Chapter Text
I had anticipated Manitoulin island a desolate landscape with a few hermits, eccentrics, and retirees; but as soon as I drove off the ferry dock I changed my mind. Now I could see why Glenn Gould had plans to move here. Hours later, layers upon layers of cedar, pine, and poplar trees opened up to a ranch lot at the end of the gravel road. Pulling over, I bumped my car into casually stacked rows of firewood. I cursed mentally at my clumsy vehicle maneuver --- a terrible first impression to leave on my interview subjects! Too late; the clamor already stirred someone down the paved path among the flower beds. No time to waste here! I clutched all my interview gears in haste, jumped out of the car, and tried to straighten my suit and tie to no avail. Too late. As the gardener strode up to me in knee-highs, with loppers, pruners and mini-saws clicking and clonking in apron pockets, I stood to attention and announced my identity and intention.
"Mr. Mikhail Kaplansky? This is Kevin, Kevin Bazzana. I phoned yesterday to confirm an interview appointment with you and Ms. O'hara."
"Dr. Bazzana! We've been waiting for you. How's your trip here?" He grinned and took off a garden glove. A solid workman's handshake, one of callous and sweat.
"The ferry was rough but the island is beautiful! And I made it here in one piece, so all's well."
"Is this your first time here?"
"Yes."
"Welcome to Manitoulin island!---come in now!" His head bobbied towards the raised ranch house. The flower bed plants mirrored his gleeful movements.
As we entered the house, he called out:
"Mika! Dr. Bazzana's here! We're going to tell him all about GG." He winked and sat me down at a dining room table. I finally unloaded all my stuff with yet another series of awkward noises, all the while trying to assure my host there is no need to accord me with my formal academic title. I should just be "Kevin", a biographer trying to gather information from Glenn Gould's old friends.
My host rushed to the kitchen promising fresh tea on his return, and a woman in coveralls emerged from what must be a workshop backdoor. She seemed muscular for her petite statue, and had a brisk gait. I shot up to apologize for the mess on the table.
She laughed and gestured me to sit, some silver and black hair strayed out beneath the hairnet and dangled around the goggle straps over her neck. "So, Kevin. You want to talk about Glenn?"
Before I could say anything, my host swooped in, putting a pot and three cups of tea on the table; and, having drawn seats for himself and the lady, he commented, "Mika knows a lot, she just doesn't talk much. "
A half-smile surfaced in her dark eyes, and Ms. O'hara took a cup of tea. "You are here, so you won't leave empty-handed. But I can't promise anything new or deep."
What constitutes "new" and "deep", I will decide later! I opened a notebook, and started the tape recorder.
I've almost always known Glenn Gold --- or Glenn Gould, as everyone knew him later. Because on a Sunday, my mother helped Florence Gold deliver Glenn at home, and our families went to the same neighborhood Presbyterian church. I got used to seeing him at evening service, dressed in the most pristine Sunday school clothes, either praying or reading in the pew; while other kids, in our hand-me-downs, either hung about or wandered off.
One evening in spring, Bert Gold came up to my parents after service: "Mr. Uehara, I was wondering if you and your wife might do me a favor."
My mother asked what it might be. Is Mrs. Gold expecting another child?
"We're changing our family name. Florence and I are considering some options. Which one of these sounds best?" Gaold? Gould? Golde? Goode?
My father inquired why. "Gold" is a fine-sounding name. Very positive connotation, and respected in Bert's fur trade. Why change it?
"I really shouldn't be saying this, but..." He paused, looking worried and sad, "It's for safety. 'Gold' is too Jewish a name for the city."
My mother recommended "Gould".
That's how Glenn became a Gould, and I changed into an O'hara: if "Gold" was too Jewish for this town, then "Uehara" was too Asian. So O'haras my family became, and we started claiming mixed Irish and Jamaican ancestry if anyone asked. Because "O'hara" is surely Irish, and nobody in Toronto then knew what a Jamaican would look like. The story must be convincing, because even during the war, we were not interned or harassed. My older brother fought in the Aleutians alongside the Americans, and even they gave him zero trouble for his non-typical Irish look.
