word of complaint ever passed his lips. Say what you might of Klaus as a father, he was one hell of a husband.
Swoosh went prefolded napkins and a chipped butter dish into the garbage bag. This was the original stove, circa 1969, and ditto for the fridge, both softly aerodynamic and kept rigorously clean and in working trim. The burner coils were sausage-like, style of the day. The set of etched juice glasses were fished out of detergent boxes. No way brother Felix would be interested in any of this subpar loot, living in Powell River with snooty Leah and their kids.
As Toby tossed things into cartons and plastic bags, he felt himself move from sadness into an inchoate anger: why did the old man deliberately deprive himself? Cereal bowls were filled with those toggles that held bread together; jars that once held peanut butter were packed with elastic bands. So ostentatiously frugal, as if to buy something new or to toss something old was a moral failing. Lucky thing Jasper wasn’t on hand to witness this. He had a sore spot about what he called “The German Thing” and would find all this neatness and thrift creepy.
Toby knew what was coming next when he swung open the closet door. First, he unhooked the straw broom made by the blind and set it in the corner of the kitchen. When the boys were still at home, they had regular chores and a monthly calendar indicating who did what and when. Taped to the inside of the door now was a sheet of paper ruled into columns that itemized duties from washing shutters to floor waxing and laundry. Along the top were printed dates, and tick marks noted job accomplished. A bustle of vacuuming occurred two days before Klaus entered Lakeview with his plaid suitcase. Last Thursday he’d flipped the mattress, the same mattress that Toby would soon drag down to the curb.
He roamed the house, plastic bag in tow, swinging open cupboards he’d never dare open in the presence of his secretive father. His gut clenched with each potential revelation: surely somewhere he’d discover inklings of the old man’s real life, the one he’d left behind — the German life.
Instead of crispy air mail envelopes he found bundled socks in a drawer, and tucked next to them a list: “5 pair black, 2 pair white, 4 pair dress.”
No yellowed letters from Klaus’s own father, a Luftwaffe pilot turned owner of a popular seaside resort — just a dried-up avocado pit set into a jar on the dresser, toothpick running through its midsection.
Toby stood at the entrance to his and Felix’s bedroom at the rear of the house. This was the only room that had noticeably changed: bunk beds replaced with a sofa bed and next to it the cabinet hi-fi that used to be downstairs. The meagre stash of LPs dated back to the early 1970s — Strauss waltzes, Beethoven’s Fifth, and Klaus’s favourite, Yma Sumac, the Inca Princess, whose soaring voice filled the house during weekend breakfasts.
The old Yamaha guitar stood in its cardboard case against the wall. Toby sat on the sofa, unsnapped the case, and pulled out the instrument, noting a hairline crack near the bridge. Dry winter days had taken their toll. He had to wrench the plastic pegs to get them to turn on the headstock. The strings felt stiff and dead, untouched for years. Tuning the best he could, he started in on that old chestnut, “Spanish Romance,” the first real piece he’d learned. This room was his safe haven, and he’d practise here for hours, often beginning when he heard Klaus’s car swing into the driveway. By the time Toby made it downstairs, Klaus would be cooking dinner and news from the visit to “your dear Mama” would have been forgotten.
Toby won that guitar-shaped clock hanging on the wall at some dopey talent contest when he was in junior high. They were always so proud of him, Mama and Papa.
The day she died, last December 25, Toby was basting the turkey when he got the call, Jasper hovering, fussing over internal fowl temperature.
Karen wasn’t always off her rocker. For years she’d been a real mother. That’s what Jasper forgets when he calls her existence “tragic.”
What was that smell? Toby hesitated at the entrance to the bathroom, though he knew without looking what it was: medicinal aroma of old country shampoo imported by specialty shops. Not that Klaus had much hair left to work with. Toby imagined Jasper snickering, “The man keeps a well-scrubbed scalp.”
Does Klaus ever complain of loneliness?
Never. He likes to say that he expects little from life, so he is never disappointed.
Four
Luke is up in arms, barrelling through the office like a banana republic generalissimo. He’s convinced that the board of directors is staging a mutiny, which is partially true, if Jasper has his way. The man’s nattering on about “strategic information” that should be in his hands by now. Jasper hides a smile. At this point the best ammunition is secrecy. As Luke dances through the office, lifting file folders willy-nilly, Jasper keeps his focus on his work, while Rachel, an intern from a community college, fixes her gaze on her monitor and taps randomly at computer keys.
Luke plants himself in front of Jasper’s desk. “I demand full accountability.” Thin blond hair is glued to his scalp, and his suit looks a size too small, the current fashion.
Jasper glances up. “If you can’t get hold of yourself, then I must ask you to leave.”
Rachel’s mouth drops open.
“What?” Luke hisses.
“I’m asking you to leave. Now.”
No one says this to Luke, chairman of the board, and it catches the man off guard. His face pinkens several degrees, then suddenly he is gone, shiny loafers clacking down the hall.
Rachel tells Jasper he is God.
Possibly, but Jasper is shaking so hard he can’t speak.
The church smells of melted candles and damp boots. A pigeon roosts high in the rafters, and with luck it won’t wake up once the concert gets underway. Is it true that pigeons can’t shit midair? The small audience files in, buying tickets at a table set up at the entrance, presided over by Tess, vice-chair of the Toronto Guitar Society. She doesn’t recognize Toby — it’s been too long. It was Tess who arranged his first recital in this same church when he was a pipsqueak carrying a borrowed concert-grade guitar.
Squinting into the rows of pews, light filtered through stained glass, Toby wonders which of the more grizzled audience members were present then. He’d ripped through Villa-Lobos, Bach, and Albéniz, not a groundbreaking program, but he was barely eleven years old. When he finished the recital, grinning his head off, he saw his parents and Felix in the front row clapping like maniacs, yet it was Tess who led the standing ovation, tears streaming down her face. In those days her skin was pale, her hair red and bushy.
Toby hesitates at the door of the church, reluctant to stride into his own storied past. Yet this evening it is not Toby who will step onto the liturgical stage, and this audience is scarcely two dozen, given the viral scare. He buys his ticket, and Tess barely lifts her eyes as she slides it across the table. This is a relief and at the same time a disappointment. He finds a seat at the end of a pew close to the front. Its shelf is crammed with prayer books and hymnals, a reminder that music is only the building’s hobby. He flips open the program and reads off the list of composers — all Italian and he’s only heard of half of them. Most were born in the 1970s or later.
It’s been years since he’s made his way to a guitar concert. He used to go to everything and they’d often wave him in for free, understanding that such a talent needed to be exposed to a range of performance styles. He’d pretend to ignore the nods and whispers, the discreet finger pointings. Not
