Colours in Her Hands, page 15
Judith had the same passion as Mina for hats, though Judith’s tastes were bolder. She wore period hats and ropes of chunky costume jewellery. Maybe Mina had been constrained by what was available at the dollar store. Iris could imagine her in a wide-brimmed cloche or a velvet accordion hat. Wouldn’t it be fun to jazz up Mina’s artistic persona? And as an artist, she would be Philomena! Wasn’t that a born artist’s name?
Iris kept clicking and scrolling. Museum curators and other artists discussed Judith Scott’s art — not once hesitating to call it art. Also asking what art was when people whom society labelled as intellectually deficient were making it. Judith Scott’s work was clearly the outpouring of a startling artistic intelligence. Iris grabbed a pencil and began taking notes.
* * *
Bruno was reaching for his jacket when the phone rang. He had to get to work. It was probably only Mina. But what if it wasn’t and what if it was important? He headed back down the hallway.
“Monsieur Corneau!” Shrill enough to make a dog whine.
Cautiously, “Yes?”
“Do you know that Mina is wearing a pro-choice button on her hat?”
“You’re calling me about the buttons on her hat?”
The nun where Mina worked had made a complaint about the button on Mina’s hat. She’d asked Mina to remove it and Mina had refused.
“Her buttons are her buttons. Leave them alone.”
“But Monsieur Corneau, if your mother had had an abortion, where would Mina be?”
“I’m not sure what that has to do with anything, but isn’t the point about pro-choice that you have the choice? Mina is all about choice.”
“The nun won’t have her coming to the church with that button on her hat.”
“Why don’t you suggest that Mina wear a different hat? She’s got a bag full of them and each one has buttons. Though you never know, there might be one that’s pro-life too. Tell the nun that Mina’s buttons aren’t her affair.”
“But —”
“You tell the nun or I’ll tell the nun, but if I tell her, it won’t be polite.”
He had to get to the studio. He was ready to help if Mina had a problem, but he didn’t see why a pro-choice button should be a problem. Although as he zipped his jacket and stepped outside, he remembered the swastika. A person didn’t need to know how to read or write to seem to belong to an ideological camp.
* * *
Mina shoved her arm between the mattress and the box spring, groped with her hand, grunted and stretched as far as she could. From the wall Elvis watched but didn’t help.
Exhausted, she dropped back onto her bum on the floor. Yesterday she’d examined the gold and silver cushion and then pushed it between the mattress and box spring to hide it. But where did it go if she couldn’t find it now? No one had been in her apartment since then, except for Evita to clean that morning, and Mina had watched from the armchair as Evita scooped clothes off the bed and tugged at the comforter. Evita always complained about having to make the bed. Huh. She only straightened the top. She knew Mina slept on the sofa. Only Bruno didn’t. After he bought the new bed he kept asking if she liked sleeping there, but the sofa was closer to all her favourite things. It was better to sleep there. She only needed a bed because she had a bedroom.
Evita couldn’t have taken the cushion, so where was it? Too many strange things happening around here lately. The pan that started smoking on the stove. The margarine she’d put in the fridge but she’d found in the cupboard. And now the bed swallowing her new pillow!
“G-g-give me —” She thrust her hand under the mattress again. And right away she touched the cushion. Good! She needed to look at it again. Not the colour of the knitting but the . . . She didn’t know the word. She stroked the gold and silver with her finger, feeling how it was stiff. How to explain that to Iris? She couldn’t show her the cushion because it was a secret that it was hers now. That was the rule.
Leaning against the mattress, she heaved herself up from the floor. On a shelf in the living room she had a plush kitten with a ribbon around its neck. She ran her finger along it. The ribbon was green but the colour didn’t matter. It was the stiff part along the edge she meant.
