Swann (41 page)

CRUZZI:
Her
life
is a puzzle. Her death, as far as I’m concerned, is just one of those … random accidents.

SARAH:
An accident! Mr. Cruzzi, you surprise me. (Her voice takes on heat.) That monster, her husband, shot her. Point blank. He hammered her face to mush—I’ve read all the newspaper reports. And cut her up into pieces and stuck her in a sack. That sounds pretty deliberate to me. And you call that an accident? Without any motive behind it?

CRUZZI
(buttering a roll): And what would constitute a “motive”? Probably her “monster” of a husband was hungry and his supper was late. (Cruzzi is a man who speaks often with quotation marks around his words, a manifestation of his growing crustiness.)

SARAH
(incredulous): You honestly think a man would hack his wife to death for
that?

CRUZZI:
He
was
a man of violent temper. That much came out in the inquest.

SARAH
(gesturing wildly): So supper’s a little late and he decides to shoot and dismember his lifelong mate. Show her who’s boss.

CRUZZI:
Or maybe she gave him a black look. Or talked back. Or burned the potatoes. Or ran out of salt. Or wasted three dollars on bus fare into Kingston. We’ll probably never know.

SARAH
(her face alight, one finger raised): But what if … what if she
did
have a lover … a secret … it’s not impossible … and
he
found out about it somehow?

CRUZZI:
Can you believe that? That exhausted woman? As you may know, I saw her the same day she was killed. She delivered the poems to my house.

SARAH:
But there were the love poems. Under the linoleum. Maybe —

CRUZZI:
In matters of love—(his face wears a self-mocking smile)—I have to admit that all things are possible. You’ve just told me about your own situation.

SARAH:
I shouldn’t have.

CRUZZI:
Don’t worry, please. I won’t mention it again. But Mary Swann and a lover? Certainly it is what many would
want
to find. A thread of redeeming passion —

SARAH:
—in a world that’s mainly made up of compromise.

CRUZZI:
I would imagine that even Jimroy yearns to discover
it—a love affair for Mary Swann. It would provide specific motivation for the murder, and perhaps he hoped you’d be the one to give it to him.

SARAH
(taking this in with a nod): If I ever do find the notebook—and I still haven’t given up hope—if I ever find it, the first thing I’m going to do is send Jimroy a photocopy so he can see for himself that there’s nothing,
nothing
that points to a love affair —

CRUZZI:
I don’t think, Sarah, that you are very likely to recover the journal.

SARAH
(startled, especially by Cruzzi’s ominous tone): And how can you be so sure?

CRUZZI:
Because … well, one of the reasons I was anxious to talk to you was to discuss—but first, let me ask you something. How exactly did the loss of the journal occur?

SARAH
(throwing up her hands, bewildered): Just what I said before—one day I had it, the next day I didn’t.

CRUZZI:
But where did you normally keep it?

SARAH:
I’ve got a little shelf over my bed. What a perfect fool I was to trust —

CRUZZI:
And one day you looked at this little shelf and the journal was gone?

SARAH:
I must have picked it up by mistake, thrown it away. It wasn’t very big, you know, and —

CRUZZI:
Or perhaps someone
else
picked it up —

SARAH
(stopped for a moment): No. No one else would have done that. (She shakes her head vigorously.) No!

CRUZZI:
Why not?

SARAH:
Because … who would want to?

CRUZZI
(speculatively; it is his nature to be speculative): There are any number of reasons that … certain individuals might want access to Mary Swann’s journal. Scholarly greed for one. Or the sheer monetary value of—

SARAH:
Mr. Cruzzi. I don’t know if I’m understanding you or not. Surely you’re not saying that someone might have
stolen
the journal?

CRUZZI:
Yes. That is what I am saying.

SARAH:
That’s—(she regards him closely, then laughs)—that’s a little wild, if you’ll excuse my saying so.

CRUZZI:
Do I appear to you to be a crazy person?

SARAH
(embarrassed): No. No, of course not, I —

CRUZZI:
“Senile” perhaps? “Screw loose?” “Bats in the belfry”? Paranoid delusions?

SARAH:
Mr. Cruzzi, I keep my doors locked. You know where I live? The south side of Chicago. I’ve got triple locks on my doors, back and front. On the groundfloor windows I’ve got iron bars, and I’m thinking of installing —

CRUZZI:
Perhaps … perhaps someone you know. Someone who just happened to be in your house and saw —

SARAH
(laughing, but only a little): Light-fingered friends I don’t have. The people I know don’t give two beans for Mary Swann. As a matter of fact, they’re sick to death of hearing me talk about Mary Swann—they actually put their hands over their ears when I start to —

CRUZZI
(interrupting, speaking with even-tempered deliberation; this is what he has been wanting to say to her all along): On Christmas Eve—are you listening, Sarah Maloney?—my house in Kingston was burgled. I was out for a few hours, and when I returned—I, too, lock my doors by the way, even in Kingston—and when I returned home I found certain items missing. I wonder if you can guess what they might be?

