The Bird Artist Read online

  Pavel had been standing stiffly in his black suit. The way that he held his fists at his sides not only betrayed tenseness but also reminded me that Cora had stood a similar way in the photograph. Whether it was part of his natural countenance or born of the awkwardness of the moment, he had a morose look. When he stepped forward to shake hands with me, he said, “Fabian, Fabian, yes, well,” in a low, blustery voice. He had a strong handshake. I realized that I did not know what line of work he was in. “What line of work are you in?” I said. Slightly taken aback, he said, “The exact question a man might ask of his future son-in-law, except I know that you repair boats.” He laughed without smiling. “Well,” he said, “I’m a hooper. I forge barrel hoops. That’s my specialty. And I’m an all-around blacksmith, though hoops are the mainstay, you see.” His handshake made more sense to me then. His black sideburns thickened into a beard that accentuated his dark eyes. When he looked at me, he held his lips slightly open, and I saw that he had prominent buck teeth.

  “Where is Cora?” my mother said, walking up to Klara first, kissing her cheek, then over to Pavel, and kissing his.

  “It has been some years now, hasn’t it, Alaric,” Klara said. “More than I care to count. Anyway, we had so looked forward to seeing Orkney. His illness—Mrs. Hagerforse told us—sounds grave. It must have been painful to leave him.”

  “Where is Cora, though?”

  “You see,” Pavel said, “the bride-to-be is using all the water in Halifax, it seems. She’s on her third or fourth bath, I’ve lost count.”

  “Why won’t she come out?”

  “It may just be a case of matrimonial jitters,” Klara said. “I’m quite sure, had there been more time, you and I could have gone into a separate room and told stories of our own wedding days. Perhaps later, in a letter.”

  I had not seen Averell Grey step into the room. “Ahem, excuse me. Welcome,” he said.

  “Now isn’t this nice,” Mrs. Hagerforse said. “Justice of the Peace Grey, this is Alaric Vas, Fabian Vas, Klara Holly in the chair, and Pavel Holly.”

  “Pleased. And where is Cora Holly?”

  Grey, a slim man of perhaps sixty, had wispy white hair and age spots on his face, so many it was like a map of islands. “I forgot my Bible,” he said. “Of course there’s one in this good Christian home.”

  We heard the sound of splashing behind the door.

  “I’ll be direct here,” Pavel said. “There was a Bible in the room here, and by some ingenious means our Cora has wedged it so that the door is impossible to open from the outside. That, along with the lock, of course.”

  “I’ll need a Bible,” Grey said. “For the ceremony.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Mrs. Hagerforse said, leaving the room.

  “Fabian,” Pavel said, “as her future husband, you might try and convince—”

  “I’d like to look at her,” I said. “What I mean is, all I’ve ever seen of your daughter is the photograph.”

  “It was an exact likeness,” Pavel said. “A few years back likeness.”

  “There is a practical side to her coming out of the bath,” Grey said. “To have the wedding itself. Nothing more practical than that, eh?” He was the only one who laughed.

  “We’re getting along so well here,” Klara said. “Let’s all, except for Fabian, go into one of our rooms, or that lovely sitting room downstairs, and continue to.”

  And in a moment I stood at the bathroom door, waiting for the spigot to be shut off. When I heard more splashing, I said, “Cora, it’s me, Fabian Vas.”

  “I’m actually dressed,” she said. “I’ve been dressed for more than an hour. I did take a bath, but then got dressed. I’ve been filling and emptying the bathtub. All done through pipes here. Not like at home.”

  The door opened and I stepped back. Add the years hence, but Cora looked much as she had in her photograph, except now she had on a high-collared white lace wedding dress. “You’re shorter than in my imagination,” she said. “Do you look like your father?”

  “A little.”

  “I’ve never seen him or you in a photograph. Why wasn’t one sent?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Take a good look. I was an ugly child. Then, at age thirteen, I was dizzyingly beautiful. That was my father’s opinion, my mother’s, my neighbors in Richibucto’s. I weighed their opinions carefully, then agreed. First I was ugly, though, then quite the opposite. And now I’m aware I contain both. But that doesn’t mean I feel average. I’ve never felt that. No, it’s more that I remember being both ugly and beautiful, and hope that one stays and the other doesn’t come back. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

  “Sit down, Cora. Please. In that chair, and I’ll sit on the other chair.”

