Colours in Her Hands, page 19
When Bruno lowered the lights, people clapped and rose to their feet. Tandi and Mathieu bowed and held their arms out to Val who strode on stage. The dance critic for Le Devoir, who Bruno had spotted before the show, was still clapping. A good review in Le Devoir would mean a full house for the rest of the run, an invitation to Quebec City and Ottawa.
With everyone standing, Bruno could no longer spot Iris and Mina. He craned his head to see past the people who were thronging the aisles. Then Iris was waving and Mina was beside her, grinning. He made his way to them. “Did you like it?” he asked Mina.
“Yeah! B-b-but . . .” Her face puckered with objection. “Too loud.”
“That’s how I feel about the TV at your place.”
“Pas comme ça,” she said stiffly.
“She was okay?” he asked Iris.
“She just told you she liked it, didn’t she?”
He knew Mina meant the spectacle, the movement, the lights, the up-close wonder of coming to a live performance. She might still have been disturbed by the violence. Gabriela had told him that Mina sometimes used to grope for her hand.
He wondered about Mina but his attention was drawn by Iris whose neck was bare except for a sparkle of jewellery. The deep blue of her dress, her curls golden under the houselights. They’d already agreed that she would take Mina home while he finished what he had to do here, but they hadn’t discussed what they would do then.
As they made their way to the lobby, he said there was an after-party. Late dinner and drinks at a restaurant. Normally he went, but this evening he wasn’t interested in watching Val and the dancers glory in a post-performance high. He wanted to be alone somewhere with Iris, but did she want that? He couldn’t gauge her mood with all the people milling about and Mina, short yet very solid, between them.
On the sidewalk Mina was already making a beeline for one of the taxis at the curb. A taxi home belonged to the routine of coming to a dance performance.
“Did you want to go to the party?” he asked Iris.
“I’m not so big on parties, but I’d like a drink. There’s a place in Verdun but the music will be too loud. We wouldn’t be able to talk.”
As he helped Mina get settled, his thoughts darted, trying to think of what to say. He knew what he wanted. That morning, after his shower, he’d stood naked before the mirror and gave himself a dispassionate once-over. He wasn’t as slim as he used to be. Definitely thicker around the middle. He didn’t have a big prick but he knew what to do with it. He did physical work and his arms had muscle. Tandi teased him about grey hair, but it still looked brown to him.
He closed the door of the taxi and said, “My place is quiet. I’ve got wine. Pinot Noir,” he added, as if the vintage might be the deciding factor.
Iris reached into her purse. “What’s your address?”
He told her and as she was tapping it in her phone, Mina knocked on the window and stuck her tongue out at them. She was waiting!
He nodded for Iris to head around the back of the car to the other side. Out of sight of the window, he handed her his clutch of keys. “The silver one’s the front door. I won’t be long, maybe forty-five minutes. The wine is —”
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “I’ll wait for you.”
As the taxi pulled away, he marvelled at how easily that had happened.
* * *
Iris woke to the smell of coffee, the angel looking down from the wall, its wings gleaming dully in the dim room. She rolled over and stretched, luxuriating in her body and the delicious soreness of sex. She’d known it would happen, but not how or where — and hadn’t expected that Bruno would simply hand her his keys. Yet she’d prepared yesterday as if they had a fixed date. High-cut lace panties, waxed legs, a dress that wrapped snug across her breasts, the barest glisten of lipstick, a come-hither pendant at her neck. Bodies and how to clothe them were her business. She understood how to show hers to advantage.
At his place she’d walked from room to room, noting the fixings of his domesticity. TV in the corner of the living room. A chintz armchair he must have gotten at an antique shop and had reupholstered. A small dining room with four chairs at the table. Bananas in a bowl. Half a baguette in a plastic bag. Washer and dryer. She didn’t enter but stood in the doorway of his bedroom. On the wall hung an angel like Mina’s. The bed was made, if hastily.
