The Blue Hour

  PRAISE FOR THE AUTHOR OF PACK UP THE MOON

  “Lusciously emotional…in this engaging story of fate and adult friendship, Teleky manages that stunning and rare feat – telling an ordinary story of human interaction in a way that is universal, revelatory and suspenseful.”

  — Globe and Mail

  “Exquisite…A relentless observer of human frailty, Teleky always spies the human gesture.”

  — National Post

  “A beautifully textured, beautifully structured novel…a book to savour and reflect upon long after you’ve turned the last page.”

  — Vancouver Star

  “Teleky has always been a writer’s writer…with Pack Up the Moon he delivers an eloquent exploration of the demands and limits of friendship and faith.”

  — Ottawa Citizen

  “A rare, affecting novel about sorrowing over ghosts…the expert dissection of a human heart.”

  — Toronto Star

  Formatting note:

  In the electronic versions of this book blank pages that appear in the paperback have been removed.

  Also by Richard Teleky

  FICTION

  Winter in Hollywood

  Pack Up the Moon

  The Paris Years of Rosie Kamin

  Goodnight, Sweetheart and Other Stories

  NON-FICTION

  The Dog on the Bed: A Canine Alphabet

  Hungarian Rhapsodies: Essays on Ethnicity, Identity, and Culture

  POETRY

  The Hermit in Arcadia

  The Hermit’s Kiss

  ANTHOLOGIES

  The Exile Book of Canadian Dog Stories

  The Oxford Book of French-Canadian Short Stories

  The Blue Hour

  RICHARD TELEKY

  Publishers of Singular Fiction, Poetry, Nonfiction, Drama, Translations and Graphic Books

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Teleky, Richard, 1946-, author

  The blue hour : a novel / Richard Teleky.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-55096-666-4 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-55096-667-1 (EPUB).--

  ISBN 978-1-55096-668-8 (Kindle).--ISBN 978-1-55096-669-5 (PDF)

  PS8589.E375B58 2017 C813'.54 C2017-901182-0 / C2017-901183-9

  Copyright © Richard Teleky, 2017

  Design and Composition by Michael Callaghan

  Cover photograph, reprinted with the kind permission of Maria Kuboszek of FEINFEIN and Dorota Koperska Photography

  Published by Exile Editions Ltd ~ www.ExileEditions.com

  144483 Southgate Road 14 – GD, Holstein, Ontario, N0G 2A0

  PDF, ePUB and MOBI versions by Melissa Campos Mendivil

  Publication Copyright © Exile Editions, 2017. All rights reserved

  We gratefully acknowledge, for their support toward our publishing activities, the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.

  Exile Editions eBooks are for personal use of the original buyer only. You may not modify, transmit, publish, participate in the transfer or sale of, reproduce, create derivative works from, distribute, perform, display, or in any way exploit, any of the content of this eBook, in whole or in part, without the expressed written consent of the publisher; to do so is an infringement of the copyright and other intellectual property laws. Any inquiries regarding publication rights, translation rights, or film rights –or if you consider this version to be a pirated copy – please contact us via e-mail at: info@exileeditions.com

  For my ghosts

  Can a human being, fully aware of the eternity behind and before him or her, fully value and appreciate the passing hour? An hour of watching the woods or the sea or of listening to music, an hour given to friendly talk with friends? — ISAK DINESEN

  Prologue

  One night last summer, very late, when I couldn’t sleep, when I tossed about on my bed, shifting my position every few minutes, plumping my pillow again and again, this thought came to mind: would the same police stretcher that bore a securely-strapped body to the morgue have been used, six weeks later, to carry another body, this one only wounded, to the hospital? Possibly yes, and even likely, in a small town of eight thousand, like ours. It wouldn’t have mattered, of course, not to anyone – certainly not to either of them. I won’t pretend to feel the smack of my skull against a concrete wall, or ponder whether there’s shock before pain in the moment of impact, or question if fading sight turns into panic, nor does an imagined bullet’s sharp burn give my mind even the hint of sensation, let alone my flesh. And I can’t know if one feels death stalking, then coming forward in the same room, quite brazen, or the relief that it isn’t nearby after all. But an odd notion remains with me, and I’ve kept asking myself, as if a padded metal stretcher has a mind of its own, perhaps some conscious sense of a body’s impress and weight, what is remembered?

