Grief, Memory, Three O'Clock in the Morning: My Mavis Gallant Centennial Diary, August 12

Oops

the room

9.40 a.m. I know I said I was shutting this down, but I forgot to mention something Friends of Mavis (FOM) should know. This is very important. Vital. It’s why I’m breaking my promise, clearly made on many occasions, a matter of public record, that after August 11 I would shut up.

When I was talking with Father Kevin Hunt, Rector of St. James’ Anglican Church, about the compline service in honour of the centennial of Mavis Gallant (MG), about what it might include, he asked if I wanted it to extend to incense. In truth, I had supposed this was a given, didn’t think of it as option or add-on. It never occurred to me that one might choose to censor the censer. I absolutely wanted the incense, as much of it as was human possibly to produce and endure. Charge every thurible. Let loose the holy smokes. Also, wear every possible vestment. And then some.

Anyway, the moment came — it was so lovely — and the swinging pendulum was disgorging fragrant clouds. I was seated in the front pew with the other lay participants in the service, and with my partner, Bill Pechet. Now, Billy was laid low about six weeks back with what his doctor diagnosed as strep throat; this was done on the phone, as I gather has become usual. I would only deign to consult a doctor if I woke of a morning to find that a major limb had detached during the night, and then only to learn if it was still edible. Of course, he, Billy, given the times, was testing constantly to see if what he had was COVID: negative, negative, negative. The results were unvarying. However, he lost his sense of smell: a usual COVID consequence, as we all by now know. The upside of this for me was that I didn’t have to be careful about brushing my teeth before we met; for him, there was no discernible advantage. Anyway, there we were, August 10, in a beautiful and sanctified precinct, great billows of pungent fog rolling around us. He turned to me and said, “It’s a miracle.” Averse as I am to speaking in church, I replied with a look that conveyed the question, “What?” He said, “I can smell it. I can smell the incense.”

And so, as it turns out, my MG journey is not yet dusted and done. There is more work ahead, hard and serious labours, more stations of the cross to visit. Yes, friends, the mission now extends to ensuring her canonization. Miracle Number One — Sense of Smell Restored, August 10, 2022, Vancouver, and to an adherent of the Hebraic tradition, what’s more — has been made manifest and reported here, for all to know and marvel at. I believe only one more is required. Me, I’m hoping I’ll go out for coffee and when I come back, my apartment (pictured above in its present state, it’s about the same size as the one in which MG lived for all those years, i.e. compact, and it has never looked worse) will have been desordidified by a hand unseen. That would take the force of a tropical storm, given its present state of clutter. Has there been a Hurricane Mavis? I think not. No Saint Mavis, either. Not so far. But that can be fixed. Oh, dear. There’s more work in the offing. So (clap emoji) much (clap emoji) more (clap emoji) work! I’m on the case. Sorry for the intrusion, and for the long goodbye. BR

P.S. In yesterday’s entry I rounded on The New Yorker for not honouring the centennial. I gather something will appear — so my sources report — and it will be something grand. Looking forward to it more than I can say. My apologies for getting huffy when huffiness wasn’t warranted. BR