“What does he do when he visits?”
“Sometimes he can sit on that swing out there under the maple tree for hours, thinking about things.”
The wood-workshop was locked. “Have you got a key?” Moses asked.
“Sorry, Mr. Berger, but I’m the only one allowed in there.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, to keep all the machinery oiled, you know, the wood fed and polished, and to make sure there are no uninvited guests. Squirrels. Field mice.”
“Does Mr. Morrie ever use it?”
“Funny you should ask. I caught him peering in that window once and I could swear he was crying. Hey, hold on a minute, Mr. Morrie, I’ll run and get the key. No, no, he said. Not yet. But one day.”
Then Moses continued on to what the locals still referred to with pride as the Sir Russell Morgan estate, where the elusive Diana had finally agreed to see him. Following a long meandering driveway, Moses drove slowly past a small apple orchard, a stand of sugar maple trees, stables, a barn, a tennis court, an immense greenhouse, a potting shed, an asparagus bed, a raspberry patch, and many more tilled beds, separated by brick walks, already planted with flowers and vegetables he imagined. There were clusters of daffodils here, there, and everywhere before the main house. White clapboard. Wraparound porch. Solid oak door with polished brass knocker. A maid led Moses into the solarium, where Diana McClure sat in a wingbacked wicker chair surrounded by greenery. One eye brown, one eye blue.
“It needn’t be tea, Mr. Berger. I can offer you something more invigorating.”
“Tea would be fine, thank you.”
“As you pulled up, I couldn’t help noticing that your front tires look distressingly soft. You must stop at M. Laurin’s garage on your way back and have him check the pressure. First left just before you reach the bottom of the hill. If he’s the least bit officious do tell him that I sent you.”
“I’ll do that,” Moses said, mumbling something flattering about her gardens.
“It’s a form of tyranny. Self-imposed, but tyranny all the same. I dare not leave here this time of year when everything will soon be coming up in such a frenzy.”
“Including the black flies.”
“Do you garden, then?”
“I’m new at it and not very good.”
“Take my advice, then, and don’t read too many books. They will only discourage and confuse you. Get yourself a copy of Vita Sackville-West’s A Joy of Gardening and follow her.”
“I’ll do that. Thank you.”
“Shouldn’t you write it down?”
“Yes,” he said, fumbling for his pen. “It is very kind of you to let me intrude like this, Mrs. McClure.”
“Not in the least, but I doubt that I can be of much help. May I ask you a direct question?”
“Certainly.”
“You wrote to say you were working on a biography of Solomon Gursky. I do admire your industry, Mr. Berger, but who would be interested after all these years?”
“I am.”
“The only valid reason for embarking on such a project. Now tell me why.”
“Oh my. That’s such a long and convoluted story.”
“I’m in no hurry, if you aren’t.”
An apprehensive Moses gathered that he was being weighed on the scales of her intuitions, its measures unknown to him, and, all at once, found himself gabbing away like a silly schoolboy. Telling her about L.B. Lionel’s birthday party. Ephraim Gursky. His involvement with Lucy. Henry in the Arctic. Then, suddenly, he stopped short, amazed at himself.
“Is the family co-operating?”
“No.”
“There was no love lost between Solomon and Bernard.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Oh come now, Mr. Berger. You’ll have to do better than that,” she said, laughing flirtatiously.
He blushed.
“If I may be so presumptuous, I think an excellent model for you might be The Quest for Corvo by A.J.A. Symons. Brilliant, I thought.”
“Yes.”
“Have you a publisher?”
“Um, no. I mean it’s premature.”
“I think McClelland & Stewart are the most adventurous of the lot here, though a touch vulgar in their promotions. However, the likelihood is that they would be more interested in a biography of poor Mr. Bernard.”
“Why ‘poor’ Mr. Bernard?” Moses asked, stiffening.
“I suspect,” she said, smiling, “that you think I am badly disposed to him because he is a Jew.”
“No,” Moses lied.
“Don’t you find it exhausting?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I would.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Being Jewish. For all its gratifications it coloured Solomon’s reactions to everything. Like you, he always had his hackles raised. I am not an anti-Semite, Mr. Berger, and neither did I consider the bootlegging such a disgrace. On the contrary. It was frightfully clever and quite the only interesting thing about Mr. Bernard. I said ‘poor’ Mr. Bernard, because all he ever wanted out of our pathetic, so-called establishment was a seat in the senate. A modest enough demand. I would have awarded him two, happily.”
“About Solomon.”
“And me?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“You have been told that we had an affair,” she said, surprising him.
“Yes. But I don’t mean to pry,” he protested, stumbling.
“Of course you do, young man, or why are you here?”
“Sorry. You are absolutely right.”
“This is hardly what I would describe as an age of discretion, Mr. Berger. I have seen the president of the United States pull out his shirt and lower his trousers on television to show us his abdominal scars. Public figures, if they be drunkards or womanizers or even swindlers, seem compelled to write steamy, self-pitying best-sellers about it, beating their breasts for profit. What I’m getting at,” she said, her voice softening, “is that I’m afraid, much as I’d like to be helpful, that I couldn’t tell you anything that might be hurtful to Mr. McClure or my son.”
“At the risk of being rude, why did you agree to see me?”
“A reasonable question. A most justifiable question. Let me think. Possibly because I’m a bored old lady and my curiosity got the better of me. Wait. There is something else. I have read your occasional book review in the Spectator or Encounter and I was not unimpressed by your intelligence. I took it that you were a young man of sensibility and I have not been disappointed.”
Moses, beaming, wondered if it would be pushy of him to slip in that he had once been a Rhodes scholar. He decided against it.
“I need time, Mr. Berger. I must think about this very carefully.”
Before he left, she had the gardener bring him a bundle of fresh asparagus. “Don’t throw out the water you cook them in—for no longer than twelve minutes, as I’m sure you know, the crowns kept out of the water—and you will have the beginnings of a nourishing broth. And please do remember to see about your tire pressure or I shall worry about you on the road.”
Driving back to Montreal, Moses was suffused with a feeling of well-being, unusual for him.
Well, not quite. But Diana McClure née Morgan did describe me as a young man of intelligence and sensibility. Not bad, he thought.
Nine
Instead of heading directly back to his cabin in the Townships, Moses drove in to Montreal, stopping at Callaghan’s apartment. Inevitably, they fell to talking about Solomon.