  ONE

  How useful an office one’s friends perform when they recall us.

  Yet how painful to be recalled, to be mitigated, to have one’s sel adulterated, mixed up, become part of another.

  —Virginia Woolf, The Waves

  1

  Saturday, March 17, 2012

  “We’re still passionate,” Nick said. “I wouldn’t want you to think we aren’t. But usually it’s just once a month.”

  People often tell me things I don’t need to know.

  “And afterward I’m depleted for days,” he added. “Élan vital’s precious. Some athletes abstain before a big game.”

  I nodded, and he sighed. Wasn’t it King Lear who said, “Let copulation thrive!”? I should look it up.

  From the start, let’s get this straight. I’m not going to write much about myself. Sure, I have a house, a portable computer, a five-year-old Jetta, but no microwave, no iPod, no cell phone. Get the picture? I also have an old piano, a snow blower, and a job at the college – as a librarian archivist. And I’ve never cared for mysteries where the detective rambles on about his failed romances or new loves, his fears or obsessions, so there’ll be none of that. Death has its way in this story, and in its own time, yet death can wait. For a while, at least, we’re safe.

  Perhaps the early spring made Nick eager to declare his passions, like a horny young shepherd in a pastoral poem. Long ago I learned that when one part of a couple shares uncalled-for intimacies, or criticizes the other half, you’re supposed to keep a blank expression, taking it in benignly but not really remembering; you’re not supposed to comment, or agree.

  To avoid hearing more, I said, “It’s a good doughnut, isn’t it?”

  He chewed thoughtfully and then replied, “I’m sorry Hedy’s running late.”

  We were sitting outside of Gibson’s, at one of the sidewalk tables overlooking the town common, properly known as Tappan Square. It was mid-March but unseasonably warm. Record-breaking, in fact. The bulbs in my garden had already opened, and students were out in T-shirts and skimpy shorts, though St. Patrick’s Day usually meant the end of winter in northern Ohio.

  I glanced down at the headline of this week’s Oberlin Review – “Panel On Biometrics” – which seemed safe enough in case Nick noticed it. In the last few years Nick and Hedy had become vocal members of the Tea Party, and our visits were now a minefield. Somewhere I read a Chinese saying that you know you’re getting old when you don’t see old friends as much as you used to because it takes too much patience. I never thought this would happen, but it has. And the tensions in our friendship have left me troubled, at a loss.

  Nick’s cell phone rang. He took it from his pocket, smiled, and then put the thing to his ear. “Hello, dear.” Perhaps Hedy would be joining us soo
n.

  “No, we’re outside,” he said, pausing. “Uh-huh, sure. And Mother’s feeling better.” He mouthed “Guy” to me and I turned away.

  Guy, poor sad Guy, their only child – thirty-four, and finally moving into his own place.

  Should I buy a second doughnut? If you’re ever in Oberlin, try a whole-wheat fried cake, they’re one of the first things alumni head for when they return to campus on the nostalgia trail. Since 1885, Gibson’s candy-cum-general store has been on the same spot on West College Street, and now it’s a local landmark.

  “We’ll see you tonight,” I heard Nick say. Then, “Yes, yes. I love you. See you later.”

  “He’s really doing it?” I asked.

  Guy had rented a bungalow in town, an hour’s drive from his parents’ place in Medina. They’d been talking about his search for a year now, but I didn’t think he had the nerve.

  “We’re happy for him, setting out on his own like this. The economy’s been hard on young people.” He sighed, with the hint of a rueful smile. “We’re finally empty nesters.”

  “What’s wrong, Nick? You don’t sound pleased.”

  “I guess you never really expect big changes. And Hedy’s worried about him.”

  “Mothers are like that,” I commiserated. “He’ll be fine.”

