ONLY CONNECT

It isn’t often you get to meet your heroes. I don’t anyway, for the simple fact that most of mine are dead. It doesn’t mean I don’t adore them however, for as Harvey Fierstein so memorably put it, “It’s easy to love dead people; they make so few mistakes.”

From the moment I first read NOT WANTED ON THE VOYAGE as a callow teen, I immediately, all-out admired, and recklessly adored Timothy Irving Frederick Findley, as so many did and have done since.

Unlike the rest of my idols (and I have a lot) I did meet him once, however briefly, and the impression he made has been permanent and everlasting.

If you’re like me, and you have a reverence for the past bordering on the obsessional, you’ll find that most of your heroes are defunct, which of course, makes meeting them rather difficult. This time however, I got lucky, for when all of this occurred, Findley was still very much alive and at the height of his creative powers, with two more novels and another play left to write.

I wrote about this once before. Years ago in fact, and I sent it to a famous conservative Canadian newspaper, which sometimes printed essays of this and that, but they didn’t print mine, although at the time I thought it was quite printable. So I sent the article to Findley, to see what he thought, and he was as sweet and encouraging as ever, saying, “Oh, don’t worry about it, they’ve never liked my stuff.” I should mention at this point, that I had already written him an unabashed fan letter, stating somewhat brashly that a lot of my heroes had unfortunately passed on, and that I was damned if I was going let another minute go by without writing one of my favourite writers to tell him what his work had meant to me. He in turn, was kind enough to write back a wonderful reply, (which I still have, it’s among my most treasured possessions) saying that it wasn’t often that writers received such a “stunning” explanation of a reader’s enthusiasm for their work.

I was thrilled and I’m sure I went around with a smile glued to my face for days. Timothy Findley thought I was stunning!

It was only some years later I realized that he might have meant “stunning” in a, “Were you hit in the head with a brick, kid?” kind of way, since the original letter I wrote, ran I think, some nineteen pages and contained probably only four commas and two periods. I don’t think I had even been formally introduced to semi-colons or their ilk back in those days. In that light, “stunning” could be seen in an entirely different context. But looking back, I don’t think so. It may have been the world’s most ramblingly incoherent letter, but it was heartfelt, and if Findley had a gift for anything, it was seeing through to the heart’s truth. He knew genuine appreciation when he saw it, as he saw so much else.

I wrote him two more letters, and then laid off, as I realized he was swamped with work, and I didn’t want to irritate him with near-pathological fawning if I could help it. I thought, “Oh, I’ll write him later, when he’s done his next book.” Sadly, by the time I got around to writing that letter, he was gone. I just had the impression he would last forever, but alas...anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself.

It was the summer of 2000, and I was working part-time in one of the city of Toronto’s heritage building/museums, at their reception desk. This job was interesting, the people were quite sweet, and part of my job was to read newspapers, all three Toronto dailies every day to see if I could find any references to the City of Toronto’s Heritage and Museum sites. I was scrolling through the Star (it’s amazing how depressing the same news can get day after day, even told with three different political biases) and one day, I noticed this little squib in the Arts section, that Timothy Findley, along with the actress Allegra Fulton, was going to give a reading, and do a book signing of his new play “Elizabeth Rex” at Theatre Books later that afternoon. I realized that being finished at 5:00 p.m., I could run uptown and actually catch a sight of the Great Man, (although I’m sure he would have scatologically rejected such a description) and maybe, hope of hopes, actually get to meet him! I'm never impetuous or impulsive that way, and being generally lazy besides, I don't usually act so impulsively on anything. But I had a sense in the back of my mind that I HAD to do this, I couldn't tell you why. So I closed up shop at five on the dot, and was out the door by five-oh-two and dashed uptown. I don’t think I have ever moved so fast across Toronto, before or since.

I got to the store, and it was already packed with people. The play’s original director, Martha Henry was there, with a graceful beauty and charm Grace Kelly might have envied, as was Veronica Tennant, radiant in violet I seem to remember, and with a beautiful smile, and a host of other famous friends who were there to see a rare Findley performance.

Fortunately, I was a film and theatre junkie, an ex-actor and a wannabe writer, so I had no problem looking innocuous and indifferent, and stood there aside, looking fixedly blasé and bored, as befits all pretentious insecure gits when surrounded by their gods. That is, I looked that way until I saw HIM walk into the room. Forget blasé, I practically melted and turned into a gibbering mass of goo right there on the spot.

