The Letter Opener Page 6

  Paolo and I must have spent two hours walking through Parkdale, weaving along every street east of Ronscesvalles. The sun was baking the tar on the roads and the flowers drooped in the heat. Paolo had taken off his cotton jacket and there was a dark sweat patch between his shoulder blades. My feet were throbbing, so when Paolo pointed to a small Vietnamese noodle shop, I quickly agreed to stop for lunch and aborted my secret search.

  Until Andrei came along, it was just Paolo and me. For nearly four years, Paolo was the centre of my life outside of work.

  We met at a record store in a downtown mall. I noticed his T-shirt first. It had a picture of Thelonius Monk in profile. I asked him where he got it. His fingers were deftly flicking through rows of vinyl but he stopped, kept one finger on a record jacket to mark his place, peered at his watch and replied, “One thirty-five.” I laughed at the misunder-standing. His voice was strangely melodious.

  Paolo’s eyes were steady and smiling. They peered out from behind a pair of rectangular glasses. He was wearing a belt that missed two loops on his black jeans. We ended up talking until his lunch break was over and he had to return to work.

  Before he walked away, he told me the name of the flower store in the mall where he was employed. I followed him a half hour later, enjoying the continual flow of the shopping concourse, its expanding and contracting sense of space, the brightly lit signs for shops called Desire and Mecca, the din and drift of closely packed people.

  Bloom, at the north end of the mall, had elaborate gift baskets hanging at the front. One wall was lined with a refrigeration system, the other with flower boxes. Misted roses glistened in a glass vase. Paolo was cutting up bright yellow organza ribbon to tie around bouquets. Clippers, a watering can, loose stems of baby’s breath were scattered on the counter. Tiny white flower heads were burred to his brown cardigan. His face opened when he saw me. He pushed his glasses back on his nose with a knuckle, reached into the refrigerator behind him and handed me a purple flower with a long, thin stalk. It smelled sweet and spicy.

  “It’s pretty. Thank you,” I said as I rolled the stem between my middle finger and thumb. I wondered what it would be like to kiss his mouth. There was a fullness to his bottom lip that made me feel agreeably agitated.

  “It’s a bit overripe.”

  “Overripe?” (His lip? No, silly, not his lip.) I blushed.

  “Withered, I mean. The petals should be crisp, not so limp.”

  “It still smells good.” I smiled.

  “I think so too.” He smiled back.

  All sorts of people came into the flower shop from day to day, excited brides-to-be, nervous first-daters, corporate banquet planners. Paolo created hand-tied bouquets of the silkiest Ecuadorian roses, flamboyant arrangements of lilies and towering displays of birds of paradise. The rhythm of retail life, the comfort of familiar tools and props, allowed him to engage people in social exchanges he would otherwise have avoided. Like the shy intellectual who comes alive on the dance floor, Paolo had an extroverted shop persona. The flowers were an expression of some inner exuberance.

  It was from Paolo that I learned to tell the difference between freesia and lisianthus, bearded irises and orchids. It wasn’t a simple or transparent relationship; there were times when the man sitting across from me was a stranger, one who revealed little about himself or Argentina, the country of his birth. Yet some force, some mutual want, held us tightly.

  Paolo was twenty-nine when we met, four years my senior. I had assumed from his face that he was even older. Top and bottom relayed contrasting messages. His body was lank like a teenager’s, but the skin around his dark brown eyes was creased and shadowed and his dishevelled hair was already flecked with grey.

  On our third anniversary, Paolo suggested we move in together. We were sitting at the kitchen table. My cat, Miko, was curled up on Paolo’s lap.

  “It seems natural,” he said. “Why should we both be living alone and be paying double rent when we don’t have to?”

  “I don’t—” I started.

  “We could share this apartment or find a new one, something with three bedrooms, maybe a small garden.”

  I felt my stomach tighten. “I like the way things are.”

  “I’d cook and clean,” he said, ignoring me.

