Authors: Margaret Atwood
T
he heat of summer has come without warning. One day it was still cold spring, with gusting showers and chilly white clouds remote above the glacial blue of the lake; then suddenly the daffodils withered, the tulips burst open and turned inside out as if yawning, then dropped their petals. Cesspool vapours rise from back yards and gutters, and a mist of mosquitoes condenses around every pedestrian’s head. At noon the air shimmers like the space above a heated griddle, and the lake glares, its margin stinking faintly of dead fish and frog spawn. At night Simon’s lamp is besieged by moths, which flutter around him, the soft touch of their wings like the brushing of silken lips.
He is dazed by the change. Living through the more gradual seasons of Europe, he’d forgotten these brutal transitions. His clothing is heavy as fur, his skin seems always damp. He’s under the impression that he smells like bacon fat and soured milk; or perhaps it’s his bedchamber that smells this way. It hasn’t been thoroughly cleaned for far too long, nor the sheets changed: no suitable maid-of-all-work has yet been located, though Mrs. Humphrey details her
efforts along these lines to him every morning. According to her, the departed Dora has been spreading stories around the town – among all the potential servant-girls, at least – about how Mrs. Humphrey has not paid her, and is about to be turned out bag and baggage, on account of having no money; and also about how the Major has run off, which is even more disgraceful. So of course, she tells Simon, it stands to reason that no servants wish to take their chances in such a household. And she smiles a rueful smile.
She herself has been cooking the breakfasts, which they continue to share at her table – her suggestion, to which he’s agreed, as it would be humiliating for her to have to carry a tray up. Today Simon listens to her with fretful inattention, toying with his humid toast, and with his egg that he now takes fried. At least with a fried egg there are no surprises.
Breakfast is all she can manage; she is subject to fits of nervous prostration and headache, brought on by the reaction to shock – or so he assumes, and has told her – and by afternoon is invariably stretched out on her bed, with a wet cloth pressed to her forehead, giving off a strong smell of camphor. He can’t let her starve herself to death, so although for the most part he eats his meals at the wretched inn, from time to time he attempts to feed her.
Yesterday he bought a chicken from a rancorous crone in the market, but not until he got it home did he discover that although it had been plucked, it had not been cleaned. He could not face the task – he’d never cleaned a chicken before in his life – and thought of disposing of the avian corpse. A walk by the lakeshore, a swift fling of the arm … But then he recalled that it was only a dissection, after all, and he’d dissected worse than chickens; and once he had his scalpel in hand – he’s kept the tools of his former trade with him, in their leather satchel – he was all right again, and managed a neat incision. After that, things got worse, but he’d come through it all
right by holding his breath. He cooked the chicken by cutting it into pieces and frying it. Mrs. Humphrey came to the table, saying she felt a little better, and ate a good deal of it for one so fragile; but when the washing up had to be done she suffered a relapse, and Simon was left to do it himself.
The kitchen is even greasier than it was when he first entered it. Dust rolls have gathered under the stove, spiders in the corners, breadcrumbs beside the sink; a family of beetles has moved into the pantry. It is alarming how quickly one descends into squalor. Something must be done soon, some slave or lackey acquired. In addition to the dirt, there is the question of appearances. He cannot continue to live alone in this house with his landlady: especially not such a tremulous landlady, and one deserted by her husband. If it becomes generally known and people begin to talk – no matter how groundless such talk would be – then his reputation and professional standing may suffer. Reverend Verringer has made it plain that the enemies of the Reformers will use any means, however base, to discredit their opponents, and in case of a scandal he’d be given his discharge in short order.
He could at least do something about the state of the house, if he could summon the will for it. In a pinch he could sweep the floors and stairway, and dust the furniture in his own rooms; but there would still be no hiding the odour of muted disaster, of slow and dispirited decay, that breathes from the limp curtains and accumulates in the cushions and woodwork. The advent of the summer heat has made it worse. He remembers with nostalgia the clatter of Dora’s dustpan; he has gained a new respect for the Doras of this world, but although he longs for such household problems to resolve themselves, he has no idea how this may be accomplished. Once or twice he’s thought of asking Grace Marks for advice – how a maid should properly be hired, how a chicken should properly be
cleaned – but he has thought better of it. He must retain his position of all-knowing authority in her eyes.
