Blue Moon (41 page)

I now use eyeglasses to view distances, and when I put them on, I am amazed at how stripped down the interior is. I recall art deco sumptuousness, not the exposed, cracked brick that now envelops me. Battered from both the outside and the inside, the building had once been a wonderful refuge. Moving pictures had been my solace. Now, live actors and a minimal stage set. An entirely different reality, not one with which I feel comfortable.

As the auditorium darkens, two reporters, a man and a woman, begin to speak. He is convinced of Evelyn's guilt; the woman is not so sure—she has an entirely different vantage point. I am startled by the entrance of the hero-villain: the young woman looks a bit like me in those days, but she carries herself in an assertive, forward way of which I was never capable. She is aggressive, flirtatious, sassy. She bats her eyes at the detectives who question and cross-question her; she shrugs her shoulders in disdain; she controls her interrogators with the rapid movements of her cigarette; she even blows smoke in their faces.

“Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” The Jerome Kern melody wafts through the auditorium, helping the audience respond to the nostalgia of the recreation they are witnessing. Everything on stage happened almost fifty years ago when people wore funny clothes, listened to the radio, and drove around in huge cars. Yet, the aloof coldness of Evelyn, her refusal to admit to any involvement in two horrible deaths, and her indifference to others chill the audience.

Gradually, the play gets to me. I see myself as I was then. True, I was shyer and more hesitant—frequently stammering when questioned by the detectives—but protected from any real feelings.

As the play ends, the audience, drained from the experience they have witnessed, quickly leaves the auditorium. I stay in my seat, hardly able to move, so overcome am I by my hatred for the young woman I once was. Feeling deeply sorry for the failings of that creature, I notice an elderly couple slowly making their way up the aisle. The man is the
nearest to me and, in a flash, I recognize Bill Bohozuk. The same majestic handsomeness as before, although time has taken its due. He stoops a little and his face is etched in the Rembrandt manner. His companion, a very attractive brunette a few years younger than himself, accompanies him. He waves his hands slowly in the air, obviously objecting to some aspect of the play, of how it failed to capture the past accurately. His face is animated and very red, tears glistening at the edge of each eye. Did I, I wonder, pass up my only chance for ordinary happiness—the wonderful dailiness that makes so many lives worth living—by rejecting that man? I brush away my own tears.

I wait for a few minutes and am the last person to leave theTivoli. I make my way quickly to the bus station and leave a few minutes later for the return journey to Toronto. As the bus approaches the bay, the radiance of the full moon bathes the water and the trees.

Body parts were discovered in a garbage in an East Mountain home in Hamilton. Later, more human remains were found refrigerated in the kitchen of the same house. The
Spectator
claims Samuel Pirrera's wife went missing several years ago but the remains may be of a prostitute-companion of Pirrera. In any event, my picture has once again been plastered all over the newspaper. The link is a comparison of one gruesome murder in the past to the latest example of villainy.

And then there are the ridiculous comparisons of me to Homolka. Even the crimes I am accused of having perpetrated have no point of similarity to the activities of that hideous woman. She incited murder and then conducted herself as a member of an audience beholding the performance of a script she had, in large part, authored. When she revisited the house in St. Catharines where those poor girls were murdered, all she could think about was her furniture and makeup!

I don't really have a classic case of writer's block: I have written a long account of my life. But I can't transform it into fiction and—even if I
managed to screw myself to that task I couldn't publish it during my lifetime.

I never wanted to write this memoir, but I feel compelled to write about Evelyn Dick. If Elizabeth Delamere published such a book, she would be revealed to the world as a convicted felon. I cannot subject myself to that humiliation, but it is really the only story I have left to tell. Nothing else comes to me. No other scraps from the rag and bone shop of this heart.

The Globe and Mail, June 17, 1999

Sara Jane Olson lived a comfortable life in St. Paul, sharing an ivy-covered house with her doctor husband and three daughters, enjoying success as an actor in local theatre.

