Bertrand
It was Sunday afternoon when I saw him again. Mr. C was returning from what I can only assume was a weekend ride on his 1970 Triumph Bonneville, which was known in our neighbourhood as “the beast.” Once a dormant relic, it now bore the dust of distant roads and the faint scent of eucalyptus.
But it wasn’t the motorcycle that arrested my attention. It was the brick.
Strapped to the back seat with a length of twine, the brick sat upright, stoic, and oddly dignified. It was not a stowaway. It was a passenger.
Mr. C dismounted, removed his gloves, adjusted his collar, and turned to me with the same unflinching formality he might reserve for a quarterly meeting with his board of directors.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Sen,” he said, “As you have no doubt observed, I have acquired a companion.”
I blinked. The brick did not.
“Its name is Bertrand. It is a brick of considerable character. We met last week at a petrol station on the highway. I was drawn to its symmetry.”
There was no irony in his voice. Mr. C does not do irony.
I nodded, unsure whether to offer congratulations or condolences. Bertrand, for his part, remained impassive. A model of composure.
“I need your assistance yet again, Mr. Sen, on a matter of some delicacy,” he continued in a low voice.
I leaned in, not sure what to expect but certain to be surprised.
“I have decided to be spontaneous,” he said, as if he were plotting a rebellion, which, come to think of it, was exactly what he was doing. I was witnessing Mr. C’s teenage rebellion, postponed by 45 years!
“Well done, Mr. C. Splendid. How might I be of assistance?”
“I do not wish my spontaneity to cause undue harm to a living companion, a familiar, you see, Mr. Sen, don’t you? I would have liked to have spontaneously acquired a furry companion of the canine variety, which is to say…”
“You would like a pet dog?” I asked. Mr. C. does not hem and haw when he wishes to say something; when he wishes not to say anything at all, he does so by saying a lot of things. I have learned to interrupt him when he lapses into habits created by his years spent in the bureaucracy (or was it a bank, or a government bank?) Something was bothering him.
“Bravo, Mr. Sen. Yes. A dog. But I thought I should turn the dial of spontaneity cautiously. One can’t be too spontaneous all at once, or there shan’t be any left for tomorrow’s spontaneity, and so on and so forth.”
Again, he was lapsing into that familiar bureaucratic reflex—layering language like insulation, unsure whether to speak or stay silent. “I am glad to help,” I replied.
“The problem is one of pronouns. I am aware that my pet brick is not alive and cannot speak in the human sense. But now that Bertrand has a name, a pronoun is required. I shall be speaking about Bertrand considerably more than I shall speak with Bertrand, you see. I assure you, I am not going insane. I asked my wife, and she agreed.
“I’m sure she does,” I said, slowly, wondering whether the agreement might have been about his use of the word going. She once sang Mahler’s Rückert-Lieder to a sold-out crowd in Vienna, then flew home to find Mr. C alphabetizing the spice rack. This incident, it is rumoured, happened last month. Indeed, Mr. C’s eccentricities were the subject of many neighbourhood rumours.
“Mr. Sen! I am not the person described in that scurrilous rumour currently circulating in the neighbourhood,” said Mr. C, dryly, as he noted the involuntary crease of a smile beginning to form.
“I haven’t heard any,” I said, deadpan. In truth, there were too many to count. Concocting rumours about Mr. C is a local drinking game. It begins with “Mr. C. once…” and ends with a free drink if it makes the barman laugh.
Mr. C continued earnestly: “I am troubled, Mr. Sen,” he said, “by the matter of pronouns. Bertrand is, as you know, a brick. And yet Bertrand is also Bertrand, with a name, which implies a gender, which implies a pronoun, which implies a personality, which implies a soul. But Bertrand is a brick. It presents as a brick. It identifies, insofar as I can tell, as a brick. And yet I cannot bring myself to say ‘it.’ It feels cruel. Dismissive. I tried ‘he,’ but is that presumptuous? I considered ‘they,’ but Bertrand is not a committee. Mr. Sen, I am at a loss. I fear I have anthropomorphized myself into a corner.”
I watched Mr. C adjust Bertrand’s harness with the same care one might show a sleeping infant, and I found myself strangely moved. Bertrand was a brick. It did not breathe, did not suffer, did not return affection. And yet Mr. C considered him a companion. Why? I suspected that Bertrand was not chosen in spite of his inertness, but because of it–stoic, impassive, unalterable—he was everything Mr. C had spent a lifetime becoming.
I thought of dogs, of real pets, of the kind of companion that bleeds when wounded, that loves unconditionally. I am reminded of T’s dog, Calculus Dogbertus…
Perhaps Mr. C had chosen a brick precisely because it could not bleed. Sensitivity, I suppose, only matters when the subject is alive. But perhaps that’s the point. Bertrand was not a surrogate for a dog. He was a rehearsal for care. A way to test the waters of affection without the risk of drowning. I did not judge him. I merely noted the absurdity and the quiet courage it required.
“Why not make this your first act of spontaneity? Talk about Bertrand until you unconsciously use a pronoun,” I said.
Mr. C considered the suggestion briefly. “That is a fine idea, Mr. Sen. Why, thank you! Bertrand approves. He always does.”
Editor’s Note
- What do you think Bertrand’s pronouns ought to be? Do let us know.