  Another thing I’ve learned is that couples with children want the freedom to criticize their kids but you aren’t supposed to join in. Best, in fact, to mount their defense. Yet when it came to Guy, I had no idea what to say. I hadn’t known him as a child, I was then working in Canada, and he’d been a quiet teenager, never making a fuss. Unexpectedly, he joined the army right out of high school, but after his stint returned home, did odd jobs, and finally trained as a dental tech. He continued to live with his parents and help with their antiques business. People used to say that a happy marriage bred old maids, and Guy was fast becoming one.

  “We’ve had a theft in the archives,” I said, hoping to distract Nick. “Part of a rare map.”

  “Important?” Nick feigned interest.

  “It can’t be replaced. People think archives are dull, but a cut from a razor blade…”

  “Hey, fellas!” Hedy called, giving us a start. “Don’t those doughnuts have egg in them?” She eyed our treat, setting two plastic bags on the table and pulling out a chair. Then she tossed her head back, fluffed her hair, and smiled up at the sun. “Oh, that feels good. We’re finally done with winter.”

  Nick watched her, enthralled. Wherever Hedy goes, she moves in a private magnetic field, and you can almost watch molecules of energy stir about her. Hedy, you see, is a beauty. Tall, with lush raven hair, fine features, and a flair for the dramatic. She has a patrician bearing that comes from her height. She’s at least five feet nine, but unlike many tall women she never stoops, she’s at ease with her stature and luxuriates in it. I still see the lovely young woman in her, although the turquoise eye shadow she uses – Nick likes it, she once told me – really doesn’t suit anybody at sixty. No matter who says it, sixty’s not the new forty.

  “I’ve got some gems,” she said, one hand gesturing at the bags. Today she’d pinned a silky purple bow behind her right ear, in a girlish touch.

  Hedy’s question about the doughnuts wasn’t related to cholesterol, though we were at that time of life when people talk about high blood pressure and the like. After they’d married, she and Nick discovered an Indian guru with a teaching called The Way. They called it the sum of all religions: worldly attachment caused suffering. Those culprits, the senses, and their pals, the appetites, lie in wait to ambush you. Abstinence was the only escape: no alcohol, tobacco, or drugs; married couples were even urged to refrain from sexual relations as much as possible. The goal was to be done with the cycle of reincarnation. An egg was a potential life, a part of the cycle, and eating one tied you to trouble.

  Hedy and I had met in the ninth grade. Back then she ate cheeseburgers like everyone else, but she also attended hush-hush meetings at the local library, where the neighborhood Rosicrucians talked about whatever they talked about. (Strange, how you never hear of Rosicrucians anymore.) As long as I’ve known Hedy, she’s been drawn to secret learning and arcane wisdom.

  “Want a tea, hon?” Nick asked.

  “I just need to rest a minute, before we go to the mall. This sun’s glorious.”

  The mall she spoke of was the Oberlin Antique Mall, several miles outside the city.

  “You’re sure you’re coming?” she asked me. “I’ll be at our booth for a couple hours.”

  Hedy checked newspaper and internet ads for estate sales, and with an eye for the rare find, often came up with some neglected treasure which she sold at the mall or on eBay. She was also a gifted potter, and her small sculpture animals had a following across the state, where they were in the collections of several museums. But the onset of arthritis now slowed her down.

  “Every day,” she said, “it gets harder. And I feel like we’re losing more freedom.”

  Nick nodded gravely. “Surely you can feel it happening? It’s chaos out there.”

  “Nick’s upset about things,” Hedy said. “We feel like this isn’t our country anymore.”

  “That’s it exactly,” he agreed. “My country’s been taken away from me.”

  “I don’t see chaos. The cars aren’t on the sidewalk…” I stopped. When our visits took this turn, I flipped into irony. But it’s a confining refuge, especially if you can’t share it.

  They looked at each other conspiratorially, then back at me.

