Warpaint (11 page)

Early the next morning, Quiola snuck out before C.C. woke, after collecting a map, her room-key, sunglasses and enough francs for brioche and coffee. The lobby was abandoned, the doorman invisibly visible. She left and practically dashed to the Rue de La Paix, only to find herself in front of a dark and empty Tiffany display window. Ducking her head, she marched forward. No one was about. All the expensive storefronts were locked tight, alarms at the ready and although the sun had only just risen, the heat was already wet and palpable.

As often happens to anyone who simply wanders Paris without a clear destination, Quiola ended up along the river. Book-sellers and such were just opening their wooden stalls; flowers and fruit, old movie posters, old, tattered
Life
and
Look
magazines and the like were being hauled out of their nightly storage, arranged and re-arranged. At one booth, for sale in small wooden cages, tiny birds, cinder gray with heart's blood wingtips and tails, hopped from post to swing and back. She watched the creatures for a few minutes, just for the sheer beauty of their feathers, until the vendor, chatting at her, began to extol them as highly decorative, undemanding pets.

 

♦

 

Pacing around her San Francisco apartment, her heart beating a two-step of pure fear, Quiola sank into the deep middle of a full-blown panic attack. Her hands shook. Sweat beaded her dark forehead, and the salt stung the cut below her bruised eye. She paced back and forth in the bedroom, back and forth, her gait unsteady.

“What am I going to do?” she murmured, glancing at the closed bedroom door. “What, what –?” She paced over to the window, but the fog that morning was dense and so the world seemed nothing but full of swirling gray, which almost made her stop breathing altogether. She turned away and threw herself on the bed, crying with the sorrowful intensity of an infant, shaking the bed.

Suddenly she sat up, listening. “Hello?”

Nothing.

“Evelyn? That you? Evelyn?”

Silence.

“Evelyn!” she shouted, hoarse. “Answer me!” She went to the bedroom door, closed her hand around the doorknob and then just stood there, as if frozen. She stood there, unable to open the door, for long enough for her neck to stiffen, long enough that the knob grew slick. Then she let go to pace again but after a few steps inside the cage of her head, words burst open like flares.

You cannot let them win. Even after they've stolen everything from you, you have to push on. Do you hear me, Quiola? Take it from a woman who knows. If you fall to the bottom, look up.

“Mom,” she whispered. “Mama? I've hit bottom.”

Okay, then, look up.

Quiola stood still. Stiffly she marched to the bedroom door, yanked it open. The living room was as she had left it last night, tidy. She said, “Evelyn?” into the silence, and when only silence answered, she saw her mother's old steamer trunk, and knew what to do. She took all the things off the top of it, magazines, mail, an empty vase, then dragged it into the bedroom. Frantic and yet precise, she folded her clothes – all of them – into the steamer, and then went about the apartment, sorting, separating her self from Evelyn by the magic of things; she slipped these three necklaces, one of her mother's, one a gift from C.C., one she'd bought herself into a velvet bag, took
Collected Poems
, her talismanic
Ariel
,
Moby Dick
, and
The Awakening
off the shelf; put all her work into a portfolio, then brushes, tubes of paint, into the trunk. Feeling like a surgeon, she severed the violent nerves and joints of fear and desire that knitted her to Evelyn, bleeding inside but determined that morning to push on, to get out of that place that she'd come to, and be free once again.

 

♦

 

An evening in the City of Lights, C.C. always said, was always supposed to end on a piercing bright aesthetic note, not simply fade like an old TV. But Quiola had never felt the spike, not back in 1982, not last year, not now. It was after eleven, and although the restaurant was full of diners, she also felt as if she was the only real being in a colony of merry, contented ghosts.

Or maybe it was the wine. She wasn't sure.

“
Un autre
?” asked the barkeep, and it struck her that he was being irresponsible. She'd had enough.

“
Non, merci
.
S'il vous plaît
?” she asked, gesturing with money since she'd forgotten the word for bill.

Leaving, she stepped into the warm, lively night street and walked back up the Rue de Roquette to her flat, her hands in her pockets. It was raining lightly. It had been raining on and off. It would go on raining, after she left. She only had one day more, now, in Paris, and she was counting the minutes. Nothing, not even the pleasing solitude of her last week, could make her feel happy. Certain places had grace, yes, and beauty inhabited even the headstones at Père Lachaise, yes. But all she wanted was to go home. For good; she would never return to Paris – she would never live in a city again. All the years of her childhood, moving from apartment to apartment, each smaller than the last seemed to be crowding her. She wanted air.

A letter was waiting in the box at the flat, and since she was not expecting any correspondence, the sight of the slight blue note resting by itself sideways in the mail slot alarmed her. She hurried inside and switched on the light. The envelope had been typed, and there was no return address. She ripped it open with haste, worried, illogically, that something might have happened to Amelia –
but C.C. would call, not write
, she thought as she unfolded the single page.

