Читать книгу Kameleon Man - Kim Barry Brunhuber - Страница 5

The inside of the tent is a whirlwind of stockings, nubile limbs, breasts of all kinds. No time to look. A minute and a half to change. Otto, on his way out, turns for one last glance, but the mirror’s full of Sandor and his conical top hat. “Am I tucked?”

“Let me...” one of the models behind him says. He pretends to tuck it, pulls Otto’s shirt out even farther. Not that Otto has a chance of winning, but it’s the last routine, and why take any chances?

Everyone else is still trying to fit into their bridal gowns or tuxedos, too big or too small because there aren’t any rehearsals for shows like this. Tairhun, our dresser, a young balding Pakistani with big hoop earrings in both ears, flits among us, adjusting collars and brushing off lint, telling each of us to call him Tyrone. I fumble with my suspenders, can’t figure them out, search for my shoes instead.

Before the show all the clothes were neatly arranged on racks, our names and the order of each outfit printed in marker on cardboard tags. Now, after three changes, tags litter the floor, shoes are in the wrong boxes, outfits are mixed up and inside out. Two square feet of space each in which to manoeuvre, and one chair for every three models where we toss our used outfits. Tairhun told us to hang everything up after each change so the clothes wouldn’t be wrinkled for tomorrow’s show, but now even he realizes he was dreaming. Discarded clothes hit the ground like spent cartridges.

“Zip me?” Cindy asks. She’s crouching next to me, holding one pump in her mouth while she tries to jam the other size six onto her perfect size eight. I zip her, trying not to stare.

“The jig is up,” she says in a stage whisper. I nod knowingly, though I think she means “the fix is in.” We both suspected it since we first saw the lineup and which outfits were assigned to whom.

“I hear Manson likes pink,” I whisper back, but she has heard enough about Chelsea Manson to know I’m making it up.

“I look like a fucking flamingo,” she hisses, pointing with a mouthful of shoe at her dress. A horrible pink chiffon. “And check that out,” she adds, waving the shoe at Zoë.

In a full-length sable Cartier dress, Zoë, one of the newer girls from Bramalea, looks as good as she ever will with that nose.

“Don’t sweat it,” I say. “You’re still the bee’s knees, baby.” I’m trying to be helpful, though I don’t know what the bee’s knees are, or if that’s even good.

“Thanks, but I don’t care anymore,” she says, but I know she does. “This is all bullshit, anyway.”

Zipped and shod, Cindy swishes out of the tent, her strides already timed to the music outside. A brave soldier at the Gallipoli of fashion. Which is, of course, a shame, because she’s one of the few among us who actually has a chance to win. Most of the other models here are just attractive—one better than good-looking, but one less than pretty.

In this town, to say that you’re dating a model is more often than not an admission of failure. Models here would never turn your head at a supermarket or inspire you to push up on the dance floor. Most of the models in Nepean are the girls in your class who sit in aisle seats and never lend their notes, or farmers’ daughters, extra-large thanks to country air and potato fritters, grown too big to eat, like prize-winning cornstalks, reluctantly rounded up in trucks and sold to one of the two modelling agencies in the city—Bramalea Talent or DBMI. And Cindy and I both work for the wrong one. Cindy, rumour has it, was iced out of Bramalea for going down on the director’s husband after a show. Then again, rumour has it that I go both ways.

“Stacey, shouldn’t you be on already?” Tairhun says, still fussing with Sandor’s hat.

I peep through a slit in the tent. Otto, on the ramp, seems nervous, keeps glancing back toward the tent. Expecting the cavalry. But my dress shirt’s still on its hanger.

“Damn.”