  Nick and Hedy insisted that the President’s birth certificate was forged – they’d seen the proof on line – and that he was out to destroy the country. Greedy unions and liberal professors and illegal Hispanics and ridiculous regulations were also doing their part. It was too easy to call this nonsense. Anyway, I consider most politicians opportunists. That’s not the point, though. My facts weren’t theirs, my sources made them sneer. If I cited the New York Times, they countered with Rush Limbaugh. Conservatives loved America and progressives hated it. Period.

  The sun was bright but the day had darkened. I could try to change the subject and tell them about the theft in the library. Or ask Nick what he was working on.

  Nick had gone to graduate school in literature, but never completed his doctoral thesis. Instead, he wrote poetry, though he has yet to publish a collection. When Guy came along, Nick took a job in an uncle’s car dealership, inheriting it after a decade. He ran the business for a few years and had a nervous collapse, but did well selling it. Since then he and Hedy have lived off its legacy, along with the top up from her discoveries, which Nick packed for mailing.

  We hadn’t met for several weeks and I was anxious about the afternoon, when they were coming to lunch at my place. “I made mushroom stroganoff,” I said. A favorite of theirs.

  Hedy took my cue. “Here, let me show you this.” She pulled a small parcel from one of the bags and began to unwrap it. On each wrist she wore a thick copper bracelet meant to cut the pain from arthritis and rebalance her chakras, or something like that. The newspaper wrapping fell back to reveal a cobalt blue glass tumbler. Depression ware, the kind once given away on movie-theater prize nights. “Perfect condition,” Hedy observed. On one side of the tumbler was a silvery white decal of curly-haired Shirley Temple, a smiling, ghostly image.

  “I paid only a quarter, and it’s worth thirty dollars at least.”

  “Ask forty,” Nick said. This wasn’t one of her better finds, but they were pleased with it.

  During our ride to the mall, I tried to keep the talk on congenial subjects, though even the weather wasn’t a safe one because Nick and Hedy considered global warming a scientific hoax. Several miles out of town, we parked by a warehouse-like building. Over fifty thousand square feet, the mall held more than two hundred booths in long wide rows. Everything from rare china figurines to Bakelite jewelry, turn-of-the-last-century pottery to fur coats from the forties, art-deco lam
ps and Victorian dog engravings, even fragile Christmas ornaments, gave the place an air of an eccentric grandma’s attic. Since the booths are mostly unattended, floorwalkers patrol them, tagging objects for prospective buyers and taking these to the front service desk.

  Following Nick, I carried several heavy cardboard boxes to their booth in the third aisle. I wondered if Sheila would be in her booth today, and hoped not.

  “Thanks for your help,” Hedy said. “I don’t want Nick to strain himself. He’s been having trouble with his rotator cuff. I worry all the time.”

  Several years younger than Hedy, Nick stood at least six feet two inches tall, a trim man with the dark, Italianate good looks that still turned heads. His family name was Antonacci, but as a young man Nick had legally shortened it to Anton: that would look better on his first book of poems. Long ago we’d agreed that young men had to invent themselves.

  “We have to take care of each other,” Nick joined in. “I’m constantly worrying, too. I hate it when she goes out to her estate sales – she’s a good driver, it’s the others I worry about.”

  “You know I’m fine,” Hedy stopped him, and began unpacking. As if reading my mind, she added, “I don’t want him to drive me, I feel hurried then, and I need to take my time.”

  It can be tricky for anyone single to be close to couples, married or not. “I think I’ll look around,” I told them, heading off. It usually took me an hour to walk the mall, browsing for first editions. Three aisles to the right I spotted Sheila’s booth, but she was nowhere in sight.

  I’ve known Sheila Carney for ten years. She used to have an antiques shop in town, but as the recession cut into business she closed her doors and rented a booth in the mall. She also ran estate sales when she was lucky enough to know the family of someone who’d died, or a lawyer who did. And she worked at odd jobs like gardening. One summer, when the weeds in my yard got out of hand, I’d hired her, and she planted herself there. Since antique dealers attend the same auctions and estate sales, rivalries flare. Hedy had no use for Sheila and called her coarse, while Sheila thought Nick and Hedy pretentious. Each, in a way, was probably right.