His thick head of hair was silver, matched by his beard, and he was dressed all in black, with black slacks and a black jacket, under which he wore a black knit turtleneck. He looked so effortlessly chic, that he made everyone else in the room seem quite drab and provincial. He was so dapper, so elegant, and, I realized to my surprise, at that moment, evidently highly displeased. If the word saturnine ever needs a pictorial definition, I can think of no better image than that of Timothy Findley that afternoon in Theatrebooks. He was glowering. More than that, he was obviously furious about something. He was polite, charming and gracious with the people around him, but at a distance, I could see, clear as daylight, that this lion was as ferocious as they came. I edged closer towards the counter where I heard some muttering in a small claque nearby. Oh, the books that he was to sign hadn’t arrived yet. They were in Winnipeg. Ack. For a writer at a booksigning there could not be a worse happening. His ire was therefore, perfectly understandable.

I watched him, fascinated, from behind a copy of Lillian Hellman (another angry writer)’s plays, and it dawned on me that this was where the fury in so many of his novels secretly lay. It was there under the skin. It was as much a part of him as his wit and graciousness, and his legendary generosity was. As I had only seen him on televised interviews, I had never seen it before live, and it shocked and fascinated me at the same time. Onscreen, he had always carried himself as your favourite benign and witty uncle, the one who always twinkled, and whom you immediately worshipped, even as a small child. Now there was another side to him you never dreamed existed, but you realized was as much a part of him as his voice or his laugh, and it suddenly made him dangerous, which was as thrilling a realization as it was frightening. But you remembered suddenly, that he was in fact, a very good actor before he became a writer, and that he had spent many years in the interim playing Timothy Findley for the public. He knew how this game was played to perfection. And now the books weren’t here. If this were the court of Elizabeth Tudor, (and possibly Windsor) heads would no doubt roll.

There was a sudden flurry of activity, and suddenly Bill Whitehead was in the room, dressed in a bright orange sweater, and light beige jacket, as sunny and bright as Findley was dark and glowering. He was laughing and chatting with everyone and effortlessly dispersed the tension in the air with an airy wave of his hand. He led someone over to Findley and suddenly, there was merciful laughter. Quickly, the owner of the store came rushing in to announce that the books had been held up at the airport shipping department, and were on their way, and should be there any minute. Relief and perhaps even mild applause greeted the announcement, and we were all directed upstairs, where the author and the actress Allegra Fulton were ready to give their reading.

I stood at the very back of the room, far out of sight, standing, but I didn’t mind at all. I had a perfect view, and I could see Allegra Fulton, (who reminded me of Judy Davis crossed with an eagle, with a dash of Leslie Caron thrown in for good measure) standing in a white blouse, a wide black skirt, facing Findley, smiling expectantly, her dark curly hair loose about her shoulders. Findley made a small, but charming speech, which cracked the audience up, and he explained that he was to play three parts; Ned Lowenscroft, an actor, William Shakespeare, a playwright, and a bear. Ms. Fulton was to play Elizabeth Tudor, a Queen of England.

The performances were rollicking good fun, and as enjoyable as they were, I wondered if the audience realized what a rare treat they were watching; that this now famous Canadian writer, an ex-actor who once acted with Ruth Gordon, Alec Guinness and Vivien Leigh among others, was now acting again, for perhaps the first time in decades, a role that wasn’t just a variation on himself. Acting a role is not the same as giving a reading, and even though this reading was comprised of only a few scenes, it was evident that this again was an actor at work, not just a writer. I wondered, watching him play so expertly with Ms.Fulton, if he missed this, and I marvelled at how well he played each part, so delicately and with such confidence, especially and including, the bear. I suddenly wanted to haul him away and ask him all sorts of questions, “Do you miss this?” “Do you regret giving it up?” “Does writing make you as happy as this seems to?” but of course, I didn’t, although I secretly wanted to. Especially this last question, for he did indeed, seem so happy up there, on that makeshift proscenium. For I knew something about his demons, the same as you do. I’ve read about them, and he told us about them, and I wondered, endlessly wondered, if he found the secret, the secret that every artist wonders about, along with those other agonizing questions of being good enough, of being happy in such an agonizingly alone place, of even deserving to be happy about being an artist, where so much of the self goes into making something that may or may not succeed. How does one survive that inferno, I wanted to ask. How did he, Timothy Irving Frederick Findley survive it? For he had survived it, survived years of demons and self-destructive behavior to give us so many novels, plays, essays and another beautiful play of haunting brilliance (it was to win the Governor General’s Award that year) and another two books and one more play in the two years before his death.