As she pressed the numbers on her phone, she said them out loud. At Iris’s end it rang for a long time. If people weren’t there, why did it take so long for the answering machine to start? She groaned, listening to the message which she’d heard so often already. “Exclusive, custom-fitted designs . . .” All fancy and silly. Iris said it all in French and then again in English. Why? Stupid to say it twice.
Finally it was over! “S-s-s-something to tell you.” Mina paused because that was how you talked on the phone. “I need thread.” She paused again. “D’okay? Bye.”
She looked around the living room, trying to remember what she had to do next. Something important . . . The cushion! She’d left it on the bed. She bent to shove it as far as she could under the mattress and pulled down the comforter. She didn’t want Bruno to see it. Or Iris.
Or even Gabriela. She didn’t come often but you never know, she could.
Something was different about Gabriela. She was never home any- more. She called at 10:00 in the morning on Monday and Thursday — which was good — but that was the only time they talked. For a long time now there hadn’t been any trips to the restaurant or to go shopping.
Mina had been trying to think what would make Bruno and Gabriela take her. It couldn’t be the new toaster she wanted because Bruno could buy that on his own. She had to go to the store with both of them. So yesterday she took her two bras and her biggest scissors. It wasn’t easy to cut through the elastic but she was strong. She tore the fabric too. She bundled the mangled bras into a bag that she dropped in a bin outside. She knew not to choose a bin near her building but farther away. This morning, when Gabriela called, she told her she needed bras. The ones she had were gone and you had to wear a bra. Mama told her. But Gabriela didn’t say anything, so she told her again. I n-n-need a bra. Gabriela said to tell Bruno, but that was crazy! She couldn’t go shopping for bras with Bruno! Gabriela had to go into the change room with her.
Settled on the sofa again, she stroked her finger along the cloth where she wanted to knit with stiff, glittery thread. She huffed with impatience. Why didn’t Iris call back? She needed that thread and she needed it now!
She held the hoop, tipping it so the colours she’d already knit caught the light. She always knit with the flow of the colours, but what if . . . She stared at the swirl shape she was making, unscrewed the hoop, and moved the fabric to a new place. From her tray of threads a creamy lavender called, Me! As she stitched, she could feel how she was going against the flow and how it throbbed differently. A new kind of dance. The colours liked it too.
But hey! they cried. What about our story? Before she went to find the pillow, she’d been telling them the story about the princess who was sleeping. Trees with thorns and branches made a thick wall around her. When the prince came, he had to get past so he could kiss her. No sex! Just a kiss. Kisses were best. Princes in stories only ever kissed. “A k-k-kiss.” In all the stories. The glass slipper. Or when he climbed the high tower. Too high but the princess hung her long hair down the wall.
Mina stopped knitting to say the rhyme. “Ponzel, P-P-Ponzel! Let down your hair! So I can climb! The g-g-golden stair!” Bruno used to sing the words.
In all the stories, the prince kissed the princess and they lived happily ever after. That was what was supposed to happen. Bruno should know that. He knew the stories. What was wrong between him and Gabriela?
* * *
Gabriela loved Claudia’s chiles rellenos de tinga but didn’t appreciate finding out that she’d been invited for supper in order to meet this Victor who’d been sat next to her at the table.
No doubt, he was a nice man, apparently single, and nobody had to translate for him or be puzzled about his odd job or what he was saying. Victor had grown up in Canada with Mexican parents like herself, Claudia, and their brothers. Victor belonged in a way that Bruno hadn’t — which wasn’t fair to Bruno, nor to her who had chosen him.
From across the table, Claudia was sending her looks she ignored.
Victor asked if she would like more wine, the bottle of red he held already poised over her glass.
“Sí. Gracias.” If this was going to continue all evening, she needed more wine.
He seemed to stiffen, drawing back a little, and she heard how cold she sounded. Poor man. What had they told him? That she was single, pretty, had a good job, could cook, and loved children. Maybe, too, that she needed to be rescued before she ended up with another weird white boyfriend. He wouldn’t have been told that her heart was still bruised and she wasn’t ready to start dating or mating or however people worded it.
