Life Before Man by Margaret Atwood Read Free Book Online Page B

he should wear a built-up heel. A piece of information about which Nate has done nothing. He refuses to join the ranks of the tin woodmen, those with false teeth, glass eyes, rubber breasts, orthopedic shoes. Not yet, not yet. Not before he has to.
    He runs clockwise, against the traffic, the cars meeting and passing him owl-eyed, dark and sleek. Behind him are the Parliament Buildings, squat pinkish heart of a squat province. In the interior, red plush and plump as a cushion, seedy lucrative deals are no doubt being made, decisions about who will build what where, what will be torn down, who will profit. He recalls with more than discomfort, sheer disbelief, that he once thought he would go into politics. Municipal probably.
Pompous nit
. Stop the developers, savethe people; from what, for what? He was once among those who felt the universe should be just and merciful and were prepared to help it achieve this state. That was his mother’s doing. He recalls his convoluted pain, his sense of betrayal when he realized finally how impossible this was. Nineteen-seventy, civil rights abolished, a war with no invaders and no enemy and the newspapers applauding. It wasn’t the arbitrary arrests, the intimidation, the wrecking of lives that had appalled him; that was no surprise. He’d always known such things happened elsewhere, and despite the prevailing smugness he’d never doubted they could happen here. It was the newspapers applauding. Editorials, letters to the editor. The voice of the people. If that was all they had to say he’d be damned if he’d be their megaphone.
    His idealism and his disillusionment now bore him about equally. His youth bores him. He used to wear a suit and listen to conversations between older men about those in power, hoping to learn something. Remembering this, he cringes; it’s like the string of love beads he wore once, briefly, when that fashion was on the wane.
    Ahead of him, across the street to the left, is the Museum, illuminated now by garish orange floodlights. He used to lurk there by the doorway at closing time, hoping to catch Elizabeth on her way out. At first she’d been remote and a little condescending, as if he was some sort of perverted halfwit she was being kind to. It knocked him out; that, and the impression she gave of knowing exactly what she was doing. Lapping Queen’s Park on Saturday mornings he would think of her inside the grey buildings, sitting like a Madonna in a shrine, shedding a quiet light. Though actually she never worked on Saturdays. He would think of himself running towards her as she receded in front of him, holding a lamp in her hand like Florence Nightingale. He’s glad he never told her about this ludicrous vision. She would have laughed even then, behind his back, and brought it up later to taunt him. Chocolate box, she would havesaid. The lady with the lamp. Jesus Christ. The lady with the axe, more like it. Now it’s a different figure he runs towards.
    He passes the War Memorial at the apex of the park, a granite plinth featureless and without ornament, except for the Gothic wen at the top. No naked women carrying flowers, no angels, not even any skeletons. Just a signpost, a marker. SOUTH AFRICA , it says on the other side; he used to see that in the mornings, driving to work, before he sold the car. Before he quit. Which war? He’s never thought much about it. The only real war took place in Europe, Churchill saying they would fight on the beaches, a hot trade in chewing gum and women’s stockings, his father vanishing in a thunderclap somewhere over France. With gentle shame he recalls how he cashed in on that.
Cut it out, you guys, his dad was killed in the war
. One of the few uses for patriotism he still considers valid; and about the only use for the death of his father, whom he cannot at all remember.
    He’s running south, Victoria College and St. Mike’s on his left. He’s almost around. He slows; he can feel the effort now, in