Entry 18
By Steven Paul Lansky
"I Will Stop and Put Them Off "
My second time in eighteen hours sitting in the sterile, institutional green waiting area of the U.S. Customs station at the Canadian border called Champlain after being turned back on the train to Montreal. The U.S. officials put me on a bus going south right away because they thought I had been there the whole time. The black driver had a British accent and let me take my lute on board to set it in the empty seat next to me as long as the bus didn’t get too crowded. As I boarded I caught wind of a simmering argument between some of the passengers and the driver. At first I thought the dispute was between two groups of passengers.
I heard French accents, then watched a black man in a white canvas hat with a light yellow bandanna at his throat and a dark skinned woman with a very wide mouth talking in French, gesturing angrily with open hands. Soon it was apparent that there were at least four passengers who were agitated. I overheard another man speaking sternly with interspersed Franglais, cautioning a woman, traveling companion not to argue. I could not see these two. They were several seats in front of me. As the driver stepped on the throttle he opened his microphone to speak to the passengers.
“If anyone disrupts the safety and security of this bus I will stop and put them off. I have the right to put anyone off the bus anywhere where there is a telephone,” his English accent did not hide the attitude. He was angry but trying to restrain himself.
In an attempt to hide, I opened Alias Grace and read to myself, sometimes mouthing the words out loud in a low voice to help stay focused. I was nearly finished. I was looking forward to Lolita, she was next. These women in books kept me company, as I had looked forward to hours of travel reading on this journey. I had not realized consciously that it was the women characters who kept me sane and secure.
Distancing myself from the border began to feel better. When I had asked the Canadian Immigration official what to do to gain entry to Canada he had suggested nothing short of going to Washington, DC to the Canadian Embassy. I did not want to take the bus to DC. I began to figure out my revised itinerary. This bus line terminated in Albany , New York ’s Capital City . Once we were out on the open road getting into the Adirondak Mountains forest and stone outcroppings were visible. The driver opened the microphone again.
“We will be stopping every two hours. I need to have regular breaks. This is very strenuous driving conditions, and regulations say that drivers only can drive for six hours straight and must have a break every two hours. Where we stop there will be bathrooms, telephones, and vending machines. Do not stray far from the bus or I will leave without you. The break is ten minutes only.
“Now, you see this driving conditions here with the steep hills and the deep drop from the road. If the bus were to go off the highway that guardrail would not stop it from tumbling and rolling. A car maybe would be protected, but the weight and mass of the bus is too much for any guardrail. I think you can understand that to be safe we must stop and it is Greyhound regulations to protect you, the passengers, that drivers must be fresh. I still have the right to dismiss passengers who disrupt the driver or other passengers.”
I marveled at the driver’s frankness. Some murmurs were heard from the rear seats, but the voices died out quickly. I was on edge. I heard someone say, “He shouldn’t talk like that.”
“Don’t argue with him,” another voice.
I buried my nose in Alias Grace. These were the final chapters, called “The Tree of Paradise” after a quilting pattern like each of the previous chapters. Grace had moved to New York and changed her name after her pardon. In this section Atwood used Grace’s first person voice to describe her new home. A white farmhouse with shutters painted green. Grace was forty-five when she gained her freedom. Grace narrated sitting on her verandah that her menstrual cycle was three months delayed. Grace was quilting by herself in the final segment. I wondered if her farmhouse ever became a tourist attraction like the place outside Toronto where the murders took place. I felt a tremendous sense of satisfaction having finished reading this novel that I began in the Trenton facility. I now knew that I would not meet Margaret Atwood this summer. I admired her work with a passion. The bus was hurtling through the mountains of New York State and I was one text closer to my Masters degree.
Time to put Grace away and move on. I reached for my cloth briefcase. Pulling the large zipper, I opened the green bag to see the folded pages of Lolita, like Lacey’s fine legs, tucked up inside my Lands’ End Squarerigger. The book and papers undisturbed for months, all the paperwork for the bus and train trip, the information on lutes and music from the purchase. I had searched the Internet for Italian lute tablature. I longed for the company of a young woman. Meeting girls on the bus seemed possible, but with this smoldering conflict between the new immigrants and the bus driver, I suspected my latitude to engage others in gentle conversation might be severely curtailed. The lute beside me lured my attention. I was tempted to look at the music book that came in the blue case. What harm would there be in study? I didn’t want to open the case on the bus; fear took me and kept me still and rigid. Yes, I would be reading Lolita in a matter of hours. My oral exam for the Masters degree was scant months off and I had many books yet to read. In reflection, my focus drifted from the bag and the pages I held in my hand to the lush sylvan landscape. I had bicycled these mountains, through the Finger Lakes, as a teenager, camping and cycling many miles over mountain passes on two lane roads. I had cycled through the Canadian landscape then, too. The big bus seemed stable as it curled along a ridge, the highway cutting across heights that had taken many days when I had cycled. I watched for hawks, but saw occasional trios of buzzards circling on dihedral wings in updrafts waiting to feed on road kill. The road kills were never visible. I could write a song for the lute about my adventures, so far. Too difficult to focus. I wanted to take out the laptop here but the battery would not last long and other passengers would notice. I reflected back on Atwood’s novel.
I had read of the world of the psychiatric patient with compassion, and became convinced that the doctor saw only part of the world Grace saw. I hoped I would figure out a way to get to Canada again someday. My relationships with Canadian friends were on my mind. The death of Mordecai Richler and bad timing had caused my friend in Toronto to suggest I postpone the trip. If only I had planned then to postpone the trip, I might have avoided rejection. Even my brother hadn’t wanted me to come to Vermont. What could I learn from this trip? I kept replaying the border conflicts in my head and could not understand what had gone wrong. The first woman immigration official had taken an instant dislike to me. I wondered if perhaps Romanova, the young woman I’d helped to visit the states from Russia had betrayed me in some way to the Canadian officials. Thoughts raced with conflictful scenarios. I could not conceive of this current state of affairs. Except here I was riding the big gray dog toward Albany. I thought of my psychiatrist for a moment and realized how little he knew of my life. He is a pleasant older man, Czech, I think. He had worked in Oxford, Ohio for years. I will have to make an appointment to see him when I return to Cincinnati. As for Carl, I don’t know. We’ve been friends forever, but some part of me wants more freedom from him. Having to see a monitor once a week is what is keeping me from getting closer to the young women in my life. I’m sure of that.
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Links
· The Citizen Archives
· About Steven Lansky--QCF Magazine March 2005
· QCF Magazine homepage
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