She took a swallow of wine and asked Victor about his job. Didn’t men like to talk about what they did? She’d never liked setups. She was more intuitive — but only when a man stirred her intuition, which Victor, nice, single, and handsome though he was, didn’t.
She would much sooner have been sitting at the other end of the table with her nephews.
* * *
These last few days, the air had been mild and the sky was a soft blue. There was still snow on the ground but sun warmed the brick housefronts.
Bruno had left the studio early and decided to see Mina on the way home. As he walked down her hallway, he could hear the noise of her TV coming out the door she’d opened when she buzzed him in. For a while, after Pierre, she’d waited until she saw a visitor before taking the chain off, but routine was finally stronger than caution.
She was already back on the sofa. On her small rolling table she had a notebook open, a half-finished row of capital Bs in green marker across one page, the facing page filled with rows of Ks in orange. Years ago he asked if she wanted to learn words. No. Then why was she printing letters? To practise.
“You know?” she said now. More a challenge than a question.
“Not yet, but I guess you’ll tell me.”
“N-n-n-need to go shopping.”
“Looks to me like you have everything — and in surplus.”
She fixed him in her misaligned sights. “With Gabriela.”
He glanced at the angel for help.
“I need —” She slapped both hands on her chest.
“A T-shirt? You have lots.”
She smacked her chest again.
“I don’t know what you mean if you don’t say.”
“I told Gabriela.”
“And what did she say?”
Her lips curved downward as if she might start crying and quickly he said, “She’s very busy these days. She probably doesn’t have time right now. But I have an idea. How about I take you out for supper next week?”
“With Gabriela!”
“Just you and me. She’s too busy right now. She won’t be able to come.” He saw that Mina knew something wasn’t right. He had to tell her. But not right now, not this minute. “We’ll go to your favourite place in St. Henri.”
She looked trapped, not getting what she wanted but also not wanting to miss the chance of supper out. As he waited for her to decide, he noticed the wispy hair on her chin. “What’s happening on your face?”
“Nothing.” She looked away.
“Exactly, nothing. When’s the last time you shaved? Isn’t your shaver working?”
“Yeah.”
“So why aren’t you using it? You broke the one I got you —”
“Didn’t!”
“— and I got you another one because it was apparently such a big deal, and now you’re not even using it. Did you decide you want a stubble beard because all your favourite actors have one? I’ve got news for you. Your hair is too thin, it won’t work.”
He could see she wasn’t listening. What was he even saying? How was he going to tell her about Gabriela? “Go ahead then,” he said. “Grow a beard, do what you want since that’s what you always do. But don’t expect me to hop, skip, and jump next time —”
The intercom buzzed and she snatched the phone as at a rope to escape him. He heard a woman’s voice and Mina was grinning. Could it be Gabriela? He rose from the chair.
“Who is it?” he asked as Mina wiggled off the sofa but she didn’t answer.
There was a tap on the door and Mina opened it. Iris was standing there. His shoulders relaxed — and did he imagine it or did her smile broaden when she saw him?
She waved a flat paper bag at Mina. “Got the goods.” To Bruno she said, “Mina asked for gold thread. Not just gold-coloured but metallic texture. And when Mina asks . . .”
Iris knocked aside cushions and sat on the other end of the small sofa to upend the bag. Out tumbled sleek, glinting loops of gold, silver, and copper thread. Mina seemed to watch with great suspense as Iris pulled an end of thread free from the skein and handed it across. Mina rubbed it between her fingers.
“Metal thread is stiffer than what you’re used to. You might have to make bigger stitches. You should practise on some scrap fabric first.”
Bruno had never seen Mina with such a focussed expression. She was like a professional handling tools. He’d known she liked to stitch but hadn’t realized it meant so much to her. Wasn’t it nice for her, then, to have met Iris who understood about thread and textiles?