SARAH
(alarmed by the gravity of his tone; she puts down her knife and fork quietly): What?

CRUZZI:
For one thing, a file relating to the publication of Mrs. Swann’s book, and …

SARAH:
And?

CRUZZI:
And four copies of
Swann’s Songs
. The only copies I possess, by the way. We—my late wife and I—published only 250 copies of Mrs. Swann’s book. That was the usual print run for a small press in those days—and I am told that only about twenty of those still exist.

SARAH:
That’s true. A friend of mine, well, more than a friend … the man I mentioned earlier —

CRUZZI:
The man you loved?

SARAH
(after a pause): Yes. He’s in the rare book business and he says that’s the norm, that books, especially paper-bound books just … (gestures skyward) disappear.

CRUZZI:
I’m sure you can imagine my distress when I discovered the books had been stolen.

SARAH:
You’re saying —?

CRUZZI:
Nothing else in the house was touched.

SARAH
(shaking her head in disbelief, unable to imagine what this means): But it must be a joke—maybe a practical joke.

CRUZZI
(shaking his head): And naturally, with the thought of this symposium coming up, I was anxious to acquire a copy of
Swann’s Songs
, simply to refresh my memory. With my own copies gone, I tried the Kingston Public Library. And then the university library. In both places the copies seem to have been, shall we say, “spirited away.”

SARAH
(first shocked, then solemn, then doubtful): But look, libraries are notorious for misplacing their holdings. Or else they’ve got lousy security systems and with all the petty vandals around—it happens all the time. Even in the university where I teach … (she pauses) … the university archives …

CRUZZI
(sitting patiently with laced fingers; he senses what she is about to say): Go on.

SARAH:
 … even there … well, they’ve been known to … lose … quite valuable papers, whole collections even —

CRUZZI:
The Mary Swann collection, for example?

SARAH:
How did you know?

CRUZZI:
I made a phone call. When I began to suspect that something was going on.
SARAH:
Surely —

CRUZZI:
I’ve also phoned the National Library in Ottawa, the University of Toronto library, the University of Manitoba —

SARAH
(shaking her head over the absurdity of it all): And you began to suspect a worldwide conspiracy? Is that it?

CRUZZI:
I can see … I can tell from your expression … that you believe me to be quite insane.

SARAH:
I just —

CRUZZI:
You have one of those transparent faces, I’m afraid, that gives you away. You observe this ancient gent before you. One eye asquint, the casualty of a recent stroke. Voice quavery. He has been babbling about love, of all things. Love! And now it is paranoid accusations. Academic piracy.

SARAH:
But surely —

CRUZZI:
I don’t blame you for suspecting imbalance. I was of the same opinion. What kind of old goat was I getting to be?—that’s what I asked myself. And then I talked to Buswell.

SARAH:
Buswell! That self-pitying misogynist …

CRUZZI:
Yes. Exactly. I do agree. But he has a similar story to tell. His notes for an article on Swann
and
his copy of
Swann’s Songs
, he tells me, were removed from his desk. He had left the office for only a minute, he claims, and when he returned —

SARAH:
It still seems a little —

CRUZZI:
Fanciful? I agree with you there. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t until this morning, when you yourself announced the loss of Mrs. Swann’s notebook that I became persuaded that there was a rather remarkable, not to say alarming, pattern to all this. If you know anything about the laws of probability, you will quickly see —

SARAH:
It’s a little hard to see who would want … and for what reason? (The waiter puts the bill down on the table, and both Sarah and Cruzzi reach for it.) Please, Mr. Cruzzi, let me. Please. It’s been my pleasure. (She places bills on the plate, and rises.)

CRUZZI
(rising stiffly; his speech, too, is stiff, containing the awkwardness of translated words): I think, rather, that I have
not
given you pleasure. I have given you my own troubling concerns, and I am sorry for that. But I do feel … that this his gone far enough. And that something will have to be … (His voice fades and blends with the general noise.)

ROSE
(laughing): Please, it’s Rose. You remember—Rose!

JIMROY:
Rose. Of course.

ROSE:
Oh, I’m having the loveliest time. Everyone’s so nice and friendly, well, almost everyone. (She makes a face, thinking of Buswell.)

JIMROY:
I think you’ll find the afternoon interesting. A number of papers on various —

ROSE
(nervously): You don’t think we’ll be late, do you? I went up to my room for a little lie-down after lunch. I haven’t been awfully well of late, and then all these new faces, well, it’s tiring. And the trip down from Kingston, and the elevators—elevators always give me a funny feeling in the tummy. I’d of taken the stairs, but I didn’t want to be late.

