Stone Woman Read online

  ESSENTIAL PROSE SERIES 114

  Contents

  Author’s Note

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  PART Two

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  CHAPTER 36

  CHAPTER 37

  CHAPTER 38

  CHAPTER 39

  CHAPTER 40

  CHAPTER 41

  CHAPTER 42

  CHAPTER 43

  CHAPTER 44

  CHAPTER 45

  CHAPTER 46

  CHAPTER 47

  CHAPTER 48

  CHAPTER 49

  EPILOGUE

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  Stone Woman begins in the summer of 1967, against the backdrop of tumultuous social and cultural changes. The Vietnam War rages on; the antiwar movement grows worldwide resulting in an unprecedented influx of American draft dodgers and military deserters to Canada; and Yorkville becomes the hub for the hippie movement not only in Toronto, but nationwide.

  Although Stone Woman is a work of fiction, the inspiration for the novel stems primarily from two Toronto artistic achievements of the time. One is Frances Gage’s Woman, a white Carrara marble sculpture commissioned by the Women’s College Hospital and completed in 1971. The second one is the 1967 Art Symposium, as part of Canada’s Centennial, which turns into a springboard for innovation in art and architecture in Toronto.

  Commissioned by the City, twelve sculptors, selected through an international competition, are invited to design and construct modern artworks to be installed

  at High Park’s Sculpture Hill. The first of its kind in Toronto, the Symposium is an interactive “gallery with­out walls,” where visitors are invited to observe the artists at work, and in this way become involved in the project.

  Ten sculptures were completed as part of the Symposium:

  *Wessel Couzijn, Holland: Midsummer Night’s Dream

  *Hubert Dalwood, United Kingdom: The Temple

  *Menashe Kadishman, Israel: Three Disks

  Frank Gallo, United States: Relief of Man Behind a Desk

  *Bernard Schottlander, United Kingdom: November Pyramid

  *William Koochin, Canada (Vancouver): The Hippy

  Pauta Saila, Canada (North West Territories): Polar Bear

  Jason Seley, United States: Hubcap Columns

  **Mark di Suvero, United States: Flower Power and No Shoes

  Len Lye, United States, and Armand Vaillancourt, Canada (Montreal) did not complete their pieces.

  Irving Burman’s unfinished sculpture, consisting of two granite blocks, is displayed on a base near the north entrance to the park, on the east side of Colborne Lodge Drive.

  This novel blends history, myth, memory, and fiction — and plays with the dates a little — as the magic in the story needed to have voice.

  * * *

  *Five sculptures still remain in High Park.

  **Mark di Suvero’s two sculptures were returned to the artist in 2010 for restoration, and have since been reinstalled at prominent places in Toronto.

  For Sierra Sunrise,

  Shellina, Aussie, Age

  and

  my mother Olga

  ALSO BY BIANCA LAKOSELJAC

  Summer of the Dancing Bear

  Bridge in the Rain

  Memoirs of a Praying Mantis

  PROLOGUE

  Blossom

  Winter, 2010

  AMONG THE HILLS and valleys of the ocean floor and colonies of coral, a white shadow of a woman shifts, then fades into the background. I hear my name called. Blossom! I slip behind a tall clump of coralline, peering through the transparency of the ocean vastness, then hop, weightless, over a mound, over a gorge. The shadow comes into focus, her limbs moving naturally as if she is a living being. But she has that white stone look — a sculpture of some kind. Where have I seen her?

  I pass my palm over my forehead, cold sweat transferring from one surface to another. I gaze at the mist sticking to the roadmap of my open hand.

  If I were a palmist, would I be able to glimpse the future?

  I am drenched in sweat, as if I surfaced out of the ocean in my dream. I try to recall the face of the figure. But all that comes to mind is her hair — cropped short, the same stone white as the rest of her, billowing gently with each stride as if she were a diver.

  No, I did not see her face. I would recall it if I had.

  Shivers pass through me, a cold silhouette of fear settles into my bones. I’ve been getting to know it, this lurking fear. What is the worst thing that could happen to me here, in this room, with sea-green walls hung with broken wings cast by a subdued light? The scent of antiseptic, the pitter-patter of the nurses’ rubber soles is soothing in my twilight between sleep and consciousness.

  Is forty-two an age to die?

  No children of my own, no husband, no siblings, my parents long gone — just some distant relatives scattered all over the world. Except him. Chester. He is by my side day and night. But he is not even a fiancé, not that I’d want him to be, not now. What would be the point?

  At times, I find more comfort among the dead than the living. I dream of my mother Liza who died when I was twenty-one. David’s face from the faded photograph on my night table appears next to hers — the father I never met. I often think of Anna, my mother’s friend, whose companionship got me through some tough times. Anna’s recent passing left me feeling betrayed, as if she’d made a secret pact with the angel of death just so she could be close to Liza again.

