Miss Hinchcliffe smiled in a pinched way. ‘I know it seems that way.’
‘Is he in the Far East, the way my father is?’
‘I told you there is no one called Mr McBean.’
‘Wherever he is, it is time for him to come back,’ said Vera.
‘Aren’t you going to go for coffee?’ Hinchcliffe would say.
‘Not by myself,’
One day when James was ill in bed, Kemp came down from the office above and took Vera to the coffee shop with him. When they burst in through the door shaking rain from their umbrellas, Roberta looked up with hope that the Captain would be with them. Malcolm the mailman was there, at the end of his rounds. The hatter was telling stories about the sailors and how one would come ashore and buy a smart hat, a Borsalino, say. Then he’d go on a big tear and lose it. The hatter could go around the bars and pick up lost hats in the morning if he felt like it. And the next day, before his leave was up, the sailor would come back and buy the same one again.
They murmured appreciatively at this homely story and then it was silent in the triangular café with its three booths.
Roberta said, ‘How is he?’
And Vera burst into tears.
The men sat embarrassed while Roberta took Vera in her arms and patted her on the back.
‘What are we going to do with her?’ she said to the others.
James Lowinger lay in his bed. His veins stood out under the skin on his head. Vera had not imagined that a head could get thinner, but his had. His flesh was clinging to his skull. He lay with his eyes shut but his voice did not change and he could still laugh so that it sounded even more as if his voice were gurgling down a drain. Day by day he grew lighter, his face more luminous. It was as if he were getting younger, on a cosmic timescale that had nothing to do with the days and the months and the years they were living through.
He spoke to Vera in a valedictory way.
‘A longing, almost like lust, to tell the tale as we have lived it, grows stronger the older we are. God knows that man’s lust is a subject of which I have some experience. I mean only the lust for objects. I say “only”, as if this were more manageable, more civilised than sexual lust: it is not, only an expression that has a more public acceptance.
‘I have no greed for gems or gold, which may strike you as odd. Indifference is rare in my trade and the one aspect of my personality to which my survival can be attributed. My lust inclines to the private and the physical, far healthier if you ask me. And for much of my life I was unsatisfied. It made me a good observer of others mind you. That is the story–how their lust entwined with mine.’
There were good days and bad days. Keiko heard news in Japantown that made her cry, and she wrote letters home, letters to which she got no replies. She found one man in Japantown who was from Kobe, and every few days she went to hear his news. But the letters he received were vague, and in contradiction to the news she heard in Vancouver. In Japan the people said the war in China was going well. Papers came to call up men and boys, and this was an honour, to serve the Emperor. Here, the papers said the Japanese were going to lose the war in China, and that the soldiers themselves were poor and hungry, and the people in Japan were even hungrier.
One day, while visiting her friend in the tailor’s shop, Keiko heard about the drowning of a fisherman. Although he was no one Keiko knew, and from a village many miles from her own, she was struck with dire premonitions and went home silent. While she was washing the dishes after dinner she told Vera about the sea near her home.
‘It can be dangerous if you don’t know. Every child is made to swim. The father throws–’ here she demonstrated with her hands cupped at the level of her knees, as if she were pushing a large bag of laundry over a wall ‘–throws the child over the boat into the sea. And watches. The child will go down and breathe in the water. The child will nearly drown–’ she mimed choking, dying, ‘then the father will dive in and bring the child back. But as soon as the child has’–she acted out spitting out the water ‘–the father again–’ she made the scooping motion with her arms ‘–into the sea. Second time, the child knows how to swim. Anyone who learn to swim that way–while going down to drown–is safe for ever.’
She did not bother James with her worries. He was very busy in his half-conscious world. At times he needed her care, calling out weakly, but good-naturedly, for tea. Sometimes he was sick on himself, and she came with a basin and towels to clean him. But he was often asleep. In his sleep he expended a great deal of energy. He thrashed and sometimes spoke, and even laughed, or scoffed, at imaginary companions in his dreams.
‘He simply must eat more,’ said the doctor.
‘He eat what he want,’ said Keiko.
But to Vera she explained. ‘He is fighting demons. Meeting old friends. It is very much work. That’s why he is so thin. He dreams away his food.’ She backed away from the bedside when the doctor came to look at James but she did not take her eyes off him.
The doctor did not push further. ‘He is old,’ he said. ‘He has come home to die, like an animal does.’
Keiko bowed and did not contradict the doctor. But when she and Vera were alone she spoke. ‘An animal does not come home to die,’ said Keiko. ‘An animal crawls away by himself. He come home for other thing.’
‘What other thing?’ Vera hung by her grandfather’s bedside and when he spoke she listened. Open, his eyes burned red at the rims and bright blue in the centre; his collarbones under the pyjama top stood up higher. Often she watched him sleep. Even then his eyes were busy under the lids.
‘Are you going to the office today?’ Vera asked, tearful, at the bedroom door.
‘I don’t think so, my dear. You’ll have to go for me.’
She went, crying.
As James Lowinger lay dying, he knew he’d been wrong about what was important. He’d been wrong about pearls, and even wrong about the stories. They were in the past. Soon he too would be in the past, and join his stories there. They were on record and official; in them he was clearly in command. They were of the mind and, in the life of his body, they were utterly worthless.
He sank into his body.
He sang, he wrestled, he suckled, he grappled and he danced with the love of his life in those last few hours. He lived to the full reach of his senses without fear or guilt, because what was to be regretted, now? He knew that Keiko came and went from the room with her basin and her cool cloth; he knew that she knelt beside him. He supposed, even, that she understood he had descended into a realm of pure delight, or rather that the world had risen away from him. He no longer felt the pain of Belle’s death, a pain he had tried hard to hide. He was loosed to his own flesh and every bliss it had to offer. That day, he lived one night, over and over. When it finally eased away he was ready, this time, to let go.
When Vera came home he was gone.
Keiko was quietly washing his body.
‘He works so hard,’ she said, ‘to die. He–’ and she acted out the thrashings and groans that had mysteriously accompanied his last hours. ‘And he–’ she closed her eyes and allowed a wide