Mrs. Humphrey is talking again; the subject is her gratitude to him, as it often is while he is eating his toast. She waits until his mouth is full, then launches in. His gaze wanders over her – the pale oval of her face, her stringent and bloodless hair, her crackling black silk waist, her abrupt white edgings of lace. Underneath her stiff dress there must be breasts, not starched and corset-shaped, but made of soft flesh, with nipples; he finds himself idly guessing what colour these nipples would be, in sunlight or else in lamplight, and how large. Nipples pink and small like the snouts of animals, of rabbits or mice perhaps; or the almost-red of ripening currants; or the scaly brown of acorn caps. His imagination runs, he notes, to wildwood details, and to things hard or alert. In reality this woman does not attract him: such images arrive unsummoned. His eyes feel squeezed – not a headache yet, but a dull pressure. He wonders if he’s running a low fever; this morning he examined his tongue in the mirror for telltale blanching and spots. A bad tongue looks like cooked veal: greyish white, with a scum on it.
The life he’s leading is not healthy. His mother is right, he should marry. Marry or burn, as St. Paul says; or search out the usual remedies. There are houses of ill repute in Kingston, as everywhere, but he cannot avail himself of them as he might in London or Paris. The town is too small and he is too conspicuous, his position too precarious, the Governor’s wife too pious, the enemies of Reform too ubiquitous. It’s not worth the risk, and in any case the houses here are bound to be depressing. Sadly pretentious, with a provincial idea of the alluring in their wistfully upholstered furnishings. Too much brocade and fringe. But also briskly utilitarian – run on the North American mill-town factory principle of quick processing, and dedicated to the greatest happiness of the greatest number, no matter
how grim and minimal the quality of that happiness may be. Soiled petticoats, whores’ sunless flesh pallid as uncooked pastry and smudged by the thick tarry fingers of sailors; and by those, more manicured, of the occasional Government legislator, travelling through, sheepishly incognito.
It’s just as well he must avoid these places. Such experiences drain the mental energies.
“Are you ill, Dr. Jordan?” asks Mrs. Humphrey, as she hands him a second cup of tea, which she has poured for him without being asked. Her eyes are motionless, green, marine, the pupils small and black. He wakes with a start. Has he been asleep?
“You were pressing your hand to your forehead,” she says. “Do you have a pain there?”
She has a habit of materializing outside his door while he’s trying to work, asking if there is anything he needs. She is solicitous of him, tender almost, yet there is something cringing about her, as if she’s waiting for a slap, a kick, a flat-handed blow, which she knows with dreary fatalism will surely come sooner or later. But not from him, not from him, he protests silently. He is a mild-tempered man, he has never been given to outbursts, to rampages and violence. There is no news of the Major. He thinks of her naked feet, shell-thin, exposed and vulnerable, tied together with – where has this come from? – an ordinary piece of twine. Like a parcel. If his sub-threshold consciousness must indulge in such exotic poses, it ought to be able to supply at least a silver chain.…
He drinks the tea. It tastes of marshes, the roots of bulrushes. Tangled and obscure. He’s had some intestinal problems lately, and has been dosing himself with laudanum; fortunately he has a good supply. He suspects the water in this house; perhaps his intermittent digging in the yard has disturbed the well. His plan of a kitchen garden has come to nothing, though he’s turned over a satisfying
amount of mud. After his days spent wrestling with shadows, he finds it a curious relief to get his hands into something real, such as earth. But it’s getting too hot for that.
“I must go,” he says, and stands up, pushing back his chair, wiping his mouth brusquely, making a show of bustle, although in fact he has no appointment until the afternoon. Useless to stay in his room, to try to work; at his desk he will only doze, but with his ears alert, like a drowsing cat’s, attuned to the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
He goes out, wanders at random. His body feels insubstantial as a bladder, emptied of will. He is carried along beside the lakeshore; he squints into the immense morning light, passing here and there the solitary fishermen as they cast their lures into the tepid and indolent waves.
