23

Patrick MacQueen did not find the dinner easy going. It was not only the necessity of eating with one hand; the whisky had blurred his perceptions, and he felt isolated and monosyllabic. The false heartiness of his brother and movie-star attitude of Helen were of no comfort, and Bill Cyples had adopted the same wary and tense persona that he had in Wolfville. The dining room was crowded, and impatient people waited in a double line extending into the lobby. Every man was either an officer or a well-dressed civilian, the waiters were harried, and the stringed trio was barely discernible.

It was a relief to finish and return to the hotel room. A dance was scheduled in the hotel, and the newlyweds obviously had other things on their minds than entertaining infantry sergeants or disabled brothers. They accepted a straight whisky nightcap and were helped into their greatcoats.

“I haven’t got a wedding present for you,” said Patrick MacQueen apologetically, “but I wish you both good luck.”

“We’re heading out tomorrow,” said his brother. “Duty calls, and there is a war on. Take care of yourself, Squirk, and give our love to mother if you get back home. Boy, what I wouldn’t give for a month in Bermuda right now!”

Helen kissed her brother-in-law then wiped his lips with a Kleenex. John walked to the elevator with them, and his smiling face disappeared as the doors slid shut. The two soldiers walked through the crowded lobby and out into the snowy night.

A yellow tram clanged its bell and flashed its way through the intersection; it was lit from within with silhouetted, huddled passengers who looked out the glass windows at the wintry night.

The locked wrought iron gates of the Public Gardens traced an arch of black through the falling snow. The corner traffic lights turned red-amber-green, and a lonely statue stood on a granite plinth, a turban of white on his head. “That’s Joseph Howe,” said MacQueen. “A politician.”

Sergeant Cyples snorted derisively. “Why would anyone erect a statue to a politician?” he asked. A car spun its whirring wheels and lurched around the corner as the lights were changing. “My train leaves at eleven-thirty,” said Sergeant Cyples, looking at his watch, which he wore face-inwards on his left wrist. “Where can we get a drink?”

“There’s always some joint on Water Street,” answered MacQueen. “God knows what we’d be drinking!”

They trudged down Spring Garden Road, through the pale reflections of lighted store windows and under the orange circles of street lamps. The stone Gothic façade of Saint Mary’s Cathedral fronted directly onto the street, and at the corner was the lighted marquee of the Capitol Theatre. “Gone With the Wind” was on re-play, starring Clark Gable and Vivien Leigh; a mute line of snow-capped figures stretched down Barrington Street to see them. There was no one waiting to get into the Cathedral.

“Let’s go in here for a minute?” suggested MacQueen.

The sergeant opened the wooden, iron-hinged Gothic door and they entered the nave of the cathedral, which was officially a basilica because Halifax housed an Archbishop (he was also the Bishop of Bermuda). Banks covered by small red jars of tapered wax were aglow at the side altars and in front of statues. A life-size crucifix hung from one of the pillars near the main altar, and a red votive light hung from the ceiling over the tabernacle. The two soldiers dipped their fingers into a holy water fount and each made the sign of the cross—it was a conditioned reflex they had both known since childhood. Their steel heels echoed loudly in the cold church. As they advanced to the marble altar railing, they both automatically genuflected on one knee. Then they knelt at the railing.

“In San Salvador the crucifixes are agonizing,” whispered the sergeant. “God has to suffer more than everyone else, and down there everyone suffers.”

MacQueen looked up into the downcast face of Christ. Was it Longinus who thrust the spear into his side, he wondered, and why does that name occur to me? He had been a soldier at the foot of the cross, just like the sergeant and himself. He heard someone whispering the rosary in the dark shadows, and the tram bells could be faintly heard even here. The smell of old incense and wet wool permeated the air, and somewhere a door slammed like a distant shot across the mountains. MacQueen rested his sling on the altar rail and looked at the draped tabernacle. In there, he thought, rests the answer to everything. He sighed deeply and wondered if he would have had the courage to thrust a spear into the side of the man they labelled the King of the Jews. It fulfilled the prophecies, and someone had to do it.

“I have a train to catch,” said the sergeant softly.

