World of Glass Read online

  World of Glass

  World of Glass

  Jocelyne Dubois

  Copyright © Jocelyne Dubois and Quattro Books Inc., 2013

  The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise stored in an electronic retrieval system without the prior consent (as applicable) of the individual author or the designer, is an infringement of the copyright law.

  The publication of World of Glass has been generously supported by the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council.

  Author’s photograph: Jacques Bernier

  Cover photograph: Monica Georgieff

  Cover design: Sarah Beaudin

  Editor: Luciano Iacobelli

  Typography: Grey Wolf Typography

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Dubois, Jocelyne

  World of glass / Jocelyne Dubois.

  Also issued in electronic format.

  ISBN 978-1-927443-31-6

  Epub: ISBN 97-8-1927443-34-7

  I. Title.

  PS8607.U219845W67 2013 C813’.6 C2013-900390-8

  Published by Quattro Books Inc.

  382 College Street

  Toronto, Ontario, M5T 1S8

  www.quattrobooks.ca

  I feel I am, I only know I am

  — John Clare

  CHAPTER I

  MY APARTMENT IS ALMOST empty. A futon, rows of books stacked against the wall in the living room, a round table in the kitchen. Narrow shelves hang from the wall where I put one drinking glass, three mugs and two porcelain plates. Clothes hang in the bedroom closet. No stove or fridge. Drafts of poems and stories on the table. It is six-thirty a.m. and I am getting ready for my first day at Gloss. I shower behind dollar store curtains and leave a small puddle on the bathroom tiles. I throw a towel over the water and step onto it. My hair is wet and stringy washed. I blow-dry it and this gives it body, they say. I slip on a light blue wool dress and black tights, then clip on a pair of large loops to my ears. I am thirty and I know no one in this city.

  I get out of the Métro at Henri-Bourassa, the end of the line. I walk briskly. It is cold. February. Snow and ice are stuck to the sidewalk. My brown leather jacket isn’t warm enough. I shiver from cold and nerves. I curl my fingertips into the palms of my hands to keep them from freezing. I walk past grey and brown brick buildings and one factory. I remove a small white sheet of lined paper from my coat pocket. Thirty is the address. I climb two flights of stairs and I open a windowless door. My stomach is in knots. “C’est toi!” a young man says. His hair is short and he has a smile that reveals a chipped front tooth. “Je t’ai vu dans mon Keicar, tu marchais sur le trottoir,” he adds, then trips on the flat grey carpet, blushes and turns away. I don’t feel like me here. This blue dress I am wearing. I don’t know how to walk comfortably in it. I check myself in the mirror. My cheeks are red from the cold outside. My fingers are stiff. I smile.

  An older man, about fifty, escorts me to a beige desk facing a light green divider. A calendar with a picture of a ski hill is pinned to it.

  “There’s a lot of potential here,” he says as he hands me a brand new issue of Gloss. I leaf through it and notice full page ads for Clinique mascara, Guess Jeans and Obsession by Calvin Klein. My fingers slide on the shiny paper. There are more photographs than printed words. I glance at articles on plastic surgery, an entertainment guide, restaurant, movie, theatre reviews. A city magazine, partly local advertising base. My head spins lightly for a moment, as I will be contributing to Gloss’ survival. I now must be responsible as I must bring in ads. I must now make money for Gloss and me. I think about my last job, placing books onto shelves in the children’s section of the library. Taking them down for people and putting them back. Now, I have a chance to save up for a pretty lamp and a computer. Maybe buy myself a warmer coat. I look good with this dress on, my burgundy leather pumps, polished. No one can tell that this is the only nice dress I own. I also have one long black cotton skirt with a slit open to the knee, and a few silk blouses that I picked up at Renaissance for $4 each. When I bought them, I wondered whether they were given away to the store after “she” had died. I am very likely wearing dead people’s clothes. I wonder for a moment what the woman who wore this dress was like. Did she wear it while she was sick? What did she die of? How old was she? She must have been like me – at least, her taste in clothes.

  On my lap is a large black vinyl briefcase filled with magazines and white and red business cards with my name on them. I sit on a bus, almost empty, and rehearse in my head what I will say to convince store owners on rue St-Denis, Laurier and the fancy boutiques in Westmount to believe in me, to invest in Gloss. I descend from the bus and brush my hair back with my fingertips. I stand in front of a store window filled with exclusive children’s clothing, furniture and toys. I walk in. “Can I help you?” an elegant middle-aged woman asks. I smile, put the latest issue of Gloss on the cash register counter. I slip a business card inside. I tell her about our upscale magazine. I tell her she must advertise in Gloss. I guarantee increased sales. She says she’ll think about it. I walk away feeling hopeful. It is noon. I rush over to avenue du Parc for a steamed hot dog and fries. I sip on black coffee to help keep me vibrant. I don’t believe in Gloss, I tell myself. I take out a Rothmans from my small black leather bag. I take a puff, then another and another while I drink my sugarless coffee. I take the bus and Métro back to the office.

