Significance

by Jo Mazelis

  At the beginning of the trip this year, on the first night when Aaron had pointed at the door and begun his endless chant of ‘play, play, play!’ Scott suggested they shouldn’t let him out as they had for the previous two years. Marilyn had argued the point.

  ‘You know he’ll be fine. He just stands there. We’ll take it in turns to watch him. If anything happens – and it won’t – we’ll be out there in two seconds flat. And you know we won’t get any peace unless we let him…’

  Marilyn was so good. So understanding. Few women would sacrifice two weeks of precious holiday to spend them cooking meatloaf and pot roast for a human being who demanded so much and gave no sign of even the minimum of affection or appreciation in return.

  So understandably when Scott noticed this young woman attempting to talk to Aaron it set off alarm signals, and raised his defences even before he’d spoken to her. And then when he’d confronted her he’d been disarmed by her beauty. She was so pretty and so seemingly innocent that it had made him bristle with emotion. Men, he knew, often felt rage towards women who stirred up unwanted desire in them, and that’s what she’d done.

  He’d been surprised too, to discover that she spoke English. He hadn’t expected it, and that too threw him off course. For a second (though it was only a second) he imagined she was a spy sent by the Canadian health department to further their case for hospitalising Aaron.

  It reminded him, he supposed, that Aaron’s condition was a sort of door left ajar; a gaping entrance through which countless bureaucrats and experts poured to invade the Clement family home and inspect their kitchen drawers, their private lives and health and hearts at any time night or day, and all in the pretext of doing good and helping them.

  Scott often had guilty and troubling thoughts about Aaron. He often tried to remember the time before Aaron was born, those precious years of his life when there was only Scott and his mother and father in the little house out on the edge of the woods. He tried but could not remember anything, there was no sense of how peaceful that might have been, how glorious to be the focus of his parents’ affection and labour.

  Worryingly he did remember something from a time just after Aaron was born, but it was so unnerving that by now – through that process of remembering and remembering – he often dismissed it as a bad dream or perhaps a nasty childish fantasy. And when he recalled it, it came to him like a picture on a flash card, or one of those scenes in a film which are barely on the screen long enough for you to properly absorb them. It was horrible and whenever it came to his mind (usually at moments of stress or anger) he had to fight to escape it, to distract himself any way he could.

  And here’s what it was. A crib in a darkened room. His parents’ bedroom, but strangely they aren’t there. He has no idea where his parents are. In the crib he sees Aaron, snivelling in his sleep and beginning to whimper. And there is this bad smell. A really bad smell of shit, pungent and stale and slightly cheesy. And in Scott’s hands is a pillow – the pillow from his own bed which has repeat motifs of the Lone Ranger astride his rearing-stallion. These specific details are the worst part of it because they make him think that it’s real, that it actually happened and is no dream at all. Scott lifts the pillow in two hands and carefully, deliberately he pushes it down onto Aaron’s sleeping face.

  And that’s all he remembers. Just that. He doesn’t remember how long he held the pillow in place, nor thankfully can he recall the tiny body of his brother squirming, fighting, gasping for air.

  What happens to babies deprived of oxygen? Scott knows the answer. Was Aaron born damaged? Or did something happen to him? The different doctors Scott and Aaron’s parents consulted said it was a chromosome thing, a genetic problem, or possibly something caused during the course of the pregnancy – a virus, a particular sort of food poisoning. But Scott’s mother always says that unlike Scott who was difficult and colicky, Aaron was a perfect, blissful, good baby.

  Of course, their mother wants to believe that Aaron was once fine, because that suggests he’ll be fine again; he’ll just wake up one morning and start talking about college and girls and football.

  Maybe it wasn’t such a terrible thing for his mother to believe that. It gave her hope, and hope can wake one up in the morning, it can set the coffee percolating, put a smile on one’s face, it can send one scurrying off to the mall, make one joyfully sign the credit card receipt for hundreds of dollars. Hope could sit beside you on the bus as you made your way home; it listened and looked on admiringly as you displayed the Nike trainers you just bought for your youngest son, the orange Puffa jacket with the embroidered logo on the chest – the one that marks it out as the genuine article, not some cheap rip-off copy. Hope can even make you believe that your older son has only ever felt love for his younger more helpless brother.

  Who would take that away from her?

  The Golden Girl

  Peroxide burns. Lucy had a sudden and visceral awareness of the chemical actuality of the process. She should have known. Cursed herself as she sat in the kitchen with the evil-smelling stuff on her head. It itched and stung and turned her (now she thought about it) beautiful dark brown hair a yellowy orange colour.

  And according to the instructions on the packet she was not meant to do anything else to this neon tangerine mess until at least twenty-four hours had passed. Not only that but when she inspected her hair with the help of two mirrors, she saw that the colour was patchy. She rang the college and cited gastric flu as the reason for her absence. Then rang a hairdresser to confess her sin and book an appointment for the next day.

  ‘Oh dear,’ was what the hairdresser said, after Lucy took the head scarf off her ridiculous hair.

