Toward the North Page 6

  Just then my wife asked me, “Who are you talking to?”

  I told her, “It’s Lily, but the house she is recommending is not suitable.” I was starting to feel that whenever I liked a house, my wife always found something about it that she doesn’t like. Oddly, now that I had said that this particular house was not suitable, she was suddenly interested.

  “I think this house sounds pretty good,” she said. “Of course, we must go and have a look.”

  I drove our second-hand Dodge sedan, while my wife, following Lily’s instructions, navigated. Before we reached the house, we realized that the surrounding area was an old neighbourhood. Along the roadside, the mature cedars and green and red maples blotted out the sky. The lawn and garden areas were expansive, and the houses were far from the road. By this time, it was already dusk and the sky was giving off a rosy glow. The rays of sunlight were absorbed by the dense canopy formed by the tall, graceful trees, and the air was touched with a cold, gentle moistness. It felt as though we were in a mountain forest. I drove slowly, trying to make out the house numbers. At last we found the house. The number was 118, and that sounded lucky. I parked the car at the curb, and from there my wife and I looked at the house.

  But daylight had faded, and we couldn’t make out the details of the house. We could only roughly discern its shape from the silhouette. The house had two floors, and the roof was irregular, somewhat like a trapezoid. It was reminiscent of a traditional house found in the villages of Japan, and it had a profoundly calm atmosphere. A garage was located at the end of a very long driveway, and there was a towering pine tree in the front. Beneath the tree was a wide lawn. Under a large window on the left-hand side was a big clump of shrubs. There was a large covered porch by the front door. There was also an additional structure, a solarium, built with glass walls and doors. My wife and I silently sized up the house. There were no lights on in any of the rooms, but I thought I could see the shadow of someone moving about inside the solarium. Perhaps she (or he) was watching us, as we were watching her (or him).

  My wife suggested we approach the house for a closer look. I said that since we were not accompanied by a real estate agent, the people in the house might not welcome strangers. My wife persisted and said, “Since the owners want to sell the house, of course, they would allow buyers to have a look.” I couldn’t change her mind. All I could do was follow her toward the house. My wife took a few steps along the sidewalk, turned down the driveway, opened a wooden gate, and looked into the backyard. From there, she walked up to that solarium. I thought that the person in the room would certainly open the door and come out. For some unknown reason, all at once, I felt a strong urge to run. But no one came out. My wife pressed her nose against the glass wall and peeked inside. Then she strolled over to the other side of the solarium and looked in. Finally, she came back to where I was standing and said, “There is no one in the solarium. There are only two rattan chairs and a potted plant.” That evening she seemed very excited. She had obviously taken a fancy to this house.

  The owner of the house was a white man who worked as a senior staff member for the CIBC bank. His name was Doug, which can be read in Chinese as “Dao Ge.” I don’t know why, but my wife always called him “Mr. Dog.” Since in English this name sounds like “dog,” I was afraid that Doug would be angry, but he didn’t seem to mind. Perhaps in English it is not an insult to be called a dog.

  Lily told us that in her experience, an agreement to buy a house is usually reached quite quickly. However, in our case, two cracks were discovered in the basement wall during the formal house inspection. The house inspector warned us that these two cracks might leak when it rained. Doug was adamant that in the twenty years he had been there, the basement had never leaked. This issue became a point of contention between us. So my wife and I added a clause to the offer to buy the house: “Before accepting ownership of the house, the buyer has the right to inspect the cracks in the basement after a heavy rainfall. If a leak is discovered, the buyer can cancel the agreement to buy the house.” Unfortunately, that summer we had little rain, and what rain did fall was very light. It was not until September that a big enough downpour occurred. It was a real cloudburst. My wife and I rushed to Doug’s house and carefully examined the cracks in the basement. We had bought an infrared scanner from Home Depot, and we used it to search the interior of the wall for moisture. We did not discover any leaks at all. Thus, all the barriers to buying the house had been swept away.

