Once more the images on stage throbbed, trebling themselves. Moses squinted. He made fists, driving his fingernails into the palms of his hands. And there were four Anne/Lucys, each one of them out of tune, rising to sing:
Suddenly there was a crash from below the attic. The Green Police? The Gestapo? Everybody on stage froze. Straining to hear. For a few seconds there was a total silence and then something in Moses short-circuited. Not rising, but propelled out of his seat, he hollered, “Look in the attic! She’s hiding in the attic!”
The next morning the telegram came from Moses’s mother and he immediately booked the first available flight to Montreal.
Four
“Not that I have anything to hide, but does my brother know that you’re here?”
“When I asked if I could see you I had no idea that it was necessary to clear my visit with Mr. Bernard.”
“Nonsense necessary. I’m not Bernard’s keeper and he’s not mine. I was curious, that’s all. Are you parked outside?”
“I walked.”
“From which direction?”
“Downtown.”
“Good for you. It’s such a lovely day it makes a man grateful to be alive,” he said, drawing the blinds. “Oh, forgive me. What a thing to say to a young man in mourning. My brother was in tears. Such a loss to the community and of course to you and your mother it goes without saying. How long will you be in Montreal?”
“I’m flying back to London the day after tomorrow.”
“You think I don’t remember what a nice boy you are? Something to drink maybe?”
“Coffee, if it’s not too much trouble?”
“You’re not living up to your reputation. But I’m relieved to see that. Moderation in all things, that’s the ticket. Hey, if I’m smiling like an idiot it’s because I look at you and what do I see? L.B. as a young man.”
“Maybe I’ll have a Scotch after all.”
“My pleasure. You know, before you were born even I attended one of his readings.”
“Not many people did.”
“Let me tell you something, as if you didn’t know. You were blessed with a great man for a father. And you think we weren’t aware how much he suffered in private, never able to take your poor mother anywhere.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oy vey, have I let the cat out of the bag? Please, it’s not something he talked about, a man of his natural dignity, but it slipped out, you know, when my brother asked how come L.B. never brought his wife to dinner. You’re upset. I can see that. Listen here, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Look at Solomon’s widow. What’s the mind? A muscle. Doctors will tell you it’s an illness like any other. But who will take care of your mother now that L.B.’s gone? Don’t tell me. I know. You are as devoted to her as he ever was.”
“Would you mind if I topped up my glass?”
“Isn’t there more where that came from?”
“Thank you.”
“I want to tell you that when your father came here to dinner with us and sat in this very room it was a real honour for Ida and me. Such a goldener yid. A true idealist. But, please, don’t get me wrong. A great artist dies and suddenly everyone who shook hands with him once is his best friend. Unfortunately I wasn’t close to him like Bernard. I’m not the reader in the family with the big library.”
“I’m told it was Solomon who was the prodigious reader.”
“You know what I wish? I wish I had your education. But your father, may he rest in peace, my, my, was there a book he hadn’t read? In his presence I was tongue-tied. Once, you know, he came to tea with one of his admirers. What was her name, that sweet young girl?”
Moses reached for the bottle again.
“Peterson. Marion Peterson. He wanted her to see my brother’s paintings, but he wasn’t home. So they came here, he was kind enough to inscribe his books for me, every one of them, and to this day they rest in that glass bookcase over there.”
There was also a concert piano that had once belonged to Solomon in the living room. The surface was covered end to end with photographs of Barney and Charna mounted in sterling silver frames. Barney and Charna, still toddlers, romping on the grass in Ste.-Adèle. Barney on horseback, a beaming Mr. Morrie holding the reins. Charna in her white Sweet Sixteen gown. Barney raking the barley floor in the Loch Edmond’s Mist distillery in Skye.
“Now tell me what it is I can do for you,” Mr. Morrie said.
“Actually I’m here because of Lucy. She was only two years old when Solomon died and she’d like to know more about him.”
“A little birdy told me that you and Lucy are living together in London.”
“Lucy is convinced that you’ve got her father’s journals and she would be grateful if she could have them.”
“How did you meet? Come on. Spill the beans. You’re looking at a real sucker for a love story.”
“We knew each other as children, as you know, and Henry and I have been friends for years.”
“Does he still stutter so bad that poor boy?”
“No.”
“I’m glad. Now tell me how you met Lucy after so many years.”
“At a dinner party at Sir Hyman Kaplansky’s.”
“I’ll bet if Canadians were still allowed to accept titles my brother would be number one on the list.”
“Solomon’s journals would mean a good deal to Lucy.”
“Poor Lucy. Poor Henry. Poor Barney. It’s a shame that their generation had to be caught up in family fights over what? Money. Position. Power. I’m not surprised that Lucy became an actress. She’ll be a star. I’d bet money on it.”
“Why are you not surprised she wants to act?”
“Because it’s in her blood, it’s got to be. That’s what Solomon really should have been. A stage actor. When we were kids he was always dressing up, writing little plays for us to perform. He could do accents. It was amazing. Later, you know, we had our first hotel already, the bar is filled with girls of a certain type; what were we supposed to do? Throw them out into the snow? Bernard was never a pimp, and if anybody ever says that, I’m just a little fella, I’ll still punch him in the nose. Anyway Solomon comes back from the war, a flier yet, and he phones Bernard at the hotel and pretends to be the RCMP. He was letter perfect, let me tell you. Cruel too, of course, but we’re talking Solomon here. He did a Chinaman, he even walked like one. The German butcher. The blacksmith, a Polack. He could do anybody. He also had a gift for languages, but I suppose he inherited that from my grandfather.” Mr. Morrie leaped up. “I think I heard a car. Bernard must be home. You walked here you say?”