Nice of Iris too. Very nice of her. She was explaining about using a needle with a larger eye for sewing with metal thread. She’d brought a package that she now showed Mina. Lamplight shone on her curls. Her face.
He suddenly realized he’d been sitting, doing nothing but watching her, and what must she think? He stood. “I’m off, okay? I’ll see you at the studio, Iris. You know how to reach me, Mina, right?”
“Bye,” she said absently but Iris looked up at him, smiling.
He’d already opened the door when he had an idea. “Can I ask you a favour, Iris?”
She followed him into the hallway. “What’s up?”
“Mina says she needs something but she won’t tell me what. I think it’s personal, something female. Can you find out?”
“No problem. I’m glad I can help. I’ll call you later.”
At home, he moved around the kitchen, reaching for the chopping board, the knife, an onion, oil, a saucepan. He sipped his G&T. The house didn’t feel as empty. He was waiting for the phone to ring.
* * *
Slowly Iris scrolled through the images on her computer. Beside her, Jenny hadn’t spoken yet.
A shape that might have been a baseball was bound over and over and over again with coloured strings. The frenetic thickness of the mesh was impressive, even as one noticed the individual strands, their colour, texture, and direction. The next object was . . . a hat box? A small drum? It was wrapped in pink and red wool and twine. On closer examination there were yellow and grey strings too — not colours you would expect with pink and red, but they worked.
“And you’re telling me,” Jenny said slowly, “that Mina’s embroidery is as good as this? Because this is big, Iris, really big. This is stupendous. If Mina’s embroidery is as complex as this . . .”
“It is. And I can —” Iris hesitated. What if Jenny thought what she’d done was wrong? Or what if she didn’t agree that Mina’s embroidery was as good as Iris thought? Maybe the magic of Mina’s colours could only be experienced in the realm of her apartment.
“You can what?” Jenny eyed her.
Iris crossed the room to the chest of shallow drawers where she kept spools of thread and notions. Yesterday, when Mina went to the bathroom, Iris darted to the stack of embroidery on the sofa, pulled one out, straightened the pile as best she could, and shoved the one she’d snatched in her knapsack. She hadn’t known she was going to do it until she did. She didn’t even know which one she’d taken.
Now she slid open the bottom drawer to lift out the roll she’d wrapped in tissue paper.
“Hey, you’ve got one!” Jenny gaped at her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s not one of her best but I didn’t have time to choose. I just grabbed it.”
“You mean you stole it? You are bad!” But Jenny sounded more delighted than shocked.
“She didn’t give me any choice. She wouldn’t even lend me one for a few hours.”
“So show me.” Jenny slapped her arm. “Let’s see it!”
Inside the tissue paper, the roll of cotton was floppy with tails of thread and bunched knots. The backs of Mina’s embroideries were always messy, but if they were framed and on a wall, no one would see the back. Carefully Iris unrolled the cloth, revealing a cave of orange and red stalactites edged in cobalt. Even this, one of Mina’s simpler pieces, had that jolt of visual tension, the rush of colour that leapt.
“You’re saying this isn’t one of her best?”
“Usually there’s more energy. But this is how she uses colours and this is how she works with thread and —”
“It’s wild,” Jenny said quietly.
“You think so?” Iris said equally quietly, though inside herself she was yowling.
“Wild,” Jenny repeated as she lightly touched the stitches and spread her fingers to lay her hand flat.
“But how . . . how am I going to get more to show to —” Iris gestured at the computer.
“You want to take them to an art gallery?”
“I guess. I don’t know. How do you do that?”
“I can ask my uncle.”
“That would be great. But . . . how am I going to get more? It was hard enough to get just one. I can’t keep taking them.”
“You’ll figure out something — you have to.”
Both stood, enthralled by the jagged orange and red shapes edged in brilliant blue.
“You know what,” Jenny said. “When all this starts to happen, she’s going to need a manager. Someone who’s been there from the start and who knows her work. You know who I mean? You.”
