The heavy glass door pushed inward, providing a minimal buffer against the continuous noise and stream of traffic, travelling north on Sussex Drive. On opposite side, across the four-lane road, on prime real estate, stood the architectural marvel that was the National Gallery of Canada. The stunning polygon Great Hall strutted upward like a victorious Goddess temple, emerging above the sunken courtyard and carved landscape, adding a glimmering touch of transparent green to the museum's foundation of blended pink and grey granite. The long, glass ramped colonnade naturally drew in the eyes of onlookers, connecting the main entrance to the Great Hall with a spectacular view of Parliament Hill.
Before entering into the bookstore, she stopped with the door handle in her hand and looked over to the gallery. Fifteen-foot banners were draped outside the colonnade, stretching long to the ground; the material flowing and curling at the edges, brought to life in the wind. She was thrilled to read: The Great Parade - Portrait of the Artist as Clown. She had read with enthusiasm the newspaper article and was grateful the trail of Picasso roamed far and wide. The exhibit included more than two hundred paintings, twenty-six Picasso paintings and drawings, exploring clown imagery in art. She made a mental note of the exhibition's date, beginning in June and running until end September. The advance notice would allow her ample time to plan accordingly. More than one visit would be warranted because her husband would agree the interest was justifiable.
Magdalene went inside. She heard loud rumblings in her empty stomach, realizing her breakfast of one grapefruit and a bowl of blueberries was insufficient. The store was waking up. It was shortly past 10:00 AM. She stopped just inside the main entrance and scanned the books delicately arranged on display, organized in a square; books lined opened spine to closed spine, resting flat atop the tables. There was no particular alphabetical order. Magdalene walked gradually around, reading covers, waiting for a title to jump out at her. She rarely went into her favourite bookstore with the intention of buying a particular book. A feeling of desire had to hit; the title or imagery had to appeal to her intuitive senses and curiosity before she would read a back-cover write-up.
A fluffy, grey, bushy tail floated underneath the table; the tip of the tail barely brushing against the underside. Pooh-Bear, the bookstore's pet cat, had arrived to greet Magdalene which was contrary to his typical disappearing act under a small door below the lower rack; only reappearing for certain customers. Magdalene bent lower to pet the mascot whose back curled in reaction to her welcoming touch.
“Nice to see you again, Magdalene,” said the sales clerk. “Pooh-Bear likes you. He ventures out especially for you. Usually, he just curls up in a ball and flakes out on the top shelf,” she said laughing. “Are you looking for anything in particular today?”
“It's nice to see you too, Sue. This time I'm here for a new poetry collection. I've tried to order it online… it's out of print for whatever reason.”
“What's the title?” asked the soft-spoken clerk; turning to the desk computer. “If you have the ISBN number that would be even better.”
“Give me a second,” said Magdalene, digging into her purse. She pulled out the slip of paper and handed it to the clerk. In Magdalene's script-like handwriting with broad, looping strokes on the T's and P’s, it read: The Burial of the Count of Orgaz and Other Poems by Pablo Picasso, ISBN 1-878972-36-7. The clerk keyed in the number and pulled up the information.
“You're right, it's temporarily unavailable. Why don't I order a copy direct from the U.S. publisher?”
“Could you? I've gone online and I've seen it for sale, though I'd prefer to buy it from you. One needs to support independent bookstores instead of buying at those monster chains,” she said sarcastically.
“They're more like supermarkets, aren't they? You can buy scented candles, and greetings cards and gimmicky things.”
“Yeah, I prefer smaller bookstores like yours. It’s comforting coming here… the colours, the style… I love it.”
“You're one of our favourite customers, Magdalene. I have your home address already. We’ll give you a call when the book comes in, probably in two weeks.”
“That would be fine, Sue… thanks. It's just crazy, you know, this book was only published a year ago and already it's difficult to get.”
“Even from the grave, Picasso mesmerizes women. You’ve bought every Picasso book sold here.”
“It's his creativity that enamours me, you know. I bought a large hardcover at that amazing little nook of a bookstore on Rideau Street, right next to the ByTowne Cinema for $11 called Picasso and Jacqueline. I felt lucky finding it, revealing photos… it's as though his creativity could not be stopped by any force, except maybe death, yet not even death has stopped him. Works of art lined every inch of space in the last house he and his wife owned.”
Magdalene caught a whiff of an unfamiliar scent, the scent of rising bread, not white or wheat but the stronger, deeper penetrating scent of pumpernickel or dark rye; the kind of smell that left her hankering, the juices in her mouth watering. Just as her head tilted up, breathing and inhaling deeply, a towering, striking, older man walked past the centre desk wearing a black overcoat. Magdalene turned and observed the back of his head. His hair was silver and trimmed neatly around his ears. His shoulders were broad. She felt a sense of power course through her loins and blinked, re-focusing her gaze on the back of his body. She remembered only ever feeling that intensity with Samuel. She became self-conscious and looked at the clerk just as his head turned toward her. Magdalene took back the slip of paper from the clerk. They were the only three in the store, not counting Pooh-Bear. The cat made a bee-line to the man, who picked him up, bringing the cat's face to his face. He showed no fear of being scratched, amused by the eager cat.
“Hello, little fellow, where did you come from?”
Magdalene saw his face. His eyebrows were dark against the lighter shade of his hair. His lips were full and luscious. Another feeling of odd familiarity rang in her head. Did she know him? There was something odd about him. The cat pushed his face up and smelled his eyebrows. The man laughed, gently placing the cat on the floor. The cat twirled around his leg, marking his pants.
“I'm so sorry, Sir. He'll leave a trail of hairs on your clothes.”