 

 

Quiola sat down.

 

 

She – Evelyn – hadn't even signed the letter. Quiola felt a rush, then it passed and she was left holding a thin sheet of angry paper which she folded up and left on the kitchen table. She “shed” her damp clothes, got into sweats and a t-shirt, crawled into bed.

She didn't turn the lights off.

From the kitchen table, the paper sat, not quite mute. She stared at it, and could not sleep. Sometime around dawn she got up again, lit a match and burned the letter in the bathroom sink. Her hands shook. Evelyn never did anything small, and now, what had started out on the rocket fuel of lust was still flaming, flaming hatred.

When Quiola woke again, she felt groggy. She flipped over onto her side, slipping her hands under her cheek. Gray light filtered in the studio front, half-shuttered window. Without moving, she let her gaze cross the familiar space, already half-stripped of the personal, prepared for new paint and new owners, young Parisians who'd never heard of Liz Moore, let alone Paul Gaines or C.C. Ryder –

“…or me,” she muttered. “Ha.”

She sat up, pulling the blankets with her, to clasp her hands around her knees. “No one will ever hear of me,” she said to herself, and got out of bed. She stepped into the bathroom. Ashes of Evelyn's note still smudged the sink. She washed them away and ran the shower. Pulling on a thin cotton robe, she went to the kitchen-space and made coffee, taking her cup with her, weary already, back to the shower.

Later, as she walked home from the grocers with her dinner in her cotton mesh sack, Quiola made a slight detour to stroll beside the Seine and found that they were there, still, not of course the exact same birds, nor the same vendor certainly, but yet the same sort of gray and red-tailed tiny birds in wooden cages for sale as she'd seen in 1982, busy grooming powdery dove-gray feathers, tipped in a deep sparkling red, like snake's blood.

LaGuardia was crowded. Quiola thought her baggage lost, but it made an entrance at last, flapping through the black plastic curtain of the conveyor belt. She shouldered her duffle, flipped the handle up on her roller, and, mowing back through the throng of travelers for the taxi line, nearly ran C.C. over.

“Good lord, what –” said Quiola. “What is that on your head?”

“A turban. Valerie helped me pick it out. What do you think?”

“Stylishly bright.” She eyed the flaming orange and white cotton thing hugging C.C.'s bald head. “Ugly as sin.”

“The other one is purple.”

“Grand. I'll never lose you in a crowd again – and just what are you doing here?”

“Hug?”

Quiola put one arm around C.C.'s thin shoulder, brushed her lips against a pasty cheek and stood back. “A turban?”

“I got tired of being the scary bald lady. Playing at being a one-breasted Amazon sounds romantic, but trust me, it gets old fast.”

“What about your tattoo?”

“I still love it. I just don't like the sight of my naked skull. Come on, let's get out of here.”

“I could've caught the train home.”

“I know, but I bought a new car. You don't mind a lift, do you?”

“New car? You bought a car
new
?”

“No, of course not. I'd never. I bought a new used car, a real humdinger.”

“I've heard that before – what sort of trash heap this time?”

“Not a heap my dear,” said C.C., as the two women headed for short-term parking. “I bought a Volvo. In other words, a tank, one of those boxy 1996 Volvo 960 station wagons, white, slightly dented about, but quite solid. I call him Moby. My own private white whale.”

“More like a white elephant.” Quiola left her suitcases beside a wheel and walked around the Volvo, checking it out. “Does he have airbags?”

“Yes.” C.C. opened the rear.

Quiola folded down the roller, stowing both duffle and suitcase in the wagon. “I'm driving,” she said. “Hand over the keys.”

“Why? I've been well, well enough to shop for a turban and to buy Moby. Besides, you'll have jet-lag.”

“That'll hit tomorrow. Hand over the keys. I want to put Moby through his paces, and I don't fancy sailing off the highway ramp. Keys, please.”

“Yes Cap'n Ahab, sir.”

“Don't try me,” she said as she slid behind a rather large steering wheel.

C.C. snapped her seatbelt on. “I
can
drive.”

“Of course you can. How's Amelia been?”

“Lonely.”

Quiola started the car. “Poor thing. I missed her, too – those two weeks in Paris felt like a decade. I am so glad that's over and done with.”

“Didn't you enjoy any of it? Take a left.”

“Yes. I loved walking in – the gardens. Do you have a five?”

“Here.”

“Thanks. Besides, I got a letter from Evelyn that shook me up.”

“She phoned.”

“Evelyn did?” Quiola braked, rolled down the window, paid the short-term fee. “I can't believe it. What did she say?”

