I ran into the gas station, did a little pee, but no poop. There was no evidence of God's presence in the lavatory. Just a sign reading: Please help us keep this place clean. I made a detour to avoid meeting my Saviour and headed for the nearest hotel. It was getting dark and the cold was penetrating. Spring was far behind here.
Where am I? I asked the clerk as I signed the register. I mean, what town is this?
Pittsfield, he said.
Pittsfield what?
Pittsfield, Massachusetts, he replied, surveying me coldly and with a tinge of contempt.
The next morning I was up bright and early. Good thing, too, because cars were fewer and farther between, and no one seemed eager to take an extra passenger. By nine o'clock, what with the miles I had clicked off on my own two feet, I was famished. Fortunately—perhaps God had put him in my path—the man next to me in the coffee shop was going almost to the Canadian border. He said he would be happy to take me along. He was a professor of literature, I discovered after we had traveled a ways together. A gentleman too. It was a pleasure to listen to him. He talked as if he had read about everything of value in the English language. He spoke at length of Blake, John Donne, Traherne, Laurence Sterne. He talked of Browning too, and of Henry Adams. And of Milton's Areopagitica. All caviar, in other words.
I suppose you've written a number of books yourself, I said.
No, just, two, he said. (Textbooks, they were.) I teach literature, he added, I don't make it.
Near the border he deposited me at a gas station owned by a friend of his. He was branching off to some hamlet nearby.
My friend will see to it that you get a lift to-morrow morning. Get acquainted with him, he's an interesting chap.
We had arrived at this point just a half hour before closing time. His friend was a poet, I soon found out. I had dinner with him at a friendly little inn and then be escorted me to a hostelry for the night.
At noon next day I was in Montreal. I had to wait a few hours for the train to pull in. It was bitter cold. Almost like Russia, I thought. And rather a gloomy looking city, all in all. I looked up a hotel, warmed myself in the lobby, then started back to the station.
How do you like it? said Mona, as we drove off in a cab.
Not too much. It's the cold; it goes right to the marrow.
Let's go to Quebec to-morrow, then.
We had dinner in an English restaurant. Frightful. The food was like mildewed cadavers slightly warmed.
It'll be better in Quebec, said Mona. We'll stay in a French hotel.
In Quebec the snow was piled high and frozen stiff. Walking the streets was like walking between ice-bergs. Everywhere we went we seemed to bump into flocks of nuns or priests. Lugubrious looking creatures with ice in their, veins. I didn't think much of Quebec either. We might as well have gone to the North Pole. What an atmosphere in which to relax!
However, the hotel was cosy and cheerful. And what meals! Was it like this in Paris? I asked. Meaning the food. Better than Paris, she said. Unless one ate in swell restaurants.
How well I remember that first meal. What delicious soup! What excellent veal! And the cheeses! But best of all were the wines.
I remember the waiter handing me the carte des vins and how I scanned it, utterly bewildered by the choice presented. When it came time to order I was speechless. I looked up at him and I said: Select one for us, won't you? I know nothing about wine.
He took the wine list and studied it, looking now at me, now at Mona, then back at the list. He seemed to be giving it his utmost attention and consideration. Like a man studying the racing chart.
I think, he said, that what you should have is a Medoc. It's a light, dry Bordeaux, which will delight your palate. If you like it, to-morrow we will try another vintage. He whisked off, beaming like a cherub.
At lunch he suggested another wine—an Anjou. A heavenly wine, I thought. Followed next lunchtime by a Vouvray. For dinner, unless we had sea food, we drank red wines—Pommard, Nuits Saint-Georges, Clos-Vougeot, Macon, Moulin-a-Vent, Fleurie, and so on. Now and then he slipped in a velvety fruity Bordeaux, a chateau vintage. It was an education. (Mentally I was doling out a stupendous tip for him.) Sometimes he would take a sip himself, to make certain it was up to par. And with the wines, of course, he made the most wonderful suggestions as to what to eat. We tried everything. Everything was delicious.
After dinner we usually took a seat on the balcony (indoors) and, over an exquisite liqueur or brandy, played chess. Sometimes the bell hop joined us, and then we would sit back and listen to him tell about la doulce France. Now and then we hired a cab, horse drawn, and drove around in the dark, smothered in furs and blankets. We even attended mass one night, to please the bell hop.
All in all it was the laziest, peacefulest vacation I ever spent. I was surprised that Mona took it so well.
I'd go mad if I had to spend the rest of my days here, I said one day.
This isn't like France, she replied. Except for the cooking.
It isn't America either, I said. It's a no man's land. The Eskimos should take it over.
Towards the end—we were there ten days—I was itching to get back to the novel.
Will you finish it quickly now, Val? she asked.
Like lightning, I replied.
Good! Then we can leave for Europe.
The sooner the better, said I.
When we got back to Brooklyn the trees were all in bloom. It must have been twenty degrees warmer than in Quebec.
Mrs. Skolsky greeted us warmly. I missed you, she said. She followed us up to our rooms. Oh, she said, I forgot. That friend of yours—MacGregor is it?—was here one evening with his lady friend. He didn't seem to believe me at first, when I told him you had gone to Canada. ‘Impossible!’ he exclaimed. Then he asked if he could visit your study. I hardly knew what to say. He behaved as if it were very important to show your room to his friend. You can trust us,’ he said. ‘I know Henry since he was a boy.’ I gave in, but I stayed with them all the time they were up here. He showed her the pictures on the wall—and your books. He acted as if he were trying to impress her. Once he sat down in your chair and he said to her: ‘Here's where he writes his books, doesn't he, Mrs. Skolsky?’ Then he went on about you, what a great writer you were, what a loyal friend, and so on. I didn't know what to make of the performance. Finally I invited them downstairs to have some tea with me. They stayed for about two hours, I guess. He was very interesting too...
What did he talk about? I asked. Many things, she said. But mostly about love. He seemed infatuated with the young lady.
Did she say much?
No, hardly a word. She was rather strange, I thought. Hardly the type for a man like him.
Was she good-looking?
That depends, said Mrs. Skolsky. To be honest, I thought she was very plain, almost homely. Rather lifeless too. It puzzles me. What can he see in a girl like that? Is he blind?