Tell (7 page)

Until five months ago, Lukas had been living somewhere in Europe. So far away, Maggie could not imagine his part of the world. Her impressions of Europe were second-hand: images from books, photos in magazines, newspaper accounts—everything coloured by war. Ypres, the Somme, areas flattened, wiped out; areas in which injured soldiers readied for evacuation lay on stretchers lined up along the ground; photos of soldiers moving single file between trench walls; streets with rows of military ambulances ready to leap into service; wheelbarrows heaped with blankets and bedding; horses and carts dragging away sparse belongings when their owners were forced to move out of villages and towns. That was what Maggie imagined. That, and some sort of unfathomable darkness into which young men had disappeared.

There had to be other, undamaged parts of Europe. She knew there must be places that remained as they had been before the war. She had seen photos of celebrating crowds in London; photos of Wilson, Clemenceau and Lloyd George strutting along a Paris street in their top hats, bearing sticks and canes. She’d seen contrasting photos of chauffeurs playing cards outside on the street while, inside, their masters decided the fates and boundaries of nations. It was impossible to keep
up. New books about the war had already begun to arrive on the library shelves, the ink barely dry on the Treaty of Versailles. How could Europe be imagined after what its people had been through?

Maggie had never had the opportunity to travel to England, Ireland, Scotland, the Continent. Few people in Deseronto had crossed the ocean except for the Scots and Irish who had settled in the town and on surrounding farms, and the young men who’d been transported on ships in the opposite direction—men who’d fought and died, and men who’d lived to come home. Some of her nephews had taken part in the war—including Kenan, who’d never spoken to her of what he had been through, and probably never would.

And then, after the war was over, Lukas, who had no connection whatever to the town, had made his own journey to Canada. Arriving in, of all places, Deseronto. Lukas had turned his back on his homeland, though Maggie did not know exactly where that homeland was. A wanderer, people in town were saying. Which meant: a wanderer without a home. What was astonishing, Maggie thought, was that Lukas had come to the town at all.

She wasn’t sure of his age, though she wondered. Late forties, maybe. He might be about the same age as Am, who would be fifty in the new year. The few facts she was certain of were these: Lukas had boarded a ship that sailed to Canada, docking after some undetermined time at the port of Saint John. From there he made the long journey by train—probably one train after another—arriving in Deseronto during the summer of 1919. After finding lodgings on the ground floor of a rooming
house on Fourth Street, he wasted no time before placing handprinted notices in store windows around town. The first of his purple-inked signs had been fastened to the news board at the entrance to the library where Maggie worked.

Unaccompanied when he arrived, he had stayed on at the rooming house. Word around town was that he was a man who revealed nothing of his past. And yet, in a quiet way, he seemed to be fitting in. Or was he? No one was asking questions. Even the first sign he posted had contained minimal information. An identical notice had been placed in the
Deseronto Post
:

That was all. That, and the telephone number of his rooming house. “Music Director” was how he referred to himself. In September he’d placed additional notices announcing his intention to form a choral society. When Maggie auditioned—in no way could she account for her audacity in doing so—Lukas had chosen her not only to sing with the group, but to perform several solos at the New Year’s concert. Now it was late November, and despite the man’s quiet encouragement, the prospect of singing by herself humbled and terrified her. Lukas believed she was able to perform. He did not make a fuss about this. His attitude was that it was up to her to believe in herself.

She pushed the thought away and tried to add up what she knew of the man. He was unlike anyone she knew. He could
speak four languages—she’d learned about the languages not from Lukas but from Zel. That was notoriety enough for any small town. He was beardless, had greying hair, was taller than Am by three or four inches. He had hands she thought of as
fluid,
and wore a brown jacket that was loose on his frame and had elbow-shine. Occasionally at rehearsal, instead of the brown jacket, he wore a button-up grey sweater over a white shirt. The collar of his shirt needed fixing. The button-up sweater was store-bought, easy to tell. He was soft-spoken. His expression held expectation; he listened with concentration and was able to discern the smallest nuance of sound. His passion for music could not be denied. Yes, she thought, Lukas is a man of quiet passion.

But something inside him had yielded. She sensed sadness. Some hidden part of him had given up. His shoulders were sunken, as if the bony structure that supported them was about to pull the soul of him deeper inside, if it could. He seemed unaware of this. He offered no extra information. He did not talk about Paris, Budapest, London during rehearsals. The singers had no knowledge of what he had done there. What he spoke about was the immediate moment, the notes that spilled from the throats of the singers. He responded to the sounds created by her, by Zel, by Andrew the tenor, by Corby Black the bass—all of whom would be singing the music of Elgar and Leslie and Ralph Vaughan Williams. Lukas cared about music that came from the voices of every one of the men and women who sang for him, those who gathered onstage at Naylor’s for weekly rehearsals—twice weekly now that the concert date was closing in. That was what he was passionate about.

