Rumi and the Red Handbag

by Shawna Lemay

  ***

  Have I mentioned the Sylvia Plath purse? Ingrid-Simone had read the poem, “Wuthering Heights.” The ending goes like this,

  The grass is beating its head distractedly.

  It is too delicate

  For a life in such company;

  Darkness terrifies it.

  Now, in valleys narrow

  And black as purses, the house lights

  Gleam like small change and pace.

  Inside the small black purse was a scene, the sheep, the heather, the narrow valleys, the house lights that gleam like small change.

  ***

  I don’t want to leave things out. Recording all the moments that made up our winter at Theodora’s could be someone’s life work, a thousand pages. I want you to remember that there was not a single tragic thing about her those months of cold and snow and freezing rain. After a warm day, the rain began to fall half an hour maybe before closing time. We watched it on the front window, sliding slowly and stickily down. Changing the shapes of the drifts we could see, melting things, blurring the edges, turning the white snow into a grainy, grimy substance that had more in common with a SnoCone than our former winter wonderland. When we walked out the front door, the temperature had dropped; it was quite dark and the sidewalk was slippery, exceedingly so.

  —Oooooh! How dangerous! said Ingrid-Simone with a gleam in her eye. —Let’s find a slope.

  —No really, I tried to explain to her, —this is dangerous, just as you said.

  —The trick, she replied, —is to embrace it, to slide. And so we slid to a point a couple of blocks away where there was a defined slope and the sidewalk was glistening—in a state between being completely frozen and shinywet under the streetlights. She crouched down and instructed me to do the same, behind her, then to grip onto her waist, so that we formed a train. One gentleman walked by us on the edge of the sidewalk where there was snow to walk in for traction, looking down, and fired off an, —okay? as he hurried by.

  —Yes, yes, said Ingrid-Simone, though I’m not sure he heard or cared to. We went down a couple of times, sprawling out at the bottom of the slope, which was longer than it appeared from the top, and stumbled up laughing through the crunchy wet snow. We stood apart, she on the snow on one side of our icy track that was the sidewalk and I on the other.

  Snow started to fall then. Icy, sharp flakes. We complained about them and remarked on how our cheeks were smarting and talked about the changeability of the weather like two little old ladies, which made us laugh at ourselves. We were illuminated somewhat by a nearby streetlight and the sound of traffic on the street over was a dull hum. Even so I thought I heard Ingrid-Simone gasp, for as I was making gestures with my sage green bemittened hand about the ridiculousness of rain followed by such mean little flakes of snow, a black feather fell from the sky and I saw that she was pointing at my hand, which for some reason unknown to me even now, I was holding out.

  A black feather fell from the early dark sky and came to me, I, who was waiting for it, unbeknownst. Unbeknownst, I received.

  Strange, but when I remember the feather coming to me now, I can really see it, in my mind’s eye, as it fell, falling through the twinkling snow, a breath illuminated. Even though in reality I never looked up and it appeared magically, without warning or premonition, I can see it so clearly, spiralling, dizzy, can feel the warbling vibrations, the soft breath of the universe in its serene passage from sky to mitten.

  Ingrid-Simone was sure it was a good omen, but all I could say was, —but, it’s black.

  She said, —you know very well that black does not equal evil and white does not equal good.

  —Yes, you have me on that kid, I replied.

  I carried the feather cupped between my two mittens as we walked on the boulevards in the nowbiting snow. We parted eventually and I took my black feather home and placed it on the windowsill and asked it questions. And I listened to it breathe, my black feather with its breath like Pegasus.

  Ingrid-Simone came bounding into work the next day with what she said was the message.

  —The message, she said, —the message is: the guardian of your soul is near. And she repeated slowly, as though I were a child, —the guardian of your soul is near. Your SOUL.

  She had Googled ‘black feather’ and ‘meaning’ and this was the top result, and as it was a perfect one too, she had ended her search right there. —This means you’re the guardian of my soul, then, doesn’t it? I said to her. —But what if you were meant to receive it, and I just happened to stick my hand out and ruin it all?

