After the day's business was done, all three of us-Father, Richard, and myself-would have dinner at a restaurant. On these occasions I would say nothing, because what was there for me to say? The subjects were economics and politics, the Depression, the situation in Europe, the worrisome advances being made by World Communism. Richard was of the opinion that Hitler had certainly pulled Germany together from a financial point of view. He was less approving of Mussolini, who was a dabbler and a dilettante. Richard had been approached to make an investment in a new fabric the Italians were developing-very hush-hush-made out of heated milk protein. But if this stuff got wet, said Richard, it smelled horribly of cheese, and the ladies in North America would therefore never accept it. He'd stick with rayon, though it wrinkled when damp, and he'd keep his ear to the tracks and pick up anything promising. There was bound to be something coming along, some artificial fabric that would put silk right out of business, and cotton to a large extent as well. What the ladies wanted was a product that wouldn't need to be ironed-that could be hung on the line, that would dry wrinkle-free. They also wanted stockings that were durable as well as sheer, so they could show off their legs. Wasn't that right? he asked me, with a smile. He had a habit of appealing to me on matters concerning the ladies.
I nodded. I always nodded. I never listened very closely, not only because these conversations bored me but also because they pained me. It hurt me to see my father agreeing with sentiments I felt he didn't share.
Richard said he would have had us to dinner at his own home, but since he was a bachelor it would have been a slapdash affair. He lived in a cheerless flat, he said; he said he was practically a monk. "What is life without a wife?" he said, smiling. It sounded like a quotation. I think it was one.
Richard proposed to me in the Imperial Room of the Royal York Hotel. He'd invited me to lunch, along with Father; but then at the last minute, as we were walking through the hotel corridors on our way to the lift, Father said he couldn't attend. I'd have to go by myself, he said.
Of course it was a put-up job between the two of them.
"Richard will be asking you something," said Father to me. His tone was apologetic.
"Oh?" I said. Probably something about ironing, but I didn't much care. As far as I was concerned Richard was a grown-up man. He was thirty-five, I was eighteen. He was well on the other side of being interesting.
"I think he may be asking you to marry him," he said.
We were in the lobby by then. I sat down. "Oh," I said. I could suddenly see what should have been obvious for some time. I wanted to laugh, as if at a trick. Also I felt as if my stomach had vanished. Yet my voice remained calm. "What should I do?"
"I've already given my consent," said Father. "So it's up to you." Then he added: "A certain amount depends on it."
"A certain amount?"
"I have to consider your futures. In case anything should happen to me, that is. Laura's future, in particular. " What he was saying was that unless I married Richard, we wouldn't have any money. What he was also saying was that the two of us-me, and especially Laura-would never be able to fend for ourselves. "I have to consider the factories as well," he said. "I have to consider the business. It might still be saved, but the bankers are after me. They're hot on the trail. They won't wait much longer. " He was leaning on his cane, gazing down at the carpet, and I saw how ashamed he was. How beaten down. "I don't want it all to have been for nothing. Your grandfather, and then… Fifty, sixty years of hard work, down the drain."
"Oh. I see." I was cornered. It wasn't as if I had any alternatives to propose.
"They'd take Avilion, as well. They'd sell it."
"They would?"
"It's mortgaged up to the hilt."
"Oh."
"A certain amount of resolve might be required. A certain amount of courage. Biting the bullet and so forth."
I said nothing.
"But naturally," he said, "whatever decision you make will be your own concern."
I said nothing.
"I wouldn't want you doing anything you were dead set against," he said, looking past me with his good eye, frowning a little, as if an object of great significance had just come into view. There was nothing behind me but a wall.
I said nothing.
"Good. That's that, then." He seemed relieved. "He has a lot of common sense, Griffen. I believe he's sound, underneath it all."
"I guess so," I said. "I'm sure he's very sound."
"You'd be in good hands. And Laura too, of course."
"Of course," I said faintly. "Laura too."
"Chin up, then."
Do I blame him? No. Not any more. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, but he was only doing what would have been considered-was considered, then-the responsible thing. He was doing the best he knew how.
Richard joined us as if on cue, and the two men shook hands. My own hand was taken, squeezed briefly. Then my elbow. That was how men steered women around in those days-by the elbow-and so I was steered by the elbow into the Imperial Room. Richard said he'd wanted the Venetian Caf ©, which was lighter and more festive in atmosphere, but unfortunately it had been fully booked.
It's odd to remember this now, but the Royal York Hotel was the tallest building in Toronto then, and the Imperial Room was the biggest dining room. Richard was fond of big. The room itself had rows of large square pillars, a tessellated ceiling, a line of chandeliers, each with a tassel at the bottom end: a congealed opulence. It felt leathery, ponderous, paunchy-veined somehow. Porphyry is the word that comes to mind, though there may not have been any.
It was noon, one of those unsettling winter days that are brighter than they ought to be. The white sunlight was falling in shafts through the gaps in the heavy drapes, which must have been maroon, I think, and were certainly velvet. Underneath the usual hotel dining-room smells of steam-table vegetables and lukewarm fish there was an odour of hot metal and smouldering cloth. The table Richard had reserved was in a dim corner, away from the abrasive daylight. There was a red rosebud in a bud vase; I stared over it at Richard, curious as to how he would go about things. Would he take my hand, press it, hesitate, stutter? I didn't think so.
I didn't dislike him unduly. I didn't like him. I had few opinions about him because I'd never thought much about him, although I had-from time to time-noticed the suavity of his clothes. He was pompous at times, but at least he wasn't what you'd call ugly, not at all. I supposed he was very eligible. I felt a little dizzy. I still didn't know what I would do.
The waiter came. Richard ordered. Then he looked at his watch. Then he talked. I heard little of what he said. He smiled. He produced a small black velvet-covered box, opened it. Inside was a glittering shard of light.
I spent that night lying huddled and shivering in the vast bed of the hotel. My feet were icy, my knees drawn up, my head sideways on the pillow; in front of me the arctic waste of starched white bedsheet stretched out to infinity. I knew I could never traverse it, regain the track, get back to where it was warm; I knew I was directionless; I knew I was lost. I would be discovered here years later by some intrepid team-fallen in my tracks, one arm outflung as if grasping at straws, my features desiccated, my fingers gnawed by wolves.