World of Glass (2 page)

A woman with round-rimmed glasses and long thick brown hair with a few green streaks hands me my first paycheque. I leave but with Claude always present in my mind's eye. I take the Métro to avenue Mont-Royal. First I stop into the bank, then I drop into Boutique Plato and spot a wide brown leather hip belt. It fits perfectly. There are many dresses to choose from and I pick the tight yellow woollen one that falls slightly above the knee. The belt goes with the dress. This costs $109. I don't care. There will be many more paycheques and an abundance of commissions. Snow on the ground melts. I pass Zen Fleuriste and walk in and buy
a purple rose for my kitchen table. I will put it in a tall glass until I find a vase I truly like. I walk to Laurier and make it to my appointments on time. I walk away at the end of the day with two small ads. I am pleased. On the bus, I scribble the names of stores I pass, in my block notepad. Many more advertisements for
Gloss
. Success for Claude and me.

As I walk up the stairs to my third storey apartment, I peek into my neighbour's curtainless bedroom window. She is having sex with a large man. He is on top, missionary position. I blush; they do not see me and I run up the stairs, turn the key, step in and put my large shopping bag down in the hallway. I look around my apartment. In one month, I will invite Claude over for a glass of red wine. First, I need to buy a sofa and a few chairs to match my kitchen table. Wine glasses. The phone rings. I do not pick it up. Could it be Claude? A long distance call from Joan or Justin? I am not ready for Claude. I am not ready for love. But I am in love. I have fallen drunkenly in love and this makes me feel sick.

I am outdoors for most of the day. I feel the sun, think “golden brown.” I am on Ste-Catherine Street and walk into La Baie. I look for nail polish. How messy my nails would be if I bit into the colour. I want them to grow round and smooth.

A salesclerk with long, well-crafted red nails greets me at the Lise Watier counter. I rest my eyes on magenta. The salesclerk looks at my stubby nails and takes out cardboard nail files from behind the counter. She says that my nails will look better if I file them down. I put down a twenty dollar
bill. She hands me back $6.35. This will pay for my lunch. I will see Claude later, later this afternoon, but first I must go back to the office with an ad for
Gloss
. After my lunch, I wipe the corners of my mouth with a white napkin, put on a bit of lipstick, then stroll over to the counter to speak to the manager. I put the latest issue of
Gloss
on the counter. I feel confident. The words flow and I am convincing. I walk away with a small colour ad for the upcoming issue.

I am young still. I belong in this city. The French language. La langue du coeur. I send a note to Joan in Toronto on a card with an abstract drawing in pastels. I tell her that I want her to visit. I also send the same card to Justin. I say that I am sorry, so sorry but we will be friends, forever. I speak French to Claude and to everyone in this city. This creates a new person in me. The way my laugh comes from deep within. What I say has more conviction. My arms and face are far more expressive. The clothes I wear are slick. I put a little gel in my hair to keep strands in place. I don't really know who I am becoming.

Claude glides up to my desk. Stops. The chemistry smells perfect. I gaze at his eyes, hidden behind eyeglasses, and my head slowly droops. I am faint, weak. He moves to kiss me on the lips but as he approaches me, he suddenly hesitates, takes a deep breath, but doesn't utter a word.

“Il y a un scooter dans le stationnement, est-ce à toi?” I ask.

“Oui,” he says. I would like to own a scooter. A black one. I picture Claude and me riding side by side all over the city streets. It would be an improvement over my
six-year-old bicycle that I spray-painted powder blue to cover rust and scratches. If I owned a scooter, I would only have to travel by Métro in winter. But my hair would tangle into knots from wind and rain. My hair would be unmanageable, so I couldn't ride my scooter to work. I couldn't take it to my appointments. My hair must be well-groomed for my job. Perhaps I cannot own a scooter. Claude would see me, my hair messed up. But when he stays with me – overnight, and he will soon – yes soon, he will see my angel-textured hair, flat, thin and out of place when he opens his eyes in early morning light. I will worry about it on that day, the day we drink wine from my long-stemmed glasses, the day I have replaced my faded sheets with bright, fresh, crisp ones.