  I was in a silly mood that morning after my long evening of brooding and talking to a feather, even if it had been an internal dialogue. I wanted to shake myself out of any seriousness that might lead to being gloomy. But Ingrid-Simone was intense in her need to discuss the feather and our responsibilities as guardians. If she were to be the guardian of my soul, she would not take the assignment lightly, but she couldn’t help but feel that the message indicated a more mystical force at work, a mystical guardian who would take care of my soul. And might extend that sort of guardianship around whoever was near.

  For myself, I had already understood the message. I understood that the message of the black feather was that Ingrid-Simone was the guardian of my soul. I had already known this and the feather was a confirmation of that. And it reminded me of how we come to know things and reminds me now.

  I’m trying to make sense of how certain moments in our encounters with each other were so exactly like a Polaroid snapshot, a Polaroid portrait. Muted, and slightly more yellow than other moments, and I have to squint at them and shake them slightly to see if they’re finished developing because they seem to need more time. And though I cannot put it into words at all, no not at all, at the time, I knew I was experiencing something that changed my chemical makeup in some small but significant manner. Afterwards, there was a constant bittersweetness in the company of those who inhabited the frame, a sidelong feeling, like a halfsmile—full of an extraordinary and yet tolerated sadness, but at precisely the same time, a pure kind of contentment. I am full of a blind kind of knowing, a gratefulness even.

  The Polaroid shot I have of Ingrid-Simone in my mind is of her standing in front of me, snow on her eyelashes, as we stared at the black feather on my mitten. Of the snow coming down and the streetlight illuminating an area over her left shoulder. And it feels like I knew then that I would be sitting where I am now, looking back at this moment and holding it in my mind’s eye as a treasure, a wistful moment that doesn’t dare to be longing. When I say longing, it’s a longing for myself, who I was then or whom I hoped I would be. It’s a longing to be whom I was when I was with her and knowing it will not be repeated. All of her kindnesses that winter, the kindness one confers merely by being, the magic sometimes in that.

  ***

  The day following the arrival of the black feather, there was a snowstorm. We spent some time worrying about Florine and talking about the way our worrying about her and our observations of winter coincided. What did we know about winter, about predicting the weather? We were absurdly, randomly, attempting to fill the gaps of the unknown, all those things we would never know about Florine, with snow.

  The window was bright with falling snow that day and we were alone and worried about Florine walking through the storm, lost. Even though she very often left us for a day and never phoned, we still wondered. Ingrid-Simone said we liked to know where she was at all times because of the strange relationships we each had with our mothers, mine the agoraphobe and hers with earlyonset Alzheimer’s, locked on the third floor of a seniors home where they keep all the people with dementia who don’t know themselves or their loved ones anymore. As for Florine, we were not sure if she liked the element of surprise, so it seemed to us, or if she was merely absentminded and didn’t think we were troubled by her comings and goings.

&
nbsp; No one had come by Theodora’s that morning except the postal carrier and we decided to make tea and refuse to do any work, not that there was much to do. Ingrid-Simone sat on the front counter and I brought out the crimson velvet armchair from the dressing rooms. A large shape entered the store in a whorl of wind and snow and cold. We had to shake our heads to see what it was when the door finally closed with an exaggerated suckling sound. A man, bundled in so many layers, hat, scarf, immense black puffy coat, came in carrying an object wrapped in a garbage bag. Not clothes—that we could see immediately.

  He had brought in an old typewriter, a Remington, that someone had painted red, likely destroying its value for collectors. He wordlessly placed it on the table beside the front counter where we usually displayed shoes and hats and jewellery, though we hadn’t gotten around to doing so yet. Wordlessly, he unwrapped it and we watched. Then the three of us stood staring at it without exchanging any words. Ingrid-Simone looked at me with such mischief in her eyes, just as I was about to say the standard line, I’m sorry but we’re only looking for high quality, cleaned and pressed clothing, as well as accessories, also in excellent condition.