  I know of people who adore the idea of having a live-in companion, couples who toss their laundry casually into the washing machine and delight in knowing that their clothes tumble dry together, couples who believe that cohabitation represents the pinnacle of love. As much as I love Paolo, as much as it reassures me to be in his company, I cannot imagine being part of such a couple. Ever since I was a child, I’ve needed space to myself. I’ve always enjoyed the melancholy world of single portions, solitary walks and undisturbed nights. I thought he shared this inclination. It was one of the qualities that made him attractive to me.

  “I’m here half the time as it is. I just don’t have my stuff here.”

  My silence was too long; it angered Paolo. “It’s only stuff, for God’s sake,” he shouted. Miko, startled, jumped off his lap onto the floor.

  “It’s not the stuff,” I said. Even though it was the stuff. Having defined myself for so long by my solitude, I greeted the prospect of Paolo moving in with a vague sense of loss, followed by a wave of fear. No matter how hard I tried, I was unable to achieve the offhand attitude some people have toward cohabiting. It did not please me in the least to imagine my personal effects being joined with Paolo’s.

  Though I always did a botch job trying to explain it to Paolo, I saw two major drawbacks to living together. The first was the likelihood of physical and mental disruption. There are certain assurances that come with living by yourself. No matter how many times you may come and go, you know that your furniture and belongings will remain a beacon of reliability. If you decide to place your sandals on top of the stereo speaker, for instance, you know they will stay there until you decide to move them. If you have to go to the washroom in the middle of the night, you know you won’t do so at your own peril, tripping over someone else’s misplaced gym bag or guitar case. When you live with someone, such guarantees of equilibrium go out the window. Suddenly the person may decide to put down a zigzag column of orange traffic pylons.

  The second and more significant drawback is that if and when the relationship ends there is more to sift through and separate. In my experience, what gets blended eventually gets divided. Then you’re left with bare hangers, blank shelves and jutting nails where framed pictures hung just the day before.

  “Things are good,” I said.

  “Okay, okay, I’ll drop it,” he said, in a tone that indicated he intended to do no such thing.

  He paused, then added, grinning, “I could section my things off from yours. Get some of that yellow police tape.”

  “Very funny.” I punched him lightly on the arm. “Listen. I’ll promise you Tuesday, Thursday and Friday nights from now until eternity.”

  “That’s just it. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a relationship that was a little less programmed?”

  While Paolo had revealed himself to be a coupler, a nester, I took it for granted that Andrei was a loner, that he was predisposed to keeping his own company most of the time, and that we shared this tendency. I once tried to determine what he did when he was not at work or with me. (Did he have lovers in Canada? Would he tell me if he did?) When I asked what he did to amuse himself on his days off, he shrugged and said:

  “I read. I exercise. But mostly, I practise.”

  “What do you practise?”

  “I must learn to speak better, so I practise English. I am only a mediocre draughtsman, so I practise drawing. In the evenings sometimes I go to a café near my house and I practise chess because my playing is only so-so. It allows me to meet my fellow expatriates.”

  When he said this his eyes brightened. “There is an older Pole I know who is a grand master. He used to play with Khalifman in St. Petersburg, and one of my true desires
is to beat him just once. Last time he won he teased me. He reached over the board and pulled my bangs to one side and said: ‘Draw the curtains next time or I might think you’re sleeping.’”

  Andrei touched his newly cut hair as an epilogue to the story. Then something seemed to catch his attention and he traced a finger along the base of his skull. “I am turning into my father, how do you say it, spitting image? These dents at the back. I’m like a bowling ball!” Then he smiled in a way that seemed forced.

  I struggled to convince Paolo that our current arrangement was the best way of ensuring our relationship would last. As a consolation, I made an extra set of keys and invited him to keep a few of his things at my place. Despite the offer, he didn’t end up storing much—a toiletries bag, some extra clothes, a few CDs, a bottle of chimichurri sauce, some Maalox.

  I made one other concession. I let him do my laundry when he needed to fill out a load. I know “let him” is an odd way of putting it, but everyone has chores they like to take care of by themselves and it took a while for me to get used to seeing Paolo stuffing my sheets and clothes into the washer, measuring soap and setting dials, waiting for the whoosh of the water into the machine.

