Wiseman's Wager by Dave Margoshes

Author:Dave Margoshes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: kaddish, Aging, Yiddish, Jewish, communist, family, brothers, twins, strike, novelist, divorce, Winnipeg, Calgary, psychology
ISBN: 9781550508093
Publisher: Coteau Books

They’d met under one of the glittering chandeliers in the ornate lobby of the Fort Garry Hotel on the evening the award was presented, he a gangly seventeen-year-old in a way-too-large suit borrowed from his eldest brother, far away in a Vancouver prison and not in the need of it, she the cool, distant university professor, her flat chest camouflaged by the ruffles on the bodice of her dark blue dress, who surprised and embarrassed him by offering her hand to shake. “You do know how to shake hands, don’t you, Mr. Wiseman?” she said when he hesitated, reddening his face all the more. A half smile flickered on her lips, which were thin and vividly painted, both mocking and encouraging him. The people around them, all men, other judges and officials of the contest, laughed politely but then, miraculously, melted away, leaving the two of them alone in the lobby. A wide, carpeted stairway beckoned them upwards to the ballroom where the Lieutenant Governor of Manitoba, Sir James Aikins, in a uniform with a brocaded front, would personally present Zan with a framed plaque and an envelope representing the scholarship he had won.

“Sure, Miss, I just...” The hand was no larger than his, soft and cool, and she surprised him further by allowing it to linger in his grip longer than he expected, all the while her curious grey eyes locked fast with his own gaze, the touch and look thrilling him in a way that was not only totally unexpected but unlike anything he’d ever before experienced. “Thank you for picking me,” he finally managed to get out.

“No thanks necessary,” she replied with a cool laugh. “Your essay was the best, simple as that. It deserved to win.” Her voice had a not-unpleasant nasal drawl to it that required him to listen hard. “You won’t find literary success as simple as that ever again, I wouldn’t be surprised. The best story doesn’t always get published, nor the best book. Nor does the best book always win the prizes or sell the most.” Her mouth pursed, as if she were trying to swallow the involuntary smile, revealing slightly protruding teeth, but her eyes softened, making the smile clear. “Are you a poet, Mr. Wiseman? Zan, is it? What kind of a name is Zan, anyway?”

“It’s Alexander, but....”

“Ah, well, I like the sound of Zan. Xanadu!” She said the word with feeling, thrilling him, for he loved “Kubla Khan.”

“Are you a poet, Zan?”

The professor’s little speech, and her question, thrilled him even further, and so disarmed him he didn’t hesitate to answer yes, even though, until that very moment, he had never thought of himself as a poet. He had written some poems, but most of his writing efforts had been directed at stories, narratives in which the hustle and bustle of plot and the vivid descriptions he was so good at had shouldered out any specific considerations of language. His mouth was still open and he was about to

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