  Claude sits at his desk making calls to contributors. He prepares the next issue of Gloss. He’s in charge of editorial content, deals with photographers, writers, artists. I take the phone and dial Zone Coiffure to speak to the manager. He’s not in, they tell me. While Claude is talking, he stares at me right in the eyes. I glance up and down, pinstriped grey suit and shiny black shoes, round-toed with laces. His tie is red. He puts the phone down and says, “Belle robe.” I say, “Merci.” He strolls over to my desk and rests his arms on it. I notice black hair on his hands. I look up. He has a three-day-old beard. He is clean with a tinge of scruffiness. His eyeglasses are the latest in fashion. Black, metal and rectangular. “Pierre Cardin,” they say on the arm. My contact lenses are tinted green. I can tell he knows that they’re not my natural colour by the way he keeps staring at them with his forehead creased.

  “Can you score an ad for Marie Chouinard’s show at Place des Arts?” he asks at the same moment that I glance at a preview of this show in Gloss. I point at the article and say, “But this becomes advertisement.”

  “You can try anyway,” he replies. His voice is low and strong, similar to the ones you hear on the radio. He looks again at my dress. I will never tell him where I bought it. I cross my legs covered with black tights. Claude walks back to his desk a few feet away. He sits, bends down to polish his shoes with a Kleenex.

  It is 5 p.m. I say “Bonsoir” to Claude and stand by his desk for a few seconds, secretly wishing that he would ask me to stay to talk. Instead, he says “Bye” as he types on the computer keyboard, never taking his eyes off the screen.

  The walls in my apartment are a soft grey. I pick up The Lover, by Marguerite Duras, from the living room floor. I have read this book at least a half dozen times. I open the book to page one and read: “One day, I was already old, in the entrance of a public place a man came up to me. He introduced himself and said, ‘I’ve known you for years. Everyone says you were beautiful when you were young, but I want to tell you I think you’re more beautiful now than then. Rather than your face as a young woman, I prefer your face as it is now. Ravaged’.” My mind then drifts to Claude. I picture his round face, his slightly chipped front tooth, well-groomed hair and tight smile. I get up from
my chair and slide a disc into my CD player. Glenn Gould fills the air: he’s playing Bach. I remove my blue dress and throw on a pair of faded jeans, thick white socks and a green turtleneck sweater. I take a ham and cheese sandwich on a croissant from a brown paper bag that I picked up at the dépanneur across the street. My teeth bite into the sandwich but I don’t taste the food. I’m not hungry and eat only because I have to. The music brings on chills. The heat in my apartment is turned low. I slip under the bedcovers, close my eyes and absorb the music. It stops. I think about what to wear tomorrow. The skirt and one of the blouses I bought at Renaissance. I remember that I own a sample bottle of Chanel perfume. I will put on my one and only pair of silver earrings that I bought several years ago and wore once. The music stops. The lamp by my bed is on and bothers my eyes. I turn it off. The room now is dark and silent except for the sound of cars passing by on the street. I fall slowly into a deep, deep sleep.

  Claude walks by my desk. I give him a wide smile. He nods. He can’t be more than thirty. I pick up a bunch of back issues of Gloss from a cardboard box, put them in my briefcase and take the Métro to Peel. I step into Holt Renfrew. The air smells of stale perfumes. I look at the salesclerks behind the cosmetic counters. They are young, slim, and their faces are covered with foundation, lipstick and blush, not a strand of hair out of place. I think for a moment about my thin and limp hair, as I pass a product called “Physique.” On the bottle I read, “Straight and Control Shampoo.” I grab one and pay $9.95 at the cash register before taking the elevator up to see the marketing director. My fingernails are chewed and short. My breath, I’m sure, reeks of cigarettes. I take out a wintergreen breath saver from my coat pocket, place it on my tongue and suck. The elevator doors slide open on the sixth floor. I remove my leather coat, straighten my blouse and skirt. The palms of my hands are damp. I quickly wipe them dry with my yellow woollen scarf. I will be convincing. Holt’s is the kind of client Gloss wants. A full page ad on the next back cover. This is what I’m aiming for. The marketing director wears a black suit and purple tie. I give him a copy of Gloss. I tell him that this is an upscale magazine. I show him that Ogilvy has advertised in this issue. He says he’ll call. I give him my business card, shake his cold hand firmly and leave.

  I stand at the coffee machine and pour a black coffee into a stained white mug. Claude stands behind me. His breath tickles my neck. I turn around. We stand in silence, my eyes fixed on his black shirt. I blink several times. He breathes in, I hold my own breath in. For a moment, my head feels faint. I look up at his face; his eyes shine and penetrate mine. My heart beats with fear and joy. I feel my feet lift from the ground. I turn away. Claude rushes back to his desk. I quickly make a few calls to book appointments with Boutique Comfort, a jewellery store called Argent Tonic, Spa de Molinard, and Blitz Coiffure. I plan my meetings thirty minutes apart from each other since these stores are on Laurier, all in a row. It seems easy for me now. I have learned what to say and how to say it.

  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. Tomorro
w, 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.