Define "Canadian Literature"

"So," says Margaret Atwood, as rich brown gravy drips down her chin. "Müller got the Nobel." She quickly grabs the pristine white serviette from the table and dabs off the sauce on her face with quick, clean strokes.

They never mention it openly, but they both know it. The nobel hangs over those two women like an enormous pendulum, casting its long, eminent shadow over all of Canadian literature. They both know (or hope) it's just a question of time before one gets the pendulum, and the other falls into the pit. But then, even worse perhaps, a possibility becomes more alarmingly probable as every fall comes and goes: perhaps they will both end up in the pit.

"Oh, Marge, dear," replies Alice Munro, casting a reproachful glance at her companion over a forkful of monkfish ceviche. "Don't. I thought you were above that!"

"Easy for you to say," thinks Atwood maliciously, but checks herself. Despite Munro's accomplishments, one simply can not be jealous of her. Besides, she is Margaret Atwood, after all. "I am above it," she says instead. "I was just stating a fact. Literary small talk, that's all."

"Yes, but dear, let's stay away from the topic of prizes. It makes you so very bitter."

Silenced by her friend's sweet honesty, Margaret goes back to sawing down cubes of juicy bison with her steak knife. ("Is your bison organic and free-range?" she had asked the waiter, almost violently, pointing to its elaborate description in the menu. "Is it Canadian?") Alice Munro stares at her with intent, chewing on another mouthful of her zesty fish dish. Margaret Atwood, poet, inventor, essayist, critic, novelist; bent over her plate like some clever bird with a grey afro. The mother of Canadian literature. Alice knows how the subject of literary prizes affects her friend. So close to the end of her career, with so many achievements behind her, it seems as if now -- despite her supposed popularity, her international renown, despite her talent and ambitiously varied projects -- well, it seems as if Margaret Atwood is simply passé.

"I envy you," Alice tells her. "Being able to eat meat like that. My dentures wouldn't take it."

Margaret looks up from her meat for a moment and meets Alice's eyes, so youthfully electric despite her seniority of ten years at this table. For a fleeting instant, she feels a pang of something like longing for her companion writer. Could it be, at her age, that some flame of lustful desire is rekindled for an older woman? Yet there is something erotically charged about Alice Munro. The soft wisps of white hair, like sea foam; the constant, good-natured smile; and that perfect form. Alice is still slim, even athletic, for her age, with nice arms, a tucked belly, and full, firm breasts. "I'll have to write something about old lesbians," Atwood thinks. "It would make a good short story."

"O, Alice, how do you do it?"

"Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing! How do you do it, Marge?"

"Do what?"

"Stay so serious. Business-like. I know you don't take things that seriously, yet in appearance you make everything seem so intense!"

"I was going to ask you how you manage to stay so happy all the time."

"O, happiness, you know... It's genetic, I think. Diana Athill said that the other day, and I believe she's quite right. You're prone to it, or you're not," Alice pauses for a moment. "Yes, happiness is simply genetic."