  In the middle of October, we were able to move into our new house, which was now enveloped by autumn’s beauty. The green maple trees had turned red; the red maple trees had turned purple; and the shrubs were a rainbow of colours. It seemed as though an artist had overturned his painter’s palette to create this beautiful scene. With the keys from the real estate lawyer, my wife, my daughter, and I excitedly opened the door of our new house. As we opened the screen door, we discovered a pink card inserted into the front door handle. It was a paragraph written in English in ornate handwriting. At that time, we hadn’t been in Canada very long, and I found it difficult to read. It seemed like forever before my middle-school age daughter and I were able to make out that it was a greeting from a neighbour. The neighbour’s name was “Swanny,” which in Chinese sounded like “Si-wo-ni,” so we thought it sounded like a woman’s name. She congratulated us on buying this beautiful house and welcomed us as her new neighbour. She said that after we had settled in, she would drop by and visit us. I put the card away for safekeeping, but I felt a little uneasy because my English was not very good, and I didn’t know exactly how to be on good terms with a Canadian neighbour.

  There was plenty to do in the days following the move. On the one hand, I was busy getting things done, but in the back of my mind I kept thinking about the woman who was called Swanny coming to visit us. But no one came. At the end of October, the United States and Canada have a very important festival called Halloween. The Chinese in Canada call this day “Ghost Festival.” On this day, people carve a pumpkin and place a lit candle inside it. They then place the pumpkin outside the door of their house. Both the inside and outside of the houses are decorated with skeletons, vampires, and the like. In the evening, children, as a rule, wear masks and costumes and go begging for candy in their neighbourhoods.

  Earlier that day I had bought a lot of candy, but as for the lit pumpkin and other decorations, I didn’t know how to go about getting them. I kept on thinking about that neighbour Swanny who had left the card and wondered if she would come and visit. Then I would be able to ask her for some advice about this Halloween festival.

  One morning, someone rang our doorbell. I lost no time in opening the door because I thought that Swanny had finally come to visit us. But when I opened the door, I saw an older boy, quite tall, with freckles and dark blond hair. He said his name was Tom and that he was the neighbour who lived next door.

  “My mother asked me to give you this cake to welcome you to our neighbourhood,” Tom said, as he handed us a box wrapped in paper and tied with ribbon.

  “Thank you so much,” I said, and then I asked, “Why didn’t your mother come with you?”

  Tom explained, “Lately my mother hasn’t been here. In the spring, she got sick with a disease called the West Nile Virus, and she is still weak. In order to rest and recover, the doctor advised her to stay up north in Huntsville at the family cottage on a lake near Algonquin Park.”

  “You say your mother has been living at a lake near Algonquin Park,” I said, a bit surprised. “Then how did she know that we had moved in?”

  “Well, she has lived at the lake now for more than a year, but once in a while she comes home, usually in the evenings, and she mostly only stays a short time.”

  “What is your mother’s name?” I asked.

  “Swanny,” the young man replied.

  “So, that’s who it is! We received a greeting card from her, and she said that
she would visit us. Now I finally know who Swanny is.”

  “Yes, I know my mother wanted to visit you, but like I said, she hasn’t been feeling very well.”

  “Please thank her very much and wish her a speedy recovery.”

  “One more thing.” Tom hesitated and then continued, “Tomorrow is Halloween and in the evening my family is having a Halloween party. My mother hopes your family can come and join us.”

  “You are very kind,” I said, smiling broadly. “My family and I would love to join you for the Halloween party.”

  When Tom left, I asked my daughter how to spell “West Nile.” She told me, and then I wrote the letters down on a piece of paper. I understand what “West” means: it is the direction west. I looked for “Nile” in the dictionary and found that it meant the “Nile River.” Linking the words together, it became the West Nile River. I had not heard of a disease with this name before, nor was I clear what place West Nile River referred to.