I struggle to undo buttons, zip up zippers, snap off hooks. Nothing’s worse than being out there too long. It’s a small runway, about twelve feet long, shaped like a lowercase t. Not enough room to do anything except walk slowly up and down, slowly because if you walk any faster you’ll either look like a caged baboon or else drop off the t into the front row. And the mall’s lunchtime crowd, so quick to clap at every pirouette, every new accessory, can turn ugly in seconds. You don’t leave a guy out to dry on the runway—it’s part of the unwritten code, like lending your socks to the model from the other agency. It’s just not done, and I know this, but haste turns fingers into spoons, none of them prehensile. I miss a button and now I have to start over. My mother used to have a saying, written in neat black calligraphy on a cue card taped to the dash of the family Fairmont: “If you’re late, don’t rush.... You’re late already.” Good advice. The faster I change, the slower I end up moving. Like in those dreams where you battle to escape from sharks, but you’re swimming in chocolate pudding.

I need help with my pants, but Tairhun’s too busy plucking lint off Sandor with a handful of rolled-up tape. In his spare time Tairhun teaches the makeup course at Bramalea. Sandor’s with Bramalea. Bramalea’s affiliated with Chelsea Manson. And Manson runs the Feyenoord Faces contest.

Cindy opens the tent flap. “You know, the chair’s still out there.”

“What chair?” Tairhun asks from behind Sandor’s hat. We all drop what we’re doing and peer through the flap.

Zoë forgot to take off the huge red collapsible beach chair put up during the spring scene, and there it is, on the left end of the t. Otto’s at the top of the ramp, cruising nonchalantly around it, pretending it’s part of the set.

“Stacey! Take it with you when you come off,” Tairhun says, pushing me toward the flap. “Don’t worry. Here.” He throws me a pair of sunglasses. “You’re done. Go!”

On the mike Sandrine the announcer, cool as ever, talks about the construction of the vest, what other accessories would be hot. She’s an old pro. She could go on for hours. Otto’s still there, doing laps up and down the tiny ramp, opening and closing his jacket like a goldfish gasping for oxygen. As we pass each other on the stairs, he shoots me a glare that would fry onions. I mouth “Sorry” and step up onto the runway.

For some reason the runway is also called the ramp, which evokes images of takeoffs and landings. Magical properties. Models suddenly gifted with the power of flight. “Ramp” is a strange name for something that’s totally horizontal. A perceptual illusion. It bends light, it’s curved, it’s tilted, enabling models to ascend or descend to different levels.

“And here we have the last of our outfits from Merriweather’s,” Sandrine announces.

Up the ramp I go, look side to side. Like a hammerhead. Trying not to slip on smooth masking-taped soles. After the show, I’ll return the shoes, minus the tape, to Stetton’s for a full refund, satisfaction guaranteed, although I’ll probably have to go all the way to the east-end outlet because it’s show season and they’re starting to recognize my face.

“At work, rest, or play this beautiful jacket from Merriweather’s Men’s Boutique is guaranteed to impress. One hundred percent wool, doubleknit, with invisible stitching.”

I’m in full stride, attempting to get my groove on, but the music’s too fast. Techno at two hundred beats per minute, and the treble speakers aren’t working. From far away it sounds like a bass drum player on speed— boom boom boom boom till he’s dragged offstage by the rest of the orchestra. It’s like taking a stroll on a treadmill stuck on Jog.

“You’ll notice the pants,” Sandrine says, “pleatless with a slim line that’s very popular this spring.”

I’m into my pant turn, hoping the hems don’t come undone. Of course, they haven’t been altered for the show, and Tairhun was too busy with Sandor to fix them. In a panic I taped all the excess material to the inside of the pant leg, but I can feel it loosening with each step. Plant leg left, left hand in pocket, half-turn, hand out of pocket, half smile to the crowd, pivot, walk again.

“The trench coat is fifty percent cotton, warm but breathable, with a removable lining...” I fling off the coat and sling it over my shoulder, exposing the red lining. “Which is always handy when the weather warms up. If the weather warms up.”

The crowd chuckles. Sandrine will use the same line tomorrow.

“You can find his sunglasses at In the Shades, located on the third floor, left at the escalators.”

I slip them off my eyes onto the top of my head. Finally I can see.

