Barney's Version - Mordecai Richler [151]
“So you’re the Calibanovitch in that verse.”
“Yes I am.”
I explained that I had stumbled into marriage with The Second Mrs. Panofsky out of spite — no, guilt about Clara — no, out of anger at her judgment of me. But I swore that I had never been in love until I had espied Miriam at my wedding. Then I saw that it was dusk outside and that our bottle of champagne was empty. “Shall we go somewhere for dinner?” I asked.
“Why don’t we go for a walk first?”
“I’d like that.”
Self-satisfied Toronto is not a city I’ve ever warmed to. It’s this country’s counting house. But plunging into the rush-hour din on Avenue Road that warm evening in early May, a spring in my step, I was in a forgiving, happy-to-be-alive mood. After all, the trees were plump with buds. If the clusters of daisies on display in buckets outside fruit stores were spray-painted orange or purple, they were redeemed by pristine bunches of daffodils. Some of the office girls passing in pairs in their summer dresses were undeniably pretty. Such was my rapture that I guess I smiled too broadly at the young mother coming toward us, wheeling a toddler in a stroller, because in response she frowned and quickened her pace. For once, I didn’t mind a sweaty jogger in shorts, running in place as he waited for a traffic light to change. “Wonderful evening, isn’t it?” I sang out, and he immediately patted his back pocket to ensure that his wallet was still there. Possibly I shouldn’t have paused to admire a brand-new Alfa Romeo parked in front of an antique shop, as this propelled its owner to the front door, glaring at us. Somewhere, higher up, we came upon a small park and I thought we might rest a while on one of its benches, but the gate was padlocked, and a sign screwed into the railing read:
NO EATING
NO DRINKING
NO MUSIC
NO DOGS
Squeezing Miriam’s hand, I said, “Sometimes I think what inspires this city, its very mainspring, is the haunting fear that someone, somewhere, may be happy.”
“Oh, shame on you.”
“Why?”
“You’re quoting Mencken on puritanism. Unacknowledged.”
“Am I?”
“Pretending it was yours. I thought you promised never to lie to me.”
“Yes. Sorry. Starting now.”
“I was brought up on lies, and I’ll never put up with it again.”
And then, a suddenly impassioned Miriam told me about her father, the cutter, and union organizer. She had adored him, such an idealist, until she discovered that he was a compulsive womanizer. Having it off with factory girls in the can. Trolling sleazy dance halls and downtown bars on Saturday nights. It broke her mother’s heart.
“Why do you put up with him?” Miriam had asked.
“What should I do?” she had answered, bent over her sewing machine, sobbing.
Miriam’s mother died a lingering death. Bowel cancer. “He gave it to her,” said Miriam.
“That’s a bit strong,” I said.
“No, it isn’t. And no man will ever do that to me.”
I can’t remember where or what we ate, somewhere on Yonge Street, seated side by side in a booth, thighs touching. “I had never seen anybody look so miserable at his own wedding. Every time I looked up you were staring at me.”
“What if I had stayed on that train?”
“If you only knew how much I wanted you to.”
“You did?”
“I had my hair done this morning, and I bought this outfit especially for our lunch, and you never once said that I looked nice.”
“No. Yes. Honestly, you look wonderful.”
It was getting on to two a.m. when we reached her