Two White Queens and the One-Eyed Jack

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Two White Queens and the One-Eyed Jack Page 14

by Heidi von Palleske


  “What did you say?”

  “Well, I took them aside and told them that it was very sad, but that their mother committed suicide. I mean, they are almost eighteen now, almost adults. I don’t know why they were lied to. All those years!”

  “You did the right thing.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Mark. It could cost me my job.”

  “Fine. You work too hard, anyhow. Besides, I am working now. Maybe it’s time that someone supported you.”

  Gareth curled down into his blankets. Let the feathers of his pillow rise up to encase his head. He stared at the painting he had done. There she was, the woman who walked into the lake and never walked out again. And her daughters, beckoning to her. Had his mother not understood what he had painted? Had she not seen herself there as a wisp of wind, unable to help, unable to change the woman’s fate? Why had they never discussed his painting?

  But, more importantly, she had seen them, spoken to them, the albino twins. Gareth wondered what they looked like now. If their pink eyes still darted back and forth and if they still wore those heavy glasses. And how were they wearing their thick, white hair? Surely not in those tight braids they once sported.

  Gareth had a girlfriend. She was good at science and French and swore that one day she would study medicine and then work in some third-world country, maybe for UNICEF, saving children. Hopefully in a French-speaking country in Africa somewhere. Sometimes Gareth thought that his girlfriend was just too good. It seemed to him that she talked about her lofty goals whenever he was going in for a kiss or angling to cop a feel. Her goodness was a turnoff. Why did he have to choose so well? She was the marrying kind, not the type for a first girlfriend. He should have chosen someone failing school, wanting no more than a clerical job at a bank or in an office. Now that kind of girl might be more game and just a little less intimidating.

  When Gareth thought sexy thoughts before bed, he never imagined his girlfriend. He always imagined the albinos. Both of them. He willed them to him, imagining that they would both love him equally. That one day he would have a house and they would both live with him. A huge king-sized bed for all three, but also separate rooms for when they wanted privacy. But how could that ever be when it was his mother who saw theirs walk into the lake that day?

  “What did they say, when you told them?”

  “Well, Mark, that is the saddest thing, really. They talked about a kitten their grandfather had drowned. The one girl said that they had taken in a cat and it turned out to be pregnant and gave birth to three kittens. Their grandfather told them to pick a kitten each. The one girl picked an all-white kitten because it was like her, but the other girl, the one who seemed a bit more sensitive, chose the ugly kitten because she felt sorry for it. She said she thought it was the sort of kitten that nobody would want. And indeed she had wanted the other kitten, but knew it was cute enough that someone would want it. So she took pity on the homely one. Then the grandfather said, ‘Are you sure?’ ‘Yes,’ she said. And so he picked up the other kitten, the one she had really wanted, and he drowned it in the bathtub. Held it down until it was dead. Then the other girl said that they never wanted to take a bath again and the first one said, ‘I guess we can never swim in the lake again.’”

  Gareth could hear his mother sobbing now, really crying, and his father was soothing her, telling her it was her time to do something for herself, telling her to take some time, to stay home and just relax.

  Gareth had to see the girls. He had to find them so he could paint them. Not the young girls of his memory, but the young women that they had become. He no longer felt desire for them, but something else. He felt that they were bound somehow and that only by finding them could any of them be truly free. He didn’t know why, but somehow he knew that they held the key that would free him from the guilt of telling his friend to climb higher all those years ago.

  The twins took the bus from downtown Oshawa to the Pickering station, where they boarded the GO train to Toronto Union Station. From there they’d take the subway north to Dundas station and then try to find Massey Hall. They had it all written down in large, clear letters.

