Read The Incident Report Online
Authors: Martha Baillie
Our pleasureâmine and the pockmarked patron'sâsang in the air. She, the patron, ran her
fingers through her lank hairâa regrettable habitâand thanked me. It is of course impossible to measure the intensity of another person's pleasure.
“Janko, who taught you to bake?”
“My mother.”
“Do all Slovenian men know how to bake?”
“I am the only one.”
“How old were you when your mother taught you to bake a plum tart?”
“I was ten or maybe twelve. I don't remember.”
“This is a delicious tart. I have no choice but to marry you.”
“And you will live with me in this horrible little apartment?”
“I will.”
“And you will be miserable, and become angry with me.”
“I won't.”
“I will find your anger impossible.”
“It won't happen that way, Janko.”
“Did I tell you? I've dropped out of computer school.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Two days ago.”
“You didn't tell me.”
“I've painted two copies of Roman frescoes. They are now aging in my bathtub.”
“Can I see them?”
“Later. They are not old enough yet. I've contacted someone who says he can sell them for a good price. There will be no lying. People will know the frescoes are not real but won't care, so long as the pictures look convincing and expensive. You were right.”
“Good.”
“Until I find out how many people in Miami, Florida, want to pay a good price for fake frescoes, I will continue to drive a cab.”
“It's a good plan, an excellent plan.”
“There's one piece of tart left. Who is going to eat it?”
“You are.”
“I'll cut it in half.”
“It's delicious, Janko, but I'm full.”
“Very good. I'll eat my half, and afterwards I'll eat your half.”
At precisely 6:00 this evening, the squat, well-spoken female patron with the nervous disposition, and interested in the paintings of Giuseppe Arcimboldo, approached the Reference Desk. She slid
The Rituals of Dinner
, an excellent book by Margaret Visser, across the desk for my inspection, and asked if I might recommend another work of equal quality, also on the history of eating.
“I would particularly appreciate anything you can find on the use of food to depict the human body, in works of art from any century,” she clarified.
I willingly embarked upon the mission she'd assigned me, and began ferreting out possible titles from within our labyrinthine catalogue.
“I am researching,” she explained, her hands restless in her lap. “I am researching cannibalism during the French Revolution.”
She was watching me closely. She was observing me with anticipation.
“I don't often divulge the nature of my research,” she confessed quite wryly, and her long fingers took flight from her lap. “Cannibalism arouses fear. As a subject of research, it repulses. People retreat and I
become the victim of their unfounded loathing.” Her fingers combed her lank hair.
I did not loathe her, and I could have told her so. I chose to remain silent instead, as was my right, according to the Rules and Regulations. I could feel her oppressive closeness. I continued my search for titles of books similar to and comparable in quality to Margaret Visser's
The Rituals of Dinner
.
This morning, at precisely 9:30
AM
, one of the smallest and oldest of our male patrons was dropped off by his wife. He wears without fail, regardless of the weather, a plaid bow tie, and marks the ends of his sentences with a vigorous sniff that suggests the day is on probation, his judgment of it pending. His wife, who is considerably younger than he, a tall, austere woman, delivers him to us nearly every morning with perfunctory efficiency, then continues on her way. Her high heels click on the tiled floor of the library foyer. Her patrician bonesâcheek, collar and wristâwhere they press against her unblemished skin, appear worthy of admiration. At the end of the day she collects him.
Though the patron in question makes every effort to appear obedient in his wife's presence, in her absence he cannot hide the cunning look in his eye. He conceals candies in his pocket and jots down telephone numbers in his address book, numbers he dials while his wife is gone, using the pay phone in the library foyer.
I suspect his wife knows he won't live forever. Last winter he slipped on the ice and broke his leg in three separate places.
The time was 2:04
PM
. An exceptionally long-limbed male patron, a regular with wiry white hair drawn back in a short ponytail, and an amused expression in his bright eyes, requested one of the daily newspapers that we keep behind the desk. He stood motionless as a stork, though not on one leg, and from his great height, unhurried, contemplated the circulation desk. He was wearing a paisley necktie that matched his frayed jacket surprisingly well. I complimented him upon his appearance.
“Ah, this, well, the wind was up this morning, and I thought of a scarf, but then that might have been a bit much in this weather, though it was too cold to wear my shirt open at the neck. So I put on this tie, which I've had for, oh, some thirty years, it can't be true, but there it is, some thirty years. Do you know what they call this pattern? Paisley. And do you know why? It's a wee place some fifteen kilometres to the west, and you can see it from Glasgow, but never mind. This old tie, it might be made in Scotland, I'm not sure. Let's see now.”
He twisted his tie so I could read the label. It was in fact made in Scotland.
“The jacket, of course, is old as well, but bearing up. And I'm willing to confess I found it. Quite a lovely blue, don't you think?” He tossed me a flirtatious smile. “Oh, I don't mind admitting, I do salvage a useful object here and there. Someone had thrown out this lovely jacket, and a pair of pants as well. The pants were not quite the same blue, and they didn't last long. Big holes in the knees, I had to let them go. But the jacket is quite fine, holding up well, I believe. Quite nice, don't you think?”