“Nothing. I was feeding Amelia, the phone rang, I answered, it was Evelyn. She asked for you, I told her you were away, and then I hung up on her. Want to take the Merritt? It will put a half-hour on the trip, but it's much prettier. So, what did Evelyn's letter say?”

“That she would kill me.”

“You're kidding. That's crazy talk.”

“Well, she's bi-polar, among other things.”

“Great. Other things, such as?”

“Such as being a prescription drug addict.”

“Oh. Why haven't you ever told me this before?”

“I couldn't. I felt like a failure. I was ashamed.”

“Oh, please. Her problems aren't your fault.”

“She thinks they're all my fault. Anyway, her letter was creepy, so I burnt it.”

“But you don't believe her? She wouldn't –”

“I don't know what she'd do. Honestly. She's made of steel and she's capable of brutal things when she's angry. Once, she cut up some Christmas ornaments my mother had sewn into a million little pieces, with a pair of pinking shears.”

“But that's just spiteful. Small.”

“And emotionally brutal. Nothing can replace those ornaments.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Maybe.” Quiola frowned. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

 

♦

 

In early 1986, several weeks into the spring semester at Berkeley, Quiola went to get her long hair cut short for the first time ever and on a whim. She chose a salon on Shattuck Avenue, quite near the University, an easy walk to after class. Squaring her shoulders, she pushed open the glass door. Tech-Tops was a big place, with twelve stylists, bleach-blond hardwood floors, potted palms, pink sinks and black stations. She asked the receptionist for the first available stylist. Which is how she met Evelyn Porter.

Meanwhile, C.C., back in New York and feeling lost without Quiola, stewed about how things between them had gone south. By the time she collected enough nerve to phone, singing, “I left my heart in San Francisco –” Quiola had been seeing Evelyn for almost a month.

“Oh, please!” she said. “I've only been out here for a little while, and you've never even
been
to the West Coast for a visit. Not once.”

“Details,” said C.C. She sat down on the couch in the Chelsea apartment, figuring the time difference, embarrassed she hadn't thought of it before picking up the phone. “How was the move?” she asked.

“It was a move.”

“And how do you like it out there?”

Quiola took a blue metal folding chair and sat on it backwards. “I love San Francisco. But Berkeley is something else again. The department is small, competitive. I feel left out.”

“Come home, then.”

“I am home.“ She smiled across her apartment's small living room; her mother's old steamer trunk served as coffee table, she had an easel, four empty jars full of various sized brushes, a drop cloth, a framed Moore, a gift of C.C.'s and Evelyn, a tall, square-shouldered brunette dressed in faded straight-legged jeans and a striped t-shirt.

“I'm sorry,” said C.C. “You never will be a California girl. You're a New Yorker as much as I am.”

“But I was born in Minnesota, just like Liz.”

“Details. Anyway, I don't see the point of taking a degree. It's silly. You're an artist, you practice – it's your work. School is a waste of time.”

“Not to me. With a degree, I can teach anywhere.”

“You can always teach.”

“It's not the same. A degree gets you more. Why don't you visit? The weather is phenomenal. I've never seen the sky so blue as this spring. And the flowers! In Berkeley, everyone's garden seems overrun by bougainvillea.”

“By what?”

“Bougainvillea – it's a flowering vine. Lovely.” She glanced over to Evelyn again and mouthed silently, “
you
are lovely.”

Evelyn shrugged and left the room, her black stiletto heels tip-tapping.

“And is Frisco as dyke-friendly as people say?” asked C.C.

“Absolutely. Hey, that reminds: have you heard about this thing, this gay disease they're calling AIDS?”

“The gay cancer?”

Quiola shifted the phone from one ear to the other, and frowned. “Last summer, I think it was, the CDC named it ‘acquired immune deficiency syndrome'. I don't know much about it – guess I've been too wrapped up in my own stuff. But it seems to be fatal, and the men here are scared.”

“Why? You can't catch cancer.”

“I don't know, C.C. but a lot of gay guys I know are sick with fear. People have died. I've heard people say it's a gay epidemic that will wipe out all the queers and clean up the streets. You know? Vile stuff.”

“Then be careful.”

“I'm not the target – the guys are.”

“When people get vile about sex, they get vile. How are things otherwise?”

“Fine, really.”

“You do sound well.”

“I am.”

Evelyn came back into the living room from the kitchen with a container of strawberry Dannon yogurt.

“But you're not sure about Berkeley,” said C.C. “The program, I mean.”

“I've made friends outside the program. In fact, one of them is here now, so I should hang up before I bore her to tears.”

“Not a student?”

“No. A hairdresser. Evelyn. Evelyn Porter.”

At the sound of her name, Evelyn turned and mouthed, “
Hang up that phone. Now
.”