  Five years earlier, I had been to the Nile River. At that time, I was still in the Balkan peninsula working in the pharmaceutical business. It was my impression that the part of the Nile within the city of Cairo was covered with modern architecture, and that the river’s surface was teeming with both garbage and vessels. During my visit, I took a train along the Nile to the south. In ancient times, Upper and Lower Egypt were connected at Luxor. That section of the Nile River crosses a golden desert with mountainous hills and valleys, and many Egyptian pharaohs’ tombs were built there. I remember once I took the wrong boat and arrived at a place where a lot of local residents lived. From the river bank, I was able to see the wharfs, a tourist attraction, which were not very far away. So I took a shortcut along the edge of the river to get there. But midway, I encountered several dogs that chased me and wouldn’t leave me alone, causing me to flee in panic.

  South of Luxor is the Aswan Governorate. That is the place on the Nile where the famous Aswan Dam was built. The dam caused the water level to rise and flood a great deal of land, leaving behind many small islands. I can still recall a black child singing a verse while paddling my boat. The verse was something like, “Nile, Nile….” Further upstream is the country of Sudan. My impression of the Nile is that it had a north-south axis, so I wasn’t exactly sure where the West Nile River was located. I was all mixed up, but still when I think back on that beautiful river, I feel happy.

  I also looked up Mrs. Swanny’s name in the dictionary. There was no translation for “Swanny,” but there was a word that was very similar that meant “swan.” And so, in my mind, I began to see a connection between large flying birds and lakes. This was not just because of the word “swan,” but also because the boy had said that his mother was living beside a lake to convalesce. I tried to imagine how she would spend her day, all alone by the lake.

  The next night, every home was brightly lit with pumpkins. After darkness had fallen, groups of children in masks and costumes began to appear on the street. They went from house to house, knocking at the doors and shouting, “Trick or treat.” When the children utter these words, you are meant to reward the child with some candy or you could be punished with a “trick” or prank. The families in each home had prepared some candy to give out to the children. I carried a big pail of candy and stood guard at the door. When I heard the kids knock on the door, I opened it and grabbed a handful of candy for each of them. I think this festival is pretty good. Just give these groups of little ghosts some candy and send them on their way—“by spreading a little wealth, you banish a little evil,” as we, in China, say. However, my wife did not like Halloween at all. She said, “This festival is exactly like the Hungry Ghost Festival in mid-July in China. People should hide in their houses and not open their doors to strangers.”

  After nine o’clock, when the candy was all gone, I went to the doorway and saw that Mrs. Swanny’s driveway was full of cars. Under the big tree in the front yard, an eerie wind blew hairy green spider webs, human skulls, and hanging devils. On the lawn, accompanied by the sound of forlorn and bitter howling, grim, shadowy rays of light flickered forebodingly. But then I thought of the invitation that Mrs. Swanny’s son had given us, and I don’t know why, but I felt that Mrs. Swanny would surely come home from her lakeside cottage to see her family this evening. I told my wife that, as a courtesy, our whole family should accept the invitation and go to the party. Now that we had immigrated to Canada, we should integrate into society and socialize with the local people. My wife insisted that she would definitely not go out during the Ghost Festival or go to a horrifying party. She said that on the night of the Ghost Festival every family should lock their doors to prevent evil spirits from entering the house.

  Since I couldn’t convince my wife, I persuaded my daughter to go with me. I told her that for a young person like her, joining the local people in this kind of activity is even more necessary. Yet as soon as my daughter went out the door and caught sight of the wailing ghosts and howling wolves in the neighbour’s garden, she became frightened and her face turned pale. I coaxed her toward the neighbour’s door, but there, from inside the house, we heard the din of even more moaning ghosts, and we saw macabre masks beckoning to us through the window. Suddenly, the door burst open and a skeleton holding a shiny chainsaw in its hands lunged toward us. Panic-stricken, my daughter began to cry uncontrollably, and I had no choice but to take her by the arm and head for home. When my wife saw our daughter’s ashen face, she was unable to contain her fury and railed against me, shouting, “What on earth were you thinking? Why are you so interested in the next-door neighbour’s business? The child is scared out of her wits. What are we going to do now?”