  Liza and Anna — how I long for those heart-to-heart talks.

  My doctor is still looking for a donor. I am beginning to think that it’s time to give up. My colleagues at the university have gone through the bone-marrow testing, as have my friends; neighbours from the High Park and the Bloor West Village area where I’ve lived most of my life; those I’ve nodded to on the streets; strangers I’ve never met. Toronto is a remarkable place. You may not know who lives next door, but if you need help, people flock from all walks of life to offer their bone-marrow.

  Chester had insisted on being tested a second time. He thought there had to be a mistake, a miraculous chance that he would be the match the test somehow failed to reveal. He believes in miracles.

  How could I tell him that our affections are but a life’s trickster? For five generations, lovers in my family have lost their soulmate. He dies. Or she. Or vanishes without a trace.

  Should I resign myself to replicating Liza’s fate?

  I envision his periwinkle eyes on me, burrowing as if they could heal by gazing into me. Has God sent him to make dying easier or ha
rder? I sense his footsteps in the hallway getting closer. I close my eyes and wait for him to plant his lips on my cheek, gently, on my lips.

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER 1

  April, 1967

  SHE STANDS BY the edge of the reflecting pool at Nathan Phillips Square. She does not feel like going home, not just yet. Mirrored in the shallow water, the upturned arches of the new City Hall’s twin towers are dipping into the pool as if it were bottomless. Framing the towers, the sky and the clouds mingle with the light ripples furled up by the wind.

  A shadow of a man stretches over the ripples. It shifts closer to her own silhouette in the water, then joins it — the two effigies wobbling among the white clouds and patches of blue. She turns, and there he is again. Instead of a burger, he is now eating a sugar-dusted donut out of a paper bag.

  “Oh, this?” he says, and points to the donut, as if continuing an ongoing conversation. He crumples up the bag noisily, turns on his heel and, swinging his arm behind his back, tosses the paper ball over his head and toward the garbage container. To her surprise, it hits its target.

  He wipes his palms on his jeans and holds out a hand to her. “David.”

  “Just . . . David?”

  “That’s it. David.”

  She pushes her sunglasses over her forehead, and sets them high enough to hold the long tresses away from her face. The tortoiseshell rim blends with her brown hair, a few unruly strands cling to her flushed cheeks, and she blows them away from the corner of her mouth.

  She takes his outstretched hand. “Okay. Liza.”

  “Just Liza?”

  “Yep.”

  He smiles and nods. His round-framed shades sit at the tip of his nose. Low on his forehead, flame red curls bob as if they were a theatrical wig.

  * * *

  To Liza, the day began as a new venture — her first day as the coordinator for the High Park sculpt-in. She can still hear the whirl of the helicopter above the crowd gathered at Nathan Philips Square where the sculpt-in, part of the city-wide Art Symposium, is being announced. All eyes are on the swishing blades descending near the three concrete arches that span the reflecting pool. The aircraft hovers for a few moments, then rises up in a wide circle over the Square to take in the panorama.

  “They’re marvelling at the view from above! Admiring the new City Hall!” Anna exclaims over the modulating drone.

  “We should take a ride sometime,” Liza calls out.

  Although a helicopter tour is available any day, taking it with Anna would be more interesting. Anna could point to a building and rhyme off a whole wealth of information — its age, type of architecture, historical significance. She has been with the City’s Department of Culture for almost a decade. It was her first job after high school and she is already office manager. Radiating confidence, she is an energetic go-getter, with dark hair she wears straight down her back, and never a dab of makeup.

  Looking up at the helicopter, Anna says: “A bird’s eye view of the eye? I’m all for it!”

  The new City Hall has been nicknamed “The Eye of the Government” because, from above, it resembles a large eye. As a university student, Liza had written a research paper on the project. A couple of years later, the complex of structures representing two eyelids and a pupil is still the buzz of the town as well as a source of controversy. She had hoped to meet the architect at the opening ceremonies, but Viljo Revell died only months before the completion. His architectural marvel, however, has become the symbol of Toronto and has propelled the city into modernism. Likewise, the Symposium is seen as a forum for innovation in art and design. Liza’s research on the new City Hall tipped the scale in her favour for the position of the coordinator.

  A woman in a brown tweed suit turns to Anna. “We sure are starved for something edgy in this city. Love the concept — sculptors selected worldwide.”

  Anna nods with satisfaction. “Goodbye Muddy York! Farewell Hogtown! This is a historic moment!”

  “It’s more of an invasion,” a gravelly voice interjects. “Twelve sculptors from different parts of the world occupying High Park.”

  The women turn toward the voice. The man takes a bite of a burger in a paper wrapping. With lips closed and cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk, he grins and nods in acknowledgement.

  Anna winces as if stung by a wasp and zaps him a look of annoyance.

  He swallows his food and says: “Why not our own artists? Don’t we have some home-grown talent here to take on the task?”

