Stories We Tell Page #9

of her discovering

her lost biological father

and would like to run it

in his Toronto newspaper

with her reaction

to this amazing discovery.

Sarah is appalled.

She has not told me,

and at this juncture

is not sure that she ever will.

She begins to cry

and begs the reporter

not to run the story,

because she's

not yet told her father.

The reporter points out

that it's a very happy story,

and there's no reason

to cry about it,

but Sarah cries even harder.

She runs out into the street

with her cell phone

so that no one

on the set will see her,

and she crosses to a park

and seeks refuge on a bench.

There she begs the man

not to go ahead,

at least

until she's contacted her father.

Sarah continued her cry

for some minutes after the call,

and then she noticed that

a considerable number of people

were looking at her,

and she recalls thinking

how different Montrealers were

from their Toronto counterparts,

who, observing a young girl in tears,

would have pretended

it never happened.

She went back into the studio

to wash her tear-stained face,

and there was

this Neanderthal woman,

staring at her in the mirror.

You see, you just can't keep

the mask of Comedy at bay.

It watches old Tragedy doing his bit,

and the moment he lets

his guard down,

old Comedy turns up

the corners of his mouth.

But it was an alarming

and unforeseen turn of events,

and Sarah now knew

that she would have

to tell me everything.

Sarah was at last able

to email me

that she was leaving Montreal

on Thursday the 24th,

and that she would like to come

round to my place for tea.

Thursday came,

and I cleaned off the table

and made a bit of an effort

to clean up my living space a little.

I even swatted my fly,

which is rare.

Flies are frequently

my companions in this loft.

They invariable arrive

only one at a time,

and I do my best to make

them feel comfortable.

I told you already that

I'm not a particularly sociable person.

There's not doubt

that I'm more at ease with flies,

or at least solitary ones.

I must confess

that I talk to them,

and I'm not at all discomforted

by their failure to reply.

And they're alone, like me.

Sorry about this digression,

but I hope it'll give you some idea

of the sacrifice I'd made with my swatter

before Sarah's arrival.

And once she got here,

I made her sit down at the table

and went right into

my main entertainment to the meal,

which was the story

of Anna Christie,

which led to my demonstration

of the acting of drunkenness

throughout the 20th century.

The night before,

I'd seen Garbo in her first talkie

along with Marie Dressler,

and I found her acting fascinating.

You know, I can go on

about these thespian matters

for some hours.

So, the tea and the rice pudding

were already on the table

in front of Sarah before she got

a chance to speak.

And you were sitting on the opposite side

of the table from me,

obviously waiting for me to finish,

but I didn't think you had

anything important to say.

I thought we were

just gonna chat,

and so when I finally got

to the end of my story,

you said something like,

"The reason I wanted to come and see you

"is that I have something

kind of important to tell you. "

Then you started into the story,

and it took you quite a while

to get to the moment of truth,

if we can use that expression.

That great moment of truth

when I suddenly realized,

"Oh, my God, what she's saying

"is that I'm not actually

her biological father. "

I sat there in abject silence,

as Sarah must have done

when she found that Harry

was her father.

Thoughts ran

in and out of my mind.

"That's impossible.

It couldn't be.

"I'm dreaming. "

I was quite stunned.

My God, all this stuff

we'd been joking about for years,

it's actually true.

It took me

a while to recover, and...

And then I remember saying...

"Harry? Harry Gulkin?"

And then you said something like,

"But it doesn't make

any difference, does it?"

And I said, "No, it doesn't make

any difference at all,

"not to you and I,

"in terms of our relationship.

"It's still exactly the same

as it was before. "

And then I remember

you came round the table

and put your arm

round my shoulder and said,

"No, I'm so glad it doesn't make

any difference, does it?"

And I was, uh...

I thought it was funny.

That's the closest we've been

in quite a few years,

to put your arm

round me and say,

"Dad, it doesn't make any difference. "

And I suppose I asked you

a few more questions then about it,

because it was a tremendous story

you were telling me,

and so many little coincidences

and strange things had happened.

And suddenly,

I began to realize,

"My God, this is a great story.

"This is a great, great story. "

I mean, I enjoy writing,

but I can't get started,

because I never have any ideas

about what I want to write about.

And since this came up,

it started me off,

realizing how many fascinating stories

there are to be told

in one's own life

without having to try to look

for what's

an interesting story outside.

I began to realize

what a remarkable story

she had thrown into my lap.

Gradually, I began to build up

a picture of the whole thing,

and so much of Diane's past

and of my own actions

appeared in a different light.

The revelations had awoken

an obsession in me

to tell the whole story

to anyone who would listen.

My growing enthusiasm

for the narrative itself,

as well as the constant

re-evaluation of my own past,

drove me around my room

for two days,

and then on Saturday,

I was finally able

to send an email to Sarah

with this summary of my thoughts:

My dear Sarah,

my mind has been racing

over the past 24 hours.

Getting as many of my thoughts

down on paper will, I hope,

stop that feverish mental pursuit

and put it all

into what is my perspective.

Whatever we do,

we must not put any blame on Diane

for those events

that took place in 1978.

We had been married then

for over ten years,

and our union

was not a perfect one.

She had already experienced

one major disaster in her life

with the breakdown

of her first marriage

and the subsequent loss

of the two children

that she loved so much.

And now here she was stuck

with a husband who was useless

at making her feel wanted,

and so when she went

to Montreal to do Toronto,

it's scarcely surprising

that when love was expressed

and then offered to her,

she took it.

I'd always told her

she should take a lover

any time she felt me inadequate,

just so long

as she did not think

of leaving Mark and Jo or me.

Of course, she would never

have left another two children,

and I would never have disputed

her claim for custody,

so it was clearly my own future

that I was worried about.

And so we arrive

at the affair with Harry,

and, not unexpectedly,

it took place at the same time

as I made one or two visits

to see her in Montreal.

During those visits,

I made love to her,

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