Читать книгу Damselfish - Susan Ouriou - Страница 5

The Molson Export slogan played in my head, accompanying the rhythmic slap of the cards I laid down on the table. X says it all. One-two-three, slap. X says it all. Somehow I must have known that solitaire would be a big part of my new life when I brought the Molson Export deck from home.

I tipped back my bottle of beer – Dos Equis – and dislodged a grain of lime pulp from between my teeth. I liked Mexican beer better. Maybe two X’s say it best.

For once luck was with me in my game of solitaire. Of the seven cards I’d laid face up to start with, three were aces. Luck doesn’t visit me that often. Now all four aces were out, and the cards they’d been hiding were lining up under them like bottles of beer on a wall. I hadn’t even had to cheat yet. I was still dealing the deck out by threes.

The woman staring down at me from my new and one-and-only made-in-Mexico painting was proof that luck could change. A woman, naked, seated pretzel-like with a giant bougainvillea, its colour a warm red, sprouting from her crotch. A few days ago I thought I had nothing to paint. A few days ago I thought flowers only grew in the ground. Meeting José had made me see it didn’t have to be that way.

X says it all. A knock sounded at the door. I glanced up. José? No, he didn’t know where I lived. Somehow, I’d forgotten that detail. Hard to believe, now. I’d promised to drop by at the market school on Monday. I’d make sure he got my address then. Or maybe even earlier.

I looked down at the deck of cards and back up as another knock sounded. Having someone at the door was a novelty. But so was a winning streak. Since arriving in Mexico City, I’d spent all my nights — well, all my nights but that one — alone in the apartment. I usually sat across from the flimsy curtains at my kitchen table, played solitaire, and watched the passing silhouettes of the hotel guests who shared a landing with me. Every night I fought the growing urge to knock on a door, any door, and join a lone traveller in his bed.

The apartments were tenements really, the hotel leaned to luxury and cachet. Mexico is like that: the mix of rich, poor, and in-betweens living side by side.

I kept telling myself one-night stands were not a good idea, but my body kept saying otherwise.

I should really answer that door.

I put the deck down, gave it a pat — don’t go anywhere, we’re on a roll — pushed my chair back, strode to the door, and pulled it wide. Then stood open-mouthed.

My sister. Faith. Here in Mexico. Or could I have been transported back to Montreal? I couldn’t make sense of it — Quebec or Mexico? Sun or snow? Maybe I was losing my mind.

She laughed at my confusion. “Aren’t you even going to say hi?”

We hugged, awkwardly. I didn’t remember her being quite so round. I was a hugger, Faith wasn’t. She always rationed me in my hugs: two a year. At Christmas and on my birthday. Was it my birthday then? No, despite the heat this wasn’t July but October. And Christmas was still to come.

When I was filling out the grant application back home in Montreal, I’d imagined my move here as a chance to live and breathe art away from the distractions of everyday life. I’d imagined sleeping in my studio, rising from my mattress to my canvas, and munching on a burrito with a paintbrush in hand. But the studio wasn’t anywhere near my apartment; it was a metro ride away in Coyoacán. The three other artists who worked there commuted from across Mexico City, too. They were all foreigners — one American, one Frenchman, and a Swiss, another woman — there on artists’ grants like me. The others came mostly on the days when the model sat—the model I’d finally been able to paint. Our government contact talked of galleries to visit, conferences to address, exhibits to prepare, but as soon as he backed out the door his promises were forgotten.

I’d been keeping my days uselessly busy. I trotted out rusty Spanish to buy art supplies and groceries for my tiny fridge, spent hours and many days returning to offices to line up for a phone hookup and beg for the electricity to be turned on. I walked the streets, stored images, smells, and sounds, but in the studio my work wasn’t going the way I’d imagined it from a continent away. I tried to force myself to transfer the images I was collecting to canvas, without much success — until the bougainvillea lady decided to sprout.

It had been impossible to paint what I couldn’t understand. My eyes, my ears, my sense of touch were no good to me until I could translate their registers for myself. Everything outside me was opaque, deflecting my gaze right back at me. Almost everything.

Then again, it wasn’t true that none of the images or sounds of Mexico were registering. It was Papi’s voice, the familiar almost-forgotten tilt of his head from the back in a crowd, in the metro, that I heard and saw at every turn. Back home he’d never appeared to me, not once since the day he left ten years ago. Here, the sightings were torture in one way, but in another, a rush. The thought that he might be out there, that one day we might meet. To feel his presence where for so long there had been none.

Seeing my sister made me wonder whether the same unspoken longing had brought her here. The hope of a possible reunion with the father of our fatherland. Our father.

She looked as out of place as I’d felt since I got here. She was even more obviously gringoesque than I was: taller, broader, whiter. Her Mexican half didn’t show. Was this what it had felt like for Papi in Quebec? Forever a stranger in a strange land?

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming? What are you doing here?”

