Swann by Carol Shields Page B

and someone else will keep him relatively safe on the highways and even flying through the air. A race of incomprehensible (to him) men and women have assumed responsibility for
his
safety, have been willing to make regulations, set standards, and bring into being an entire system of checks and counter checks. When he flicks the switch on the Flanners’ microwave oven to warm up his taco dinner he takes it for granted that the tiny crinkled rays will permeate the food and not him, and that the tacos themselves, though tasteless, will be free of botulism. Thus, when he thinks about his lost luggage, he is no more than marginally worried.
    His two large vinyl suitcases, one black, one tan, are not, after all, metaphysical constructs, but physical objects occupying definable space. The number of places where these suitcases might reasonably be is finite. It is only a matter of time before they are discovered and identified and shipped to him in Palo Alto, accompanied by official apologies and an entirely plausible explanation, which he will, of course, believe and accept with grace; this is not aperfect world—how well he knows that—but a world, at least, turned in the general direction of improvement.
    Besides, he sees now that his Manitoba clothes would be out of place here. Those suits of his, those heavy laced shoes; it would be an act of brutality to bring such dark colours and such thick materials into the delicate latticed light of California. He wears open-weave shirts now, pure cotton preferably, and finds he can get along perfectly well without a tie, even when invited out to dinner. The sandals he bought for $4.95 are about to fall apart after one month—it seems they are stapled rather than sewn—but he is prepared to buy another pair, and another—they are surprisingly comfortable, too, especially when worn over a pair of heavy cotton socks.
    It’s true he’s been inconvenienced by the loss of some of his papers, but it was an easy matter to telephone Mrs. Lynch in Winnipeg and have her send photocopies. His first-draft documents are safely locked away in a desk drawer in his study at home, which is a relief. He does, though, suffer intermittent worry over the photograph of Mary Swann. It had not been a good idea to bring it. It cannot be replaced and is one of only two known photographs of her in existence. (The other, much the inferior, is still in the Nadeau Museum, a blurred snapshot of Mrs. Swann standing in front of her house with her eyes sealed shut by sunlight.) The loss of the photograph would be serious, tragic in a sense, if indeed it is lost, but Jimroy persists, even after days and weeks have gone by, in thinking that his luggage will reappear at any moment.
    This occasional nagging worry about the photograph is, in any case, tempered by the relief he feels that at least he has the letters from Sarah Maloney safely in his possession. What amazing luck! He can’t help wondering what bolt ofgood fortune made him decide at the last minute, packing his things in Winnipeg, to put Sarah’s letters in his briefcase rather than with his other papers in his luggage. When he thinks of it, he shakes his head and feels blessed.
    He needs the letters more than ever now that he has been uprooted; they stabilize him, keeping away that drifting sadness that comes upon him late in the evening, eleven, eleven-thirty, when the density of the earth seems to empty out. It’s then that he likes to reread her letters, letters that pulse and promise, that make his throat swell with the thought of sex. He props himself on the headboard of the Flanners’ outsize bed, cleansed from his shower, toenails pared, a cup of hot milk at his elbow. (Half his stomach was removed the winter Audrey left, and he admits to anyone kind enough to inquire that the hot milk and the early nights are needed now, besides he likes to think of his homely habits as a precaution against hubris.)
    “Dear Morton Jimroy,” runs her first