But for the past 25 years—until her arrest by FBI agents yesterday—she was also a fugitive member of the Symbionese Liberation Army, a leftist radical group that kidnapped newspaper heiress Patricia Hearst 25 years ago in one of the most sensational stories of the 1970s. Ms. Olson's real name is Kathleen Anne Soliah. She had been wanted in Los Angeles since 1976, when she was indicted on conspiracy and explosive charges for allegedly placing pipe bombs under two police cars. FBI agents found Ms. Soliah, 52, after receiving tips from viewers of the TV program, America's Most Wanted, which featured her in a broadcast last month.

She had taken the last name of Olson, which is extremely common in Minnesota because of the large number of people of Scandinavian descent who settled in that state. Neighbours described her as a well-spoken and friendly woman, and an avid jogger and gardener. She had received good reviews for starring performances in local drama productions.

In the photograph reproduced on the front page of
The Globe and Mail,
Kathleen Soliah stares into space. Her lips are tightly drawn, her freckles highlighted, her whispy hair is carelessly arranged. A true mug shot. There does not seem to be anyone home behind those sad blue eyes. Is she haunted by her past, relieved that the game is now up? Or is she unhappy because she is going to be deprived of her comfortable middle-class life with husband and children? Does she have pangs of guilt about the crimes she apparently committed during her troubled youth?

The photograph is an icon of the female criminal as cipher. For me, the strange thing is that Soliah was a rage-filled, rebellious young woman who obviously despised American middle-class values; her acts of rebellion included kidnapping, bank robbery and murder; she then went underground for twenty-five years living the kind of
Father Knows Best
lifestyle she had earlier tried to renounce. Was she angry at herself all those years when she made certain her lawn was immaculately clean like her neighbours' and participated in casserole dinners with them? or did she see the errors of her past ways and try to make amends by fitting in, by appearing to be normal?

Questions, questions, questions but I have absolutely no answers as I look at that photo. How would I explain myself if I were similarly outed? Simply say my novels were my good deeds, my acts of reparation? Would anyone believe me?

I find it increasingly difficult to say no to the gregarious Dolly, my publicist at Penguin. She hardly ever asks me to do anything, so attuned is she to how reluctant I am to be exposed to the publicity mill.

Against my better judgement, she had persuaded me to speak at a celebrity author luncheon in Hamilton. “The proceeds go the homeless. A very good cause. A member of the organizing committee will pick you up, drive you to Hamilton and then someone else will drive you home. You won't be away from home for more than five hours, six at most.” I tell her OK, although it really isn't something I
want to do. I'm not so much frightened as reluctant, have no wish to see Hamilton ever again.

The woman who calls for me drives a bright red, attention-getting BMW. When I have seated myself next to her, I notice her incredibly high forehead, Little Orphan Annie corkscrew curls and her steely little grey eyes which give me short, sharp glances as if subjecting me to x-rays. Although I'm a bit fearful of radiation poisoning, I try to make polite conversation. That proves to be a difficult task. I cannot have a conversation with her, however—she wishes to interrogate me.

“What do you think of Nadine Gordimer?” Before I can say anything, she tells me: “Nadine is the greatest woman writer of the century.”

“You know Nadine Gordimer?”

“I've been to several readings. She's autographed all my copies of her books. I suppose you've met her?”

The question is said in a way to suggest that if I have met the great writer, I am unworthy of the honour. “Yes, two or three times. A very nice person.”

“She's more than a
nice
person. She's someone with a social conscience.” As she makes these statements, I notice that the accent has traces of South Africa under the Canadian sounds.

“You're from South Africa? You lived there during apartheid?”

This invitation seems to soothe Lucy, who proceeds to tell me about her former life of privilege, the black servants, and the horrible conditions of oppression she witnessed. Finally, she got out. I ask her how she made her escape. Her physician husband got a study visa for him to study gastroenterology. They went to live in London and later obtained landed immigrant status in Canada. In this country, Lucy is involved in a wide variety of charities. My suspicion is that she feels very guilty about leaving her homeland when it was even more troubled than it is today. She is doing penance.

We are half-way to Hamilton, and Lucy's autobiography ends rather abruptly. Travelling at a very high speed in the fast lane, she turns her face—now beet red—in my direction and stares at me. I wish she would keep her eyes on the road. “I was opposed to your being invited today.”