  —Lovely, said Ingrid-Simone, and then, —hmmmmm, so softly.

  And the man said, —yours if you want it, don’t want anything for it, no room at home. Okay?

  Very little was said after this and he soon left, and there we were, left with a typewriter, brilliantly red, an utterly mad red. Ingrid-Simone went to work right away, finding paper, threading it around the spool. The ribbon was still inky enough and she began to type.

  —The severe tranquillity of snow.

  —Fragrance swathed.

  She told me that for her, snow had a scent, a fragrance, an odour, an ardour. And that each kind of snow was particular in its scent.

  She typed:

  Fresh mint, basil and lime, ash and grass.

  Apples, roses, marigold, Roger’s Golden Syrup.

  Soft poached eggs, yeast, dank and mossy wolf.

  When it melts—salt and butter.

  An oldfashioned chocolate malt, creamy and grainy.

  Lemongrass.

  Sunnyboy cereal with cream and brown sugar.

  Vinegar in a bucket for washing the floors.

  And then she proceeded to talk about the kinds of snowflakes, and typed these also. —There is calm snow, oh, how I love calm snow! There is the snow of departures with its innumerable question marks. She spoke and typed in intervals. —Hmmmmm. Then, there is the snow that is breath, oh, yes, you know it by listening to the calligraphy of how it carves itself into previous snowfalls. And let’s not forget, cosmic snow, delicate and elegant, tinged with an otherworldly pink and blue. And the sugary plumage, the powder, of anguished snow.

  —The large, softly floating flakes with their otherworldly exuberance, these are consolations. They float easily to those who need them most. The pale and sunshiny crystals, those belong to certain old people, who understand the bite and brilliance together because they have lived so fully and for so long.

  —Sleet belongs to those who will be arriving home to hot cocoa. The snow that falls when the sun is going down is a comfortable snow, soothing. The intermittent and gentle snow that exists solely to put roses in the cheeks of small children, that is a benediction, a fluttering of angels.

  We left her notes in the typewriter and maybe Florine read them the next time she came in, wondering why there was a typewriter on the table by the front desk. But we knew by then that she wouldn’t say anything. We made it part of the display and soon it became a fixture at the store. Ingrid-Simone said maybe she’d take it home in the spring and that sounded fine.

  ***

  I learned to be patient with Ingrid-Simone. I learned patience from her. Not that she required patience, quite the opposite. I could see that when I waited, if I was quiet and listened more, Ingrid-Simone shone, which is not a word I use lightly. She was radiant at times. The thing is, I actually felt—patient. An inner calm. And I had never felt that before and I know it was because of Ingrid-Simone.

  That was the winter we asked questions about the soul and held them in our mouths like toffee, the winter we made a home in the obliquely hopeful consigned discards of the secondhand clothing store. A colourful nest, soft and worn and always changing.

  How to set the direction of the soul? The soul’s compass? We began with the words of Simone Weil, “If the soul is set in the direction of love...the nearer we approach to the beauty of the world.” Was this our goal? To approach nearer to the beauty of the world? Were our souls properly set in the direction of love? How can one come near to the reality of another’s soul? And in my mind, I also asked, what is the reality of Ingrid-Simone’s soul? I’m still asking, will always be asking.

  We loved Emily Dickinson’s lines, “Hope is the thing with feathers / That perches in the soul.” I know I believed in hope, the feathery thing. But did Ingrid-Simone? She talked about the desire to hope, wanting, wishing for this belief. She believed in the guardian of her soul and she believed in the beauty of the world, that much was clear.

  ***

  She would turn into a bird, by knitting a bluegrey, skybright sweater with a pattern of overlapping feathers and throwing it over herself as she ran down a hill. There you would see her transform into an imposing bird with an impressive wingspan.

