This Is All a Lie Page 3

  This would have been a sweet place to stop these so-called “acknowledgements” – with a prayer, and an admission of a naïve, embryonic love based on the body odour of a yoga instructor. But you can’t stop thinking about Claude Garamond, who probably stunk to high heaven because, well, everyone stunk to high heaven in the 1500s. You might wonder if the father of the Garamond font could have been a guy who talked with trees. You look at the careful and eloquent beauty of the Garamond letterforms and you wonder about whether or not its inventor might have been obsessive. It’s possible, even though the term ‘obsessive compulsive’ didn’t exist in the sixteenth century – maybe they pointed and said things like, ‘Oh, Claude Garamond? He’s really detail-oriented.’ There is no way to know much about him but look at this font. It’s elegant and concise and could have been designed by a guy who was borderline obsessive compulsive. A guy who had to wash his hands for two full rounds of Happy Birthday, or some other song, as Happy Birthday did not exist in the 1500s. Easy to imagine him as a man who locked the door three times every night – back and forth, back and forth, and back and forth. Or a guy who kissed his wife four times on each of her nipples before bed. It was something she asked him to do five years ago on a whim, and he continues to do it. She did not say, Claude, I want you to kiss my nipples, four times each. No, it was not like that. He kissed her breast one night and she said, “Yes, again, and this one too, please.” He has not missed a kiss in five years, and because he is a bit compulsive, he knows the sum of these kisses is 14,468. But forget about kissing nipples.

  Think about old Claude Garamond hunched over his work desk, creating and recreating the same simple letter, trying it on, again, and again, and again – looking for perfection. Maybe there’s a cat perched on a shelf overlooking his work. The cat knows better than to interfere. It waits until Garamond pushes away from his desk and stretches, then, purring, the cat will jump to the floor and self-rub along his leg. Normally, Garamond will bend down and pet the cat. But this morning, he has been working on the letter ‘g.’ He has been sketching ideas and refining the bottom bowl for weeks. Just now, he has finished cutting the letter into a punch. He pushes it into an open flame until its surface is covered by soot – and then presses it into a sheet of paper. He looks at it and smiles. He thinks he has landed on something that is both readable and beautiful. He is excited about this and so ignores the cat, picks up the page and trundles across the courtyard to show his wife, Marie Isabelle. This is not the final ‘g.’ He will struggle on-and-off with this letter for two more years. Other letters – the letter ‘f,’ and its elegant and simple italics sister ‘f,’ for example – will come more easily.

  It has been raining and there are puddles of reflected sky in the courtyard but he splashes through the puddles. The cat follows, tiptoeing around the puddles. Garamond pushes the door open, stomps his shoes, and before he is fully inside he is shouting and waving the sheet of paper: “G! I have the g. It’s a fine letter g!”

  “What?” Marie Isabelle says.

  “Where are you? I have the g…”

  Marie Isabelle is in the pantry, plucking a chicken – feathers floating in the air. “You have to pee? Is that what you’re going on about?” Why is he telling her this instead of just going ahead and doing it?

  “No. The letter g. It’s the letter g! Where are you?”

  “I’m in the pantry,” she says, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Come and show me your g.” He is a bit like a child in his enthusiasm for these letters but Marie Isabelle finds this to be charming. There were many gentlemen who came to court her but of all the men, only Garamond brought a passion for books and type, which she found fascinating. She never felt stupid when he talked about his work. He took the time to explain and always assumed she was intelligent. He was excited about his work, which was creating text, designing letters, and working with publishers. The printing press was changing everything. Claude told her the printing press and movable type meant everyone would be able to own and read books. Up until the later 1400s, it was only monasteries and universities that owned books, and the very rich. She already knew this, of course. While her family was not considered wealthy, Marie Isabelle could read and write, and this set her apart. Her father insisted a woman’s capacity for intelligence was no different than a man’s.

  Garamond was the only one who made her laugh. He was the only one who brought her poetry. It was her grandmother who said, ‘Enough! This is the man you will marry.’ And Marie Isabelle did not argue.

  When Garamond started out, he was an apprentice with the publisher and punch cutter, Antoine Augereau, a man who was eventually implicated in the 1534 Affair of the Placards – during which anti-Catholic tracts were posted in the major cities of France. On Sunday, the 18th of October, Parisians on their way to Mass were outraged to discover Protestant placards attacking the doctrine of the Mass had been put up in various public places overnight. Rumours swirled about one of these a placards being nailed to the King’s bedchamber door.

  Augereau was arrested, hanged and burned at the stake, along with dozens of other suspects. Garamond had already left his master behind, but still, he thought it would be prudent to put distance between themselves and Paris. If this could happen to Antoine Augereau, it could happen to them.

  Less than a month after the day of the placards, the King’s police chief arrested and tortured a known Protestant, who eventually identified other Protestants in the city. He did this by halting an elaborate procession of the Corpus Christi outside supposedly Protestant houses. Once the procession was stopped, the occupants of the house were arrested and trundled off to prison for trial and execution. The executions were held all over Paris and the burnings took place more or less daily for several weeks. This wholesale vengeance for simply posting a placard caused an exodus among the citizens of Paris. Craftsmen and traders, goldsmiths, engravers, lawyers, even some priests and monks, and particularly printers and bookbinders, fled the city. Many publishers and punch cutters moved away from Paris, to Switzerland and beyond, so they could publish what they wanted without fear of persecution.