At school, I saw Glenn every day. By then, the rest of us were all convinced that Glenn would go on to do something very special. But we still treated him the same, and nicknamed him too. He was called "Yarnball", because he wrapped himself in layers and gloves, and never took them off even when standing in the sun at noon on a steamy day in June. My nickname was "Onion", because I'd make bigger kids cry if they tried to cut me down, although I was small. And for that one Negro kid in school, "Snowball" was his moniker, and to this day we still laugh about it in reunions.
Later, my family moved to downtown Toronto, around the same time Glenn got his pianist diploma from the conservatory. To celebrate the occasion, Bert bought a new Recordio machine from our store. And I still saw Glenn plenty: I worked for the store after school, and part of the job was maintaining recording equipment we sold to the conservatory. Glenn would often pop up to gush over the latest gadgets, and opine on music, recording, and sound technology. Then we'd get into arguments about said technology in the cafeteria, and drew a crowd. Among the regular spectators were Maureen Forrester, Jon Vickers, and a stout and cheerful young tenor named Stewie. We became friends. Later at CBC I produced many programs featuring them.
The summer before I started at U of Toronto, one afternoon, I was stacking dictets and Minifons in the store, when Stewie glided up to the counter, and whispered,
"Mika, you have a minute?"
"Yes, if you have news," I replied.
"I do, I do." He poked his head in, and with an expression of delight and confusion, he began:
"The other day, I was sitting next to Glenn and peeked at him closely. His brown hair is so clean and smooth, I could stroke it for days. And his face --- I don't have any better words --- it's angelic! My heart just flutters whenever I am near him. And that was the closets I ever got to him! So I made a move. Slowly --- and very softly! --- I looped up the edge of his fur coat, and finally laid an arm around him. Like this, around his waist and holding him just a little to my chest. I was thinking if he has the hots for me too, he'd lean into me, or maybe wrap his arm around me. But he was so startled! He just shot up from his seat and lost balance and fell out of my arm. For a second I thought he was going to fall out of the window! But then he just balanced himself, said a very polite goodbye to me, and went to sit by himself."
"So he's not into you," I concluded.
"Here is the thing! Today he invited me to visit his family's country cottage with him! It's a secret date, right?" A dreamy smile accompanied his tearful sputtering.
I laughed when he told me when the "secret date" would be.
"Sorry Stewie, but Glenn asked me, Maureen, Jon, and some others to go too. So, forget about it. It's not a 'secret date'. It's an open party."
For a moment I saw teardrops trickle along his cheeks. "Mika! You are a bad onion! You are making me cry!"
I cut open a box. "Stewie, I can help you, but I can't help you find a boyfriend. But! If you help me sort these tapes, I'm setting up sounds for a party tonight. A cabaret with drag. Maybe you'll meet someone there."
That's how Stewie's ill-fated crush on Glenn ended. We went to the drag party, and it was a riotous success. I even resuscitated a queen who apparently wore his corset too tight and danced too hard. Very soon, our store started supplying sound equipment with bonus first-aid services around town. Then, all my childhood friends --- all those prudish and repressed Protestant young men from Toronto's east end --- started to pester me about the cabarets and drag shows and clubs and speakeasys. But not Glenn. He was not around. He cooped up in the country cottage with a piano all by himself. From time to time I'd go with different people to visit him. I brought him samples of new tape recorders to play with, and I fixed that Recordio machine too.
University years flew by, summer of 1955 arrived warm and humid. I was closing shop early for a date night with Misha, and the counter phone rang just as we were leaving the store.
"Mika! It's Glenn. I'm in New York now -- they have the best recording studio! There are those pegboards set up to..." Then he went on for an hour describing the devices and setup. I took note of the technical details, and thanked him for calling. Misha thought Glenn was an adorable geek.
When January 1956 rolled around, our sales of gramophone players, vinyl records, and home recording devices went through the roof, thanks to Glenn's first Goldberg. It's a recording everybody loves. But I'm not so sure about Glenn's second Goldberg. Lenny Bernstein once told me in tears, that he never finished listening to it. Because every time he listened to it, he felt joy and grief too great for him to bear.