The performance was over, much applause ensued, and we were told that the books were downstairs waiting for us. I slipped downstairs quickly, and grabbed a copy. It was a beautiful hardcover play, and its touch was a delight. I never fail to marvel at the touch of new books and I know I cannot wait to read it, for I have missed seeing the play, having neither the funds nor wherewithal that summer to get to Stratford to see it. A lifelong regret, as the cast had some of my favourite actors in it, including Brent Carver.

Findley was seated now, surrounded by books and well-wishers. Amazingly enough, lots of people brought a lot of his older books to sign. For some reason, I thought this rather presumptious and rude. But, he signed them graciously, smiling and talking to each person. All of a sudden, I realized, I was next in line.

Oh my God, I thought, I’m going to have to talk to him. Then a weird thing happened; like stagefright, only in reverse. I was starstruck. I literally could not move my legs. It never happened before. I’ve met famous people in my life and never been bothered by the fact that they were famous. I once spent forty-five minutes yakking away with Mia Farrow about Charles Dickens and never even broke into a sweat. But there I was, in front of a man I revered, rooted to the floor and my tongue evidently had turned into a twenty pound flounder. He looked at me and smiled kindly, and asked me my name. I looked at him dumbstruck, for he had the bluest eyes of anyone I’ve ever seen. I think these eyes, (or eyes like them) are what Toni Morrison must have had in mind when she wrote The Bluest Eye. They were like cobalt. I suddenly realized he was waiting, and my face burned red with embarrassment, and I could no more than whisper, “Trevor.” He signed the book with a message (still indecipherable to me all these years later, and I think one day, I am going to meet Bill Whitehead, and have him translate it for me) and as he handed me the book, he reached across the table, and took my hand suddenly and held it for a second. He looked me right in the eye (and I swear, I heard my heart literally skid to a thudding stop at that point) and smiling, said, “Thank you SO much for coming down here this afternoon.” I could feel my face flushing still further, but I nodded, and I barely managed to get out, “Thank you.” I slipped away to the side and hid by some shelves dedicated to modern dance, as he turned to the next person.

Garson Kanin wrote that Edith Evans once said that when you leave a theatre after seeing a play, if you don’t walk several blocks in the wrong direction, then the performance has been a failure. Now I’m quite certain that a reading and a book signing in all fairness can hardly be held up to the standards of say, “The Importance of Being Earnest”, but as I left the store with people milling about on the sidewalk in the late afternoon sunshine, I stepped absentmindedly off the curb, and was nearly run down by a speeding grey Lada. It barely missed me, and didn’t even slow down, but I didn’t mind it at all, in fact, I barely noticed it until afterwards, even as strangers were rushing around me, asking me if I was alright. My mind was still back in the store, listening to that mellifluous voice saying, “Thank you so much for coming down here this afternoon.”

When Timothy Findley passed on, barely two years later, I was bitterly shocked, as so many Canadians were. He was only seventy-one years old. He seemed so dynamic and strong to me that day at the book launch. Surely someone with that much fire couldn’t burn out in less than two years? But then a strange thing happened to me about two years after he died. I saw a picture taken of him that afternoon at the reading. He was seated and Bill Whitehead was with him, as were several others. Findley was smiling and jovial, and looked quite happy, as he should have been, as the reading had (after the books arrived) turned out to be a great success. But he looked fragile and small in that photo, not at all like the vigorous and powerful character I remembered seeing that afternoon. As ridiculous and melodramatic as it sounds, I remember thinking that there was a sheen of death around him in that photograph. Maybe it was because he was dressed in black, I don’t know, but there was something disturbing about the picture. The camera had caught a mortality there, a fragility that the naked eye hadn’t seen, or perhaps couldn’t, or wouldn’t see. It shook me, that photograph, and I wondered if he was aware of it at the time, this Merlin of so many lives. I wondered if perhaps THAT was the reason for his earlier displeasure, because he sensed that time, for him anyway, was not to be frittered away and wasted.

Still, when all was said and done, I was grateful that I got to meet him, and that I got to write him. I told him in one of my last letters about one of my favourite mottos in life and he wrote back something that summed up the whole experience of the reading for me; “I cheered when you quoted a phrase that is central to my own lexicon of encapsulated philosophies: Forster’s only connect.”

And thank God, (and doubtless, TIFF) I did.