  * * *

  On their last day in Paris, Garamond came to Marie Isabelle before breakfast and told her they would be leaving at sunset.

  “Pardon me?” she said. “What do you mean leaving?” She has never liked being told what to do. Surely he’s making a joke.

  “Leaving, and not coming back for a while.”

  “But why are we leaving?”

  “Can you please not fight me on this?”

  “I am not fighting you, Claude. I am not leaving. There is Sophie Marot’s dinner party next week, and my mother is ailing, and our friends…”

  “…Paris has become too dangerous.” Garamond did not want to tell her everything.

  “So we are in danger?”

  He nodded, slowly.

  Marie Isabelle looked at her husband. Garamond looked scared. His eyes were frightened and she knew he did not scare easily. He did not back away from a challenge. He was not irrational, nor impulsive.

  “Pack light,” he said. “We’ll replace what we leave behind.”

  “Very well, Claude. I trust you.”

  “It must not look like we’re moving,” he said. “But we are. We won’t be coming back for a long time.”

  This was too much for her. Now he was saying they were being watched? And what does he mean by a ‘long time’? “What have you heard, Claude? Tell me. I am not some sort of delicate creature who is prone to fainting.”

  “Rumours,” he said. “But it is a fact they are marching their Corpus Christi processional around the streets of Paris and when they stop…”

  “Merde!”

  “There are executions every day and it seems the trials are routinely quick, which makes me wonder about how just they are.”

  Marie Isabelle knew, of course, about her husband�
�s association with Antoine Augereau but that was so long ago.

  As if he could read her mind, Garamond smiled and nodded. “Poor Antoine. He had no idea what was coming. This is a broad Catholic brush,” he said. “I do not think this is about justice, or truth, but rather, atonement and fear. It is about the piousness of the Roman Catholic Church. I think it may be the beginning of something bigger.”

  “All this because of a few placards?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Placards that were written and printed. Placards that deeply insulted the Roman Catholic Church.”

  “The power of a few words?”

  “The power of words,” he said. “And ideas. And the freedom to distribute those words.”

  “And what do you believe, Claude?”

  He smiled. “You mean the matter of St. Paul and whether or not he says, eat the body of Jesus Christ, or just eat this bread, it’s a symbol of the body of Christ?”

  “Yes,” Marie Isabelle said. “That question. Transubstantiation.”

  “That question is not worth dying for,” Garamond said. “This is why we are leaving.”

  “Oh Claude. I know you know this but let me speak it out loud so we have a shared understanding; the question of the right and proper place of the Holy Eucharist is, for most Catholics, entirely worth dying for.”

  When she had packed her bags with essentials, Marie Isabelle sat down and wrote a letter to her mother. Garamond told her they would be travelling south so she told her mother they were going to Austria. Things have finally calmed down in Austria, she wrote. And you know how Claude loves the mountains. She did not hesitate to mislead her mother, and anyone else who might read her letter. Away is away is away, she thought, and the destination did not matter.

  * * *

  There – an imagined picture of Claude Garamond and his wife is in the book, and what was the first line in these acknowledgements? That’s right: “The author would first like to acknowledge Claude Garamond, the masterful father of the Garamond font, who is most definitely not a character in this book.”

  See? This is all a lie.

  Epilogue

  Imagine this: A man wearing a dark winter coat with the collar turned up walks along the edge of the river. The river is not yet frozen but he imagines it as sluggish. It does not appear to be slower but he can picture the molecules of water decelerating and perhaps yearning to become crystalline. Maybe it’s this longing that slows the river, and a desperate wanting that freezes it.

  He’s wearing a black, over-sized beret and his hands are shoved deep into his pockets. Snowflakes dust the beret. He has left his scarf in the car.

  The man does not meander. He knows exactly where he’s going. He is carrying a bouquet of flowers under his arm. The flowers are wrapped in a funnel of paper, which is scant protection but enough for today. He bought yellow. He always buys freesia. Not because of what it was, but rather because of what it was not. It looked nothing like a daisy. The woman in the flower shop never made assumptions about his purchase, even though she could have. She waited for him to ask about the freesia: “How is the freesia today, Mrs. Ralston?” And she would reply: “The white is fresher than the yellow – it came in yesterday.” It would be a derivation of this conversation every time. Sometimes the purple was better. Sometimes it would be the yellow. Sometimes, if a new shipment had just arrived and the flowers were exceptional, Mrs. Ralston would mention the tulips, or the daffodils, or the roses, and this would not annoy the man. He listened with respect, pretended to consider her offering, and then asked for freesia.

  He dusts the snow from his shoulders and quickens his pace.