  My friendship with Andrei was something that Paolo took a long time to accept. In Paolo’s mind, Andrei’s arrival coincided with my rejection of his proposal that we live together. As he saw it, the closer I got to Andrei, the more my attention toward him seemed to fade. There was no doubt that it shaped his attitude toward Andrei.

  On the rare occasions they saw each other, usually when Paolo came to meet me after work, Paolo acted distant, almost conde-scending toward Andrei. The tension in the room was palpable, but I refused to be on edge as I often was when I tried to hinge people together. I did not want to be a connector or a message carrier, something I had announced long ago to my parents. So I left it to them to sort out their differences, and over the summer their relationship seemed to improve. Paolo behaved more sociably toward Andrei and Andrei eventually returned the gesture by inviting us to join him at his apartment for a meal.

  The dinner took place in October, right around Thanksgiving. We got off to a strained start, but by midnight we had settled in. The dirty plates were soaking in the sink. We were lounging on the floor around a glass-topped coffee table. The pie that Paolo and I had brought was warming in the oven. I was feeling happily wine-drunk. Paolo and Andrei were immersed in a discussion of the music they liked. Delta blues. Charlie Patton. Robert Johnson. A cassette played. Scratch and hiss. Sliding steel strings. Johnson’s rasp rising into a flickering falsetto howl. I was so relieved that they had found something to talk about, I left them alone and floated around the apartment, tidying, nudging newspapers back into stacks, stopping at Andrei’s desk to note a copy of Time magazine beside an open Oxford dictionary, peering at a familiar mother-and-child Klimt picture pinned to the wall beside a postcard of two men seated on a camel. The smell of baking apples sweetened the air. I offered to run to the all-night store and get some ice cream, and was gone for about fifteen minutes. We ate our dessert and Andrei opened a bottle of port he had been given by a Portuguese neighbour.

  When we left that evening, Andrei gave us each a hug, and then kissed me on the cheek. For a second I thought he wanted to say something, but the second passed and he raised his hand and gave me a goodbye salute. Paolo and I walked slowly down the stairs, both lost in our own thoughts. As we wove our way down the street, the night was filled with the smell of raked leaves and wood smoke.

  I have often wondered what happened after we left. Did Andrei begin washing up? Did he switch on his television or turn on the radio? Did he contentedly fix himself a cup of tea? Or did he have a troubled, sleepless night knowing that he would soon be leaving us all behind?

  I asked Paolo one night following Andrei’s disappearance what they had discussed while I was gone. We were lying in bed.

  “There is something…I was wondering…” I started tentatively. “Do you remember the last time you spoke with Andrei? We were at his apartment. I slipped out to the store and when I returned the two of you were deep in a conversation. When I walked in you were saying something about jet lag or flying. Something about the first time you travelled by plane, and how it was so fast there was no time to withdraw from the place you had left and adjust to the place you had arrived in.”

  Through the bedroom window I could see clouds tracking slowly across the moon. I needed Paolo to share his thoughts, but I was cautious. I feared an argument.

  In the darkness beside me, Paolo said, “He didn’t say anything about leaving, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  His yawn told me there should be no further questioning. I took the cue—what good would pressing do? Andrei was gone. I had dissected every minute of our last moments in early December. I had tried to understand what had happened, but so far I could detect no motive or forewarning. Andrei had simply vanished.

  I stayed up reading after Paolo fell asleep, not yet tired enough to close my eyes. When I did eventually sleep, the dream returned. This time, I was standing away from him. I could see the circular motion of the birds, hear the beating of wings. The movement was now smooth and regular. As the birds rose they appeared to melt into an orange sky. Once they had disappeared, Andrei lowered his head and saw me. Our eyes locked for a moment. When I awoke at 4 a.m., the warm colour of the dream stayed with me.