I’m at the top of the t, next to the red beach chair. I ignore it, edge carefully around it, pretend it’s not there, smiling the whole way. Most guys on the runway don’t smile. They try to play cool: smirk, jaw clenched like a fist, hair by “stylists,” attitude by Armani. They creep around the runway in a seductive slouch, or else strut a slow goose step, chest out, butt in, fooling no one. This ain’t Milan. You can’t be cocky in rugby pants, shirts with crests, reversible belts. A big-time model came up from New York to give a runway workshop back when I was starting out, and he told us never to smile; it shows you’ve got something to hide. But this is Nepean, not New York, and they book me every season for this crap, and smiling’s got everything to do with it. When I’m on the runway, it’s as if I’m walking past the girl at the bar who I’ve been eyeing all night. And just when she thinks I’m going to pass her by, blam! Turn and give her the smile.

My mother saved up for years for that smile. My teeth were wired in grade five until grade nine when I decided I couldn’t afford to talk with bits of carrot and salami dangling from my teeth. My mother was running out of money, anyway, so she didn’t put up a fight and I was left with a perfect half smile—top teeth straight like A’s, bottom teeth crooked like cops. When I’m on the ramp, I ignore the guys in the crowd, who either like the clothes or don’t. I focus on the women, give each a secret smile, as if to say, “I put this outfit on just for you.”

When I head back down the runway, I spot an old lady sitting beside a walker. I smile. She smiles back. A group of whistling sisters are gathered near the edge of the ramp. I smile. They’ll probably hang around the tent after the show, waiting for me to come out. Mulattos are a rare breed in Nepean. I see a white woman on a bench by the side of the stage. She’s so obese she can’t close her legs—a roll of fat hangs between her thighs like a marsupial’s pouch. I smile, anyway. In the front row at the bottom of the ramp, there’s a photographer—an older man, probably from the mall’s marketing team, but you never know. I smile. But the camera only clicks when I turn away.

Manson’s just sitting down, almost an hour late. I’ve never seen him in person before, but it isn’t hard to pick him out. Today his hair’s black. He has a black goatee, streaked with grey. Should I smile? Surely everyone else has tried to catch his eye and wink their way to first place—a one-year contract with Feyenoord.

There are no guarantees in modelling, but Feyenoord models, even the guys, can make almost $150 an hour. You never hear about that kind of money in Nepean. Girls around here make enough to buy their first CD burner, or maybe a custom-made prom dress. Our guys always have other jobs—they’re cabinet makers, computer-software designers, government consultants, just modelling to say they can. No full-time models in these parts. Of course, every so often a local girl is sent down to Toronto, never to be heard from again. But a contract with Feyenoord gives any model a name that’s worth something. And a name is worth everything in this business.

I decide to play it cool. After all, anybody who knows anything knows the real contest is tomorrow. Tomorrow’s show is for the unknowns. Modelling virgins, culled from travelling mall booths and blurry Polaroids. The winners from today’s contest will then be judged against tomorrow’s winners. We’re the warm-up act, the freak show of this travelling circus. Hurry, hurry, step right up! See the skinny girl with no eyebrows... Come one, come all! Next up, the man with the permanent smile! Tomorrow Manson will beat the bushes for his new Dumbo. The joy, after all, is in the chase. Most of us have already been discovered, and put back. Too small. Too hairy. No hips. Too hippy.

Finding myself in front of him, I grin, after all, but Manson’s busy examining his cappuccino. At the edge of the ramp I slip the shades back on. The look-away into the crowd. And there she is—Melody, two rows back, trying to hide behind a pillar outside Fenway Shoes.

I pause. I have to be sure. Everything’s brownish-yellow through the tint of cheap sunglasses, but I’m positive it’s her. Short, cutting-board blonde, well-leavened breasts swelling under her tight sweater—grey knit, short-sleeved—which I gave her for Christmas. Skin white like rye bread. What’s she doing here? And how did she find out about the show? I didn’t tell her. I never invite her to any of my shows. Especially this one.

