Surfacing - Margaret Atwood [41]
“What for?” I said. He sounded as though he wanted me to buy something, a magazine or a membership.
He swept his pipe in a semi-circle. “This lovely piece of property,” he said. “What we’d use it for would be a kind of retreat lodge, where the members could meditate and observe,” he puffed, “the beauties of Nature. And maybe do a little hunting and fishing.”
“Don’t you want to see it?” I asked. “I mean, the house and all.”
“I must admit that I’ve already seen it; we’ve had our eye on this piece for quite some time. I’ve been coming up here to fish for years, and I’ve taken the liberty, when no one seemed to be here, of having a stroll around.” He gave a small harumph, a voyeur of good social standing caught in the act; then he named a price that meant I could forget about Quebec Folk Tales and children’s books and everything else, at least for a while.
“Would you change it?” I asked. I foresaw motels, high-rises.
“Well, we’d have to install a power generator, of course, and a septic tank; but apart from that, no, I expect we’d like to leave it the way it is, it has a definite,” he stroked his moustache, “rural charm.”
“I’m sorry but it’s not for sale,” I said, “not right now; maybe later.” If my father had been dead he might have liked the proposal but as it was he would be furious if he returned and found I’d sold his house. I wasn’t sure I’d be the owner in any case. There must be deeds hidden, property titles, legal papers, I’d never had any dealings with lawyers; I would have to sign forms or charters, I might have to pay death duties.
“Well,” he said with the heartiness of a loser. “I’m sure the offer will still be open. Indefinitely, you might say.” He drew out his wallet and gave me a card: Bill Malmstrom, Teenie Town, it said, Togs for Toddlers ’n Tots.
“Thank you,” I said, “I’ll keep it in mind.”
I took Paul by the arm and led him to the garden, as though to reciprocate for the vegetables: I felt I had to explain, at least to him, he had gone to a lot of trouble for me.
“Your garden, she is not doing so good, ay?” he said, inspecting.
“No,” I said, “we just got it weeded; but I want you to have …” I gazed desperately around, seized on a withered lettuce and presented it to him, roots and all, as gracefully as I could.
He held it, blinking, discouraged. “Madame will like that,” he said.
“Paul,” I said, lowering my voice, “the reason I can’t sell is that my father’s still alive.”
“Yes?” he said, perking up. “He came back, he is here?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “He’s away right now, on a sort of trip; but perhaps he will be here soon.” For all I could tell he might have been listening to us at that moment, from behind the raspberry canes or the burn heap.
“He went for the trees?” Paul said, hurt that he hadn’t been consulted: he used to go too. “You saw him first, before?”
“No,” I said, “he was gone when I got here; but he left me a note, more or less.”
“Ah,” he said, glancing nervously over my shoulder into the forest. It was clear he didn’t believe me.
For lunch we had Paul’s cauliflower and some tins, corn and fried ham. During the canned pears David said “Who were those two old guys?” He must have seen them from the window.
“It was a man who wanted to buy the place,” I said.
“I bet he was a Yank,” David said, “I can spot them in a crowded room.”
“Yes,” I said, “but he was from a wildlife association, that’s who he was buying it for.”
“Bullshit,” David said, “he was a front man for the C.I.A.”
I laughed. “No,” I said; I showed him the Teenie Town card.
But David was serious. “You haven’t seen them in operation the way I have,” he said darkly,