  But after a great deal of work on the hairdresser’s part, and a great deal of money and patience on Lucy’s, she was transformed into an ash blonde.

  The hair colour, the trip to France and the new clothes she had bought were all part of a plan for a transformed identity. She had, it seemed to her, spent far too many years in her mid-twenties trying to look older and thus more serious and intelligent.

  Thom seemed to take her for granted. People had begun to assume that she was older than she was, they read her age not so much from her as yet unlined and youthful face, but from other signifiers – for example her partner’s age, Thom was twelve years older than her and his black hair was silvery at the temples. She wore her own brown hair in a middle parting and generally tied back in a pony tail. She wore dark earth colours enlivened with the occasional raspberry or emerald sweater.

  She had tired of it and like many people nearing the age of thirty she suddenly yearned for youth again.

  She had deliberately timed the image change to coincide with the holiday. Thom would not see her new hairstyle for at least two weeks. Her family would have to wait until Christmas. And indeed none of them might see it at all. She may, having tried the new colour out in France, decide to dye it brown again on her return.

  She had already noticed that men paid her more attention, but was ambiguous about how that made her feel. Maybe this blonde hair, these girlish frocks gave off signals of sexual availability. That the cliché was true was surprising to her.

  Perhaps she had been too effective in stripping away not only the melanin in her hair, but also her old defences. For the first time in her life she felt too visible. The plus side was a sense of a power, the minus side was vulnerability.

  The night she followed Scott, she had been driven in part by an excess of energy. The same energy that had inspired her to dye her hair. She felt almost breathless, hollowed out, hungry and lonely. She should have recognised the symptoms. But the last time she’d felt like this had been when she was a first-year art student in Glasgow.

  Cigarette. What she needed was a couple more smokes and maybe a brandy. Then back at the hotel she’d order some hot chocolate. Go to bed, read one of the books she’d brought with her. One of those books that was too large to put in the silly little bag she’d bought
to go with her daisy print frock.

  A book is a fine defence against so much.

  Tomorrow she’d rethink it all. Redefine her tactics. Try not to think about the Canadian guy. Try also not to focus so much negative attention on Thom. It was a waste of emotional energy.

  A man veered in closer as they passed each other on the pavement. He came at her in drunken loping crab-like steps. He was tall, dark and handsome with a long soulful face, black piercing eyes. When he was almost near enough to touch her, he lunged closer and made a wet sucking kiss noise. She felt his breath, hot, moist and heavily laced with alcohol on her cheek, the side of her neck, and ducked out of his grasp. It happened very quickly. His friends were just behind him; they laughed as they saw her frightened response. He was never going to actually touch her. It was all just fun.

  Oh yeah, fun.

  Which blondes have more of.

  Fun, which Scott had sneered at in their conversation earlier.

  Cigarette.

  Embarrassed and self-conscious suddenly, she walked on a little way, then at the first sight of the word tabac she turned purposefully into the entrance under that sign. Hardly noticing that it was the smallest and most basic café on the street. Outside there were no low planters to separate the clientele from the street, instead there were just two rickety aluminium tables with five mismatched plastic chairs, and the inside was little more than a narrow room with a bar along one side and a row of booths with ripped vinyl benches on the other.

  That sense of purpose – buy cigarettes, have a drink – and of escape – get off the street, gather herself together, regroup, calm down, then whisk off again – was shattered as soon as she found herself in the heart of the shabby café.

  Her heels clicking sharply, bravely on the wooden floor announced her. All eyes turned in her direction.

  Out of the frying pan into the fire.

  The eyes, all twelve pairs of them, were male. At the bar nearest her were three working men, paint and cement splashed, bristly and gristly, unshaved in navy nylon track suits, tired denim, raggedy sweatshirts, sweat-stained, flesh bulging, hairy and raw, as they hunched over the counter. To her left, in one of the booths, the younger contingent from the same crew, equally paint and cement splashed, bodies leaner, flesh tight against muscle and bone, hair dusty with plaster and dirt. Five of them, leering and grinning, clucking tongues.

  Beyond the three older men towards the back of the cafe, a young man with blue-black skin, cleaner and leaner, more reticent, more shy than all the other men. She noticed a gleam of perfect white teeth as he smiled warmly.

  One guy on his own near the front – she must have breezed straight past him – the ashen-skinned loner in a crumpled suit, his tie pulled askew, his collar curling.

  At the back of the bar, his body bent over the slot machine, stone-washed denims, jacket and jeans, another man, young and dark haired, but with a bald spot on the crown of his head.

  Then last, the patron, slick and shiny, and full of overtures of control, the only one, really, with the right to address her. He lifts up the flap in the bar, growls rapid words at the men, particularly the younger ones, and gestures for her to sit in the empty booth.

  She had planned a quick departure, to buy cigarettes then exit stage left not pursued by a bear, but perhaps with dogs, snakes and rats watching the switch of her tail as she went.

  But the bartender is partly blocking her way, and his gesture is so theatrical, so kind, and he has swiftly put the other men in order. One by one they look away, go back to their conversations. He makes her feel safe, but also childlike.