  Under the walnut tree, the man pauses and takes a deep breath. At least it’s not bitterly cold. He smiles. He could have driven all of this. There was a road that would take him to within a few metres of his destination. But walking gave him time to frame what he was doing, and it allowed for a contemplative honour to form. He needed the walk to find the place in his heart. He’d like to think this will be the last time he’ll make this journey but he knows this is nonsense. He stomps the snow from his shoes and begins to walk again.

  Chapter 24

  The clock is ticking

  Chapter 24? What just happened? Did you have a stroke and misplace the first twenty-three chapters in your head? That would be awful. Don’t you remember reading this story? No? Seriously, you’re fine. You haven’t read this book yet. You’re okay.

  This is actually the beginning of a story. This is not the end. The end is not near. This is Chapter 24 and next up is Chapter 23, and so on. Do you want to flip through the book to the end of Chapter 1 and look for the dedication, and some sort of clever epigraph? Go ahead. It’s probably a Zen saying – something like: “Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water – after enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.” And under that, there is a quote from Ken Robinson that reads: “What we do know is, if you’re not prepared to be wrong, you’ll never come up with anything original.” Did you look? If you did, you know the epigraph is not a Zen saying. Nor is it a quote from Ken Robinson. It’s something else.

  Admittedly, nobody puts an epilogue at the front of a book. But here’s the thing – this particular epilogue could be inserted anywhere in the book. It’s the kind of epilogue that is loaded up with mystery. It’s a massive, undulating question mark.

  Maybe, at this point, you don’t know who to trust. What does all this counting chapters backwards nonsense mean? Well, it could be as simple as an extension of the idea behind the title of the book – the order of the chapter numbers is a lie. The structure is a big, fat, bald-faced lie but the narrative is the right way ‘round – for the most part. You might ask yourself how these backwards chapter numbers make you feel. Could it be the author’s intention to make the reader feel a little anxious or uneasy? Maybe the author is unnerved about what’s going on in this story and the backwards chapters are a coping mechanism. Regardless, we read from left to right – unless we’re reading Arabic, or Japanese – and we always read from start to finish, regardless of the numbers. Right? We push through. We keep moving. On the other hand, it does seem like a bit of a countdown. But a countdown to what, exactly?

  Let’s review. There are three characters – four if you count the lie of Claude Garamond – Tulah Roberts, Nancy Petya, and Ray Daniels. The chapter numbers are presented backwards but the narrative moves forward. You may, or may not be…wait. Did you skip the acknowledgements? Really? After all that encouragement? So you have no idea what this is all about. Sigh… If you go back and read the acknowledgements you’ll know what’s going on. And while you’re there, maybe take a look-see at the Note on the Font. Then you will be completely up to speed. If you already read these important sections – Bravo! or Brava! Good for you, and carry on.

  * * *

  Okay, so there are three characters in this story, five if you count Claude Garamond and his lovely wife. You know a little bit about each of these people. Tulah writes a snow journal. Nancy’s father was killed in Afghanistan. Ray Daniels talks to trees. Claude Garamond is working on the letter ‘g,’ and his wife, Marie Isabelle, is unhappy about living in the country. Is any of this true? Yes. Emphatically yes! Is it factual? Why would you care?

  You think of them as people now, partly because, well, they’re as real as that guy your Uncle Frank talks about at family get-togethers after he’s had too much to drink – the guy who saved his life on the side of a mountain in Switzerland in 1953. You remember that story? Well, this story is like that story, except the writer isn’t drunk, for the most part, and there are no Swiss mountain guides.

  There must be a rule of writing that states, never mess with the order of your chapters – always make them go from chapter one, to chapter two, and so on. Hmmm. And there has to be a rule that says never start a book with a Note on the Font, and do not, under any circumstance, ever follow the Note on the Font with a blatantly
self-conscious list of Acknowledgements. Hmmm. The celebrated writer Michael Ondaatje once said – “Never start a book with anyone in a bathtub, no matter how beautiful or heart-breaking. Unless it’s a nun. Nuns in bathtubs are fine.” In 1976, at a literary event in Seattle, Washington, the outspoken writer Margaret Atwood said it was preferable if readers began reading her books while they were in the bath. The American writer John Irving said: “I don’t like taking baths.”

  Speaking of rules for writing, the late, great American writer Kurt Vonnegut once said stories should always start as close to the end as possible. Well, you’re reading the acknowledgements, which are normally at the end of a book. He also said writers should make their characters want something, even if it’s as simple as a glass of water.

  Maybe the two characters you’re about to meet want different things. Maybe the wife wants to know she’s loved but she doesn’t know how to ask for it. She wants to know, unequivocally, that she is loved. She thinks her husband might roll his eyes and say something simple like – ‘well of course, I love you. I have always loved you.’ And, she is afraid he will say all the right things and she won’t believe him. She wants to feel grounded with him – not this dull ache of uncertainty.

  Maybe the husband wants to live more truthfully, because over the past couple years he’s been living so far away from truth it pains him to think about it. Most of the time, he feels like one of Peter Pan’s Lost Boys. He wonders what would happen if he spoke the truth. He’s not sure he trusts his wife enough to tell her the truth about what he feels. He’s afraid she’ll bolt. He wants to feel more safe and found, and not so bloody lost all the time. And he wants to make love with his wife.