  “Good to have some international flair,” Liza says, smiling. “This will shake up Toronto’s arts community in a big way!”

  The man winks. “Wouldn’t that be grand? Shaking up this sleepy old town.” He wraps the unfinished burger, drops it in the waste bin, and moves a step closer. “Too bad old Revell didn’t live long enough to see it.”

  “Who the heck does he think he is?” Anna says to Liza loud enough for the man to hear. “Viljo Revell died in his early fifties. Didn’t get the chance to get old.” She shoots an incensed look at the man, links her arm under Liza’s, and leads her several steps away.

  The white helicopter hovers for a few minutes longer then slowly descends to touch down on the cordoned off concrete slabs. Irving Burman, a middle-aged Toronto architect who spearheaded the project, steps out and, stooped over, runs to the side, beaming at the crowd.

  Mark di Suvero, an American sculptor Liza met a few days back when he arrived to Toronto, follows. His posture is erect and his stride long and sure-footed, and she imagines him as a walking totem-pole.

  Anna leans close to Liza and, looking at di Suvero, whispers: “Rumour has it, he supports the anti-Vietnam war movement.”

  Another man steps out. From the photos, Liza guesses it has to be Armand Vaillancourt. His long, disciple-like hair and beard make him appear a decade younger than his thirty-five, closer to her age, and she gets the sense that he will be easy going and pleasant to work with.

  As Vaillancourt walks toward the group gathered by the edge of the reflecting pool, Anna tracks him with her eyes. “This job does have its perks. Meeting artists whose work you admire doesn’t happen every day. Especially when they look like that. Too bad I have to run.”

  “Aren’t you staying for the ceremonies?” Liza says, checking the program. “They’ll be starting any minute.”

  Anna pulls out a pack of Luckies and taps out a cigarette. “Got to get back to the office. Late staff meeting.”

  “I’ve been asked to help out with the tour of the city. After the presentations. Won’t you come along? Vaillancourt will be there.” Liza raises her eyebrows and gives Anna a meaningful stare.

  Anna strikes a match and lights the menthol tip. She inhales deeply and blows rings of smoke slowly through her pursed lips. “Now you’re talking. I wish I could, honest.” She places her hand on Liza’s arm and, eyeing Vaillancourt, whispers: “There’s talk in the office. That handsome Montrealer could be a separatist. Part of the movement René Levesque started, not long ago.” She glances at her watch, then skims the crowd as if searching for someone. “But I’ve got to run. You’ll be great! Call me this evening and tell me how it went. Maybe we’ll grab a beer later on if you’re up for it.” Rushing off she turns and waves, cigarette grasped between her fingers. “And stay away from strange men!”

  Liza feels a twinge of panic. She had hoped that Anna would join the city tour to answer some of the questions. Anna’s parents had been members of the local historical board, and she knows some of the most obscure details about Toronto, as if she were an old-timer.

  Burman is the first to speak. He emphasizes the significance of the Symposium and its role in Canada-wide Centennial celebrations. What he and the three levels of government on the planning committee had envisioned was an innovation in the design and the variety of material used in the sculptures — stone, metal, and wood. The committe
e had examined the sketches submitted by three hundred and seventy-five artists and had chosen the final twelve sculptors. The Symposium is autonomous — the artists would have full control of the design and the material. And although the ownership and the copyright of the work produced would remain with the City of Toronto, the City would have no control over any other aspect of the artworks created.

  Burman expresses great interest in working in his own city. He talks about the proposal for his sculpture. It is to be comprised of three large stone carvings, two granite, and a Carrara marble as the centrepiece. The moment he saw this block of white marble it spoke to him, and he envisioned it as the crown jewel of his sculpture. His carvings would transform High Park and its visitors.

  Di Suvero steps up to the lectern and announces that his sculpture will “embody the culture as we experience it.” He plans to combine wooden timbers with structural steel. His installation will contain sections that will rotate and swing and enable the visitors to take a ride on the sculpture, and in this way interact with the piece.

  Vaillancourt takes the mike and presents his plan for building a modern temple. As soon as he saw Sculpture Hill in High Park, he envisioned a Druid-like structure in its magnitude, made of large cast iron cubes. A foundry would have to be built, preferably in the park. He declares that, when his piece is finished, it will be unlike anything Torontonians have seen.

  After two more speakers, Burman returns to the lectern for the closing remarks. He invites Torontonians to visit the sculpture sites, to talk to the artists and watch them work, and to experience a true “gallery without walls.” The sculpt-in, which will take place in July and August, is the first of its kind in Toronto, and when the pieces are completed, Sculpture Hill will become Toronto’s first permanent sculpture park. It will bring international attention to Canada’s artistic heritage and lead Toronto into a new era of contemporary art.

  “This is better than I ever imagined!” Liza exclaims.