In the bathroom she saw the terrycloth robe on the hook and felt like getting undressed and waiting for him naked under his own robe, but that was a cheap stunt. Also: terrycloth? She could do better than that. Watching herself in the mirror, she undid the zipper of her dress, unhooked her bra, slid the straps down her arms. She zipped her dress up again and leaned forward, letting the V of the neckline open on her bare breasts. They were small, but she’d fit enough women with large breasts to know what a curse that was. For example, now. She could take off her bra and not ruin the dress’s silhouette. Still watching herself in the mirror, she traced her nipples over the fabric. Come on, Bruno, get here!
The first time they fucked they were still on the sofa, her dress up to her waist, his shirt still on, the glasses of wine on the table hardly sipped. She liked that he was frank and hungry about sex, stopping only long enough to make sure his glasses were safe on a shelf.
When it was over and they both lay collapsed together, he gently unzipped her dress and slid it off her and she unbuttoned his shirt. For a while they were stretched naked on the sofa, sipping wine, speaking in murmurs, and only slowly began kissing again.
He’d been almost shy when he asked if she wanted to spend the night, because if she was going to, he would put fresh sheets on the bed. She offered to help but he said no. Alone in the living room, as she heard closet doors opening and closing, she reached for her purse where she’d stashed her phone and sent Jenny a text. B is hot!!!!
Now, even though she could smell coffee brewing, she didn’t get up. She wanted coffee in bed and he would be a smart man if he would bring it. And here he came, wearing a T-shirt and boxers, carrying two mugs. Hairy legs, nice calves, elegant ankles.
“Sleep okay?” he asked.
“Until someone woke me around dawn.”
“Yeah, same here.” Still standing, he sipped his coffee.
She peeked at the mug he’d set on the night table and saw that he’d added milk. “I hope you didn’t put sugar in.”
“You don’t take sugar.”
“How do you know?”
Instead of answering, he went to the window where he parted the curtain only enough to let in a diffuse shaft of light — a lighting tech’s control of ambience.
She lifted the sheet. “Getting in?”
He tilted his head as if to see what was underneath. “You want toast?”
“In a minute. I like to drink my coffee first.”
“Good.” He sat on the bed.
“Tell me about the angel. It’s just like Mina’s.”
He looked up at it. “Not exactly alike. The expression is different and mine’s blond. Hers has reddish-brown hair. But you’re right, they’re both Baroque angels.”
“Baroque, you mean . . . ?”
“I mean Baroque as in the 1600s. My mother’s family in Austria work in church restoration.”
“Statues and altars?”
“Frescoes, crucifixes, pillars, spires, arched ceilings, you name it. The whole church. We went to visit them when I was seven.”
“That must have been — hey, did Mina see all that too?”
“She wasn’t born yet.”
Dang, Iris thought. What an interesting chapter to Philomena’s story that would have made. “Your family never went again?”
He rubbed his thumb along the handle of his mug as if testing its solidity. “There was some problem. My mother didn’t want to tell me when I was younger and . . . I don’t know, time passed. We never talked about it and she never wanted to go back.”
“But what about you? Have you never wanted to go? They’re your family too.”
He sipped his coffee. “I only went when I was seven. I don’t feel any connection — or not to the people. Maybe only to that angel and my old book of Grimms’ fairy tales.”
“And it’s a real Baroque angel?” She nudged her foot against him. “Isn’t it risky for Mina to have a valuable antique in plain sight?”
“Who would think she had one? Better yet, who would even see it? Her apartment is so stuffed with clutter.”
“I saw it right away, the first time I walked in.”
“That’s you, you’re observant.”
She liked how easily he could give a compliment. Not trying to flatter her or curry favour, simply making a statement.
“I think it’s more important that she have the angel. She associates it with our mother, who used to hang them over our beds so they could watch our dreams.”
“Why isn’t Mina’s in her bedroom then?”
“I put it where she wanted it. I’m not really concerned about her dreams either. It’s during the day she needs watching.”
“And you? I hope you don’t associate your angel with your mother watching, because last night . . .”
He set his mug on the night table. “A wooden carving,” he said softly as he lifted the sheet and joined her. “That’s all it is.” Hand cupping her breast. “Wood.” One kiss. “Paint.” Another. “A bit of gold.”