Once he’s with Grace, things are a little better, as he can still delude himself by flourishing his own sense of purpose. Grace at least represents to him some goal or accomplishment. But today, listening to her low, candid voice – like the voice of a childhood nurse reciting a well-loved story – he almost goes to sleep; only the sound of his own pencil hitting the floor pulls him awake. For a moment he thinks he’s gone deaf, or suffered a small stroke: he can see her lips moving, but he can’t interpret any of the words. This however is only a trick of consciousness, for he can remember – once he sets his mind to it – everything she’s been saying.
On the table between them lies a small and dispirited white turnip, which both of them have so far ignored.
He must concentrate his intellectual forces; he can’t afford to flag now, give in to lethargy, lose hold of the thread he’s been following over the course of these past weeks, for at last they are approaching together the centre of Grace’s narrative. They are nearing the blank mystery, the area of erasure; they are entering the forest of amnesia, where things have lost their names. In other words, they are retracing
(day by day, hour by hour) the events which immediately preceded the murders. Anything she says now may be a clue; any gesture; any twitch. She knows; she knows. She may not know that she knows, but buried deep within her, the knowledge is there.
The trouble is that the more she remembers, the more she relates, the more difficulty he himself is having. He can’t seem to keep track of the pieces. It’s as if she’s drawing his energy out of him – using his own mental forces to materialize the figures in her story, as the mediums are said to do during their trances. This is nonsense, of course. He must refuse to indulge such brain-sick fancies. But still, there was something about a man, in the night: has he missed it? One of those men: McDermott, Kinnear. In his notebook he has pencilled the word
whisper
, and underlined it three times. Of what had he wished to remind himself?
My dearest Son. I am alarmed that I have not heard from you for so long. Are you perhaps unwell? Where there are mists and fogs, there are bound to be infections; and I understand that the situation of Kingston is quite low, with many nearby swamps. One cannot be too careful in a garrison town, as soldiers and sailors are promiscuous in their habits. I hope you will take the precaution of keeping indoors as much as possible during this intense heat, and not going out in the sun
.
Mrs. Henry Cartwright has purchased one of the new domestic Sewing Machines, for the use of her servants; and Miss Faith Cartwright was so intrigued by it, that she has tried it herself, and was able to hem a petticoat with it, in very little time; which she most thoughtfully brought over yesterday, so that I might see the stitching, as she knows I am interested in the modern inventions. The Machine works tolerably well, though there is room for improvement – snarls of thread occur more often than is desirable, and must be cut or untangled – but such devices are never perfected at first; and Mrs. Cartwright says that her husband is of the opinion, that the shares in the company which manufactures these machines, would
prove a most sound investment over time. He is a most affectionate and considerate Father, and has given much study to the future welfare of his daughter, who is his only surviving Child
.
But I will not bore you with talk of money, as I know you find it tedious; although, dear Son, it does keep the larder supplied, and is the means for coming by those small comforts, which make the difference between a threadbare existence, and a life of modest ease; and as your dear Father used to say, it is a substance which does not grow on trees.…
Time is not running at its usual unvarying pace: it makes odd lurches. Now, too quickly, it’s evening. Simon sits at his desk, the notebook open before him, and stares stupidly out through the darkening square of window. The hot sunset has faded, leaving a purple smear; the air outside vibrates with insect whines and amphibious peepings. His entire body feels swollen, like wood in rain. From the lawn comes a scent of withering lilacs – a singed smell, like sunburned skin. Tomorrow is Tuesday, the day when he must address the Governor’s wife’s little salon, as promised. What can he possibly say? He must jot down a few notes, organize some sort of coherent presentation. But it’s no use; he can’t accomplish anything of importance, not tonight. He can’t think.
Moths beat against the lamp. He sets aside the question of the Tuesday meeting, and turns instead to his unfinished letter.
My dear Mother. My health continues excellent. Thank you for sending the embroidered watch-case made for you by Miss Cartwright; I am surprised you were willing to part with it, even though as you say it is too large for your own watch; and it is certainly exquisite. I expect to finish my work here quite soon
.…