Adam's Peak (26 page)

“That last referendum was too close for comfort,” he said. “I can understand these people wanting to be treated properly, but what is the sense in insisting that everyone in a country speak the same language? If that's the way it's to be, we should take a big knife to the world and start hacking away. And when we're done, make sure every man stays in his own little compartment. It's ridiculous. To listen to some of these separatists, you'd think that to be a French-speaking Quebecker is the greatest thing on earth.”

He set his cup and saucer on the floor beside the armchair, and the aunt immediately moved it to the coffee table. Clare listened more closely, at the same time trying to remember what Adam had said about his father's mood on referendum day.
Happy as a clam? Happy as ...
In any event, happy. He got off on that sort of thing, Adam had said. Yet the pique in Mr. Vantwest's voice suggested that the tensions of Quebec politics were not currently giving him much pleasure.

“It's the same mess in Sri Lanka,” he continued. “Tamils wanting to carve up the country. I'm speaking about the rebels, of course. God knows the average Tamil man is as fed up with the fighting as the rest. But those Tigers, they carry on about their homeland as if it would be some kind of paradise, and all the troubles of the under-developed third world country would magically disappear.” He looked at Clare, and she forced herself to hold his gaze. “But if you want to know the truth,” he said, “I believe these people wouldn't know what to do with themselves if they had their homeland. As far as the rebels are concerned, I think the fight has become more important than the prize.”

He sank back in his chair.

“Do you think there's hope?” Clare said. “That the conflict will end?”

Mr. Vantwest shrugged, as if out of steam. “Who's to say? Eventually the thing will run its course, I suppose. But you must forgive me. I get carried away on the subject. Mary will be accusing me of spoiling the conversation.” He turned to his sister. “So there you are, Mary. I've made my apology.”

The aunt shook her head and began gathering cups and saucers; Isobel said she certainly hoped the troubles would sort themselves out.

Clare wanted to protest, to tell Mr. Vantwest there was no need to apologize. She wanted to tell him that she knew something of his worries, that Adam had told her. Suddenly it was no longer the aunt she wanted to talk to about Adam. She imagined herself instead sitting with Mr. Vantwest in the room off the hallway, each of them unperturbed by silence, indifferent to pleasantries. Little by little, she would reveal the details of her conversation with Adam, and begin to fulfill her obligations to his family.

But such a thing was impossible.

“We should be off, pet,” Isobel said, resting a hand on her daughter's knee.

Clare's leg tensed. She kept her eyes on Mr. Vantwest and rose from her seat when he did. But he was looking at Isobel, pressing his palms together.

“You must come again soon,” he said. “Perhaps Mary would treat us to one of her special curries.”

“Yes, yes,” the aunt said. “We must do that soon.”

Isobel agreed, of course, and they all made their way to the front door. With the meaningless exceptions of a thank you and a goodbye, Clare said nothing else. Her mother's “Do take care,” delivered just before the Vantwests' door whispered shut behind them, carried a hint of impatience that was obvious to Clare, though she doubted Mr. Vantwest and his sister would have caught it. Isobel was full of her decorating plans, and as they crossed the street, she scolded herself for not having thought to get the painting done before the new carpeting went down.

EMMA CALLED LATER
. Her mother had told her about Adam's accident, and when she'd finished reprimanding Clare for keeping it a secret, she insisted on a full debriefing and a promise of regular updates.

“Especially if his brother shows up,” she said. “Are you
sure
you haven't seen him?”

“Positive.”

Emma pondered this, then, mercifully, let it go. “Hey, speaking of sexy men,” she said, “what's going on with your mom and the carpet guy?”

“Nothing. She was just being friendly.”

“Now, come on, Clare. You're not just in denial?”

Clare twirled the phone cord impatiently. An image of her mother and Mr. Vantwest came to her, the two of them leaning forward in their seats, reminiscing. “Not about that,” she said. “Anyway, Emma, I should go. I'm getting together with Markus.”

“Again? What's going on with you two?”

“I'm not sure. Anyway, I'll talk to you later.”

“Clare! What—”

She hung up quietly and went to the piano. She wouldn't be seeing Markus that night, but their Friday meeting now loomed a few hours closer. Something would happen then. It had to. She played random combinations of notes—childish crashings, the way she had before she knew how to play. She drifted to her bedroom, where she paced the carpeted floor and scowled at the beige walls. Then she went to her closet and reached under the pile of sweaters that concealed Emma's gift. At the first touch of the smooth, hard rubber, she snatched her hand back. But after a time she reached up again and took the thing down, scowling harder still. For though the thing in her hand was ugly and vile and lifeless, she'd been unable to throw it out. Worse, she'd been thinking about it.

Masturbation gets you in touch with your real self
, the Emma in her head claimed expansively, more compelling than the one on the phone.

She studied her reflection in the closet mirror, searched it for signs of a
real self
hiding timidly inside.

Go on
, Emma prompted. You've got nothing else to do.

“Fine,” she whispered. Then she undressed and got into bed.

