World of Glass Read online

  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.

  “You not work today?” the Chinese lady says, staring at me as she stands behind the counter. I shake my head and keep my eyes on the woman’s hands as she places my purchases in a small grey plastic bag. It is almost summer. In my kitchen, I take a few bites of my croissant, drink a large glass of milk. My stomach turns. I vomit in the toilet. Sun beams through the window. I open my back door and stretch my body over the balcony floor. The sun warms me, but soaks up my energy. I lie there, motionless, like stone.

  The phone sits on the floor by my bed. I dial my mother, who lives in Terrebonne. She tells me that, twenty years ago, she had an affair with a married man named John. His wife found out about it, and the affair came to an abrupt end. Two weeks ago, this same man, through intense research, found my mother’s phone number. Now they are madly in love. She tells me that his wife died a year ago.

  “When will you visit me?” I ask.

  “I’m leaving for a few weeks to spend time at John’s cottage. I’ll come down to see you when I get back.” I do not let her know that I’m no longer working. I will receive my last paycheque in the mail. This will pay for next month’s rent. In three weeks, I will ask to borrow money from my mother for food.

  “Keep in touch,” I say to her.

  Toi, Moi et Café is a twenty-minute walk from my home. I slip on a sleeveless, dark r
ed summer dress. I go there for coffee. The waitress is friendly. She’s from Paris and keeps filling my bottomless cup. I sit there, by the window, crushing my burning cigarette into the small white ashtray. My fingers twist a strand of hair. I take out The Lover from my purse. I put the book down on the table, unopened. I wonder whether Claude, sitting at his desk in the office, misses me. Have I been replaced by someone who is taller, slimmer, with slick hair? What if Claude walks into this café? Do I say hello or do I turn away? Do I hide my face behind a newspaper? I put change on the table, take my oval sunglasses from a black vinyl case, put them on, then step out the door and stroll down the sidewalk with my head tilted toward the ground. I avoid stepping on cracks. Break your mother’s back. I see a penny. I stop and pick it up. The date on it is 1954. A long time ago. I make a wish. I wish that Claude will get on his scooter, drive to my apartment, tell me he is in love. But will I answer my door if my bed is unmade and dirty dishes are piled up in the sink? What would he think of my living room, empty, except for books stacked on the floor? Books I have not all read. Books I cannot read now.

  I feel curiously lightheaded. I stretch out on my bed. Beads of sweat drip from my forehead and armpits. I am not hungry but I must eat to keep myself alive. I drag myself to the kitchen and grab a McIntosh from a yellow plastic bowl I bought at the dollar store. I bite into the apple, chew, spit, feel the nausea rise then throw it into the garbage. I wet a cloth with water and softly rub sweat from my face. It is too hot and humid to go outdoors and it is even hotter still in this room. I decide to go up the road to Jean Coutu drug store where it is air-conditioned.

  I stroll up and down aisles and pick up a large package of Cascade toilet paper. Twenty-four rolls to last me a while. Toilet paper is a necessity, like food and water. I am better in this cool place and sit on a chair for some time by the drug counter. Names are called when prescriptions are ready. I look at one woman. She wears black Spandex pants and a bulky sweater. I think about how hot she must find it outside. Her eyes are glazed. She is handed a large bag filled with pills. “You don’t owe us anything,” the pharmacist says as she gives her back a stub of paper. The woman then shuffles slowly down the aisle, her hands trembling as she walks out the door.

  “Can I help you?” a middle-aged man wearing a white smock asks.

  “No, no… I’m just leaving,” I say. I pay for my toilet paper and walk past shampoos and bubble bath until I reach the outside air. I stroll along avenue Mont-Royal. I tell myself that I am not dressed well enough to enter the boutiques I see. The salesclerks don’t say good day to me. They take one look at me and guess that I cannot buy. I begin to move rapidly. My legs move faster and faster. My dress is drenched. My hair, flat. I climb up the stairs to my apartment. I glance into my neighbour’s bedroom window. This time, I see a slim short young man. His hair is long and tied back. He is fucking her from behind. He looks up at me through the window. I quickly turn away and run up the stairs. I put the toilet paper down on the bathroom floor. Take out a roll and wipe my face and neck. I prop myself up with pillows as I sit on my bed. The blue blinds that were left behind by the previous tenant are shut to keep the heat of the sun from entering. I play Mozart. My CD player sits on the wooden floor by my bed. My downstairs neighbour pounds at her ceiling with what I presume is a broomstick. I turn down the music and slowly sink into my bed, close my eyes. My ears ring and I lie there. I close my eyes and see small red and black dots, dancing slowly around inside my eyelids. I do not move, and stay like that until morning.