  I got up for a glass of water, and when I returned to the bedroom, I slipped into bed as quietly as possible. Paolo’s sleeping body was radiating warmth. His mouth was slightly open, and as I peered into his deeply dreaming face, I could feel my heart quicken. Sleep had laid him open. All the muscles of his face had relaxed, rearranging his features. His nose drooped closer to his mouth. The distance between his eye and his cheek had diminished. I observed a fresh vulnerability. As I shifted toward him, he stirred for a moment, then gave a soft grunt. I curled my body against his. The steady rhythm of his breath was reassuring. I closed my eyes.

  Paolo, I knew, wanted to make me happy, but for that he needed more from me. It was in his blood to take care of things—plants, flowers—just as it was in mine, despite the nature of my job, to mess them up.

  I felt a light touch on my arm, and I looked to see Paolo staring at me. He kissed my forehead.

  I gently rubbed his chest. “Do you think we’re good together?” I whispered.

  “Most of the time,” he whispered back.

  “What makes us good?”

  “Balance. I don’t know. We’re a nice combination, I suppose.” His eyelids were heavy. He yawned. His tongue clucked for moisture.

  “Like igloo and polar bear?” I said.

  “Hmm?” he said faintly, drifting off again.

  “Never mind,” I said to his sleeping face.

  As I lay beside him, the sound of a streetcar wafted through the window. In the fluttering of near sleep, the distant clanging became abstract, spinning and shifting in my mind until it was the groan of an anchor being hoisted above the water. The pull of it was hypnotic. The sound splintered again and the flotsam of a world I could never have known came streaming in.

  Before Andrei arrived, I had enjoyed the hush in my mind. But he brought with him the racket of the Cernavoda port, the clamour of the canal opening, the clink of a jib hitting a mast, the lapping of water against the hull of a boat, the creak of a wooden storage crate. Each sound brought an image, each image expanded, gathering in the eaves of my brain and overflowing, spilling into everything else. At times, the sounds obsessed me, pulsing with urgency, like a far-off distress signal.

  How could this be? I had never been inside the depths of a ship or at sea. Could another person’s memories capture my mind, draw me unresistingly into someone else’s past?

  Seven

  Baba kept a desk on the main floor but spent most of his time in the only separate room, a vault-like chamber, sorting valuables and precious items and depositing them in a row of security lockers.
On slow days, I liked to take my break in there and watch him while he worked. I found it mesmerizing, the swiftness with which he arranged things into piles, the theatrical way he lowered his eyebrows and pushed out his lips when he encountered a clue, his Hercule Poirot manner when it was necessary to investigate further: a white-gloved hand slipped into the cool neck of a silver vase, a jeweller’s eyeglass placed on a locket.

  My job as a mail recovery worker involved restoring more ordinary things. Lesser goods. The sort of things that fell into the cracks of people’s couches or cropped up at neighbourhood flea markets. Boy Scout badges, vacation photos, Magic Markers, teeth moulds. A medical X-ray. A book of Sufi poetry. A Leonard Cohen audio cassette. Nothing was too small to matter to someone, somewhere.

  Every day, inquiring letters arrived at my desk. Some had photos of the lost object enclosed; some attached a hastily sketched facsimile. Many letters contained exceptionally detailed accounts, proceeding on the assumption that an item was likely to be handled more carefully and/or returned more promptly if it was given a personal identity.

  “Moo-moo” has been part of the family for generations. Over the years, he has travelled to Birmingham, Berlin, Montreal and the Hamptons. I sincerely hope he can be found and forwarded to my grandson at the enclosed address.

  Others were written in handwriting distorted by grief.

  All we have left of our son Stewart is a toothbrush, a digital wristwatch and a few other personal effects, which the hospital gave us in a clear plastic bag when we went to sign the death forms. We were sending a few of these keepsakes on to his brother in Yellowknife…

  A few people chose to write their letters from the object’s vantage point.

  I am a silver heart-shaped locket. If you open my belly you will see a tiny picture of a man with wavy blond hair and a tan. That man sent me to the woman who he plans to marry but I must have got lost on the way. I am anxious to be united with her…