I win over the manager of a Second Cup and walk away with a small ad with only the words “Second Cup” on it, in the colour gold. Le chemin doré, I tell myself. The golden road.

At home, I take out the pink razor from the bathroom drawer. I begin to shave my legs and cut myself. Blood trickles down my leg. I wipe it up with toilet paper. I forgot to buy shaving cream. I stop. I will remove my stubby hair, all of it, tomorrow. I put on a pair of jeans and think about the ones I saw in a store window. Hip huggers, bell bottomed, bleached. They cost $120. I flip through the latest issue of
Gloss
and see the same jeans on a young woman. She is thin, very thin. I look down at my stomach and take a deep breath. My muscles hold it in. This is how it will be. Tomorrow, I will diet. I want these jeans to look as good on me as they do on this model. I want Claude to prefer me over her.

It is Saturday. Joan visits from Toronto. I buy her a red-beaded necklace. I tell her I'm in love. She says, “You don't know him.” I say, “I do, I do.” Joan wears tight black pants and a short green top, showing off her belly button. She tells me she's started to produce documentaries. Moved up from being an administrative assistant. “One day, I will write, direct and produce my own,” she adds. I take her out for a smoked meat sandwich at Ben's. She says she's happy that I'm making money. She says that I look good, then, finally, adds that she is three months pregnant and will keep the child. Will I have a baby with Claude? Joan places her hand over mine on the restaurant table.

“Take it slowly,” she says. She doesn't know. She doesn't realize how certain I am. That evening, she reads
The Mirror
. I look at
Voir
, and take note of ads that might be appropriate for
Gloss
. She reads my horoscope out loud: “On your way to becoming a big shot? Behaving like one certainly opens doors. As Venus is about to leave your opposite sign, it's wise to make the best of things before the door closes.” She then stretches out on the bed and falls asleep. The phone rings. I do not answer. Could it be Claude? I dial star 69 to get the number. It is not a number I recognize. I turn out the light and slip between the covers, beside Joan. She sleeps deeply. I hear the sound of her breath coming from deep within her chest. My eyes remain open but all I see is blackness. The next day, I accompany Joan to the train station. I hug her, tell her our visit was too short and that I'm happy that she is going to have the baby. She says that she is going to raise this child alone. She wants the baby, not the father. For a moment, I think about how courageous she is. I hold her tight once more. “I love you,” I say.

I get out of bed, pick up a pen, think of Claude, then jot down the words, “I cannot wash off what is perfect.” I wear
my new yellow dress and belt. Coffee drips from a brown plastic filter that sits on top of my large mug. I keep pouring water from my kettle into the filter until the mug is full. I will go to the office first. Pick up more magazines. Make a few calls. I will see Claude. He will see my new dress. I take the purple rose from my kitchen table. The petals are limp, but it has life in it still. I stand in the Métro, holding the rose in one hand and a pole in the other. The train is crowded. No smiles. A man standing next to me coughs with his hand over his mouth, then holds on to the pole again. The same pole I am holding. I fear catching his cold so I move a few feet away from him and grip another one. I look around. A few people have their eyes closed. A young man listens to his Walkman. His head nods up and down. A few read
Le Journal de Montréal
, one man in a grey suit flips through
La Presse
. The air is stale. I have trouble breathing. I look at the Métro map on the wall. Three more stops to go before I exit.

Claude is not at his desk. I place the rose on top of a few press releases. On a note pad, I write my home number neatly, draw a large heart and sign my name, “Chloé.” The publisher calls me into his office, congratulates me on the good job I am doing. He doesn't know about Claude and me. He wouldn't approve. I would surely get fired. I leave the office as I have appointments all around town. I get one ad and another. I stop in at the SAQ but know nothing about wines. I go to the “Foreign” section and pick up a bottle of Medea, Algerian wine for only $9.95. I will open this bottle with Claude when I invite him soon to my place. First, I must buy glasses and of course, sheets. I will buy these items as soon as I receive my next paycheque, in a week. I have spent most of my last one. Just enough left for a few meals, bus tickets and a small pack of Rothmans.
At home, I take out my lined paper. I grab a pen. My hand burns and I write:

HOT SUMMER NIGHT

A jazz beat plays through a speaker

in the background. I hear the music

from my balcony while I watch fireworks

blazing in the sky. The moon is full,

a few grey clouds around the moon, dancing.

