— Come on, get out of there, the nurse said, or I’ll call the guard.
Still dazed, Andrews and Baddeley left the closet, walking down the hall towards an elevator.
At the entrance to the hospital, Andrews — who had kept quiet and avoided Baddeley’s gaze — suddenly held on to Baddeley’s arm, keeping him from leaving the premises, the sliding doors opening and closing, closing and opening, like Scylla and Charybdis.
— Please, said Andrews.
And he tried to convince Baddeley that, despite the desolation one felt when God turned his back (a thing that happened after every poem), the chance to be His servant was worth all. Wasn’t it better to be Abd Allah than a second-rate reviewer? Wasn’t it worth the personal sacrifice to attain the heights of Art? And why would he — that is, Baddeley — have gone through such trouble to find him — that is, Andrews — if, in the depths of his soul, he wasn’t searching for this very servitude. Yes, it would be inconvenient to do away with Andrews. But Andrews wanted nothing more than release.
— You’d be doing me a kindness, he said. I’ll even take poison, if you administer it.
For Baddeley, this was a complex moment made even more bewildering by its proximity to the sublime episode he had just lived. It isn’t every day, after all, that one meets “God.” Although, in light of the fact that this “god” seemed to approve of murder, doubt about the Being’s true nature had already begun to dampen Baddeley’s enthusiasm. Yet, there was enthusiasm still. How could a man who had for so long studied the ends of creativity (books and paintings and such) be anything but thrilled by his (admittedly strange) experience of creativity’s origin? Some part of Baddeley’s soul wanted to go on experiencing “inspiration” for ever and ever. But, really, he wanted to go on experiencing it as an observer. The strangeness of Andrews’ attitude (Andrews’ desire for death) frightened him, and he was afraid to be alone in the room with whatever that presence was.
Maybe, if Andrews had allowed him time to think about it, time to consider what it would be like to live without inspiration, time to long for the listening, Baddeley might have more seriously considered his plea for death. (Though, when he did think about it, later, it brought nightmares: pushing Andrews onto subways tracks, throwing him from a bridge or a tall building, stabbing him, shooting him, drowning him, his hands around the poet’s neck, breaking it as one would a bread stick…) Instead, feeling rushed and bewildered, Baddeley wanted only to get away from Avery Andrews. He wanted to get away from what Andrews had put him through and from the death Andrews wanted of him.
He pulled the poet’s fingers from his arm and backed towards the sliding doors.
— Find someone else, he said. If you come near me again, I’ll call the police.
— But you came to me, Andrews pleaded. You came to me!
Once out of the hospital, Baddeley looked to see if the man was following him. But, no, Avery Andrews stood rooted to his spot before the door, looking out at him as he looked back. So this was Avery Andrews: a forlorn, psychologically damaged man in reddish shoes. Once Baddeley was far enough away, once he was certain Andrews would not follow him, a sadness welled up to accompany his dismay. Andrews was pathetic, yes, but somewhere within Baddeley’s soul the admiration he’d felt for Avery Andrews guttered but was not extinguished.
Three
It had been a brief episode, nothing more than two (admittedly strange) days.
For as long as he was able, for months, Baddeley tried to suppress the memory, as one tries to suppress the memory of a woman one has loved and broken with in some humiliating way. And like the memory of a lost beloved, his encounters with Avery Andrews recurred to him at unexpected times, bringing confusion, anguish, and longing. Baddeley struggled to understand what had happened to him, and finally began to understand it in his own way. What had he done? He had sought out a poet whose work he’d long admired. He had found the man. And then? And then he had become the victim of an inexplicable and pointless hoax, brought to a ward in Toronto Western to interact with a life-sized puppet. After which, Andrews had pleaded for death.
There was neither sanctity nor mystery behind any of that. There was only a madness whose consequence was that Baddeley could no longer look at the books of Avery Andrews without a feeling of humiliation. (He did not, for all that, throw them out.)
A year passed — a year of fitful forgetting.
Although Baddeley sometimes managed to convince himself that he’d lived through a hoax, something inside of him had truly changed after the encounters at Toronto Western: his attitude, his sensibility, his understanding. Something had changed and deeply. His approach to literature — and so, to life — had shifted without him being conscious of the shifting. However false the apparition may have been, the experience of it had real consequences. Baddeley had participated in the creation of a poem. He had been only a few paces away from where lightning had struck and some of the charged particles had rearranged something in him.
This understanding — this rearrangement — influenced his reviews and, at the same time, poisoned reviewing for him. Even as he wrote his opinions — which were now perceptive, conscientious, and even, at times, brilliant — Baddeley knew his ability for what it was: trivial. The books he judged to be mediocre were not, objectively speaking, mediocre. They were “mediocre” because Baddeley could now clearly and resonantly reveal the particular angle (his own) from which they were “mediocre.” That is, he could vividly express the fixity of his angle on things.
That this was all the ability any good reviewer has ever possessed did not console him.
Worse: as his reputation grew, as he was invited to write for better journals and papers, for American and British venues where a host of well-known critics plied their unvalued trade, he grew tired of his limitations. He grew weary, in other words, of his own perspective.
More: his disappointment deepened the chasm between himself and a world he’d once wished to inhabit — literary Toronto, with its endless book launches and poetry readings and literary festivals run by men whose only talent was, in essence, the ability to read. Here, the mid-listers trying desperately to keep afloat, networking, networking, networking; there, the poets just this side of insane nursing their childhood grudges. Here, the stars in the literary firmament (big teeth, pink palms, regal airs); there, the fresh-faced youth, trying their best not to seem overwhelmed or overjoyed or overawed. All their names began to lose sense: Onwood, Munwood, Mistwood… Why, he wondered, had he ever wished to belong to such a cloud-cuckoo world?
Whereas, previously, he’d been kept from literary society by his envy and want of self-confidence, Baddeley was now driven from it by a certainty that the society of writers was almost infinitely less interesting than intercourse with books, books in which he could, at times, feel the presence he’d felt at the Toronto Western with Andrews. So, while the esteem in which he was held grew, his commerce with the world was impoverished. In fact, the signal moment in Baddeley’s “year after the hospital” was the end of his friendship with Gil Davidoff.
Yes, Gil was self-absorbed and self-important but his flaws had never put Baddeley off. Speaking with Gil was like watching a bird with a broken wing attempt flight: round and round going nowhere. Davidoff could speak of nothing but himself for long and rarely strayed far from the subject. But Baddeley had always taken comfort in being led from his troubles by a mind that acknowledged no troubles but its own. Whenever he grew tired of himself, spending time with Davidoff allowed Baddeley to grow tired of someone else. It allowed him to return refreshed to his own company. He had enjoyed Gil’s books for the same reason. They were not good but they were “Gil” and that had been enough.