Part 4 (1/2)

Wilf leans back and straightens his grey wool jacket lapels. Sometimes his face relaxes and you see that he is fifty-two. He has large eyes and a broad face. One of those faces that has got thicker over the years. He stares at the helium balloons framing the room-wide window that looks down on six lanes of curlers casting rocks. The tray of desserts being wheeled out, like a sweet patient.

Wilf: I like this set-up because you know you won't be talking to a load of drunks.

Lydia: Unlike last night.

It's hard to feel anything erotic as the poets whisper up their attempts at arousal. When it's my turn I realize the problem: eroticism rests on intimacy, and a roomful of people destroys this intimacy.

We eat dessert. We plough into the sweet patient.

The speaker system is accidentally attached to the downstairs intercom, so the curlers hear every word.

Wilf says, The problem with the word erotic is that it has the word rot in the middle of it.

15 There is no colour in the hills now. Whatever quality affords colour in colour film is no longer in those hills. Below the hills in dry dock is the trawler Wilfred Templeman. It looks like a part of the sentinel fishery. Hauled up alongside the Beothuk park, deep in the s.h.i.+pyard.

You must listen to your heart of hearts. You must know there is a cable of love that connects, that carries an undertow, that tugs and anchors you during the white storm. When I look into Lydia's blue eye I want to see that cable. The storm can shave away all bindings, but the silver cable persists.

The roofs are white. But the roads have melted to black. All the windows are black or a very dark green. Windows allow light but offer darkness. If you are attracted to windows you probably like looking out through them. Otherwise, you like looking at yourself in them, as darkness allows a reflection.

Iris says there's a new prison in the mountains of Germany. Helmut was telling her. And the only windows are slits, like a glowing envelope on edge. And Helmut wonders if you can see an entire mountain through a slit. This is the project we all undertake, she says. Isnt it. To accept everything if you love a piece of everything.

16 Lydia tries on clothes at the Value Village. A green wool suit made in Dublin. It fits her like stretched fabric over wood. Her thin chest and full thighs. She c.o.c.ks her hips, pulls up a shoulder.

What do you think?

I think youve rescued it.

Then it's a wine V-neck sweater that hugs her little t.i.ts. I am in the change booth with her. I run a hand over her pubic hair. I can't help it. What about this, she says. A black number with white st.i.tching. I am learning to choose clothing for her. At first it seemed anything would look good on her. I was astonished at how small a top could be. The size of children's clothing.

She says, Youre some chummy with Alex.

Me: Youre one to talk.

17 Forty laps in a thirty-metre pool. I love swimming in winter. But I'm winded after ten laps. The water playing off plexigla.s.s like starfish made from sunlight. Moving a plate of light around the room off your watch.

Lane one, a man, about forty-two, with a bald spot and a small pot and tufts of hair at his nipples and belly b.u.t.ton. A young guy with him learning to shallow dive, tattoos on his shoulders, something meek. I practise the crawl, blowing under water, sucking under my arm. I take it easy. Lane three, a sleek woman ploughing through lengths like she's churning cream.

Some people you care for, some you dont, just from their look.

That man and the younger man could be lovers, except I see that it's my neighbour, Boyd Coady.

I drive home and there's a message on the machine: Lydia's out for a run and she's going to come over. Then I see her walking down the path. She is carrying a bouquet of carnations.

How did you run with flowers?

I held them behind my back.

When I hug her, her body is hot and steamy.

18 Maisie Pye and I get drunk. We havent been drunk together in ages. It's so good, she says, to get drunk with you.

She pulls on a lock of her brown hair and nibbles it.

She says she can be direct with me. She can utter anything and it won't be misconstrued. She says, The fact that we've slept together avoids all that s.e.xual tension bulls.h.i.+t.

That was ten years ago.

Doesnt matter. Does it matter to you? I mean, do you have any s.e.xual feelings for me?

I guess not. But I didnt know it was because we'd slept together.

Well, thanks a lot.

That's not what I meant.

Maisie: With most men I have to watch it. Or they watch it. But with you I'm perfectly comfortable.

So youre saying I'm saying you should watch out for Alex.

We're only ever flirting.

I think she's interested in you.

We leave it at that. She asks how things are with Lydia. Me: We were thinking about getting married.

Maisie nods at this. Maisie got us together in the first place, and now I can see she's having doubts.

Maisie: My flaw is I'm convincing. I can convince people to do things, even if theyre the wrong things to do.

You dont think we should get married.

I'm not saying anything. I'm just worried that the right thing gets done.

Well, how do we look from the outside? From your angle?

You look infatuated. Which beauty can drug you on. You have to work through infatuation.

And how do you know if youre infatuated?

Your work suffers.

Maisie says you have to watch yourself in any relations.h.i.+p, or you'll end up in torment.

I ask how she's doing with Oliver.

Well, she says, I speak of torment. You can't run a relations.h.i.+p solely on flair and conversation and desire for life.

I say: It's warming yourself at a fire. When it dies down youre cold.

Maisie: It's like watching a movie of the one you love. What do you mean?