  They had made it through the first round. They had sent in a cassette tape, Esther having played the piano behind them as they sang their strange and haunting music. Part operatic, part punk. Nothing raw, though. Music that showed their vocal range, music that showed their ability to harmonize. But beyond that their music was a poetry of loss that sprang in half-spoken and half-sung lyrics, but then, just as you thought it would be predictable and go into a familiar chorus, the language would change to their secret language, a nonsensical “Jabberwocky”-style language filled with words that seemed familiar but were not. Here is where they sang with their greatest emotion, as if they were saying that their experience of life was too full, too rich, and far too painful to put into words.

  They had gone through the first round and were now in the finals. They had their white dresses. They wore their hair loose, in waves like white rapids down their backs. They knew that they just had to keep it together, that they were unlike anything anyone had ever seen.

  Clara rubbed her eyes when they entered the hall. She had never seen a real theatre. A proper theatre. Only the Little Theatre in Oshawa and the school auditorium. The heavy wood, the red velvet seats on the chairs, the steep incline of the seats … it was all too much, not to mention the lights of the dressing rooms where round bulbs shone all the way around each mirror. Imagine that!

  They had no idea what a sound check was. No idea what a technical rehearsal would be like. All they knew was that it seemed that there were a thousand butterflies in their stomachs, swarming around, looking for a place to rest, finding none.

  “Tonight,” Clara said, “tonight we sing for our mother. Tonight we will sing so beautifully that she will hear us deep beneath the waves.”

  The girls had never discussed what could have driven their mother to the water’s edge. They never questioned why she started a walk that she would not, could not, stop. It was just a fact for them. Somehow they knew that she was not long for this world and, at best, they hoped that somehow the lake she had stared at for so many hours every day had somehow embraced her in the end. Did they miss her? No, what they missed was the dream that one day they would have a mother. But they did not, could not, miss a mother they never really had.

  Esther would be there, though. She was taking a later train with her husband. Said she wouldn’t miss it for all the world. (As if anyone was offering her all the world!) And that was enough for Clara and Blanca. They knew they would be singing for a mother they never really had and for a woman they had wished had been their mother.

  “Hey. I’m Ernie, the stage manager. Now, I will give you a heads-up before it is your turn. You need anything?”

  “Some water would be nice,” Clara requested.

  “There’s water for all the talent in the green room.”

  All Clara heard was the word talent. Wow, they were being called talent, how amazing was that? “The talent,” the man said. But Blanca was confused, because as hard as she looked, none of the rooms was painted green and she wasn’t quite sure where she should go.

  “Excuse me, Ernie, where is the room that is green?”

  Ernie laughed. Of course, the room wasn’t green. It was actually a dove-grey room with big sofas, coffee tables, and snacks everywhere.

  “Why did you say it was green?”

  “It’s what it’s called. The room where the talent hangs out is called a green room, even though it’s rarely painted green.”

  Blanca nodded knowingly, which really pissed Clara off. How dare she pretend to know such things when she was as just as naive! But really Blanca was nodding because she was so damned pleased that he used the word talent again.

  “Anyhow, I have your placement. You’re the third act up. So don’t get too comfortable.”

  People were doing vocal warm-ups in the corner. “Paul has a head like a ping-pon
g ball, Paul has a head like a ping-pong ball, just like a ping-pong ball … Many men, many men, many men-men-men.” Then there was the blowing through loose lips so that they looked like aggravated horses. Head rolls, body shakes, rolling up and down through the spine, and breathing exercises including soft-palate plosives, in through the nose and out through the mouth, and panting. How very intimidating, all those warm-ups. The girls felt so very unprepared.

  The speaker in the green room was turned up just loud enough that they could hear what was going on in the auditorium, but not so loud that it interfered with whatever preparation the acts needed. Band members and soloists lounged about, some with carefree confidence and others with nail-biting anxiety. There were makeup artists waiting to do touch-ups or to completely cover the artists with a fresh coat.

  “Would you like a bit of mascara, perhaps, some eyeliner?”

  “No. Thank you.” Blanca was adamant.

  The makeup artist moved off, shrugging. “Suit yourself, your eyes will be lost under the bright lights.”

