A half-block up, a girl turned down to Sherbrooke. She was strolling alone.
“Remember, Krantz, three years ago we would have followed her with all kinds of fleshly dreams.”
“And fled if she ever looked back.”
The girl ahead of them walked under a lamplight, the light sliding down the folds of her hair. Breavman began to whistle “Lili Marlene.”
“Krantz, we’re walking into a European movie. You and me are old officers walking along to something important. Sherbrooke is a ruin. Why does it feel like a war just ended?”
“Because you want to get laid.”
“C’mon, Krantz, give me a chance.”
“Breavman, if I gave you a chance, you’d weep through every summer night.”
“Do you know what I’m going to do, Krantz? I’m going to walk up to that girl and be very gentle and polite and ask her to join us for a small walk over the world.”
“You do that, Breavman.”
He quickened his pace and moved beside her. This would be it. All the compassion of strangers. She turned her face and looked at him.
“Excuse me,” he said and stopped. “Mistake.”
She walked away and he waited for Krantz to catch up.
“She was a beast, Krantz. We couldn’t have toasted her. She wasn’t all that is beautiful in women.”
“It’s not our night.”
“There’s lots of night left.”
“I’ve got to get up early for the boat.”
But they did not go right back to Stanley. They walked slowly up the streets towards home: University, Metcalfe, Peel, MacTavish. Named for the distinguished from the British Isles. They passed by the stone houses and the black iron fences. Many of the houses had been taken over by the university or turned into boarding-houses, but here and there a colonel or a lady still lived, manicured the lawns and bushes, still climbed the stone steps as if all the neighbours were peers. They wandered through the campus of the university. Night, like time, gave all the buildings a deep dignity. There was the library with its crushing cargo of words, dark and stone.
“Krantz, let’s get out of here. The buildings are starting to claim me.”
“I know what you mean, Breavman.”
As they walked back to Stanley, Breavman was no longer in a movie. All he wanted to do was turn to Krantz and wish him luck, all the luck in the world. There was nothing else to say to a person.
The taxis were beginning to pile up in front of the tourist houses. Half a block down you could get whisky in coffee cups at a blind pig disguised as a bridge club. They watched the taximen making U-turns in the one-way street: friends of the police. They knew all the landladies and store owners and waitresses. They were citizens of downtown. And Krantz was taking off like a big bird.
“You know, Breavman, you’re not Montreal’s suffering servant.”
“Of course I am. Can’t you see me, crucified on a maple tree at the top of Mount Royal? The miracles are just beginning to happen. I have just enough breath to tell them, ‘I told you so, you cruel bastards.’”
“Breavman, you’re a schmuck.”
And soon their dialogue would be broken. They stood on the balcony in silence, watching the night-doings get into gear.
“Krantz, do I have anything to do with you leaving?”
“A little.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We’ve got to stop interpreting the world for one another.”
“Yes … yes.”
The buildings were so familiar and the street so well known. Even Gautama wept when he lost a friend. Nothing would be the same tomorrow. He could hardly bear to understand that. Krantz wouldn’t be there. That would be like a bulldozer turned loose in the heart of the city. They weren’t the kind of people that wrote letters to each other.
Krantz took a long glance around him. “Yup,” he said, like an old farmer in a rocking chair.
“Yup,” Breavman agreed over nothing.
“Just about time,” said Krantz.
“Good night, Krantz.”
“Good night, old Breavman.”
He smiled and clasped his friend’s hand.
“Good night, old Krantz,” and they joined four hands and then went into their separate rooms.
17
Montreal was madly buying records of Leadbelly and the Weavers and rushing down to Gesu Hall in mink coats to hear Pete Seeger sing socialist songs. Breavman was at the party by virtue of his reputation as a folk singer and minor celebrity. The hostess had subtly suggested on the phone that he bring his guitar, but he didn’t. He hadn’t touched it for months.
“Larry! It’s so good to see you; it’s been years!”
“You look beautiful, Lisa.”
With his first glance of appreciation he claimed her, because of the street they had lived on, because he knew the whiteness of her, because her skipping body was bound to his by red string. She lowered her eyes.
“Thank you, Larry. And you’ve managed to become famous.”
“Hardly famous, but it’s a good word.”
“We saw you interviewed on TV last week.”
“In this country writers are interviewed on TV for one reason only: to give the rest of the nation a good laugh.”
“Everybody says you’re very clever.”
“Everybody is a vicious gossip.”
He brought her a drink and they talked. She told him about her children, two boys, and they exchanged information about their families. Her husband was on a business trip. He and her father were opening automatic bowling alleys right across the country. Knowing she was alone launched Breavman’s fantasies. Of course she was alone, of course he had met her that specific night, she would be delivered to him.
“Lisa, now that you have children, do you ever think about your own childhood?”
“I always used to promise myself that when I grew up I’d remember exactly how it was, and treat my children from that viewpoint.”
“And do you?”
“It’s very hard. You’d be surprised how much you forget and how little time there is to remember. Usually you act right on the spot and hope your decision is the best one.”
“Do you remember Bertha?” was the first of the questions he meant to ask.
“Yes, but didn’t she –”
“Do you remember me?”
“Of course.”
“What