I see your hair and eyes on a cloud,

through my kitchen window, between my bed

sheets. Your scent, skin colour, your

unshaven, shaven beard – chemistry spells

perfect. My body perspires. I desire.

I remember when we remained motionless,

our faces scarcely touching, without

a word, for a long time and then you touched

my pores, my heart. When I touched

you, you stayed on the palms of my hands.

I looked at my hands and thought that you

were perfect.

I cannot wash off what is perfect, what

shines like crystal, something more than

wind, stronger than rain, more solid than

stone.

I slip the poem into a white envelope. At work, I place it on Claude's desk. A day goes by. No response. I'm crushed.

My neighbours play Led Zeppelin. My head pounds. I slide Jacques Brel in to drown the music next door. I take out
my nail polish and files that I picked up at La Baie. First, I paint my toenails, then file down my fingernails until they are round and smooth. The doorbell rings. I open the front door but there is no one there. I check the mailbox. It is empty. Did the bell really ring? Or maybe there is a sound that resembles a doorbell in the music that plays next door? Perhaps Claude rang. I imagine him ringing and vanishing. I will never know for sure. I walk back to the bathroom and sit on the toilet with the lid down. I go through my makeup bag. I do not use most of what I own. I throw away mascara and purple and blue eye shadow that have sat in this bag, unused, for a long, long time. I keep two shades of red and pink lipstick, blush and a brown eyeliner pencil. I look at my face in the mirror above the bathroom sink. I do not have a smoker's face yet. I open my mouth wide and examine my teeth. They are straight but stained light yellow from nicotine and tar. Tomorrow, I will buy whitening toothpaste, the one with baking soda in it that I saw advertised in
Gloss
. I will remember to take note of Claude's teeth, his fingernails. I prefer short, stubby nails on men. Claude probably clips his once a week. I lift my T-shirt, and look down at the large scar covering my left breast. I cannot hide this from Claude. The first time we have sex must be in complete darkness, or I will keep my white lace undershirt on. He cannot discover this. He will surely think that I am a monster. I pull my T-shirt down. It is mid-May. It will be mild enough tomorrow for my cotton sweater. No coats tomorrow. I will also wear my black open-toed sandals. Magenta on my toenails.

A young man walks into the office carrying a camera and a large black shoulder bag. A beautiful young woman strolls beside him.

“I'm here to sign the contract,”he says to the receptionist. As they walk by my desk, I ask, “Will you be shooting the cover of our next issue?”

“Yes. This is Lola,” he says. They strut over to Claude's desk. The young woman lifts her head up high. Her nose points to the ceiling, almost. Claude looks up and his eyes freeze at Lola's thick, pouty, rounded, kissable lips. I hear her giggle. She is no more than seventeen. Her sleek, shiny skin is revealed by a low-cut tank top sticking to her small breasts. A hip-hugging miniskirt enhances her long, long legs. Claude can't take his eyes off her. She gives him a shy smile. They flirt and flirt and flirt. I suddenly feel plain and small. I grab my briefcase and rush out the door. I am steaming. My head hurts. I get off the Métro, walk into a drugstore and pick up
Straightening gel for damaged hair
. Lola's hair is slick and shiny. I wonder what product she uses? I have lost weight, not because I am eating less, but because my nerves are burning the flesh from my body.

I walk past shops on St-Denis but I do not go inside. I must take the day off. I will make myself a cup of tea and rest.

The Lover
sits on my kitchen table. I pick it up. I see words on the printed page but can't make sense out of them. I will not return to work. I feel small, so small. I rest my head on my flat pillow, close my eyes and drift.

I do not call
Gloss
to tell them that I'm not coming back. My phone rings at 9:30 a.m. I let it ring. I get up to make coffee. I do not bathe or wash my hair. My neighbour knocks at my back door and hands me clothes that I had washed in
the bathtub and hung to dry on the clothesline some days ago. “I need to use the line,” she says. I do not feel like speaking to anyone. I do not want to see anybody. I throw on a pair of jeans and a faded T-shirt, and walk across the street to the dépanneur to buy milk and cigarettes.