Faith ignored my questions. As usual. “I was thinking of moving in.”

That’s when I noticed the suitcase at her feet. A big one. I looked from the suitcase to Faith in shock.

Faith backtracked ever so slightly, “Maybe to start with, you could just ask me inside.”

I stood back and let her pass. I couldn’t get my mind around what I’d just heard. My move to Mexico was supposed to be a new beginning. A fresh canvas. A time to figure myself out. Admittedly, nothing much had come of it so far. For me or my art or Papi. But what were the chances of any of that happening with my big sister — the ever-present big sister I’d just moved away from — hovering over me?

My expression must have held all the questions I couldn’t seem to mouth. Faith and I gave up on words long ago. Or rather, we gave up on finding the words.

“You remember the new project I told you about before you left? The university finally gave me the go-ahead. They cut through all the red tape so I could leave right away.”

She set the suitcase down and looked around. “It is kind of small here, isn’t it?”

She turned back to me and let her hand light on my arm for a second. “Everything’s been so last-minute. I thought I could crash here with you.”

“But, Faith...”

She jumped in before I could say anything she’d want me to take back, “I’d help pay the rent.”

“Why not just get your own place? The university would spring for it.” Faith worked at McGill. In a research department — linguistics or philology — I could never get it straight.

“Well, there’s a bit of a problem with funding. The money still has to be worked out.”

I wondered what that meant exactly. And how many stories within stories I wasn’t being told.

“I swear. I’ll be out most of the time doing research, you won’t have to worry about me getting in the way.”

What could I say? And really, what did I want to say? I would never have thought it, but a city of twenty-two million strangers can be a pretty lonely place. Loneliness the predator, me the prey.

Things were getting better. Or had, and still could now that I’d met José, found the market school, and started painting again, but there remained all those endless hours after the sun went down.

“What about Marc?” I asked. Marc had been Faith’s live-in for the past four years. Off and on. Every time she felt the need to show her life revolved around no man, they split up. But they always got back together again.

I liked men, but I’d never lived with just one man. I liked them best in the plural.

“He’ll manage.” Her tone was curt. “So, what do you say?”

I shrugged. I looked down at the kitchen table and at what might have been my best solitaire game ever. The cards slid back too easily into neat little piles. While I put the deck away, Faith opened her suitcase, pulled out a plastic Steinberg bag, and leaned against the door for balance while she took off first one shoe then the other, lined them up against the wall, and pulled out her slippers. Sensible slippers with support. I did notice with a hint of satisfaction that they were lined with fleece. I wondered how long it would be before Faith put them away never to take them out again. She’d discover that bare feet on cool linoleum was the only way to survive when the heat got bad.

Faith came to bed wearing her old T-shirt. The one she used to wear for chores around the apartment in Montreal. It was a faded purple with a rip high on the left-hand side and a stretched, deformed collar. The T-shirt-cum-nightie slipped off, baring one shoulder as she walked into the bedroom with her boom box under her arm. It reminded me of those Saturday mornings after I moved into the apartment with Faith and her boyfriend, once Mom had seen me through high school and taken off. Saturdays Faith wore that same shirt as she vacuumed, still half-asleep, her hair mussed, the firm, round slope of one shoulder or the other always exposed. She definitely filled the T-shirt out more than she used to.

She dragged her suitcase into the bedroom behind her, flipped back the top, pulled out a roll of paper towels, placed several sheets down on the floor then put both hands on either side of one neatly stacked pile of clothes then another and laid them against the wall. She pulled out one, two, three big black books – an encyclopedia — and some smaller what looked like guide books. She straightened my books on my rough pine board bookshelf, pausing for a second when she saw what they were. Papi’s books of poems.

She set the boom box on the floor next to the bed then turned to face me, where I lay watching her still. “Want a back rub?” I hadn’t had one for years now; from nightly occurrences when we were kids, they slowly tapered off after Papi left.

She checked the plug on the boom box she’d set down next to the bookcase while I rolled onto my stomach, my face in the pillow. I had no T-shirt to shed, the air was too stifling in my apartment to wear any clothes to bed. I could hear her slip a cassette into the tape deck and press start. Luba began to wail as my sister’s hands touched my wrists. In one fluid motion, she ran her fingers from the upturned palms of my hands, along my elbows and inner arms, up over my shoulder blades, and into the hair at the base of my neck. I felt the familiar shiver of pleasure and gave a small sigh. Slowly she increased the pressure until she was kneading my muscles like a potter her clay, and the pleasure gave way to pain. Pain had never felt so good.

I started missing her touch before she had even stopped, just feeling the pressure ease off. But instead of tapping my shoulder to signal my time was up, Faith only lifted her hands to better centre them on either side of my spine. The gentle notes she began to play on either side of my vertebrae were her own Morse code, I remembered now. All these years later, her fingers still held the notes inside. I concentrated, picking out the tune, made easy this time by the tape she was accompanying. Faith and Luba. Both here to stay.