The light in Patrick’s room had faded, coming to be dominated by the reading lamp hovering beside the easy chair he was sitting in. The afternoon had been spent methodically making his way through the sections of the Saturday newspaper. Thankfully there was now something besides Sputnik to be written about. His focus was the crossword, which stubbornly held on to its secrets of pun, hidden meanings and contemporary cultural references. He raised himself from the chair, switched on the radio and twisted the dial for something quiet to fill the background void without monopolizing his thoughts. He walked over to the window opening to the front and looked at the hushed scene. The frenzy of the Market that had been there last time he looked had given away to an early evening slumber. The familiar sight of the streetwalker – Lili he called her, not because he knew her name, but because he always thought of Lili Marlene when he saw her – occupied her usual spot under the lamplight at the corner, turning the collar of her fur coat against a chill breeze that swirled around the buildings and narrow streets.
He settled back in his chair and prepared himself for a second pass through the unsolved horizontal clues. “Carl Perkins hit tune, B…” but not Blue Suede Shoes. He tried to clear his mind, but the search through his thoughts was interrupted by the sound of the buzzer. He looked around to see how presentable the room was, made sure his shirt was properly buttoned and tucked and went down to see who was at the front door.
Outside the door, the air had filled with a swirl of light snowflakes. Peering into the gloom, he made out the shape of a woman’s form in a long fur coat. For a brief second, he thought it was Lili, looking for refuge from the snowfall. But he quickly recognized the outlines of Mrs. O’Donnell’s face, and after a moment’s surprise which he couldn’t suppress, beckoned for her to come in. He peered towards the parlour, which was now quiet. But he knew it wouldn’t be for long. The residents of the household would soon be gathering for the Saturday night broadcast of the hockey game. He decided her presence would be much more discreet, and more to whatever point she might have in mind, by motioning her upstairs and into his room.
Closing the door behind him, which was not the obvious thing to do, he helped her off with her coat, gestured for her to take a seat in the easy chair. She was quickly absorbed by the sight of the electronic equipment around the room – everyone was the first time they walked in – and he had to resort to his usual cook’s tour. He remembered that he had not taken the readings from the weather devices; outside the conditions were changing – not that his readings mattered scientifically, they were a hobby. Mrs. O’Donnell seemed reluctant to sit down, even when Patrick had finished making the tea and handed her a cup, which was settled on the small table beside her without much notice. Playing the odds, and throwing social niceties aside, he moved close to her, put his arms around her waist and ventured to kiss her.
She stayed her ground, participating in the kiss unhesitatingly, but with a firm chasteness. Still, with their bodies close together, she responded, “I’m flattered by your attention. But I can’t help being a little surprised that there are no better prospects in your life than a married woman, almost twice your age.” Patrick moved back, recalling the sting of humiliation he had felt the time he visited the farm. He thought momentarily of Lili, still outside, and was going to draw a comparison to dames alone in the Market at night, but then the spectre of Tracy came to mind. She was more likely the prospect being referred to. “Besides, there’s something I want to talk to you about.” She finally backed herself away and sat in the chair. “Tell me more about what you do with all this, and in your job.” She picked up the teacup, sipping with an attentive interest in her eyes.
Patrick moved his hand to the volume nob of the radio, thinking to turn it down so he might speak in a more collected way. But his ears picked up an interesting sound in the background of the signal. “Do you hear that sound?” his hands gestured, almost as if he were conducting the instrumental music from the light orchestral pops station. But it did not rise and fall to the tempo of the music, rather to another sound: faint, one that was not supposed to be there. “A constant whine that rises and falls rhythmically.”
“Mais non,” she looked puzzled, hearing only the music, but then noticed there was another sound in the signal. “Oh yes, you mean the interference? I almost don’t hear that, but now I can.”
“’Tis that interference that I study. Most of it comes from atmospheric instability. The upper atmosphere is alive and in full motion tonight. Using equipment similar to this,” he motioned at the array of receiver and oscilloscope, “I try to isolate the distinct constituents in the signal. The aim is to identify the sources, study them in their own right. Also to create filters that would remove, or squelch them. Radio stations would love to have clearer, steadier signals. The need becomes much more acute for aircraft navigation and in remote northern communities.”
He turned on the oscilloscope; she became fascinated at the spectacle he presented, now sitting authoritatively in front of the array of equipment. “Do you mind if I sketch you again?”