* * *
“P-p-pricked her finger.” Sometimes Mina pricked her finger but only a little prick. The princess pricked herself so hard that she fell asleep and didn’t wake again. Thorns started growing. Still she slept and slept. The drawing in the book showed roses and thorns all around. Inside them, the princess looked like a doll while she slept. So still and pretty.
Then one day a prince came. That was what was supposed to happen. “To kiss her.” That was what princes did. They kissed the princess and woke her up and everyone was happy. Forever and ever.
Except! This prince grabbed the princess and ripped her dress. He had fur on his legs.
No no no! the colours moaned.
But that was what happened. He was a prince “. . . and a wolf!”
Mina sucked in her lips, not wanting to tell the story that was happening in her head. How he smashed the princess on the floor again and again till her head bounced and she broke.
No! the colours shouted. That wasn’t the right story! Not about a princess who was a dead doll!
Mina turned up the sound on the TV but couldn’t get it loud enough to stop the story in her head. She put her hoop on the shelf and pushed herself off the sofa. Elvis would keep the wolf away. Elvis in his blue sway shoes.
* * *
Val had convened an opening night post-mortem, which Iris thought sounded grim but Bruno said was standard. You don’t have to come, he said. The costumes were perfect. I’ll bet there were a few professionals in the audience who noticed. You’ll get some enquiries, wait and see. Iris lifted crossed fingers. Hope so, she said.
She was coming to the dance again this evening, but sitting farther back this time so she could see the stage properly. She and Bruno were going to meet for pad thai before the show. He said that tonight they should join the gang for a drink. You know they’ll guess about us, he said. Is it a secret? she asked. Not as far as I’m concerned, he said. But then he stroked a finger along her forearm. I hate to ask, but do you mind not telling Mina? She won’t like you occupying what she considers to be Gabriela’s place. It’ll be easier if she doesn’t know about us just yet. Iris said she understood he had to consider Mina’s reaction. He gave her such a grateful look. Gabriela always minded, he said. She felt I put Mina’s needs first. Then he shook his head. Sorry, our first morning together and I’m talking about my ex. Not true, Iris said. We’re talking about Mina — and you don’t have to apologize. What she heard between the lines was that he appreciated she wasn’t like Gabriela.
Yesterday evening and this morning had been perfect. Practical, responsible Bruno had revealed himself to be a ready and attentive lover. She’d guessed they would click, but you never knew until you got naked together. And yeah, you bet that mattered. She’d never understood people who thought that sex was optional.
She was still smiling to herself when she remembered the false note from yesterday evening. When Mina took off her coat, she was wearing the dress Iris had made her to go to the wedding with Pierre. Where was the new dress? She’d shirred the waist, which took some time, so it would fit yet stretch. The wine-red fabric, streaked with cream, was a little flamboyant, but not too loud. She thought of it as the first in the Philomena line. But Mina hadn’t worn it. When Iris asked why, she got a blank look. When she asked again in the taxi, taking her home, Mina turned her face to the window and ignored her. Iris knew her well enough by now to understand that something had happened. Bruno was probably the only one who would be able to puzzle it out, but what if Mina got in trouble then? Iris didn’t want that. She couldn’t have Mina upset with her now.
But what had happened with the dress? Iris was a first-class couturière. She’d designed and made a dress specifically for Mina, who had clearly chosen not to wear it. Iris couldn’t help but feel snubbed.
* * *
Gabriela pressed the phone to her ear, but it didn’t help her understand what Mina was saying. Something about a wolf? She wasn’t even sure the word was wolf. And a doll? Mina was very upset about the doll.
Gabriela kept asking questions until she finally understood that Mina had gone to Bruno’s new dance. After she hung up, she looked online for a review. The critic praised the haunting rendering of isolation and homelessness. Another review mentioned the brilliance of using a doll as object/symbol.
Gabriela scrolled and clicked. What had been done to the doll? She stopped at an image of two dancers seeming about to rip a doll apart. Had Bruno left Mina by herself in the front row where she liked to sit, so close to violence being enacted right in front of her? That didn’t sound like something he would do.
