Yes, of course I did. I’m selfish and vain and not very noticing of things. But it’s not all bad, you know, taking each other for granted. You get used to each other, as you get used to a landscape-living on the plain or in Toronto or in the shadow of some mountain. Yes, they are your landscape, they surround you, you forget they’re there. In a way, taking a person for granted is a mark of love.
Good night, Kurt.
A mark of trust.
He swiped at his tears with the sleeve of his parka. God, I’m a stupid man. Of all the people to ask! I’ve long known you for a cold person, Durie, an unfeeling person. But it would take a microscope to measure the distance between unfeeling and cruel. Sometimes to be cruel requires no action at all, just the willingness to stand by and do nothing. I am a man engulfed in flame, begging you to piss on me, but of course you won’t. Give her back? God, I’m an idiot. You’ll never give her back.
Kurt, I’m not trying to hurt you. You say you love her. Is it so hard to believe I love her too? Why is it so impossible that I should love Rebecca as well-maybe more than you ever did?
He was struggling with his boots now. Muttering. Yes, it’s impossible. I’ll tell you why it’s not possible. It’s not possible, Durie, for the simple reason that you don’t love anyone and never will.
Honestly, Kurt, I don’t think psychology’s your strong suit. You talk like some half-educated priest.
Kurt opened the cabin door and the polar night rushed in. He went out and slammed the door behind him. I listened to his footsteps recede, then switched out the light and crawled deeper into my sleeping bag. In his rage and impotence Kurt imagined that his words had made no impact on me. But his claim of intimacy, true intimacy, with Rebecca had wounded me. I breathed in the scent of her-took it deep into my lungs, my antidote, my morphine. And I wondered once more if I was a bad man or simply a man of no moral import either way. I have never suspected myself of being good. If I have any virtue, it must be my not claiming any.
9
She came out of the Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library and trotted down the front stairs, enormous backpack bouncing with each step. Red mitten in the air as she waved to someone heading upstairs. Pretty smile.
A winter evening at the University of Toronto. Crowds of students flowed across the intersection in currents that shifted with each change of the traffic lights. They chattered to each other, their faces alive with the effortless beauty of the young, eyes shining in the street light, their cheeks lit by cellphones. Amid all this, one man, his features shadowed by a hood, made a very still point.
He watched as the young woman reached the bicycle rack, hair whipping across her face. Between the backpack slung from her shoulders and the helmet dangling from one hand, she looked more student than teacher. She put the backpack into her carrier, removed one mitten, and held it clamped between her teeth as she put the helmet on and fastened it. She bent to undo the U-lock and snapped it onto the frame and, still with the mitten in her mouth, unzipped a pocket of the backpack and reached inside.
A red light throbbed in her hand. She attached it under the bicycle seat and fixed another one-white, not flashing-to the handlebars. Mitten on, she walked the bike over the curb, climbed on and pedalled west along Harbord.
The bicycle made her difficult to follow by car or on foot. Not that it mattered ultimately. Nothing mattered ultimately.
He watched as she joined the line of cyclists waiting at the next light. A confident woman, unfazed by snow squall or rush-hour traffic. Intrepid. She evoked in him a kind of awe. It is a tremendous thing, when you are composed of nothing but the past, to behold a creature, effortlessly beautiful, who is all future.
“And what am I supposed to wear to this thing?” Delorme sounded a little panicky on the phone. “How formal is it?”
“I don’t know,” Cardinal said. “He didn’t say. Ronnie’s not a formal guy.”
“But he’s rich, no?”
“Yeah, but-”
“Okay, so formal. He knows this isn’t a date, right? We arrive together, people are going to think we’re a couple, and I don’t want to be explaining all night.”
Cardinal had been a little nervous about asking her to Ronnie Babstock’s party, especially after she had been so annoyed with him in Ottawa. When she answered the door, he couldn’t shut up about how great she looked.
“Have you been drinking already? It’s just a little black dress.”
“No, it’s not. You’ve got shiny things on, too.”
“Shiny things. Great. Anyway, since when do you notice what I wear?”
Cardinal thought about that as they drove out to Ronnie Babstock’s house. Delorme was right that it was out of character. Of course, it was also out of character for her to look like a total knockout. But it was more than that. It had been two years now since his wife’s death, and he was aware of certain changes in himself.
Back before Christmas, he had been watching a movie with Delorme at her place. It was not a comedy but it had some funny bits, and Cardinal had laughed too loud. He heard it himself-he’d been doing it a lot lately-but he was defensive when Delorme remarked on it. She asked if he planned to become one of those laughers who annoy other people in movie theatres.
“It was just funny,” he insisted. But he had been laughing too loud, and it had felt good, as if something inside him, not his heart but some lesser-known organ of feeling, long frozen, had somehow melted. The world began to seem a richer place; amusing things were more amusing.
And sad things were sadder. When Delorme had told him about her neighbours’ dog having to be put down- their young daughter hysterical with grief-he had been quite upset. These were not even people he knew. Where did it come from, this burgeoning susceptibility? He was sure it was healthy-well, fairly sure-like recovering the feeling in fingers numbed with cold. It felt good on the whole, if slightly illicit. It only made sense that he was finally beginning to fully engage with the world once more.
Delorme had a lot to do with it. Their friendship was so free and easy, like no friendship he’d ever had. He never worried about Delorme. With Catherine, after her first breakdown early in their marriage, there was never a time when he was not worried about her. His love for his wife, though deep and loyal, had always contained a large element of protectiveness. Delorme was just a friend, he wasn’t responsible for her, and she did not require anyone’s protection, thank you very much.
When they arrived at the party, Cardinal enjoyed introducing her to Ronnie and his other poker friends, observing their reactions. Several of the women were wearing shiny things as well. Amid the candles, the ice buckets, the flutes of champagne, they took on the cheerful glitter of Christmas presents. But he felt no urge to leave Lise’s side.
He was not generally much of a drinking man, but a bevy of highly groomed young women drifted among the guests, refilling glasses without asking. By the time dinner was served, he was discovering in himself hidden wells of amiability.
People asked about the Marjorie Flint case. A senator’s wife had been murdered in their city, why wouldn’t they? It was one of the things Cardinal usually hated about parties, people inquiring about high-profile cases when he couldn’t say a thing about them. Tonight he refused to let it bother him. And in any case, Ronnie Babstock was running a kind of protective interference for him.
“Is it true she was chained up like a dog?” one woman asked.
“He can’t talk about it,” Ronnie said. “Case in progress.”
Over dessert, another woman said, “Totally nude in sub-zero weather-it’s unbelievable what that man did.”
Actually, the fact that Marjorie Flint was warmly dressed was far more remarkable, but Cardinal said nothing.
“Rachel, didn’t you hear? The poor guy can’t talk about it.”
“It’s okay,” Cardinal said. “People are bound to be curious.”
“I mean, really,” Ronnie said. “There’s a limit.”