  I fill the bathtub with cool water. My body temperature goes down, but I am not any more alive. I rub goat’s milk soap onto a sponge and scrub my armpits and legs. The phone rings six times. My mother should be back from John’s cottage. It must be her calling. I look at the kitchen table, and on the bathroom counter for my eyeglasses. They are not there. I am nearsighted. I examine the floor by my bed very closely. What will I do if I cannot find my glasses? I will not be able to go outside. I cannot read street signs or bus numbers. I pick up my jeans from my folding chair. I see my black wire-framed spectacles on the seat and put them on. I do not feel more in control or clearheaded. I play Tom Waits. I go back to bed with pillows propped up on the wall and begin to rock gently back and forth to the beat of the music. I do this until the tape stops. I realize that this activity would seem strange to others. I feel strange. I get up and go to the Dépanneur Café to read newspapers. The place has old wooden tables with chipped paint on them and the walls are covered with art for sale. It is September 11, 2001. I sit in front of a TV, which is turned on. I look at planes crashing into the World Trade Center. My heart pumps blood at an alarming rate. I rush out the door before the waiter gets a chance to serve my coffee. I feel dizzy. It takes all my energy to walk. For a moment, I fear not making it home. I pass a small park. There is a man stretched out on one of the benches. He wears layers of sweaters, and seems to sleep. I quickly turn my head away. I keep walking. I am almost home. Only a few more blocks to go. My feet have blisters. I feel as though my insides are rotting. I climb the stairs to my apartment. I do not look into my neighbour’s window. I fumble in my purse for my keys. They are not in the side pocket where I usually leave them. I panic. I do not have the landlord’s number on me. I empty my purse on the front balcony floor. A cascade of coins, my wallet, a tube of lipstick, a hairbrush. I rush down the stairs to my neighbour’s door. A youngish woman with long unkempt hair opens the door wearing a plaid housecoat. I see a man walk towards the bathroom, wearing only a pair of grey briefs.

  “Sorry to disturb you. I lost my keys. Could I borrow your scissors? I left my window open, and I need to cut the screen to get in.” The woman remains expressionless, goes into her kitchen drawer, comes back and hands me a large pair of scissors. I thank her, climb up the stairs to my front window and cut a large square, large enough to fit my body through. Safe. Home. I can breathe. I see my apartment key by the phone. I slip it into my purse. I call Joan in Toronto. I know her number by heart. Her answering machine picks up after the fourth ring. I do not leave a message. I think of calling Justin but what if his new girlfriend answers? Not enough time has passed for Justin and me to have a civilized talk. He would probably say, “Why are you calling me?” His girlfriend would think that I am undermining their relationship. It would be a mess. My stomach turns. My jeans are loose. I keep pulling them up. I have no appetite. There is nothing more I can do but to try to rest. I curl up in my bed, exhausted, and slowly fade into darkness.

  I open my eyes and glance at my watch. It is seven a.m. I stay curled up on my bed wishing that I could sleep forever. I turn the radio on. The dial is set to Radio Canada. They are talking about the suicide bombers, The World Trade Center. “4,000 killed, melted by flames. Annihilated!” They say. I think about all those people who went to work that morning. I do not have a TV but remember that Café Olympico has one. I dress. Black T-shirt, black jeans. I head over to the café. Crowds gather around a large screen. I order a café latté. It comes in a tall glass. People are talking and I cannot make out what the reporters are saying on the TV. I see smoke on the screen. I think of all those people jumping out of windows. I feel sicker. I put my half-empty latté on the counter and squeeze my body through the crowd, push the front door open and take a deep, deep breath. My legs are shaking. I take another deep breath, exhale and walk home. Almost everyone I pass on the street is talking about the World Trade Center. I feel as though I am dying like them, my body disintegrating. No one will talk about my disappearance for long. I am invisible to everyone I pass. I climb my stairs and glance into my neighbour’s window. The bed is unmade, but there is no one there. Perhaps she is in her living room watching the news on her TV. I unlock my door and light a Rothmans. I take a puff. My lungs hurt. I crush my cigarette half-smoked into my small, round glass ashtray. There is a half-eaten banana on my kitchen counter. The peel has brown spots on it. I eat it even though I prefer my bananas all yellow. I forgot to put a peel from y
esterday into the garbage. It sits on the kitchen counter. I pace the hallway. Up and down. I am wearing shoes. My heels click-clack on the hardwood floor. The neighbour downstairs pounds once more on her ceiling with a broom. I sit, slip my shoes off and leave them there, in the middle of the hall. I am cool. I put on an old blue sweater and turn the heat up. I brush my hair, one hundred strokes. I pick up The Lover, put it down. I take a large bowl filled with coins and roll the pennies. I spend the rest of the day doing this, until I have rolled $22. This will buy bread, margarine, fruit and cigarettes.

  I stay in bed all day, curled up in my white duvet. Eyes closed. I can’t get up. I want to die, want to die. My eyes open. I need to get out. “Come back!” I scream. Cries come from deep within my chest. “Come back!” “Come back!” I pick up the phone by my bed.

  “Mom! Help me.”

  “What’s going on?” she asks.

  “Come. Please come now!”

  CHAPTER II

  I STAND ALONE IN a small room with a blue gown and paper slippers on. Bare eggshell walls. No windows. There is a single mattress on the floor, covered with a thin white cotton blanket. I walk over to the mattress and sit on it. I keep my eyeglasses on and slip under the covers. I curl my body in the shape of a foetus. The blanket is over my head. I want to sleep. I can’t. Heart pounds. Can’t breathe. I stay like this for what seems like hours. My legs ache. I can’t find the strength to stand. Someone comes into the room.

  “I’m Betty. Your nurse for the day.”

  “Where am I?”

  “You’re in Isolation.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t ask questions. Sit up.” I raise myself from the bed.