Water Street was a jumble of decaying buildings, ship chandler shops, second-hand stores, and bootlegging whorehouses. Sailors and soldiers from the allied armed forces sought recreation in this waterfront area, as drinking in public was officially forbidden, and prostitution had never been legal. The snow cast a deceptive blanket over the decrepitude and squalor, and disguised the breaks and potholes in the cobblestoned street. Dark telephone poles reared like the crosses on Golgotha, laden with heavy cables that sagged between them and accumulated their own strips of ice. The buildings were mostly stone and had been erected a century ago; within, they were rotting lumber and uncertain wooden beams. The pair entered a dark doorway and continued into a poorly lit hall. A rickety stairway ran up along the wall, and sounds of commotion and singing could be heard. A soldier, either dead or drunk, lay huddled beside the stairs, and a small child stood in a doorway. She had matted hair and carried a broken doll, and looked at them with wide black eyes before thrusting a dirty thumb into her mouth.

“Jesus!” exclaimed the sergeant, “I’ve been in a lot of flea traps but this has to be bottom!” A bareheaded sailor stumbled down the stairs and started to vomit in the hall. The child followed every motion in the dark hallway with her blank stare.

“Go to bed, kid,” said the sergeant. He proffered a coin, and she grabbed it, darting her wet little hand from her mouth and back again in a flash. The soldier groaned. The child scampered down the hallway and into the dark.

Someone bellowed in laughter from the top of the stairs. “Ernie, you fuckin’ clod,” the someone called to the reeling sailor in a Liverpool accent. “Where the hell are you?”

“It’s either here or sitting in the station,” said the sergeant. “A couple of drinks and I might be able to sleep on that train.”

“What the hell?” said MacQueen, hefting his sling with his right hand. “We’re here, let’s give it a try.” This is the land fit for heroes, he thought grimly as they mounted the steep wooden stairway with the broken banister.

“Ernie, mate, where the hell are you? Have you seen my mate down there, Sarge?”

“He’s getting rid of the rotgut,” said the sergeant. He pushed open the door on the landing, and it sounded like feeding time at the circus.

Entering the room was like turning over a large rock. There was no gaiety here, simply a sodden type of frenzy. The air was like a channel fog and smelled like an open sewer. An incongruous black kitchen coal stove stood just inside the doorway, and for furniture there were a few wooden tables and old chairs, and a battered horsehair chaise longue. On this a bald-headed man sprawled, with his tie under one ear and a glass of liquid spilling onto his fly. The English sailor, with his cap on the back of his head, supported his nearly prostrate mate through the door behind them. There were a couple of heavily mascaraed prostitutes sitting sullenly at one table; a soldier was sitting between them. His face was bloated and he wore a stunned expression and didn’t appear to blink. Others were at a table in a shaded corner, singing “Kiss Me Goodnight, Sergeant Major” and waving their arms in the air. The peeling green wallpaper had a mock art nouveau design from the twenties. The madame of this particular dive reminded MacQueen of Elsa Lanchester in “The Bride of Frankenstein”; her hair stood upright and her eyes had a vacant and bloodshot disinterest.

“C’mere, baby,” said the leering man on the chaise longue. “Sit on daddy’s knee…” He raised the glass and poured some of the liquid onto his shirt.

“Money first, boys,” said the madame. Her dress was torn at one side and her lipstick was smirched. The heat from the stove was like a boiler room.

They sat at a vacant table by the wall. “Have you got any decent whisky?” asked the sergeant. He fumbled for some money but didn’t wish to produce too much—he pulled out a five-dollar bill.

“I got good rye whisky,” she said. “A dollar a shot and no mixers but water. D’you want girls?”

“Babeee…” pleaded the man on the chaise longue. “Daddy’s gettin’ lonesome…”

“No girls and two double whiskies,” said the sergeant. “And clean glasses, eh?”

She took the five dollars and jammed it between her breasts. She pinched the man on the chaise longue on the nose, then stood in the middle of the floor with her feet apart and lit a cigarette.

“Man, oh man!” exclaimed the chaise longue. “Get between those an’ you’re in paradise!” He started to slip to the floor. The two prostitutes rolled their eyes in disgust.

