Nate is running. He jogs up University, against the traffic, the sun glinting on the roofs and windshields of the oncoming cars, beating on his head. The blood in his ears is a gong, he heats like metal, the sidewalk thumps relentlessly against the soles of his feet. He tugs at his blue-striped shirt, neat citizen’s shirt for the collection of signatures, pulls it loose from the waist of his cords, lets it flap behind him. There’s a muggy wind which smells of garages and spilled oil.
At the Parliament Buildings he waits for a gap in traffic, sprints across, continues, under the porte-cochère, along beside the pinkish stone which used to be dingy brown before they sandblasted it. One day he may go into politics, he’s thought about it. Provincial, not municipal. Not federal, he has no yen for exile. But not yet, not yet.
His shadow paces him, thin and pinheaded, stretching away to his right, a blackness flickering over the grass. A premonition, always with him; his own eventual death. Which he will think about some other time.
He should pay more attention though, at least try. A regular schedule would do him good. Up at six, run for half an hour in the morning mists before the exhaust fumes get too bad. Then a frugal breakfast, watch the eggs and butter, cut down to a pack a day. With every drink a brain cell dies. Luckily there are billions of them; it will take him a while to go senile. If he could run he’d feel better, he could take hold, he knows it. Same time every day, on and on forever.
Right now he’s not going to make it around. Sweat drenches him, his breath rasps in his throat, oxygen sharpens all the edges. There’s nothing he will do forever. He heads for the War Memorial, halfway, but throws himself down on the grass before he reaches it, rolling onto his back. Small dots swim in the amniotic blue; rods and cones, black stars in his head. Beneath him grass strains upwards.
He’d like to be able to take Lesje somewhere, out into the country, the country which surely lies all around, though he can’t remember the last time he was there. But how would they get there? A bus, a walk along some uncharted and dusty gravel road? Never mind. They could make love, slowly and gently, under some trees or in a field, gold waving over them and the smell of crushed grass. The possible day shimmers ahead of him, an oval of light; in this light Lesje is indistinct, her features shine and blur, her dark hair melts in his hands, her body extended white and lean on the grass shifts itself, glows, fades. It’s as if he’s too close to her to be able to see her, fix her in his mind. When he’s away from her he can barely remember what she looks like.
Though he can see Elizabeth distinctly, every line and shadow. He used to take Elizabeth out into the country, before Janet was born, before he sold the car. But she didn’t want to climb fences and crawl under bushes and he’d lacked the trick of persuading her. Instead they went to auctions, farm sales, families giving up or too old who were selling off their belongings. Elizabeth did the bidding, kitchen chairs, bundles of spoons, while he stood at the soft drink and hot-dog stand, hands in his pockets fingering pennies, keys, feeling out of place, a scavenger.
• • •
He thinks of Elizabeth, briefly, with detachment. For a moment she’s someone he once knew. He wonders what has become of her. It’s the walks they never took, the fields he could never convince her to enter he regrets now.
He sits, takes off his damp shirt and wipes his head and chest with it, then spreads it beside him for the sun to dry. He’s chilly now despite the heat. In a few minutes, when he gets his breath, he’ll light a cigarette and smoke it. Perhaps he’ll throw half of it away. Then he’ll stand up and put his shirt back on. He’ll wait for a gap in the traffic and run across the road, lightly, on the balls of his feet.
He’ll walk north, past the Planetarium and its hoarding, which he can see from here. THE PLANETARIUM IS STILL OPEN. They’re adding a wing to the Museum; Lesje says it’s none too soon. ROM Wasn’t Built In A Day, says the plywood wall, punning on the Museum’s name, pleading for money. Another worthy cause. They’ll suck him dry, despite his sawdust heart.
He’ll climb the steps and lean in the same spot where he used to do time for Elizabeth, one shoulder against the stone. He’ll light another cigarette, watch the museum-goers passing in and out like shoppers, and wait for Lesje. She won’t be expecting him. Perhaps she’ll be surprised and pleased to see him; once he could count on it. Perhaps she’ll only be surprised, and possibly not even that. He anticipates this moment, which he cannot predict, which leaves room for hope and also for disaster. They will either go for a drink or not. In any case, they will go home.