“What, like this?” He hesitated a moment, more from a recollection of the previous time he had submitted himself to her close gaze. “As long as you’re not going to draw any schematics.” She reached into her satchel, took out her sketch pad and pencil, moved forward to position him at angled profile, and settled back in the chair, letting her hand trace leisurely lines across the fresh page. For a moment, a silence settled in which was filled by the smooth tones of the jazz piece playing from the radio and the arhythmic sounds of her pencil scratching at the pad. His eyes lighted on the copy of Emily of New Moon, which was now weighing down a stack of loose papers on his desk. He recalculated the odds of what this visit was about and guessed it might be more about Tracy. If Stanton’s advice had been that finding a good wife would aid his career prospects considerably, Tracy must be receiving the same message from other sources. “So, you said that Tracy had excellent career prospects ahead of her. What makes you say that?”
Mrs. O’Donnell frowned momentarily, preferred not to talk while sketching, but realized it made her subjects less self-conscious. “You may have noticed there has been an emphasis on Canadian culture in the past decade, particularly among arts grants. And certainly within the CBC’s mandate. But it raises the question, what is Canadian arts and culture, and on what principles grant applications will be judged and projects funded? It’s easy to say, Well, not Shakespeare, but harder to weed out slavish imitations of American art forms. Neither can it be endless landscapes in imitation of the Group of Seven.”
“What is Canadian culture?” Patrick became aware that there was an oddness to the question, or perhaps an oddness at not being able to formulate an answer to what seemed to be a simple question. Was it something different than simply the inherited French and English cultural baggage the settlers brought with them?
“That’s where people like Tracy, and there aren’t many like her, fit in. Not only does she have the terrain mapped where no one else does, but she writes about it passionately and convincingly. If anyone, she has the vision where everyone else is walking around in blindness. A Casandra for the most part, at least for now. But people will realize they’ll have to pay attention.” Patrick’s second gambit was not taken up. He’d have to wait for the purpose of her visit to make itself known. He sat in silence until the sketch was complete. He was shown himself as a rather formless figure seated in front of an array of almost abstract shapes.
“You said there was something you wanted to speak to me about?”
Mrs. O’Donnell looked a little weighted by the thoughts that were called back into her head. She sipped the last of her tea, as if to communicate that she was unsure whether she should broach the subject. “It’s not something you’re supposed to know. Or something I should be telling you.” Patrick marvelled at her disclaimer, as if she had higher security clearance than he. “More like idle chatter that’s around,” she motioned her hand in a casual circle, “nothing substantial, just rumour.” He wondered what circles she was referring to. Perhaps University social functions, or perhaps party-political circles, of which she had recently become an insider after decades in the opposition wilderness. Or perhaps she had a highly placed paramour, and was reporting on whispered pillow talk. “I need not tell you, that there has been quite a frenzied and feverish reaction to the launching of Sputnik. It didn’t help that it sailed past the NORAD radar without a blip. Politicians hate finding out about things in the newspaper, especially the Soviet newspapers. So the logic has been like this: the Soviet scientists have obviously been a decade or more behind the Americans – if only because we got the German scientists. So, if they managed to get ahead of the American rocketry programme, then someone must have given them information they did not have.” Patrick looked dismissively. “I’m not saying they’re right. But that’s the talk. So, if someone did, then the question becomes who. And in moments of panic, actions can be taken in haste.”
Patrick looked at her quizzically, “Why are you telling this to me?”
She looked around at the equipment in the room, at the papers filled with mathematical equations, then squarely at him. “There’s talk that a round-up might be imminent. A round-up of suspects.”
“What suspects?”
“Anyone who might be a suspect.”
Patrick shot an incredulous look off to the corner of the room. “Well that’s not me. They certainly didn’t put any of my patents into orbit.” But then the conversation with Stanton flashed back into his mind, concerning the Russian mathematician at the Verona conference. “What am I supposed to do, go into hiding?”
“No, don’t do that,” she said with a sense of regret that she had conflicted her allegiances. Patrick shrugged, as if to say what then? “Do you know what habeas corpus means?” Patrick shrugged again. “It’s a legal term; you should get a clear understanding of it. And use it, if you feel you’re being detained. If they do want to question you, it will be what’s in your papers that’re much more important than anything you might say, or not say. Patrick felt that Andrei was the real issue underlying this warning, but the connections between them were too long and deep to abandon, if that were even an instinct he might possess.
After relapsing into pleasantries for a while, Mrs. O’Donnell made her way back to her parking spot. She drove off into the light snow that was accumulating on the street. Patrick at first dismissed her warning as idle speculation. But later that evening, lying in bed, with the lights out, his mind turned back to the warning about what might be in his papers. His mind began a methodical review of what might be found if his papers were seized. He kept an academic diary, but not a personal diary. He had piles of scientific papers, assignments from his students to be marked. And letters. Lots of letters. Some from academic colleagues, some personal. Some from Chantel. Perhaps the personal letters were better off boxed up and stowed at Avalon.