JIMROY:
They can be tiring, meetings like this. (The elevator doors open. Politely he allows Rose to exit first, then he follows; they are about to pass the glass display case holding Mary Swann’s photograph when Rose suddenly grasps Jimroy’s arm.)

ROSE
(girlish, garrulous): There she is! Don’t you wonder what she’d think of all this fuss. I mean, she’d be just bowled over to think … (
CAMERA
focuses on Mary Swann’s photo.)

JIMROY
(speaking socially, composing himself): Good of you to bring the photograph along, Miss Hindmarch. Rose. Some people like to have a visual image to reinforce—(His manner implies he himself is not one of these people.)

ROSE:
Oh, well, of course it’s a terrible, terrible likeness. Out of focus, you know, and too much sun, that was the trouble with those old box
CAMERA
s, you couldn’t adjust for the light —

JIMROY
(anything to shut her up): Well, as I say, it is most fortunate to have even a poor likeness. I don’t suppose we can expect anything —

ROSE
(suddenly courageous, seizing her opportunity): Mr. Jimroy. Morton. There’s something—if you don’t mind—something I’d like to ask you about.

JIMROY
(gesturing at the open door of the meeting room where people are beginning to assemble for the afternoon session): Perhaps we might converse a little later. I believe (he consults his watch) it’s nearly time for the next —

ROSE
(not about to let him escape): It’s just, well, I don’t want to seem impolite or anything, but, you see, there’s something I’ve been wanting to mention to you. Ever since that time you visited Nadeau. I almost wrote you a letter once—

JIMROY
(his expression is one of pain): I believe we
are
going to be late if we don’t —

ROSE
(pursuing): You remember when you came to Nadeau, that you wanted, you wanted to see everything, you were so interested in every last little thing?

JIMROY:
A most pleasant visit as I remember. Most interesting. But really, we must —

ROSE:
Oh, we talked and talked, I remember how you asked all about —

JIMROY:
I believe, yes, we had a most interesting —

ROSE:
You took me out for dinner. To the Elgin Hotel, remember? We had the double pork chop platter. With apple sauce. I’ll never forget that. That evening. But do you remember the next day, I’m sure you do, visiting the
museum, the Mary Swann Memorial Room, that’s what I want to ask you about … Morton.

JIMROY
(attempting once more to extricate himself): Most fascinating exhibition. A credit to your community, yes. Perhaps we can chat later, but now —

ROSE
(doggedly): I showed you those two photographs of Mary Swann, the ones they found in a dresser drawer after she was … Do you remember that? There were —

The voice of Willard Lang can be heard from the meeting room.

LANG:
Ladies and gentlemen, the afternoon session is now called to order and —

JIMROY:
I really am awfully afraid—I don’t want to miss … (He makes a helpless gesture toward the door.)

ROSE:
There was
this
photograph
here
(points to display case) and then there was the
other
one. A much better likeness. Not so fuzzy. Her eyes, Mrs. Swann’s eyes, were wide open, remember? You picked it up and said how her eyes showed feeling. Do you remember, Mr. Jimroy, how you picked up —

JIMROY:
I’m afraid not. I don’t really remember there being another—and I certainly never picked up —

ROSE:
But it’s true, I remember things like that. People are always saying what a memory I’ve got. Like a camera! You picked up the picture and —

JIMROY
(attempting unsuccessfully to get around her): If you don’t mind. This is really —

ROSE:
—and afterwards, the very next day when I went into that room … I was showing a bunch of school kids around and —

JIMROY
(dully, with desperation): Please!

ROSE:
—and I was just about to show them the two photographs, and one of them was missing. The good one with the eyes open. It was gone, Mr. Jimroy. And now—I hate to say this, but facts are facts and you were the last person to … (gasps for breath) and I think it’s only fair for you to —

JIMROY:
This is outrageous! (He speaks loudly, not just to Rose, but to Merry Eyes and Wimpy Grin, who are arriving late, stepping arm-in-arm off an elevator, followed a second later by Sarah and Cruzzi.) I did not come all the way from California, Miss Hindmarch, to listen to … dim-witted
ravings
.

ROSE:
Oh! (She covers her face with her hands.) Oh! (At the word
ravings
, she rushes in tears to the EXIT stairway, blindly pushing open the door and disappearing.)

JIMROY
(shrugging to Merry Eyes, Wimpy Grin, Sarah, and Cruzzi, who stand in stunned bafflement before him): Poor soul. She’s been ill apparently. Very ill. Under a strain. I’m not sure she’s … (winces)… afraid she’s not quite … (He taps his forehead meaningfully.)