|
|
Executive Times |
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
2006 Book Reviews |
|||
|
|
Triangle
by Katharine Weber |
|||
|
Rating: |
** |
|||
|
|
(Mildly Recommended) |
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
Click on
title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
Oratorio Katharine
Weber’s quirky novel, Triangle,
recounts the memorable fire at the Triangle Shirtwaist Company in 1909, as
recalled by the sole remaining survivor, Esther Gottesfeld.
One of Weber’s themes is that a story told often enough becomes more real
than the truth. Through the prodding of a feminist herstorian,
and the attention of granddaughter Rebecca, the real truth emerges. The relationship
between Rebecca and her partner, George, provides a respite from the
repetitive recollection of the fire. The musician George writes an oratorio about
the fire, using the triangle as a motif. Here’s an excerpt, from the
beginning of Chapter 3, pp. 55-61: George had
listened to his messages and was expecting Rebecca when she arrived at his
door. He was hovering and impatient by the time he heard her familiar sounds
in the hall, and before she could fit her key into the lock, he had the door
open. Their hug was almost a collision. “I had an ear out for your footsteps,” he said into her
hair after a moment. “You have very distinctive footsteps. You walk in duple
rhythm, you know.” He drummed the rhythm lightly on her shoulder with one
hand to demonstrate. “Doesn’t everyone? Oh god, I’m so glad to see you,” she
said against his shirt. He was wearing one of his big, crazy Hawaiian print
shirts over chinos, with cheap sneakers he bought
out of the bins on “I’m sorry I was 404 all day. I had a great day, actually,
very productive, but I feel bad that you wanted to talk to me when you
couldn’t. You should implant a microchip or something. A LoJack.
I am so sorry. I hate the way I am not a grown-up, if it added to your upsetness.” He hugged her tightly for a moment and then
resumed his syncopation on her back, now double-timing it, adding a
complicated counter-rhythm with the other hand between the wings of her
shoulder blades, suddenly genuinely fascinated with new possibilities, new
inventions. “Beck, you know the wonderful ‘Walking the Dog’ sequence in Shall We Dance?” She nodded as she
felt his big hands segue into the pattern of that familiar musical
interlude. He swayed a little, almost
dancing with her, as he hummed the opening—”Hmm hm hm hm hmp-hmp”—and
then interrupted himself. “You know Gershwin scored that using only six
instruments?” “You tell me that about
once a month. We’re not both senile.
You’re obsessed. Something about how he wrote it to mock big orchestral
flourishes, right? Do I win the car? Or the trip to George’s loft was the
entire top floor of a late-nineteenth-century building that had a mix of
apartments and professional spaces in the five floors beneath him. The
recalcitrant elevator always alarmed her, so Rebecca was a little breathless
from having taken the stairs. The rich, garlicky aroma that had followed her
up the stairs emanated from the Italian restaurant on the ground floor. She
was hungry, though not enough to want to eat there. It was an old Village
fixture, mentioned in memoirs of various Beat poets and New York School
painters, but it was no longer very good (if it ever really had been—there
was a time when red-checked tablecloths, candles stuck into Chianti bottles,
and insouciant waiters with accents were all a restaurant needed to be
considered the real thing). Dubious hygiene standards
in the kitchen attracted so many mice that, although George had been
sufficiently amused and inspired by the nocturnal sounds of the building’s
scurrying inhabitants to write a charming little Scherzo for Mighty Mice several years back—which had since gained
a huge following among music teachers of young children—after too many unamusing rodent-American encounters under his own
kitchen sink and on his pantry shelves, George had finally conceded that
Rebecca was right, he needed a cat. He had wanted to call the slender orange
tiger they picked out at the shelter Milhaud, but
Rebecca thought it a laughably pretentious name, despite points for the onomatopoeic
element, and after George had rejected Helix the Cat for being completely
stupid and pretentious, inexcusable even if Rebecca did work in genetics,
they had settled on Joe Green, which suited the dapper little cat perfectly. “So I spent the day in an
amazing laboratory over at NYU,” George said, “and I have to tell you about
it for about six reasons, one of which will interest you especially. But
Beck, first tell me what’s up with Esther. After I got your message, I called
there while I was waiting for you, thinking I might find you, but all Clara
told me was that she was sleeping.” “She’s failing. Her time’s
up,” Rebecca said briefly, fighting sudden tears all over again (an intense
crying episode on the train had alarmed the businessman next to her; she
thought he had gotten off at Westport, but spotting him in the exiting throng
when they arrived at Grand Central Station made her realize that he had simply
changed seats in Westport to get away from her). She dropped into the corner
of the big blue sofa where Joe Green was already stretched out along the top
of the cushions. She plucked him from his perfect repose and snuggled him
onto her chest, kicking off her shoes and lying back against the end cushion
with her legs stretched out. She found the sweet spot under the cat’s jaw and
worked it until he began to purr. (Joe Green was a reluctant purrer, so it always felt like a major achievement when
he succumbed.) “She’s not exactly dying at
this minute, but Clara thinks the time is now, and I guess she would know.
She’s seen it before.” George sat down across from
her at the other end of the sofa and put his feet up, intertwining his legs with
hers. “Kind of inevitable, I guess,” he said. “Lucky Joe Green.” “I’ve been imagining this
moment with Esther for the last twenty years, at least,” Rebecca said. “The
last thirty years. Maybe all my life. Joe Green is my hero, aren’t you,
Mister Verdi Mouse-killer?” She rubbed her nose against his smug little
triangular face. He blinked at her and then butted his head up under her
chin, which brought on a wave of tenderness that welled up from somewhere
deep in her chest. She felt tears rising. “So that’s the story,” she said,
her voice breaking a little. George’s steady gaze brought the tears up and
over, spilling out now. “I went by there just now
before coming here, and she was sleeping,” Rebecca added, trying to steady herself with the practical facts the way she always did.