  We sat looking at each other. I stood, walked into the bathroom, poured a glass of water, and handed it to her.

  “Thank you.” She drank the water, then held the empty glass. “This is the worst moment of my life.”

  “I don’t know anything. I don’t know anything, except one thing that’s true—”

  “One.”

  “—it’s that my mother and father wanted me to get married in the worst way. Not to Margaret Handle, who—”

  “I see.”

  “Did you get to read my mother’s letters?”

  “I had parts read to me.”

  “There’s a man in the hallway that probably won’t allow this wedding.”

  “Who can you be talking about?”

  “I’ve slept with Margaret Handle, whom you’ve never heard of, I know, until just now. I’ve shot a man named Botho August and he died.”

  “Please stop now. I’m going back into the bath.”

  “No—don’t.”

  I reached over to the table and took up the drawing of the garganey. Handing it to Cora, I said, “Here’s something I drew for the occasion.”

  She unwrapped it from its cloth.

  “It’s a garganey,” I said. “A kind of sea duck.”

  “A lovely memento. I’ve room for it in my suitcase, I’m sure.”

  “I know about birds. One of Newfoundland’s specialties is petrels, did you know that?”

  “Tell me something not to be frightened of you.”

  “Petrels, they’re rarely found inshore. Though sometimes they come in on a storm and fly overland a day or two. We call them ‘Mother Carey’s Chickens’ in Witless Bay. They get almost tame, some of them. They’ll sit right on your hand. We’ve got Leach’s petrels, dovekies, puffins, razorbills, murres, terns, kittiwakes. We get ibis. Crows. Ducks. Many different ducks. Bullbirds. We even see a garganey now and then.”

  “The worst, worst day.”

  “You look very nice in the wedding dress. It’s not that, Cora. It’s that there’s a man in the hallway going to arrest me. I know it.”

  The door opened. “The photographer’s here!” Mrs. Hagerforse announced. “Shall we proceed?”

  Klara, my mother, and Pavel came in. “All acquainted now?” Klara said, sitting in a chair.

  “I need to wash my face,” Cora said.

  Leaving the bathroom door wide open, Cora washed her face in the sink.

  “Privately bathing one minute, a public display of cleanliness the next,” Pavel said. “An interesting young lady, wouldn’t you say, Fabian?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  A tripod camera, a black box on spindle legs, all but hid the photographer who carried it into the room. He set down the camera, splayed open its legs, steadied it, turned to the room, and bowed. “Alex Quonian,” he said.

  He was lanky, about forty years old, had long black hair combed to one side of his face. His brown trousers were belted tightly. He had on a collarless white shirt and a white smock coat. He was all matter-of-fact. He began to organize his thoughts by chopping at the air, as though adding angles to the room. He hummed. Cora began to laugh. It was true, Quonian went about things with comic deliberation. He frowned at Cora. As he stepped by me, I
noticed that he used moustache bleach. He looked harassed. He plucked a dust mouse from the floor near the sofa and said, “My wife’s the better photographer of the two of us. She’s working in the darkroom today.”

  “Oh, I’ve seen Mr. Quonian’s work,” Mrs. Hagerforse said. “And I assure you, he’s being modest.”

  “Let’s rehearse a pose,” Quonian said.

  The room contained a dark blue sofa with quilted pillows, four chairs, a table, a night table next to the bed. On the mantel was an ebony swan vase full of violets. There were lace curtains on the windows to either side of the large bay window. A scrimshaw tusk was in a glass case on the center table.

  Taking each of us firmly by the shoulders, Quonian placed me next to Cora. Klara and Pavel stood to Cora’s right, my mother to my left.

  “Children, please. Rehearse a smile. You look as though I should place black hoods over your heads and call a priest.”

  “Normally—that is, under different circumstances,” Mrs. Hagerforse said, “there would have been less of a rush.” She stood near the door.

  “Well, after the vows are exchanged,” Quonian said, “just turn and look at the camera.” He walked to the door and stood next to Mrs. Hagerforse.

  Mitchell Kelb now wedged past Quonian.

  “Oh yes, sir—please, do come in,” Grey said.

