than on the route he was following, so he had only an impressionistic notion of its whereabouts. Knowing he could well wander for several hours and not find the street, he asked the way from a gaggle of six-year-olds, engaged in war games on a street corner. He was confidently re-directed. Either through ignorance or malice, however, the directions proved hopelessly incorrect, and he found himself wandering around in ever more desperate circles, his frustration mounting.
Any sixth sense he might have hoped for – some instinct that would lead him unerringly to the region of his dreams – was conspicuous by its absence.
It was luck then, pure luck, that brought him finally to the corner of Rue Street, and to the house that had once belonged to Mimi Laschenksi.
2
Suzanna had spent much of the morning attempting to do as she had promised Doctor Chai: notifying Uncle Charlie in Toronto. It was a frustrating business. For one thing, the small hotel she’d found the previous night only boasted a single public telephone, and other guests wanted access to it as well as she. For another, she had to call round several friends of the family until she located one who had Charlie’s telephone number, all of which took the best part of the morning. When, around one, she finally made contact, Mimi’s only son took the news without a trace of surprise. There was no offer to drop his work and rush to his mother’s bedside; only a polite request that Suzanna call back when there was ‘more news’. Meaning, presumably, that he didn’t expect her to ring again until it was time for him to send a wreath. So much for filial devotion.
The call done, she rang the hospital. There was no change in the patient’s condition. She’s hanging on, was the duty nurse’s phrase. It conjured an odd image of Mimi as mountaineer, clinging to a cliff-face. She took the opportunity to ask about her grandmother’s personal effects, and was told that she’d come into hospital without so much as a nightgown. Most probably the vultures Mrs Pumphrey had spoken of would by now have taken anything of worth from the house – the tall-boy included – but she elected to call by anyway, in case she could salvage anything to make Mimi’s dwindling hours a little more comfortable.
She found a small Italian restaurant in the vicinity of the hotel to lunch in, then drove to Rue Street.
3
The back yard gate had been pushed closed by the removal men, but left unbolted. Cal opened it, and stepped into the yard.
If he had expected some revelation, he was disappointed. There was nothing remarkable here. Just parched chickweed sprouting between the paving stones, and a litter of chattels the trio had discarded as worthless. Even the shadows, which might have hidden some glory, were wan and unsecretive.
Standing in the middle of the yard – where all of the mysteries that had overturned his sanity had been unveiled – he doubted for the first time, truly doubted, that anything had in fact happened the previous day.
Maybe there would be something inside the house, he told himself; some flotsam he could cling to that would bear him up in this flood of doubt.
He crossed the ground where the carpet had lain, to the back door. The removal men had left it unlocked; or else vandals had broken in. Either way, it stood ajar. He stepped inside.
At least the shadows were heavier within; there was some room for the fabulous. He waited for his eyes to accommodate the murk. Was it really only twenty-four hours since he’d