  The argument with my wife put me in a foul mood, so I stormed out the door and ended up on a nearby street, where I walked around and around. Everywhere on the street I saw the lit-up teeth of grinning pumpkins. All sorts of creatures wearing masks and capes were roaming about. I was the only one who still looked like a human being. Many people turned their heads to stare at me.

  After walking around in a circle, I gradually calmed down. I was seized with remorse. I should not have forced the child to participate in the Halloween party, especially when she did not want to go. I began to understand that I had been overly concerned with being a part of my neighbour’s party. Even my wife had seen that this was peculiar behaviour on my part.

  Now I would like to talk a little about another matter.

  I had been here for less than six months and it was my first summer in Canada. Because I was in a good financial situation, I did not have to rush into work and so, except for attending some Adult Education classes to learn a little English, my time was mainly my own. Sometimes I would go fishing, and at other times visit the library, museum, or art gallery. At the Art Gallery of Ontario, there would often be exhibitions of famous modern artists, such as the Group of Seven. More than a hundred years ago this group of seven people went far from the city to live among the forest and lakes of Algonquin Park, which is more than three hundred kilometres from Toronto. Their work primarily consists of watercolour or gouache paintings, mostly landscapes, but also some figure paintings. I went to the art gallery a good many times to see these paintings. These works were influenced by the Impressionists, as well as by Chinese and Japanese painters. It wasn’t the portrait paintings that attracted me, but rather the scenery and the people within it. The twilight in the far mountains and the sunrise mist blurring the solidity of the lakeshore made my heart yearn to find these places.

  One day, while looking at an A. Y. Jackson gouache painting from 1902, I noticed some small print in the lower right-hand corner. It said, Canal du Loing near Episy. I knew that this was likely to be a famous scenic spot, but I searched all over the maps and couldn’t locate the place until one day, while using Google’s satellite map search, I casually entered the name of that place. As a result, the map of a park suddenly appeared before my eyes. I zoomed in until I could see t
he lake, the forest, and the rooftops of the homes along the lakeside. Next to the map was a list of directions, showing the route from Toronto to the lake.

  I am the kind of person who is very susceptible to temptation. Just as I said before, when I saw that Italian cantina filled with jam, that was it! I wanted to buy the house. The very first time I heard the Canadian singer Celine Dion sing, I had the desire to immigrate to Canada. When I saw the directions on the computer to Algonquin Park, I thought that I could visit the landscape of those paintings, and at the same time go fishing. And so, my passion was aroused.

  The next day, I got up before dawn and drove for more than three hours. I came upon a country road and drove with some difficulty until I managed to reach the lakeshore. It was a beautiful lake inside a bay. The road to the shoreline was covered with what appeared to be hyacinths, and the nearby water was thick with clumps of reeds. The area was mostly uninhabited marshland, home to many long-legged wading birds, such as egrets and great blue herons who lived among the reeds. I walked along the shoreline for a long time and was unable to find a suitable place by the water to cast my fishing line, so I kept heading eastward. Eventually, I saw a small pathway leading to the lake where there was a long wooden dock stretching out into the water. It was an ideal place from which to throw a fishing line. I sat down on the dock, but I was uneasy because on the right, about thirty metres away from the dock, there was a house next to the water.

  The house was big and had a large deck that also jutted out over the water. I didn’t see anyone come out, but I knew that this dock was likely the private property of the house owner. I was a little hesitant, but since I couldn’t find another good spot, I threw in my line here and lit up a cigarette. At this time, I smoked like a chimney; I gave up smoking later. Soon I caught my first fish, a perch. It weighed more than one pound. Then suddenly I caught a large mouth bass. The fish there were plentiful and large. They all put up a good fight. There were also a great many white lake birds similar to seagulls. Each time I hooked a fish, my line tightened, and I started to reel the fish in from a distance in the lake. The birds would hover over the area, as though they all wanted to participate in the struggle. Not until I put the fish into the ice bucket would the birds reluctantly disperse.