“That is quite all right. I am fond of felines,” the man said, smiling, looking at Magdalene. She stopped, like a statuette, holding the slip of paper as though it were a prayer card glued to her fingers. He continued to smile at her. Magdalene looked at the clerk, then back at the man. “Do you know him?” she asked the clerk softly.
“Never seen him before,” answered Sue.
“He’s an amazing looking specimen for an older man… and the way he moves…” The clerk laughed.
“Where we're located on Sussex, you can expect to run into all sorts of people, mostly tourists coming from the gallery or locals living in the market.”
Magdalene tucked the slip back into her pocket, mindlessly, while she looked at him again, her mind attempting to connect his face with her memory. He reminded her of someone, yet the harder she thought the less clear the idea became.
Pausing without moving, she suddenly shook her head, returning her attention to the shelves and the vast selection, looking upward, and beginning at the top row. The design layout of the store was homey in its simplicity with dark blue painted trestles trimming the thick orange maple shelves and large oval arches in bay windows, bathing the store and its marble pillars in natural light. Magdalene instinctively sought out the word Picasso. If there was a book she had not seen or heard of, surely her eyes would bring her to that particular prize. There were none. She abruptly spun around and bumped into him.
“Oh, pardon me…I'm sorry,” said Magdalene.
“It is I who should beg your pardon… my big, clumsy feet are slow to move,” he said in a gentle brogue. Her ears pricked up, recognizing the Scottish lilt, the rolling R’s softened yet audible.
“No worries,” said Magdalene. She moved back allowing him room to pass. He picked up the hardcover of The Da Vinci Code and thumbed through the thick pages.
“Have you read this?” asked the man. Magdalene looked back at the clerk, who continued to watch the man. His voice made her think of Samuel, the deep, soothing low tones was comforting.
“Actually yeah, I have… I liked it and finished it in about three days…that Dan Brown has a flare for writing drama but I found myself wanting more definition in his principal characters. For me, the book was a clever example of exposition, providing a somewhat implausible historical backdrop to support a dramatic plot, rather than developing memorable characters to support historical narrative. You never forget memorable characters. Plots, on the other hand are typically cliché and commonplace. After all, it's all been written before in some other time, some other country, by some other writer. Whereas, characters leave the reader with a residue.”
“Hugely popular, he has written others. I doubt they will achieve the same level of acceptance with the public as this one,” said the man as he put the book back onto the shelf, waiting for Magdalene to continue dialogue. She remained quiet.
“But this notion of high and low art is a ridiculous argument, would you not concur? One man’s treasure is another man’s garbage,” he noted.
“Like beauty… something that is held in the eye of the beholder,” she replied. “I think a reader gravitates to a particular subject matter that allows them to recognize themselves or at least to see a part of themselves that they wish existed.”
“A good book encourages readers to lose themselves. You are a visitor to Ottawa?” he asked, seamlessly slipping in his question.
“No, this is my hometown…have lived here since the seventies.”
“Ah, then you are the right woman to ask for a recommendation.”
“That all depends on what pleasures you seek,” answered Magdalene. The man smiled, dropping his eyes lower, noticing her pendant.
“Yes, indeed, pleasure, company and pleasant surroundings… I am interested in all of the above,” he said. “Your necklace is outstanding,” he remarked.
“Thanks. I picked it up at a tiny boutique on York Street …it’s handmade, one of a kind.” He reached out toward the pendant and softly lifted it without his fingers touching her skin. Magdalene wasn’t perturbed. She stayed in place, allowing him to scrutinize the pendant. It afforded her the opportunity to observe his skin tone, the coarseness of his beard, his extraordinary lips.
“I believe this is raw malachite,” he noted.
“Yeah…that’s what makes it unique.”
“Are you a believer in the mystical energies of gem stones?” he inquired.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” said Magdalene. “Malachite is particularly helpful for strengthening the heart, for health, not for durability against having it broken,” she noted laughing.
“A man can break the heart of any woman,” he said.
“Or women of men,” replied Magdalene. She pulled back a little and he dropped the pendant, remaining in one position, waiting for her to speak. Magdalene stood firm, looking into his eyes, looking into the darkness of his stare. She saw her own face reflected in his eyes. The image of Samuel practically strangled her.
“I must get moving along,” said Magdalene unexpectedly. She wasn’t accustomed to taking a defensive posture with men. Her relationship with Samuel had opened her up to her own power and sense of potential. Rarely did a species of male exist that could rattle her resolve.
“Yes, of course, I understand, my apologies, my dear. I have kept you from your morning shopping.”
She turned away from him and stopped, whipping back around. “I don’t mean to be rude. I…I…I don’t have an excuse. I’m not normally at a loss for words with men.”
“You are the one who is in control with men,” he answered. She walked back up to him, inches away from his body.
“I know you don’t I, except, I can’t place your face? It’s driving me crazy.” The silver-haired man smiled small; one corner of his mouth turned up as he extended his hand for Magdalene to shake, speaking to her clearly and delicately.
“My name is Sir William Simon Hennessy. I am Samuel Crimson's father. It is my great pleasure to finally meet you Magdalene.”
Magdalene’s face went blank; the soft skin tone rapidly lost its colour and drained to a dull shade of blanched white. Her hand continued to be held by Sir William. His body was relaxed and open, his free arm rising to hold her hand in his hand, to reaffirm the connection of flesh to flesh. He watched silently her stark expression. Her mouth draped opened. No words were articulated to register her shock.
“I’ve got to sit,” she finally said, searching for a reading chair.
“Yes, of course, my dear.” Sir William helped her to the nearest chair, guiding Magdalene's body lower. Her eyes looked up at him bewildered. He seemed all-powerful yet kindly. His words replayed in her mind as his distinctive voice spoke his name aloud. She swallowed hard.