Now we are really into it. I obviously want to contain her as much as possible—keep her calm—but I'm not really sure what to
say. “I think you're referring to the fact that I am not as socially relevant an author as you would like.”

“Exactly. You write about those women who have wretched, miserable lives. You're concerned about individual struggles and triumphs, but you say little or nothing about the status of women, poverty, overpopulation and unemployment. You avoid basic social concerns.”

“That's because I know very little about such things. Besides, there are many fine writers, like Gordimer, who are comfortable writing about such issues.”

“All authors have to be socially relevant. Shouldn't be published otherwise.”

It would not do me any good to point out to Lucy that her mindset seems to me rather rigid, even fascist. We have now reached the outskirts of Hamilton and on this clear winter day—it is late February—the bay looks beautiful. I change the subject by asking her about the various pieces of natural beauty we are seeing. Well aware that I am trying to distract her, she co-operates in the charade I propose, now fully aware that it is probably not in her best interests to be rude to a visiting speaker.

Just as we enter the city, her cell phone beeps. It is her husband. Could she possibly pick up an x-ray at his office and take it to the literary lunch his colleague is attending? She agrees and then tells me we will have a brief detour. She exits at Main East, then turn left at Locke Street and then right at Herkimer. “My husband's office is just opposite St. Joseph's Hospital. I won't be more than five minutes.” We proceed all the way down to the end of Herkimer, where it intersects with James. She scoots into the parking lot just before the two streets intersect. We are at the back of 215 James Street South, where I once had the apartment.

Before she steps out of the car, Lucy notices I am awestruck. “Very beautiful building. One of the three Henson apartments. Excellent example of late Victorian gothic. This one is particularly famous. Notorious is probably the better word.” She looks at me, my eyes meeting hers. “Evelyn Dick lived here. Do you know who she is?”

“Vaguely. She murdered her husband?”

“Exactly. The torso murderer. A real degenerate.” With that, Lucy gets out of the car, slams the door and leaves me. I look up at the gingerbread red gabble of the house, which resembles a building one
might find in a watercolour to accompany a story by Perrault or Grimm. I can see one of the windows of my old flat—I remember looking down from there at John Dick, one of the last times I ever saw him. I was hardly a princess in the tower, I remind myself.

My mind wanders back to the badly named Nora Clench, one of the great violinists of the late nineteenth century. Born in St. Marys, Ontario, she had, at the age of 14, moved to Hamilton in 1882 in order to study with the renowned J. W. Baumann. Later, she moved to Europe, where she played before many heads of state. She returned to Hamilton in 1891, gave a splendid performance and never visited the city again. I have returned but no one knows who I really am. Would the city celebrate if they discovered my true identity, learned that I was a local girl who had done exceedingly well on the world's stage?

I wait ten minutes for Lucy and then, overcome by a sombre sort of curiosity, I get out of the car, walk the few feet to the end of Herkimer and go up the short flight of steps into the foyer of the building. The past is often an untouched landscape; here it is perfectly preserved. As before, the entrance contains an elaborate golden oak staircase leading to a landing filled with an enormous stained-glass window occupied by figures that look like they have stepped out of the Kelmscott Chaucer. The sun penetrates the glass, shooting colours out in all directions. The gleaming oak is bathed in magical tints. Once again, as so many years ago, I feel I have stepped into some mysterious chapel. The fallen woman in consecrated ground. Only the fragrance of incense is lacking.

My reverie is interrupted by Lucy rushing down the stairs, an enormous manila envelope in her right hand. “Curiosity killed the cat,” she cheerfully assures me. We return to the car. The event goes well. I read for about half an hour, and there are the usual questions: why am I so interested in women criminals? doesn't writing about female convicts, for example, only marginalize women even more in society? The questions are polite but probing. Many of my responses I know by rote, could recite sleepwalking. Finally, the event is over, but there is a huge lineup of audience members who have purchased copies of my book and wish me to sign them. That takes a long time, although everything is concluded by 4:30. Lucy introduces me to her friend, Amanda, who will drive me back to Toronto.