Feed My Dear Dogs. Emma Richler

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СКАЧАТЬ in his sight across the sky, the telescope becoming an extension of him, in step with him, it is him.

      There was quite a lot of fighting in the astronomy community of the 1920s, the heat of argument, say, tending to blur the field of vision. In science, these are called debates. Here are men arguing about the distance to the stars based on the observation of variable stars, measuring absolute magnitude and periods of luminosity, unsure whether the nebulae they see are part of the Milky Way or galaxies out on their own, confused by stellar outbursts of light and power they don’t yet know are supernovae, signifying the gravitational collapse of massive stars that can shine briefly, each one, as hot as a hundred billion suns. How can a star so bright be so far away? Or so close?

      Wishful thinking can blur the field of vision.

      When Milton Humason compares plates he has taken of the Andromeda Nebula, he finds minute specks of light in some plates and not in others, variable stars he believes, variable stars Shapley insists do not exist in the Andromeda and so when Milton brings him his finest photographic plate with the careful ink marks mapping what he has seen, specks of light he has been told are not there, Shapley takes the plate away and wipes it free with a white hanky produced from a pocket, making a little nothing out of something, setting his own limits on the possible, an example perhaps, of how pride is not a problem for him.

      I don’t see it, it’s not there.

      Saturday, and you watch the clock you have placed at the kitchen table. You are going to the cinema, you don’t want to be late, you are never late. You love the way time works, how one same stretch of time can take for ever to pass or else slip by in a reverie, you love this, it’s lovely. Your books are spread out. Homework. Everything is lined up neatly, the edges of books parallel to the rim of the table or at perfect angles to your right and left, leaving fine triangles of table in each corner. You appreciate geometry, straight lines, hospital corners, perfect folds in white linen, you learned this, you have a Brownie badge in bed-making. You are nearly a Girl Guide, the youngest ever. Most of all though, you appreciate words, you can travel with words as with music and the seasons. Change. You even love this word change, it’s a travelling word and travel is important.

      The soldier marches around the kitchen, keeping busy, he doesn’t want you to know he is watching you, he can’t help it, he loves to look at you. Frances. He wants to say I won’t let you run late, let me do this thing, watch the clock for you, but he stays quiet, tamping the tobacco down in the pipe he will not smoke inside, no smoking indoors, it gives Emily a headache. My wife, my wife, my old pal. In bed now, always in bed, his fault. He tamps the tobacco down, a sound like ticking, sound of the clock you are watching, it’s nearly time. The soldier is on the move, fiddling with the stove, stealing glances, like he is more than your father. Soldier, labourer, husband, father. What else? Nothing. Sometimes it hurts to watch you, what does it mean, forget it. Keep moving.

      At times like this, he has a sudden urge to travel, not anywhere special, just to ride a train. A friend tells him a person can ride for whole days across this country and see nothing but fields of snow or corn until coming upon sea again, but mountains first, mountains like the edge of the world to stop you falling straight off, or the wall of a trench perhaps, craggy with things, limbs sometimes, and over the wall, noise, a sea of it. Stop that. It would be a fine thing to ride a train for whole days across this country he was not born in, a place he can fit his old country into twelve times over at least, but he walks instead, he walks for hours, fast, because the outdoors is good for him, for his lungs and everything else that hurts him indoors, a pain that can pass as he strides the city, passing sharply, quickly, a view from a train window.

      He doesn’t see it though, making that train journey, not as long as you are here. He made choices, he is husband and father and he will not leave. He is not sure how long you will stay, it can all happen so quickly, comings and goings, the sea maybe his enemy, and all the things you know, his enemy too, each badge on your arm one step farther away from him, there is hardly any more room on your arms to show all the things you know, that you have learned so quickly, so easily, and meanwhile he knows one thing only, no one goes hungry in his house. He is not sure if that is an achievement, no one says anything, my wife never says anything.

      Watching her is different. How can she be right here and so far away? He misses her. She is right here and he misses her. Watching you is different, special and fearful at the same time, a church feeling, there is a word for this, why does there have to be a word for everything? The soldier taps his pipe out and plugs it again. A church word, Creation, Incarnation, what’s that word, damnation, ha! Damnation. Bless my soul! Damn and blast it. No swearing, Bert, she won’t have it. Don’t swear, Albert. Damnation, bloody hell, Salvation … Salvation Army. He chose you, he remembers it, marching in, eyes right, eyes left, not at ease but proud, erect, and halted by you because you looked at him, you really did. Yes, please. That one. Sign here.

      You are already beyond him, too much for his arms, though he could carry you if necessary, he has carried men, for heaven’s sake, dead weight. He thinks he ought not touch you somehow, it’s a feeling, that’s all. Don’t touch. You sit close some days, you are teaching him to read and you are so beautiful, he could never have made you. Don’t touch. Awe. That’s the word! As long as you stay, he will try to learn but he knows he will not do as well with words as you hope and this kills him, the way the sight of you does sometimes. He remembers signing for you with an X, a leaning cross, and he worries it is not good enough, it might not count at all and someone will be coming to take you away. Coming soon. He knows also that in history, kings sign with a seal, he has no seal, and he knows that all kings are soldiers but not all soldiers are kings.

      ‘I’ll be outside,’ he says. ‘I’m just stepping out. I’ll be right on the balcony.’

      He is cross today, have you done something wrong? Is it Mummy? It’s so dark in there, she can’t take the light, she is in bed, hospital corners. Bed-making. Daddy, I can do it for you, lots of things, stoke the stove. Fire-lighting. Nearly time. You have a new ribbon, red, rose red, and you can tie it in your own hair, cleat, half hitch, sheepshank, bow. Knot-tying. You love the cinema, especially right before the beginning when everything is black except for tiny specks of light, electric candles on the walls, faint like distant stars. You have been to a planetarium, twice! It made your heart race, your blood rush. There is so much to learn.

      My brain can know one hundred trillion things.

      Charlemagne, King of the Franks and the Lombards became emperor in the year 800 but he was a reluctant emperor. He drank little and studied a lot and was in awe of teachers, showering them with honours, learning Latin and Greek and mathematics and how to trace the course of the stars, though he came so late to learning, it grieved him, he will never catch up. He kept writing tablets under his pillow for practice in times of insomnia, because this is the skill he prized most, the writing skill. He was a light sleeper and had high hopes of acquiring calligraphy but he did not get very far, nowhere near as far as hopes.

      Charlemagne was a king and a soldier, a man with a particular devotion to St Peter and Peter, he learned, is not a name at all but a Greek translation of an Aramaic word meaning rock. There is so much to learn.

      I read that our Galaxy is not the Universe itself, it is an island of stars amongst maybe fifty billion islands of stars and this news has no bearing on me, no withering effect, as much to me as ink marks I can swipe away with one flick of a hanky, hey presto, my universe still the Universe, a place I wander with a slight swagger, a cowboy entering a saloon and heading for the bar in a straight line which is the shortest distance between two points, and drinking his drink, intent on a world all his own, one with no trespassers and no change, and nothing to prevail against it, a place he knows, and upon this rock, he builds it. Everything.

      Noli mi tangere.

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