  The host could be heard, announcing the lineup, introducing the judges, and revving up the audience, demanding applause from them.

  “There will be solo acts and singing groups. Bands will not have the chance to set up their own equipment and will have to use our amplifiers, drums, and equipment. This not only makes the competition more fair, it also saves time between acts!”

  Light laughter.

  “Let’s get started with our first competitors. They call themselves RPM!”

  Clara and Blanca listened to their competition. A group of four, two men and two women. They sounded like an ABBA rip-off. ABBA had just hit the charts and had taken the world by storm with its inane rhymes and sentimental music. Very poppy, and so were these four. Hummable music, something everyone likes, but where was the edge? Where were the boundaries being pushed? Where was the innovation? Clara figured it was a love song of sorts. A why-can’t-you-love-me-as-I-love-you type of song. She looked at the other acts in the dove-grey green room. Nonplussed. No, these were no competition.

  There were obvious punks in the room. Indie sorts who had been garage-band hopefuls. Then there were the rockers, the Bowie types and the Fleetwood Mac–influenced bands, the hard rock types who were obviously influenced by YES and Genesis, and even Black Sabbath wannabes. There were the folk singers filled with earthy sincerity, and a couple of boy bands, relying on cuteness and bubble-gum charm. The room was a representation of every sound that was on the late-1970s airwaves. Clara wondered why they were even there. What niche could they possibly fill?

  A soloist took the stage. A young man with spiked hair, piercings, and leather pants. The girls couldn’t see him strutting across the stage like Mick Jagger. They only heard the sour notes from time to time and wondered why it was that the crowd seemed to love him so much? But as his song progressed all they could hear was the beating of their hearts in their ears, knowing that they would be next.

  “Clara and Blanca, you are next up so come wait in the wings. What are you called again?”

  “Bleach. We are Bleach.”

  “Bleach? Okay, if you say so.”

  The lights blinded their pale eyes. Blanca squinted and tried to focus as Clara blinked repeatedly. They stood for what seemed a long time until someone yelled out from the audience, “Come on, already!”

  Blanca held her tambour and, with a flat hand, hit the skin three times, very, very hard. Clara stepped toward the microphone and keened a note that was so high and so pure that the audience stilled and anyone could hear a pin drop as it sailed up over the seats to the rafters. Three more hits on the drum and Clara’s fingers found the keys on the keyboard and played the chords, slowly, as they began to harmonize in sound alone, trilling scales and haunting everyone who sat on those red velvet seats.

  Here is the sound of a kitten drowned. Here is the sound of a mother away, beneath the cold waves. The sound of fear and teasing and the sound of love withheld. Here is what it means to transcend the ordinary and to embrace difference. And now we speak, in what seems like tongues, but has no God within it. This is the anarchy of our song, this is the discord of life. And then again, a harmony and a bit of Lakmé thrown in. This is the sound of peace after a storm. The sound of life renewed after despair.

  As much as their song was a reflection of life, it was also a giant fuck-you. Fuck you for laughing at us. Fuck you for leaving us out. Fuck you for knowing what is cool. Fuck you for our loneliness. Fuck all of you. We are the White Queens. We are Bleach.

  Sweat dripped off Clara’s nose as she played the last notes, her fingers spreading as far as she could stretch them. And while she did, Blanca stared out at the audience. There was no sweet smile on her face. No look of a desire for their approval. Here was the look of defiance. A dare to all. Here I am, it said. I am an albino with pinkish eyes. I am whiter than snow, more fragile than crystal. My lifespan is shorter than any of yours, but I will burn brighter, as bright as a star, and then one day I will suddenly expire and go out. I know it and you know it … so just use me up now.