  Maybe I wrote those lines on the day she received a ticket for jaywalking. The same day she gave me a letter in a small envelope, addressed in a handsome swirling calligraphy, flourishes and all. Inside was a folded sheet no larger than a postage stamp. Unfolded, the word: Live. Which I knew must be from Rumi and of course it was. This was exactly what I needed to hear and I slipped it into my pocket straight away and carried it with me every day. Here it is right now with me.

  But what Ingrid-Simone received that day was a traffic ticket for jaywalking and it destroyed her. You’re either the sort of person who is going to understand why or you’re not, so the only thing I can do is help you imagine what she looked like crossing the street and let you see why this should not have been a violation, at least not in this instance.

  She was a young anonymous woman running elegantly reckless across a street with a slight slope. The snow was swirling all around her heels and she held her coat tight around her neck with her left hand. Of course her scarf was flying behind her. The indecent plumes of exhaust from the cold cars were beautiful, you couldn’t help but interpret them that way. You see, she was just about to take flight; she was about to fly into the low grey clouds, when a whistle blew and a woman appeared out of nowhere, a woman in uniform. Made a hundred times worse because it was a female cop, she had to relinquish her perfect anonymity to someone with no regard for such things but who ought to have understood that her hiding place had been stirred up and mangled, her perfect hiding spot in the middle of a busy city street taken away. She had forgotten her gloves that day and the wind was biting into her as she stood still, receiving the ticket, her hands red and chapped, everyone walking by with dead eyes and not a single look of sympathy, not even one. Did they not imagine that she’d been carrying a message that said: Live.

  She was swindled that morning by the statuary of a female cop and by everyone who walked by, swindled out of life and living and dreaming for an entire morning. Did they not see that she had been ready to take flight? That there was a sublime disturbance in the air having to do with the sprouting of fine grey and pure white feathers, the fibre and tendrils of her being about to soar into a remote and nourishing invisibility. Into a dynamic and intoxicating swoon of preflight delirium. The particles of the air that held her were already whispering to each other. I can still feel the vibrations hatching.

  There. That’s enough. Oh my darlings this is enough. Just tell me you will, you will heed the message of the dense and gentle sky: live. Live.

  ***

  I mysel
f don’t want the disruption of those whose soul lacks luminosity.

  Do you know how much confidence it takes some days to write a single sentence on a pale yellow postit note? If I have had such days, such moments of confidence, it’s only because of Ingrid-Simone.

  ***

  Another thing about her, her hair. I remember it as often being greasy and occasionally quite oily. This oddly only made her more attractive. The sort of neglect that suggested that her life outside the store was full and wild and exotic. In truth I knew very little about her life outside the store. I knew she often went to the library to seek refuge and obscure knowledge. She called it knowledge roulette. A game of chance that she herself made up and could change the rules to suit the situation, the combination of books she found. To see what would find her if she put herself on one path or another. To see what might stick.

  We were certainly odd though, different from everyone who came into the store. Most of these women painted their nails, had expensive haircuts, and wore lipstick from the cosmetic counter and not the drugstore. Some of them were fashionable young things, dressed half in expensive designer clothes and half in what they called ‘vintage’ clothes. Their shoes were always impeccable.

  The women dropping off their clothes wore more perfume than those who shopped for them we noticed, though sometimes these were the same women. Neither Ingrid-Simone nor I painted our nails. We cut our own hair when we cut it at all. Once when the store wasn’t very busy, Ingrid-Simone walked up to me with scissors and said, —cut me some bangs, you know, a fringe, just straight across. So we put scotch tape on her hair and I cut. She was stunning. Not that I can take the credit. She was so pleased with her free haircut.

  Ingrid-Simone often wore red lipstick. She wore it perfectly, as though it belonged on her. There was never feathering, or smudging, or lipstick on her teeth. I often wanted to ask her what colour and brand she wore, but I always forgot. As for me, I always wore neutral makeup. Lightest shades of lipstick and pale eye shadow.