Faded wandering soul, eddying in this cold pool,
So long the accomplice of that fool, my body,
Where will you land? On what bare shore?
Will you be nothing but a dead leaf? Or …
Ah. The poem’s unfinished: Gavin had died while writing it. The pathos of it all, thinks Tin. No wonder there are repressed weeping noises rising around him like spring frog-song. Still, when further refined, the poem could have yielded a passable result, apart from its ill-concealed rip-off of the dying Emperor Hadrian’s address to his own wandering soul. Though possibly not rip-off: allusion is how a well-disposed critic would frame it. That Gavin Putnam knew Hadrian well enough to steal from him has improved Tin’s view of the expired versifier considerably. As a poet, that is; not as a person.
“Animula, vagula, blandula,” he recites under his breath. “Hospes comesque corporis/Quae nunc abibis in loca/Pallidula, rigida, nudula/Nec, ut soles. Dabis iocos …” Hard to put it better. Though many have tried.
There’s an interlude of silent meditation, during which they’re all invited to close their eyes and reflect on their rich and rewarding friendship with their no longer present colleague and companion, and on what that friendship meant to them personally. Jorrie digs Tin with her elbow again. What fun this will be to recall afterwards! that dig is saying.
The next funeral baked meat treat is not long in coming. One of the less successful Riverboat-era folksingers, much bewrinkled and with a straggling goatee that looks like the underside of a centipede, arises to favour them with a song from the period: “Mister Tambourine Man.” A curious choice, as the folkie himself admits before singing it. But this isn’t about being, like, mournful, right? It’s about celebration! And I know Gav’s probably listening in right now, and he’s tapping his foot in joy! Hey up there, buddy! We’re waving at you!
Choking sounds from here and there in the room. Spare us, Tin sighs. Beside him, Jorrie is shaking. Is it grief or mirth? He can’t look at her: if it’s mirth they will both giggle, and that could prove embarrassing because Jorrie might not be able to stop.
Next there’s a eulogy, spoken by a criminally pretty coffee-skinned young woman in high boots and a bright shawl. She introduces herself – Naveena something – as a scholar of the poet’s work. Then she says she wants to share the fact that, although she met Mr. Putnam only on the last day of his life, the experience of his compassionate personality and his contagious love of life had been deeply moving for her, and she is so grateful to Mrs. Putnam – Reynolds – for making this possible, and though she has lost Mr. Putnam, she has made a new friend in Reynolds through this terrible ordeal they have gone through together, and she is just glad she hadn’t left Florida on the day it happened, and was able to be there for Reynolds, and she is sure everyone in the room will join her in sending warm wishes to Reynolds at this tragic and difficult time, and … tremulous breakdown of the voice. “I’m sorry,” she says, “I wanted to say more, about, you know, the poetry, but I …” She hurries from the stage in tears.
Touching little creature.
Tin consults his watch.
At last, the final musical number. It’s “Fare Thee Well,” a traditional folk song said to have been inspirational to Gavin Putnam when he was writing his now-famous first collection, Heavy Moonlight. A copper-haired young man who can’t be more than eighteen stands on the stage to sing it for them, backed up by two lads with guitars.
Fare thee well, my own true love,
And farewell for a while;
I’m going away, but I’ll be back
If I go ten thousand miles.
That will do it every time: the promise to return, coupled with the certain knowledge that no return is possible. The singer’s quavering tenor fades away, followed by a fusillade of sobbing and coughs. Tin feels a nuzzling against his jacket sleeve. “Oh, Tin,” says Jorrie.
He told her to bring a handkerchief, but of course she didn’t. He digs out his own handkerchief and hands it to her.
Now there’s a murmuring, a rustling, a rising, a mingling. There will be an open bar in the Salon and refreshments in the West Hall, they are informed. There’s a discreet stampede of footsteps.
“Where’s the washroom?” says Jorrie. She’s blotted her face, inexpertly: there’s mascara running down her cheeks. Tin recovers his handkerchief and dabs away the black smudges as best he can. “Will you wait outside for me?” she asks plaintively.
“I’m heading there myself,” says Tin. “I’ll meet you at the bar.”
“Just don’t take all day,” says Jorrie. “I need to get out of this henhouse.” She’s waxing querulous: her blood sugar must be down. In the fracas of preparation, they forgot to have lunch. He’ll funnel some alcohol into her for a quick lift and steer her over to the crustless sandwiches. Then, after a lemon square or two, for what is a funerary occasion without a lemon square, they’ll skedaddle out the door.
In the Men’s he runs into Seth MacDonald, Emeritus Professor of Ancient Languages at Princeton and the celebrated translator of the Orphic Hymns and, as it turns out, an old acquaintance of Gavin Putnam. Not professionally, no, but they’d been on a Mediterranean cruise together – “Hotspots of the Ancient World” – where they’d got on well and had followed up with a correspondence over the past few years. Commiserations are exchanged; Tin does some routine prevarication and invents a reason for his own presence.
“We were both interested in Hadrian,” he says.
“Ah, yes,” says Seth. “Yes. I noticed the allusion. Skilfully done.”
The unexpected delay means that Jorrie makes it out of the washroom before Tin does. He should never have let her out of his sight! She’s gone to town with the sparkly metallic bronzer, and on top of that she’s applied something else: a coating of large, glittering, golden flakes. She looks like a sequined leather handbag. She must have smuggled these supplies in her purse: payback for his redaction of the shocking-pink Chanel. Of course she hasn’t been able to take in the full effect of her applications in the washroom mirror: she wouldn’t have been wearing her reading glasses.
“What have you …” he begins. She shoots him a glare: Don’t you dare! She’s right: it’s too late now.
He grasps her elbow. “Forward the Light Brigade,” he says.
“What?”
“Let’s get a drink.”