He had never once addressed her as Maggie. When he pronounced her name it came out as “Magreet.” The first time he spoke directly to her during rehearsal, she’d looked down at her feet as if noticing for the first time that her shoes were outrageously shabby. Wondering, not so disconnectedly perhaps, if
she
were shabby. She was used to being called Mags by Am and Maggie by her friends, but never “Magreet.” Not by anyone. She’d been aware of two red spots burning in her cheeks.

“You must not lose pitch, Magreet. Support the note there—and there.”

And later. “This passage will work only if there is a little drama, Magreet.”

“Forget the note you just sang. It’s not there. Ah yes. Better. Very nice. Keep your mouth in the same position, shape the note, the next, then—a little break. Exciting, yes. Exciting, Magreet.”

Maggie had never been bold enough to believe there would be a day when she would share her voice with an audience. Never an audience of men and women who had purchased tickets to listen. Bold. She was bold. Part of her believed that she must have made a mistake. Singing when she was a child in a one-room schoolhouse—that was one thing. Singing hymns or psalms in the church choir alongside six women and four men, switching from soprano to alto and back to soprano when substituting for someone who had a sore throat—that was expected. But alone on Naylor’s stage, preparing for a performance with a choral society in a real theatre with forty other singers? The stage upon which the famous Vernon Castle had danced with his wife, Irene, when he’d lived in Deseronto and
had trained pilots during the war? Yes, the same Vernon Castle who had starred in moving pictures and who’d died so tragically in a plane crash in Texas the previous year. The very man, the very stage. Little wonder that after evening rehearsals, Maggie had begun to drag herself home, worried and exhausted. Little wonder that she was having trouble sleeping.

And there was something else. At the end of the last rehearsal, Lukas had asked her, matter-of-factly—though no one else was close enough to hear—to call him Luc. He said this without embarrassment, looking directly at her for a quick moment and then away. Privately, Maggie had shaped the new shortened syllable, allowing it to hover over her tongue.

Z
EL RETURNED TO THE KITCHEN AND PLUNKED TWO
plates onto the table. She slipped on an oven mitt and served the potato logs. There was a down-to-earth quality about Zel that Maggie loved. She had never quite believed her good fortune when Zel became her friend after moving here during the war and setting up a rooming house at the edge of town. At my age, Maggie thought, a new friend is a gift sent by the gods. And Maggie loved to listen to Zel’s voice, whether she was speaking or singing. Especially while she was laughing. A dusky alto voice with a softness to its edges. And comforting. A distinct, strong voice that Maggie had learned to love.

The first time Maggie had seen Zel—they’d met in Meagher’s clothing store—Zel’s head was tipped back and she was laughing with abandon, her mouth open wide. Two ladies of the town, at the other end of the store, looked over, disapproving. But Maggie
had gone up to her, held out a hand and introduced herself. It was as if she’d been tugged across the room by the spell of Zel’s personality. It was as if Zel had been gathering all the colour of the room into herself.

Zel also gave the impression that there was no time to lose. That life was here and now, in the moment. Maggie wondered, not for the first time, what Am thought of her friend. He’d met her, many times, but had not commented. Had he, too, fallen under her spell? Maggie wasn’t certain.

She got up now, to help. She was almost as comfortable in Zel’s kitchen as she was in her own. The two sat across from each other.

“What shall we work on today?” said Zel. “We have the entire afternoon. Music? Our parts for the concert? Costumes for the carnival? Are you still planning to dress as the Angel of Peace? If so, we’ll have to make wings. I have muslin here, some wire. And I could be the Joker, standing at your side. What do you think of pantaloons for me, a tunic overtop? I could make a jester’s hat, attach bells to the tip of the extensions. We could carry a banner between us and print the word
PEACE
across it.”

“So no one will mistake the message.”

“Exactly. The Angel of Peace and the Joker, side by side.”

They sat for a moment.

“Of course,” Zel added, “we could relax here over tea, and just talk.”

“Let’s start with music,” said Maggie. “We can work on our costumes later. Right now, I need to practise.”

She had a sudden memory of Nellie Melba taking her hand, looking at her across the table in the Toronto diner, singing
softly, with confidence and with joy. Where was joy when Maggie sang? It must have been there at one time.

“I don’t know why I’m so worried about the solos, Zel. But I am. I’m terrified.”

A
M LEANED INTO THE SIDE OF THE VAULT AND
pressed his palm over his right eye. He was surprised by a visual swirl of brilliant red. He lightened the pressure and the red was replaced by deep blue, studded with closely packed but distant stars. He pressed again and this time a distinct pattern emerged, branches of a fir tree, a latticework of needles, vivid green observed from deep inside a forest.

Was it memory that provided this rush of imagery, this show of colour behind closed eyes? He regained his balance and breathed deeply. His body straightened and he pulled into his full height. The moment passed.

He’d been working inside the walk-in vault on the second floor of the building when a dizzy spell had caused him to reel. Now he inspected the work he’d been asked to do—repairs on an oak shelving unit at the rear of the vault. He appraised the alignment of angled boards, the efficiency of his own efforts.