  “Who’s this?” Klara said.

  “You see, Mrs. Holly,” Grey said, “we need an official witness, other than family. Mrs. Hagerforse preferred not to.”

  “I see,” Klara said.

  “Legalities and all that,” Grey said. “This is Mr. Mitchell Kelb.”

  If in fact my mother had ever seen Mitchell Kelb back in 1900, she did not recognize him now, nor did she remember his name.

  “Congratulations,” Kelb said to me. He lifted my hand and shook it.

  “A tourist?” Klara said.

  “Of sorts,” Kelb said.

  “Well, it’s kind of you to help out,” Pavel said.

  “Not at all.”

  My throat went dry and suddenly I said to Grey, “How much do you charge? I want to get this settled.”

  “Fabian, please—” my mother said.

  “No, no, that’s fine,” Grey said. “Four dollars. It’s understandable. Newlyweds often like to know just what they have. You’ll have just four dollars less than you had before, Mr. Vas.”

  “Mother, give him that amount, will you?”

  My mother reached into her snap purse and handed me four Canadian dollar bills. I handed them to Grey.

  “That’s taken care of,” Grey said. Mrs. Hagerforse handed him a Bible. “Please, now, Cora, Fabian, your hands clasped on the Good Book.”

  Cora put her folded hands on the Bible. I put my hands on top of hers. The ceremony was mercifully brief. At the last moment Cora stepped out of her shoes. I could not possibly know why, except that it was her one personal choice in the matter.

  Grey said a few words about life from his own experiences, not mine, not Cora’s; then we said the vows. “By the powers invested in me—”

  “Fabian, you may kiss the bride.”

  “No, first the rings,” Pavel said.

  My mother handed me the rings. She had got them from Romeo Gillette. We exchanged rings. They fit perfectly.

  “Fabian—”

  My tips—or was it Cora’s—were dry as paper.

  We posed for Quonian. His head disappeared under the black canopy. The black apparatus connecting the box and lens was ridged like an accordion. Feet wide apart, voice muffled, Quonian called out, “Smile!” He pressed the shutter bulb. The powder gusted. Quonian emerged from under the canopy, slid out the film, looked at us, and said, “Perfect.”

  Even to this day I feel, as though it is in my blood, the acceleration of events that followed, and the bewilderment that accompanied them.

  Mitchell Kelb reached into his trouser pocket, pulled out and shook loose a pair of handcuffs, then clamped them over my wrists. He took a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, unfolded it, and said, “I have a warrant for the arrest of one Orkney Vas—absent. For one Fabian Vas, present. For one Alaric Vas, present. For suspicion of the murder, or conspiracy to murder, one Botho August, citizen of Witless Bay, Newfoundland Territory, on or approximately on October 8, 1911. The execution of this warrant is so witnessed by all gathered here on October 24, 1911. I’ll have each witness sign the warrant. It is my sworn duty to return Fabian and Alaric Vas to Witless Bay to stand trial. But I’m willing to wait, out of heartfelt courtesy, for the groom. Fabian, you may sit with your bride for one hour. No more.”

  Kelb removed one handcuff, led me to a chair, pushed me down into it, fastened the loose handcuff to the table, then looked at my mother.

  “Mrs. Vas,” Kelb said, “I’ll now escort you to the mail boat. Courtesy of Mr. Enoch Handle, whom I’ve only recently spoken to; we’ll leave first thing in the morning. I’ve already added unlawful flight to Orkney Vas’s warrant. Fabian, I’ll be back to take you in one hour.”

  “What the hell is this all about?” Pavel said.

  “Didn’t you hear what I just said?” Kelb said.

  “I’ll slip over the side,” my mother said.

  “Will she try to do that?” Kelb said to me.

  I stood up as far as the cuffs allowed.

  Pavel Holly all but tore the ring from my finger. Klara threw her arms around Cora. Pavel picked up the wedding certificate and tore it into confetti. “This marriage is no longer!” he said.

  “Shut the goddamn hell up and control yourself,” Kelb said. He turned to me again. “Would your mother go over the side of the boat?”

  “She might.”