  She sits. The patron wipes the table in front of her, replaces the dirty ashtray, clears away the empty beer glasses. He has black hair, very straight and very fine, she can make out his scalp just below the lank hair. His hands are very large, meaty and pale, they remind her of wax.

  He calls her Mademoiselle. He is respectful without being obsequious as he takes her order. He brings her a brandy, an espresso and a packet of Marlboro, which he unwraps and offers to her, so she is forced to take a cigarette and smoke it at once. He returns to his station behind the bar and keeps a proprietorial eye on her. Perhaps he has a daughter her age. Or rather a daughter the age he assumes Lucy to be, perhaps twenty or twenty-one.

  Lucy takes a sip of the brandy, holds the liquid in her mouth where it tingles and stings. On swallowing she shudders slightly.

  She feels oddly peaceful – as if she were a princess surrounded by the men of her kingdom, knights and serfs and peasants, none of whom dare harm her.

  The man in the crumpled suit gets up from his table and heads for the exit. His shoes are grey plastic loafers. She knows they are plastic as they have a split on one side which reveals a line of white sock. No one acknowledges his departure. She senses his loneliness; it hangs over him like a shabby miasma, presses his thin shoulders down, hunching his neck.

  Behind her in the next booth, the young men are playing cards. She can hear, but not see, the way the cards are slapped down on the table top and the accompanying shouts.

  The young black man walks toward her then stands just beyond her table. He looks nervously at the other men, but only the patron is paying any attention.

  ‘Anglais?’ the young man asks.

  ‘Oui,’ she says.

  The bartender lifts his chin and turns the corners of his mouth down as if to ask her if she wants to be saved. She ignores his signal and smiles brightly at the young man with his gleaming black skin.

  ‘You are English?’ he says. His smile is wide; his teeth are even and very white. His track suit is bright red with crisp white stripes. Very new, she thinks.

  Lucy nods.

  ‘I am Joseph. I am learning to speak English,’ he says proudly.

  ‘Really,’ she says, uncertain what else to say.

  ‘You are here on vacation?’ he asks. His pronunciation is good, the accent slightly American.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am visiting here with my aunt’s son,’ he says. ‘He is a paediatric surgeon. He has an emergeny now.’

  ‘Ah,’ she says.

  ‘My other cousin is at the Royal Holloway Hospital. She is a gynaecologist and lives in Camden Town. Her father, my uncle, is a doctor in Paris.’

  He does not make any move to sit at the table with her. Lucy can’t think of anything to say but smiles in a slightly glazed way. She is aware that they are being watched and this makes her feel awkward, as if she were in a play and hasn’t learned her lines.

  ‘I am going to London to study medicine soon, I hope,’ he says. Then abruptly, he adds, ‘Goodbye. So long,’ and returns to a booth near the back of the bar.

  Perhaps she should have invited him to sit, or made a better attempt at conversation. She hopes he doesn’t feel rebuffed. Hopes particularly that he doesn’t feel rebuffed because he is black.

  She swallows the espresso in three sips. It’s thick and sweet. Takes another sip of brandy, doesn’t shudder this time. Lights a cigarette. Thinks about the walk back to the hotel. Looks at her watch. It’s almost midnight. She is surprised; she had thought it would only be ten or perhaps eleven. She should go.

  She drinks the last of the brandy, finishes her cigarette, stubbing it out in the Cinzano ashtray. Then just as she uncrosses her legs in readiness to rise from the table, another brandy is placed before her by the patron. She frowns at him in confusion and he gestures towards the three older men at the bar. One of them has turned towards her; he lifts his glass as in a toast.

  ‘Oh,’ she says, embarrassed, but lifts the drink, nods and murmurs. ‘Merci.’

  Behind her the younger men suddenly roar at the result of their card game. One swears, then laughs and gets up and walks past her. His pockets jangle with loose change. His body is long, but his legs are short and slightly bandy. As he nears her she can smell earth and putty.

  One more brandy will not kill her, but she must refuse if another is offered.

  She
feels safe here amongst these working men. Feels a little ashamed of that frisson of fear she’d felt as she first entered. One should never make assumptions, or jump to conclusions. She should remember that.

  Lights another cigarette. Looks at her watch again. Twelve-twenty.

  Underwater

  When Marilyn was four years old she’d almost died.

  She thought she could remember it, but wasn’t certain if she had embroidered the memory – if part of it was what her mother had told her and the rest was a sort of flotsam and jetsam garnered from other sources: films and books. She seemed to remember moving or running awkwardly with her arms outstretched and there was a something she was determinedly heading for. This ‘something’ was a phenomenon she didn’t understand, but wanted to explore. She moved closer. Water. That’s what it was. Or more particularly water whose surface was covered with a carpet of green. Green like a floating carpet of grass that you could walk on.

  Marilyn had tried at least ten times in her life to write a poem about this, but she always found the resultant verse to be mawkish and naïve. Too reminiscent of certain poems by Sylvia Plath. Or just plain clumsy. She did not fully understand why she kept returning to this subject.