“A hairdresser? How useful!” said C.C. “Then again, what can she do for you? All you do is make one big braid out of that glorious mess you call your hair.”

“I know. Gotta run.”

“All right. I'll call back in a few days. Don't get into trouble.”

“I won't. Bye.” As she eased the phone back into its cradle, Evelyn walked over and said, “I'm bored. Come here and make love to me.” She pulled Quiola roughly to her feet, kissed her, hard, then half lifted, half-carried her to the bedroom. Panting and nearly ripping her t-shirt as she yanked it over her dark head, she pinned Quiola to the futon, clumsily unbuttoned her shirt, kissed the base of her new lover's neck, then nosed her way past the shirt collar to bite down, breaking tender flesh.

 

♦

 

A warm, single light beamed from the shed's living-room window as Quiola drove Moby up the driveway, the tires crunching gravel; she pulled on the brake. “Home, almost. I'm starving.”

“Well, Amelia isn't. I fed her before I left to pick you up.”

“I really should go and –”

“Not without eating. Amelia's fine.”

“How has your appetite been?”

“Better.” C.C. opened the car door and stepped out into the warm August twilight, the rich summer smell of mown grass on the dampish air. “I'm so happy to have you back!”

“I'll just leave the bags in the car. Okay?”

“Fine with me.”

“I'm sometimes amazed,” said Quiola as C.C. unlocked the chipping white-painted front door, “that the ‘shed' doesn't just fall down around your ears.”

“Here we are –” and C.C. stepped inside, letting out a wash of cool air.

“You're running the AC?”

“For you – welcome home.” The dining-area table had a vase of sweet-smelling hyacinth on it and was set for two: jaunty blue and yellow stripe place mats and napkins.

“Oh, C.C., you shouldn't have bothered yourself so much!”

“Not a bother. Cheap and cheerful seemed the way to go, like the turbans.”

“And how was Valerie?”

“Older – as are we all. It was nice to spend time with her. Lizzie called every Monday, to check in, and I've been keeping tabs on Mother, although I haven't had the heart to go up there but once. Poor Mom. She enjoys the visit, but hasn't a clue who I am. Let's get dinner up and running.”

In a few moments, the microwave whirred and binged, filling the small house with the mingled fragrance of garlic, tomatoes and basil. C.C. cut lasagne squares, retrieved two small salads from the fridge, while Quiola opened a bottle of wine. When they sat down, C.C. said, “So I've decided. I want a wig. Is the pasta hot enough?”

“Plenty. Why do you want a wig?”

“Because the turban is okay at home, but I want hair.”

“I truly thought you didn't mind bald.”

“I didn't, when it was my choice. It isn't a choice anymore – I'm smooth as an egg, I don't have an eyelash in my head, I look like an alien. I want to look semi-normal. And I want a breast to replace the one they took from me.”

“A breast? Have you talked about this with Dr. Shea?”

“Uh-huh. She'll write me a prescription.”

“For a breast implant?”

“No, silly. I don't want any more surgery, and I don't fancy putting anything like silicon into my system.” She took a sip of wine. “Chemo was rough enough. No, I want a fake to fill me out.”

“You are too much.”

“More like my old self, anyway.”

“Amen to that.” Fingering the glass stem, she lifted the wine for a toast.

 

♦

 

In pigtails, C.C. put a scabby elbow atop her mother's scarred vanity table. Nancy brushed out her own curls, tamed by nightly rollers so that she had a gentle wave many women envied – which she well knew. It was one of her secret prides.

“Charlotte, how old are you now?”

“You know, Mommy.”

“Of course I do but tell me anyway.” Static electricity snapped as Nancy brushed.

C.C. rubbed one eye, pushed an errant curl from her own damp forehead and said, “Eleven.”

“A big girl.”

“Yes, Mommy.”

Nancy opened one of the vanity's side drawers to select a lipstick, one so well-used the gold fill of the casing was worn to a dull brass. “Would you like to try Tangee?”

“No – ick!”

“Don't you think your mother is pretty?”

“Oh, yes, Mommy, yes. I think you are the prettiest of them all.”

“And don't you want to grow up to be a pretty lady, like your Mother?”

C.C. picked at a scab. “Do I have to?”

Nancy laughed and, leaning into the mirror pursed her lips, smoothing on the Tangee. She puckered, blotted and said, “Well, sweetheart, I don't know if you have to. What do you want to grow up to be?”

“I want to be a painter. Like Aunt Liz.”

“Charlotte Clio! And here I thought you loved me best.”

“Oh, Mommy, of course I love you best.”

“But you enjoy your drawing lessons, hmm?”

“Oh, I do. Today I sketched Nadine.” Nadine was one of Liz Moore's three Siamese queens. “Tomorrow, I'll try my feet.”

“Your feet?”