  “Well, as for anyone in my custody going over the side, fine. Mrs. Vas, you go right ahead. Do that. Public opinion will no doubt consider it an admittance of guilt, and what’s more, it won’t exonerate anyone else. Son or husband. It’d just save England a little time, having to try two instead of three, should we catch Mr. Orkney Vas, that is. Four, if we add Miss Margaret Handle to the mix.”

  “Why in God’s name did you ever allow this wedding to take place?” Klara shouted, swinging her cane at Kelb and falling to the floor. Pavel helped her up. She sat back in her chair. “Why weren’t we spared this humiliation? This is our daughter, brought all the way in from Richibucto. This is her wedding day.”

  Kelb folded the warrant into his pocket again. “Forget the signatures,” he said.

  “I asked you a question,” Klara said.

  Mitchell Kelb clipped the handcuff key to his belt. He stared at his shoes. “I don’t know for certain,” he said. “I could have prevented it. I apologize. I got caught up in a romantic moment.”

  Pavel Holly stepped forward and slammed his fist into my jaw. I reeled backward, table and all, into the camera. Sprawled on the floor, I looked up to see Quonian dragging the camera from the room. From out in the hallway I heard him say, “There’s been damages.”

  Kelb had drawn his revolver and pointed it at Pavel. “It’s over now,” he said. “Fabian Vas here may be a witness to a murder. Don’t strike him again.” He tucked the revolver into his belt.

  Looking down at me, Pavel took Cora by the arm and said, “My daughter won’t spend a single minute further with you.”

  And she did not. The Hollys moved to the door. “Mr. Kelb, you are correct,” Pavel said. “This is over. We are going home.”

  “Goodbye, Fabian Vas,” Cora said. The Hollys left the room.

  Kelb said, “Mrs. Vas, let’s go. The boy no doubt can still use an hour to think. He’s woke up from a bad dream into a worse one.”

  Quonian was gone. Mrs. Hagerforse was gone. My mother, Mitchell Kelb, and Grey followed. Grey closed the door.

  Dragging the table, I moved to the bay window. My mouth was bleeding. My jaw felt broken. I pulled myself up and looked out. On three parallel clotheslines stretching across someone’s back yard, there was an abacus of sparrows. I don’t know the birds i
n this city, I thought. I did not even know the drab sparrows.

  9

  The Hearing

  In clear weather we returned to Witless Bay in two days. Immediately we were put under house arrest. We could not leave our house, except under Mitchell Kelb’s supervision. Romeo brought us groceries. On our fourth day back, sunny, cold, Kelb took my mother out rowing in the harbor. My mother had simply said, “Mr. Kelb, I’m cooped up here. Would you take me rowing,” and Kelb had obliged her without a fuss. Except that he did handcuff her to the thwart she sat on. When they returned, my mother said, “It was a perfectly nice morning. Mr. Kelb preferred not to talk, so he was especially good company. He’s a bachelor. I think I’ll knit him a sweater. I assured him I wouldn’t leap into the sea. He said the handcuffs assured him more.”

  At night my mother kept to her bedroom. I kept to mine. Margaret slept on the sofa and Kelb would lay out a rucksack on the kitchen floor. We would sit together at meals. “This arrangement is hell on earth,” Margaret said one evening. No one disagreed.

  On our seventh night under house arrest, Romeo brought us a pot of cod stew, two loaves of bread, and a pan full of cod tongues. “Young Marni Corbett made this fruitcake for you,” he said, putting the cake on the table. “Wasn’t that nice? I don’t know all what a child her age can understand about your situation. But she baked this on her own and said it might cheer you up.”

  “Stay for supper?” my mother said.

  “I can’t. We’re meeting a new lighthouse keeper tonight. Me, Boas, Enoch, some others.”

  My mother drew up a pained expression, looking away from Romeo.

  “What’s his name, this new lighthouse keeper?” Margaret said.

  “Odeon Sloo.”

  Despite our somber mood the name made us burst into laughter. “Sloo” was local slang for “get out of the way.”

  “Well, odd name or no, he seems just right for the job,” Romeo said. “He’s brought his wife and daughter with him, all willing to move in promptly and get used to things over the winter. The wife is Kira, the daughter Millie—Millicent, I imagine. He’s brought his family. He’s a family man. And he’s had lighthouse experience in two places north of St. John’s.”