The cameras flash, and I move again, walking up the other side of the ramp. Trying to forget about Melody. A different pose at the top of the t. Hands on hips, staring out into the crowd. Civil servants on lunch, teenagers skipping school, senior citizens with nothing better to do. All staring back at me. What do they see, anyway? They’re not looking at Stacey—he doesn’t exist anymore. Fashionable metallurgists have broken me down, smelted me, moulded me, sculpted me, into a model. A representation of an object. Perfectly to scale, proportioned in all dimensions. Worthy of imitation. Exemplary. Designed to be followed. Or maybe I’m still there. Essentially Stacey, but made up, dressed, camouflaged, disguised by the art of powerful illusionists, obeah men. Maybe the disguise is really my own. I’m a chameleon. A mimic, like a stick insect, like those yellow-and-black-striped flies that pretend to be bees. I have a recurring nightmare in which I walk down an endless runway. The audience is restless. I attempt to smile, can’t stop smiling, face frozen, an impossible rictus stretching from ear to ear, but no one’s fooled. The audience sees through my face, howls at the deception, rushes the stage, tears me to bloody ribbons.

Another pause, another halfhearted pant turn, as I await my replacements. Thinking of what to tell Melody. Then Sandor and some girl I don’t know, tuxed and gowned, emerge from the tent.

“And that, ladies and gentlemen, concludes the wonderful set from Merriweather’s.”

Applause. My time’s up.

“And finally, bridal fashions from June Jenny’s and Tuxaco.”

As I hit the stairs, I catch Sandrine’s eye. I follow her gaze over my shoulder, see the beach chair still at the top of the t. Too late. I’m already on my way down, wondering now if Zoë left it there on purpose.

Back inside I start to hang up my clothes, only doing up the important buttons. My collars are ringed with brown sweat, armpits soggy like cereal.

“Keep them on, put them back on!” Tairhun screams. “The finale! Everyone on together when they announce the winner.” He wipes his face with the bandanna draped around his neck. With twelve models furiously changing in a small canvas tent, it’s unspeakably hot. But most of us are sweating from the tension.

I stare at the other male models. Otto, Sandor, and three other guys I’ve worked with but forgotten their names. California blonds, slick-haired Greeks, All-Canadian quarterbacks. Square jaws, undulating abs, even when they aren’t flexing. The stuff of shaving-cream ads and truck commercials. I glance at myself in the small mirror. From this angle I look like a badger. Not like the black guys you see in magazines, videos, those ebony princes with strong noses, bald Negroes with chiselled features. I don’t stop traffic. I’ve been dumped by my last three girlfriends.

I’m a mediocre model. Blessed perhaps with fair mulatto skin, fine features, a ski-jump nose, full lips, Barbie-doll eyelashes. With no chance of winning. Yet here I am, the coloured clown in this lunchtime cabaret, ready for my final tumble. Here because of what? Not because of the money. For three years now I’ve grinned and jigged at every mall in town. Eight-foot-long runways. Freeze modelling, heckled and jeckled by grubby kids, old ladies touching me—is he real?—hockey players flinging boogers from a safe distance, trying to make me laugh. Shoots for National Wildlife magazine, direct-mail catalogues, government brochures, posters for the Tulip Festival. Grocery-store mockups and neighbourhood flyers and isn’t-he-cute family-friend dinners and “I saw you in oh, what was it again” run-ins at the bus stop. I’m in a model’s purgatory, everywhere and nowhere at the same time. The poster boy of mediocrity. Mediocrity’s a one-mall town—comfortable and predictable. Every road a dead end.

“Don’t forget the props in the bag by your name tag,” Tairhun says. “Briefcases or purses, kids. Briefcases or purses.”

I rummage through my bag. Cindy’s purse, I see, is orange. She looks at me, looks away. Knowing that, for her, it’s already over. All around I hear the whispered prayers of the has-beens and never-will-bes. No time to pray. A minute and a half to change.