He held out the lapels for me to admire, and playfully puffed up his bony chest, grinning with pleasure like a child at a party, but with a look of irony in his eyes.
It was then that another patron, also a regular, came up to the desk. This man turned to the unsuspecting first patron and shouted, “She was my colleague, we were working at the same clinic when we met and I married her, and what a bitch she turned out to be.”
The first patron nodded politely, ran his tongue along his upper teeth and listened while the second patron continued to pour out his anguish. “She climbed into bed with one of my patients. She's been harassing me ever since, followed me here from Cochrane, can't get rid of her, had a restraining order put on her. A real bitch.”
I knew the second man's stormy tale by heart. Over the past few months he'd mistaken numerous
female patrons for his ex-wife, and each time he'd pointed at the woman and yelled, “Get her away from me.”
I slipped away from the desk, leaving the two men to their conversation.
When I returned some ten minutes later, both men were gone. But soon enough the lanky Scotsman reappeared. He cleared his throat and straightened his necktie.
“Well, now, if you'll recall, we were discussing clothing and the curious difficulty some of us have in parting with certain garments. There was one such garment I bought in 1946, and I've dragged it along with me ever since. A
housecoat
. Of course, nobody in my family wore such a thing, a
housecoat
, and neither did any of the people we knew. We were what you'd call poor, working-class people. But I bought myself this
housecoat
anyway. It's made of felt. I'm not sure it's entirely fabricated from wool, but there's wool in the mix for sure, and now, as you might expectâit was purchased in 1946, as I believe I mentionedâit has big gaping holes under the arms. It hangs in my wardrobe, quite alone, and I don't have many occasions to wear it. But in the winter when the house is cold and I don't want to turn up the heat too high, I'll pull it on and wrap it around me, and this garment, this
housecoat
, does
prove useful enough. It has white piping along the edges of its pockets and cuffs and such, and silver stitches, if you please.”
I walked with my eyes closed.
“This way, this way, good. I won't let you trip.”
“Are we nearly at the greenhouse?”
“Almost.”
“Is the moon still out.”
“Yes.”
“Is anyone else around?”
“No. Nobody I can see, except two men.”
“Where are they?”
“Some place far away, walking their dogs. Off by the edge of the park. They each have a dog. One small dog is white, with short legs and short fur, one big dog is brown with curls.”
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome. Is there something else you would like to see?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? You could see a lot through my eyes. The trees are casting dark precise shadows.”
“What happens when we reach the greenhouse?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“I then close my eyes, Darkest Miriam, and it's your turn to lead me.”
“Where to?”
“Home.”
“You don't have a home, Janko.”
“Don't I?”
“No.”
“What about my apartment?”
“No.”
“And my paintings?”
“They are the closest thing you have to a home.”
“What if I have children? Where will they live?”
“You won't have children.”
“I won't? You are deciding I won't have children? But I want to have children.”
“I don't see you having any.”
“You mean you don't want me to have any? Is that what you mean?”
“I haven't any idea if I want you to or not. I'm saying what I see when I close my eyes.”
“Open your eyes.”
“Have we reached the greenhouse?”
“No.”
“Then why should I open them?”
“Open them, Darkest Miriam.”
“No.”
“Do you want me to leave you here?”
“Are you afraid of what I'll see, if I keep my eyes closed?”
“Afraid. Afraid. Why are you always thinking about fear? Life is bigger than fear.”
“Are you afraid of what I'll see if I keep them closed?”
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“I am afraid of what you will see if you keep your eyes closed.”
“Then I'll open them.”
“Thank you.”
“They're open now.”
“Good. I see that they are. And you see, we are not far from the greenhouse.”
“It doesn't matter anymore, Janko.”
“You are disappointed?”
“The moon is gone.”
“It will come back.”
“I was only imagining.”
“You said that I won't have any children. It sounded like a curse. You didn't mean to curse me, but that is how it sounded.”
“I said what I saw, what I saw with my eyes shut. Not what I wanted to see.”
“Don't close your eyes again.”
“Not even to sleep?”
“For sleep, you are allowed to close them, but not to predict my future.”
“I'm sorry, Janko.”
“Is it true that you don't care if I ever have children or not, Darkest Miriam?”
“I don't know.”
“I want children. One day I want to be a father. I want you to be the mother of my children, of our children.”
“How do you know I'll be a good mother?”
“You will be a good mother.”
“Close your eyes, Janko. It's your turn to close your eyes.”
“Where are we going?”
“Home.”
When I was a young child and rode on my father's shoulders, the view was excellent, though it swayed. I kept my eye on the shifting horizon, while he kicked small stones out of our path.
“The Doctor next morning was rubbing his hands, and saying, âThere's nobody quite understands these cases like I do! The cure has begun! How fresh the chrysanthemums look in the sun!' The Dormouse lay happy, his eyes were so tight he could see no chrysanthemums, yellow or white, and all that he felt at the back of his head were delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red).”