“Ernie, mate,” said the Liverpool sailor. “Wake up, luv…”

Ernie was slapped on the face and opened his eyes. “Where the fuck are we?” he asked. Then his head bobbed forward onto his chest again.

“You boys fairies?” asked the madame. She placed two half tumblers of liquor on the table. “Take a girl.”

“Keep the change,” said the sergeant, with a grin.

“Drink up,” she said. “You either drink or leave, I got parking rates.” She actually cocked a hip and put her hand on it in the best Yukon style. If nothing else, thought MacQueen, I’ve seen that. The lady might look ravaged, but she would have to be a tough nut to run this place.

“Drink up,” said the sergeant. “I’ve got to get my bag and make that train.”

“Tuck me in my little wooden bed…” sang the soldiers.

“They’re all a bunch of faggots,” said one whore to the other.

“Ernie, luv,” pleaded the sailor, “we’ve got to get back on board or we’ll be beached in this hellhole. Ernie, mate, wake up.”

Ernie’s head lolled on his chest.

“Listen to me, you runt,” said the madame. She was shaking the chaise longue’s occupant by the lapels. “You’re drunk and you’ll bring the coppers down on my neck.”

“Do it again, baby,” he spluttered, dropping the glass with a crash onto the floor. “Just wiggle me nice and easy…”

“C’mon, MacQueen,” said the sergeant. They bolted the whisky, and both grimaced.

The madame squashed a hat onto the head of her would-be suitor and frog-marched him to the door. “You couldn’t get your pecker up if you were sober!” she said. The sergeant opened the door and she shoved the man into the hallway. “Go back to your hotel!” she ordered.

The sergeant held the door and MacQueen walked through it and descended the stairs. The sergeant closed the door and started to follow.

“That fuckin’ bitch stole my money!” exclaimed the man in the hall. He dropped his overcoat, adjusted the squashed fedora, and kicked the door with the bottom of one foot. The door caved in at its hinges and bounced off the stove. The madame had a coal scuttle in her hands and was pouring coal into the stove. She looked up in alarm. The sergeant looked over his shoulder and saw the man as a dark shadow above him. He saw the madame lift the scuttle over her head and throw it out the door. It hit the man on the head; he fell over and down the stairwell. He hit the sergeant between the shoulder blades and, together with the scuttle and a shower of black coal, they sprawled down the stairs.

MacQueen heard the commotion and stepped aside, nursing his injured arm. He tripped over the inert soldier in the hall and fell backwards. The banister cracked him over the head as it fell outwards.

“You crummy cock-sucking son of a bitch!” came from the top of the stairs.

The sergeant had twisted himself to fall on his back. The man landed on top of him with alcohol-induced inertness. The scuttle bounced off the front door. MacQueen lay on his back and opened his eyes. The little girl was standing directly above him, still clutching her doll. “Gimme a nickel,” said the little girl.

The sergeant rolled the man onto the floor and rose to his feet. “You okay, Pat?” he asked.

Patrick MacQueen started to laugh.

Someone opened the front door and pushed the scuttle aside. “Looks like quite a party!” said a voice from the snowy night.

The sergeant also started to laugh. He gently raised his nearly hysterical friend to his feet. He brushed coal dust from his cast and his blackened face.

“If this isn’t the utter god-damned end!” he said. “Come on, Pat, let’s get out of here before the cops arrive.”

“I didn’t know you were Catholic,” said MacQueen with incongruity as they stepped over the debris. They warned three sailors, two with red pom-poms on their hats, to go somewhere else.

“My mother is a convert,” answered the sergeant. “The worst kind.”

The snow had deepened. Lights from the harbour reflected through the gentle flurries and cars were driving off the Dartmouth ferry that plied the harbour at all hours. The traffic on Water Street was minimal; a few dark figures huddled in doorways or dazedly tried to find their bearings in this ghostly, weary city. A sturdy tugboat chugged past the end of a wharf, with a stoker looking out the hatch of his warm engine room. A distant foghorn sounded at intervals. The snow silently covered everyone’s despair. A new year was approaching, and everything only looked worse.