She had patients waiting and couldn’t think about this now. Lunch was a quick sandwich she’d made at home. She bought herself a drink and returned to her office. She wished Marie-Paule hadn’t taken the day off. She needed advice. She reached for the phone. Put it down again. She did not want to talk to Bruno. But for Mina’s sake, she had to.
“Allô?”
“It’s Gabriela. I talked with Mina this morning.”
“Is something —”
“Something upset her about the dance you took her to — something about a doll and maybe a wolf. I read the reviews, Bruno. They talk about the violence. Was that a good idea to bring Mina? Don’t you remember how recently she was attacked?”
“There was no wolf —”
“There was violence, right?”
He didn’t answer.
“I can’t believe you took her.”
“And why is this your concern?”
“Because it doesn’t sound like you’re concerned and she’s upset.”
“She told me she liked the dance.”
“Don’t be so simplistic. Emotional responses work at different levels. You need to pay more attention.”
“According to you,” his voice was cold, “I pay too much attention. You should make up your mind what you’re accusing me of.”
“Stop it. This isn’t about you and me. I’m telling you Mina is upset.”
“Fine, I’ll talk to her. Are you finished now? I have things to do.”
She hung up. Her cheeks were hot. She told him what she felt she had to, but that wasn’t how she wanted the conversation to go.
* * *
Bruno let the phone clatter onto the coffee table. Gabriela had nerve! She’d wanted out of his life so why didn’t she stay out? Where did she get off, calling to lecture him when it suited her?
He ground his teeth. Because he’d known Mina shouldn’t come to this dance.
Back in the kitchen, he stared at the cutting board, trying to remember what he’d been about to do. Tonight was the first free night after the weekend run and he’d invited Iris for supper.
Damn! He strode back to the living room, grabbed the phone, and called Mina.
“Yeah?”
“It’s me. How are you?”
“F-f-fine.”
“You talked to Gabriela?”
“Yeah?” Always that hopeful inflection when Gabriela was mentioned.
“Did you tell her you didn’t like the dance?”
“No.”
“You liked it?”
“Yeah.”
“Were you upset by anything?”
“La musique!”
“You told me. But maybe the dance was too rough for you? Did all the banging around and kicking upset you?”
“My p-p-program,” she said.
He looked at the clock. Her soap operas. “Sorry, I didn’t look at the time.”
“D’okay. Bye.”
She must have said something to Gabriela. Gabriela wouldn’t have called otherwise. Wasn’t that just perfect though? His sister was confiding in his ex, but not him.
5
Iris was stitching Mina’s embroidery onto squares of linen. She’d considered raw silk for its rich look and feel, but it was heavy and she didn’t want the border to compete with the texture of the embroidery. Cream linen was simple. She’d finished the edges of the squares with an overlock stitch, also in cream. By hand, of course. Everything by hand.
Mina was still only letting her have older work, even though Iris kept hinting that she would love certain pieces she’d seen Mina make and where she could legitimately say that she’d supplied her with the thread. Although even these older pieces made with dollar-store thread demonstrated Mina’s astounding flair with colour and design.
As Iris stitched, she imagined talking to a gallery owner or a journalist about Mina. She’d been asking Bruno, who’d been telling her fabulous stories. One was the time he went to Mina’s place and found her table full of fluffy plugs with a string attached that he finally realized were tampons. Mina had bent, mangled, and pulled them apart. She’d seen them on TV and wanted to know what they were. He told her she didn’t need them because of the operation she’d had. That too, the operation. Doctors had actually said Mina should be sterilized. Bruno could still hardly believe it, though he admitted it was easier for him not to have to deal with periods and contraception. He told Iris about the time Mina snatched the bus driver’s keys, how for a few months she wore a plastic stethoscope because she believed it made her look like a doctor, about the boyfriend who got a black eye when he took a cigarette after Mina said not to. The stories highlighted how she stood up for herself, her curiosity and inventiveness, her bold self-image. Iris toyed with trying to find out more about the church restoration relatives in Austria, but she decided they were best left in the shadows. Let Mina shine on her own.
