In the Skin of a Lion - Michael Ondaatje [41]
– That’s not enough, Patrick. We’re in a thunderstorm.
– Is that a line from one of your tracts?
– No, it’s a metaphor. You reach people through metaphor. It’s what I reached you with earlier tonight in the performance.
– You appealed to my sense of compassion.
– Compassion forgives too much. You could forgive the worst man. You forgive him and nothing changes.
– You can teach him, make him aware …
– Why leave the power in his hands?
There was no reply from him. He turned away from her, back to the open window and the rain.
– You believe in solitude, Patrick, in retreat. You can afford to be romantic because you are self-sufficient.
– Yes, I’ve got about ten bucks to my name.
– I’m not talking about money. Working in the tunnels is terrible, I know that. But you have a choice, what of the others who don’t?
– Such as.
– Such as this kid. Such as three-quarters of the population of Upper America. They can’t afford your choices, your languor.
– They could succeed. Look at –
– Come on, Patrick, of course some make it. They do it by becoming just like the ones they want to overtake. Like Ambrose. Look at what he became before he disappeared. He was predatory. He let nothing cling to him, not even Clara. I always liked you because you knew that. Because you hated that in him.
– I hated him because I wanted what he had.
– I don’t think so. You don’t want power. You were born to be a younger brother.
She stood up now and began pacing. She needed to move her arms, be more forceful.
– Anyway we’re not interested in Ambrose any more. To hell with him, he’s damned.
The power of the girl’s father was still in her. Patrick couldn’t tell how much of a role it was. She spoke slowly now.
– There is more compassion in my desire for truth than in your ‘image’ of compassion. You must name the enemy.
– And if he is your friend?
– I’m your friend. Hana there sleeping is your friend. The people tonight in the audience were your friends. They’re compassionate too. Listen, they are terrible sentimentalists. They love your damn iguana. They’ll cry all through their sister’s wedding. They’ll cry when their sister says she has had her first kiss. But they must turn and kill the animals in the slaughter-houses. And the smell of the tanning factories goes into their noses and lungs and stays there for life. They never get the smell off their bodies. Do you know the smell? You can bet the rich don’t know it. It brutalizes. It’s like sleeping with the enemy. It clung to Hana’s father. They get skin burns from the galvanizing process. Arthritis, rheumatism. That’s the truth.
– So what do you do?
– You name the enemy and destroy their power. Start with their luxuries – their select clubs, their summer mansions.
Alice stopped pacing, put a hand up to the low slope of the ceiling and pushed against it.
– The grand cause, Patrick.
He knows he will never forget a word or a gesture of hers tonight, in this doll-house of a room. He sits on the bed looking up at the avid spirit of her.
– Someone always comes out of the audience to stop me, Patrick. This time it was you. My old pal.
– I don’t think you will convert me.
– Yes. I can.
– If it was valuable to some cause for me to kill someone would you want me to do it?
She picked up the cat again.
– Would the girl’s father have done that?
– I don’t think I’m big enough to put someone in a position where they have to hurt another.
It had stopped raining. They climbed out onto the fire escape, Alice carrying the sleeping girl, the air free and light after the storm. She was smiling at the girl. He felt he was looking at another person.
– Hana is nine years old. Already too smart. Not enough a child, and that’s sad.
– You’ve got a lot more time with her.
– No. I feel she’s loaned to me. We’re veiled in flesh. That’s all.
They looked out over the low houses of Queen Street, the metal of the fire escape wet around them, cool, a shock to their arms on this summer night. The rain had released the smells from the street and lifted them up. He lay back like the child, a raindrop