  At first, there was nothing. No clapping. No sound at all. As if the audience had no idea they were finished. They sat in their seats, anticipating more. Not knowing what to think or feel. They had never heard anything like it. The opera, the virtuosity, the anarchy of outrage! This was what the punk movement aspired to, but rarely had the chops to achieve. It was the sound of a generation that was tired of war. The sound of sexual freedom. It was the sound of the young who were tired of expectation, labels, and gender definitions. It wasn’t just music; it was a movement. These young women were to be feared and admired. They were as fierce as Vikings, as awe-inspiring as goddesses, and as beautiful as a blanket of fresh snow. But how would anyone ever market them?

  Esther wasn’t quite sure who clapped first. She stood, hands poised and ready to go, but, as no one joined her, she paused, hands ready, eight inches apart. She waited for someone else to show the respect the two deserved. Could they not hear the virtuosity? The vocal range? Did they not realize that something wholly original had emerged right before their eyes? This was the first act that wasn’t derivative and yet, and yet, it borrowed on aspects of what was already established. These were trained voices. Esther knew it, because she had trained them.

  Esther’s world closed in all around her. The relatives gone, her sisters dead, but there was more to it than lost family. There was the guilt that she had lived all those extra years when her family hadn’t survived the horror. Not even a generation later and it was all gone. Unbelievable. Her sisters with their lovely dark hair and lashes and their perfect singing voices, gone. While she still lived. Her own sweet father who could play the piano with such skill and confidence and a mother who often sang after dinner while guests sipped on sherry, both gone. While she still lived. An entire life now forgotten, except by her. What was it all for, the lessons, the love, the work, the practice, the rituals, if they were so easily lost?

  Now there seemed to be an iota of sense to her unlikely survival. Now she saw that she had some purpose. In these girls was raw talent trapped in feral little bodies. They knew nothing beyond their rough surroundings and the discrimination they endured because of their lack of pigmentation. They only had each other and so how could they learn or become cultured? What chance did they have to rise up from the shit of their circumstance? Except for her. She knew that it was because she was barren, because she was in a land that wasn’t her home, because no one cared about what was near to her heart that she had taken in these ruffians, these rude little heathen girls, and moulded them into what their essence dictated. In doing so she gave them their true worth. But she also gave them a piece of her life. A life that was filled with as much guilt as it was with art, culture, and meaning,

  She stood with her hands eight inches apart until the thunder roared all around her. Stamping feet and bravos and applause. And then the word she had always longed to hear for herself, a word she had
never experienced in her life of loss. A word she had only ever dreamed of. The word encore.

  Esther didn’t know that the first clap came from a young man, a boy in his late teens, who had taken his camera from his face, let it hang from a strap around his neck so that his hands would be free to applaud heartily. It was only when his camera was away from his eyes that one could see that they were two different colours. One a hazel colour with a grey outline and the other quite green with a few brownish-gold specks in it. He clapped hard, not caring if anyone else clapped or not. His heart was beating and his hands were keeping the tempo of the rhythm within him. Until the rhythm caught and spread like wildfire.

  Jack was there, in front of the first seats, because he had been invited to go along with Tristan, who was filming the event for a university assignment. Unlike Jack, Tristan hadn’t stopped his recording in order to clap. No, he turned his camera on the audience, caught its reaction, then he grabbed a quick shot of Jack, his glass eye out-shining his natural one, caught in the reflection of the footlights.

  Jack stopped clapping and took a quick series of shots. Clara and Blanca standing side by side, a study in white, almost overexposed by the harsh stage lights. There they stood like queens staring down at their subjects. And then the word encore, and there it was, the first hint of a smile. One that started with the slightly taller one and then transferred to the smaller twin. When the audience didn’t sit down the smiles spread wider across what had been focused and stern faces until it was all laughter and the white queens were holding their stomachs as they convulsed in glee, as if to say, “We did it!” Flash. And they are smiling. Flash. And they are laughing. Flash. There is a high-five. And finally, flash, and the taller one holds up her hand to hush the crowd, to settle them again. What power. What grace. What sovereignty!

  “We would love to do an encore, but we were only allowed four minutes and so we cannot.”

 

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