“I sat with her for a while, but I didn’t want to wake her. So I told them I
would be back first thing in the morning, by seven, something like that, and
that I’d spend, oh, probably the whole day there, see what it feels like, see
what happens. It could be the whole weekend, who knows. They promised they
would call me here if there were any changes in the night.” “Changes?” “If they think she’s about
to die. If her breathing pattern changes into Cheyne-Stokes
breathing or anything like that. They’ll check on her a lot. I told them I
was just a few minutes away.” “I can go with you,” George
offered. “If something happens
tonight, that would be great. But you really don’t have to be there at dawn
with me. If you want to come by a little later in the morning, like, whatever
works for you, nineish, that would be great. I
don’t know what your day is supposed to be.” “How are you doing?” George
asked, taking both of her socked feet in his hands. Rebecca favored stripes.
Today’s socks were fuzzy, blue and green, which picked up the green in her
sweater. He raised them up to his face and kissed each foot ceremoniously.
“Are you okay? I love your little square feet. And your feet always smell so
sweet! Where do such sweet little square feet come from?” “Feet run in my family,” Rebecca said wryly. “Ha.” “And noses. I guess I’m
okay. I’m sad.” “She’s had an amazing and
incredibly long life,” George said unnecessarily. “I know, I know. It’s just
that once she got so old, it seemed as though she would just keep living
indefinitely. She probably thought she would too.” “Maybe she’s ready.” “Oh, I’m sure she’s ready.
I think she’s surprised that she’s still here. I’m the one who’s not ready,”
said Rebecca. “I know. But you really
are. You know that. You want her to have a good death,” he said gently, still
holding her feet. “It’s true, I do.” They sat in silence for a
while, just gazing at each other, the silence as natural to both of them as
it was uncommon in most other people. Joe Green jumped off Rebecca and hit
the floor with sudden urgency, as if he had just recalled a prior
engagement. Bits of his fur lingered in the air behind him, and Rebecca wiped
some stray hairs off her damp face with her sleeve. They both watched as the
cat sat abruptly and washed intently for a moment before flinging himself
away down the length of the loft toward whatever attracted him next. “He really knows how to
live in the moment,” Rebecca said. “So, Beck, listen. At
dinner, I have to tell you about this genetics lab at NYU, where I was
today. They’re doing this incredible research with stem cells, and I have a
lot of new stuff. I could go in about ten directions, just from what they
showed me over there today.” “I want to hear about it.
In a bit. Right now I just need—” “What?” “Just this. Nothing.
Everything. Just sitting here with you doing nothing.” “I’m glad you’re here.” “I’m glad I’m here too,
George. I’m glad you’re glad.” “And I’m glad that you’re
glad that I’m glad. Ain’t we got gladness—” He
drummed a paradiddle on the arm of the couch,
finishing with a flourish at an invisible cymbal. “Dinner out, sweetie? I
assumed you would be as starved as I am, and there’s not much here. I didn’t
want to go out again once I got your message—” “Anywhere but downstairs,
please.” Sometimes Rebecca loved just looking at George’s face. She knew
every line, every hollow, every crease. She
especially loved the bussed-out look of intense pleasure that made his jaw go
slack when he listened to music, including the music in his head that nobody
else could hear. He scowled at her now with a look of mock disappointment. “Coward. Where’s your sense
of danger? Where’s your willingness to risk the unknown?” “Yeah, well, Joe Green told
me they were out of the mouse soufflé tonight. And he said the fettuccine rodenti wasn’t al dente. I always trust Joe
Green’s advice. So does Moira Hodgson.” “Who doesn’t?” He gazed at her fondly across the expanse
of sofa. “You know, I love your voice, even when it’s got a Brahmsian sadness. It has a wonderful timbre.” “Oh, please. A Brahmsian
sadness? Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” “No, really, I think your natural register is in G. I’ve
told you that.” “Right. It’s true, you have told me that, but now you’re
verging on the self-parodic, which means your
blood sugar is probably way too low. Did you eat today? I’m starved. Let’s go
eat a really good dinner somewhere decent.” “Sounds like a plan.” “I hate people who say that.” “But you’ll always make an exception, won’t you, Rebecca?” “I also hate people who always think there is an exception
that proves the rule.” “You hate those people as much as people who say
‘win-win’?” “I despise those people. You’re right. That’s worse. I
despise those people as much as you despise Nelson Riddle.” “Death penalty for all offenders.” “Absolutely. Sushi? There’s that place just down the block
on “You’ll eat dodgy raw fish on a Monday, and you won’t take
your chances downstairs?” “Anywhere but downstairs, please. I mean it.” “Your profound desire not to eat there trumps my eternal
optimism.” “Advantage, Brahmsian sadness.” Triangle
gives voice to factory conditions and the place of women in the workforce in
1909. Much of the power of the book comes from the ways in which the stories
themselves become defining, whether true or false. In print and music, Triangle
is an oratorio for those women. Steve Hopkins,
August 25, 2006 |
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
Go to Executive Times
Archives |
||||
|
|
||||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the September
2006 issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Triangle.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
|||
|
|
|
|||
|
|
|
|||