Ben, the customs officer, walked into the vault to inspect the work.

“Better than when it was brand new, Am. Those shelves have been in the vault since the building opened. They’ve had their share of wear and tear.”

“They won’t break now,” said Am. “Not before the building itself falls down.”

He gathered up his tools, knew that dizziness was about to rock him again, but didn’t let it show. He and Ben walked out of the vault, and the heavy door was pushed shut and sealed.

“The fixtures in here gave a good shake when you hooked up the bell to the clock, Am, on the eleventh. Everyone here felt the vibrations. No wonder we keep it disconnected except to ring in the new year.”

“I felt the shudders in the tower well enough. I was standing right beside it,” said Am. “Mags said the rooms below were quaking, too.”

“Imagine, the whole town stopping its business for two minutes. It’s good that we did that, to let the soldiers know we appreciate them. And speaking of soldiers, how’s that nephew of yours doing? Young Kenan.” Ben’s face showed genuine concern.

“He’s all right. Just likes to be alone most of the time. Won’t be forever. I visit him most Sunday afternoons.”

“Some of the boys get back on their feet quicker than others,” said Ben. He shook his head. One of his own nephews had not come back at all.

Am went down to ground level, to the post office, and checked behind the counter to see if anything else needed fixing while he had his tools handy. He knew everyone in the building:
Jack Conlin, the postmaster; the clerks; just about every man, woman and child who walked in off the street.

A few people stood waiting at the postal counter, including old Clarence at the end of the line. Clarence, who had once practised law, had snow-white hair and carried a scroll around with him whenever he was out on the streets. He’d gone mad years before. The most important object in his life was his scroll. He was always attending to it, rolling, unrolling, peering as if to read the fine print, rolling it up again. When Am greeted him, Clarence smiled and then looked down quickly and busied himself with his scroll.

Another man entered the building and took his place behind Clarence. Am nodded. Had to be the new music director, though they’d never formally met. The man nodded back and then looked straight ahead. His neck was bare, his coat thin, given the weather outside. He looked as if he’d come straight in from the war.

He keeps to himself, Am was thinking. That’s not the way we do things here. The town likes to know what its citizens are about. Though what do I do but stay up in the tower most of the time?

Was that true? He supposed it was. He hadn’t given the matter a lot of thought, but now that he considered, he realized he’d been spending much of his time alone. Mags was often out, here and there about town. She spent time with her friend Zel when she wasn’t working at the library or practising at the theatre for the upcoming concert. She hadn’t said much about the music director, except that his name was Lukas. That he was doing good work with the new choral society.

Am continued on down to the basement and checked the coal supply and the boiler. All part of his job to keep the building running. The three floors—including his own apartment—would have to be heated for the next six months. Nothing he couldn’t handle. People relied on him. In extremely cold weather, half the town, it seemed, wandered into the post office to keep warm. Stood around and gossiped near the hot-water radiators. In warmer weather, they headed over to Calhoun’s and gossiped in the newspaper office. But Calhoun didn’t keep his office as warm as the post office in winter, nor was his office as big.

Now that snow had fallen, Am had the outside steps leading up to the stone arches to clear, along with the boardwalk and the walkway at the side of the building. He didn’t want any of the town residents slipping and falling on his watch. And no one had. Nor had a soul ever complained about his work.

He thought of the layout of the town and rhymed off the cross streets in his mind: First, Second, Third running south of Main, Fourth, Prince, Centre, George, Mill—his brother’s hotel at the corner. Am’s part was smack in the centre. He knew the town and the town knew him. He had a role to play in keeping the whole place going. He was the caretaker. He took care of things. And he knew very well that the work also took care of him.

DESERONTO POST,
N
OVEMBER 1919

Dermot O’Neill’s New Arlington Hotel: Best $2.00 a day House in Deseronto. This hotel is convenient for travellers, being opposite the Railway Station on the corner of Main and Mill Streets. Telephone communication.

Your editor has read recently that the British Empire now covers about one fifth, or 21%, of the earth’s surface.

We have learned that our own Deseronto-born Sgt. Teddy Freeman of the 2nd Battalion, CEF, headed a search party to look for bodies of fellow soldiers while in France. His older brother, James Freeman (Jim), began his pilot training here in Deseronto, and served with the RFC. Teddy was wounded, but the two brothers are now safely returned to the town.

By the grace of God, a glorious victory was granted us over a formidable and unscrupulous enemy. Let us now strive to prove ourselves worthy of the great boon which has been vouchsafed us in the freedom of the world, and the priceless heritage of freedom of speech, thought and action: by applying ourselves thoughtfully, faithfully, steadfastly and thankfully to that which “thy hand findeth to do.” Aid is still desperately needed by repatriated French in the devastated areas of northern France. Money donations can be sent. Details obtained from the office of the
Post.

P
ERRIN’S
P
INE
T
AR
C
ORDIAL
: Don’t neglect the cough.