Her first attempt was clumsy, and a little painful, but she kept trying. She went about the whole business methodically, recalling Emma's descriptions, covering all the bases. She discovered that if she lay on top of the vibrator and moved a certain way, she reached the type of climax she'd experienced the first time—a frantic, ticklish explosion
of feeling. And when she rolled over onto her back and inserted the device, another type happened—a deep, rolling wave that she struggled to ride for as long as she could. With the hesitant assistance of her fingers, she learned to combine the two. She achieved subtle variations using her pillow and her spinning piano stool, and in the shower she took the Water Pik down from its mount and experimented with the startling effects of its different settings. It was thrilling and bizarre, and a little unnerving, like discovering a brand new sense, or being possessed. But when at last, exorcised of the strange spirits, she tied her bathrobe around her waist and watched the steam clear from the mirror, the face she saw in the glass remained as familiar as before.

At least I tried,
she said to herself, faintly relieved.

It was after midnight. She was wobbly and drained, but not sleepy. Her mother had gone to bed, so she crept downstairs, where the watery drone of the dishwasher muffled the sounds of her movements. In the kitchen she made a cup of tea from the small packet that Mr. Vantwest had given Isobel as they were leaving. Then she went to the empty living room and stood in the dark, staring at the darkened windows across the street. Eventually she crossed the hall to her father's den. She turned on the desk lamp and sat with the atlas in front of her.

As before, the cracked old book opened naturally to page seventy-two, but Clare flipped to the world map at the front. She pinned Vancouver with her index finger, then she traced a path westward across the pale blue Pacific Ocean. Emma had travelled for four months through Asia. Her postcards had detailed movie-like adventures: attending a democracy rally in Rangoon; modelling American clothes for a Taiwanese fashion magazine; having sex with an anthropology student in a tribal village in Borneo. She'd invited Clare to travel with her, but Clare had declined, and each time a postcard arrived from some new destination she'd been freshly assured that her decision was the right one.

Still, her finger slid farther west, until it came to rest on Ceylon.

Sri Lanka might be different
.
It's not completely foreign anymore
.

Adam didn't respond, but she could imagine him listening. She turned back to page seventy-two.

Maybe I could go there for you,
she tried.
Maybe this was the reason you took me on your motorcycle and told me those things
.

The dishwasher sighed to the end of its cycle. In the silence, Clare looked out the window next to the desk, but saw only her own reflection. She thought of Adam, hovering in his unimaginable state.

I'd have a reason for being there.

The fantasy no longer seemed silly, or impossible. She'd been inside Adam's house; she'd had tea with his father and aunt. Gathering the atlas into her lap, she saw herself wandering through tea estates and markets, ancient temples, villages, all of it a single confused image cobbled from
National Geographic
pictures and Rudyard Kipling stories—but compelling nonetheless. She imagined Mary Vantwest's garden, teeming with its exotic fruits, a chorus of tropical insects. She sipped her tea and ventured tentatively further. She would go to a travel agent downtown and ask for some brochures. Maybe pick up a passport application. Neither committed her to anything. Both could be accomplished over lunch on a workday.

The thought of work made her straighten in her chair. Was this what she would tell Markus on Friday? That she was travelling halfway around the world to visit a place she knew almost nothing about, on behalf of an acquaintance she knew scarcely any better? She looked down at the map of Ceylon, which stubbornly refused to evoke anything at all of the Vantwests or their world, then put the atlas back on the desk.

Am I kidding myself, Adam? When I wake up tomorrow is this whole idea going to seem stupid?

The foot she'd been sitting on was numb. She massaged it through pins and needles and stamped her bare sole on the carpeted floor. When the feeling returned, she clicked off the lamp, and Adam's voice came to her in the dark.

So, what are you going to do with your life?
he said.

The tone of the question was lighter than the words themselves suggested—closer to
What would you like for dinner?
than anything philosophical—and Clare only shrugged. The particular quiet of her father's house, invulnerable to any of Isobel's remodelling, pressed down on her.

Well, you know you gotta shake things up
, Adam then said, his voice mischievous and provocative.
Get back on the motorcycle. Finish that ride we started. Or even better: don't finish it. Just keep riding
.

How do I do that?

She looked out the window at the featureless night.

Doesn't really matter. Go to Vancouver. Play in a band. Go to Sri Lanka. Yeah, Sri Lanka would be good for you. Something really different.

Will you be there with me?

Sure. Yeah. I'll be there.

But would I really be doing it for
you
?

You can think of it that way, if you like.

She began a new question then stopped. It wouldn't happen in her head, this trip; she would be stern with herself. It would happen for real or not at all.

In the darkness she returned the atlas to the shelf. She knew she should get to bed, but she wasn't tired at all. It seemed she'd just woken up.

T
HURSDAY MORNING
, at the start of Rudy's spare period, Kanda intercepted him at the door to the teachers' lounge.

“I have a letter for you, sir,” the boy said, holding out a folded sheet of paper.

Rudy took the paper and noted the “Mr. Vantwest” written neatly on the outside in Kanda's hand. “Should I read it now?” he said.