The Women of Saturn

by Connie Guzzo-Mcparland

  I feel a slight coarseness in the texture of her fine hair that has the potential to frizz. I suspect that if I use the small size of rods suggested, Cecile wouldn’t really be happy with the results. I visualize tight curls springing up around Cecile’s large forehead, leaving it exposed and hard.

  It’s only a hunch and I can’t decide if it deserves an explanation.

  “Girls, I think that the grey rods you suggest are too small for her hair,” I tell the class hesitantly. “I’m afraid her hair might frizz.”

  “I think the whites are too big,” Franca says.

  “I agree, so we need to improvise along the way,” I say.

  I decide to use the grey rods but take thicker sections of hair than usual, and roll the hair loosely, almost messily. As I reach the hairline, I also leave out a few loose strands, uncurled. I decide to go with my hunch. How do you explain a hunch? I wonder. How do you teach students what you feel with your fingertips?

  I want to tell them that textbooks don’t contain all the answers. Life is not always played out in black or white, and grey offers many options. But all I say is, “Think of all the variables. Your success in hairstyling depends on understanding the client’s individual needs.”

  The students look at me blankly. I can’t tell whether my explanation makes any sense, but Cecile nods in agreement. She keeps her eyes closed as the students and I move around her to complete the perm.

  After the rods are removed and the hair is rinsed, the students ooh and aah at how softly and naturally the curls fall. Cecile’s fine and now wavy hair is quickly dried into shape and she seems genuinely pleased with her new look. She gives Franca a tip and thanks me profusely.

  “You should wear it like that all the time; it makes you look younger,” Franca says, already displaying the qualities of a successful hairstylist.

  Cecile leaves, patting her hair and smiling.

  “For once she doesn’t look like a dork,” Gina snorts, and the class bursts out laughing.

  I’m also relieved by the result. Yet as Cecile closes the door behind her, a sense of tiredness at the futility of the two-hour procedure overtakes me. I know all too well the ephemeral quality of our work. Some art! After all that deliberation, within days, the hair will grow out of shape, the curls will drop, colours will fade, and there will be nothing left but the tenuous hope of the hunch—the brush of the arm that seems to awaken you from slumber and that carries you off in a new dream.

  25. STINK BOMB

  I FINALLY DECIDE TO FOLLOW Bruce’s advice and apply for department head, and I feel more resolved than ever to keep Angie in my class. It feels good to stand up to Frank and his gang, but another motive seems to be slowly taking shape.

  I’ve completed my degree in Italian literature, and after eight years of teaching the art and science of hairdressing in the “pretend saloon,” and with Sean moving on in politics, I feel restless to embark on a project of my own. Quite unintentionally, Angie has reconnected me to Lucia and my past, and, in a roundabout way, has spurred me to turn my thoughts to writing again.

  Susan, the secretary, has just seen Cecile’s hair and wants to know if I could use another model. After taking my application form, we’re working out an appointment, when everyone in the office raises their heads from their desks. A sickening smell has suddenly permeated the air. Office doors open. Mr. Champagne comes out of his office, sniffing. The principal moves quickly toward the students’ lockers. I follow him. Students are scurrying, getting their lunch bags or putting away their books. They all seem to be in a frenzy. Holding their noses, they squirm and talk excitedly, as if they have been both the butt of, and the perpetrators of, a huge practical joke.

  “A stink bomb! A stink bomb!” they repeat. The stink, though, wafts through the ventilation system, so it’s clearly not just a student’s silly prank. The principal returns to his office. After a couple of minutes, an intercom message comes on: “All classes are dismissed and everyone is asked to leave the building immediately. The building will be thoroughly inspected.”

  A loud roar of approval rises from the locker areas. Everyone flows out of the hallways with big smiles at the unexpected afternoon off.

  A traffic jam forms inside the garage as everyone tries to drive out of their spaces at the same time. I’m stuck in my spot while a line of cars drives slowly past me. Someone honks. It’s Bruce. He rolls his eyes at the craziness of it all. I shrug my shoulders and raise my hands in helplessness at being unable to move. It’s hot, so I roll down my window. He stops his car, gets out, and motions to the others to back up so I have enough space to slip out. I wave to thank him.

  My car moves sluggishly, with a grating noise. Bruce motions me to stop, and comes next to the car window.

  “You’ve got a flat tire,” he tells me, “wait for me.”

  He moves his own car to let the others pass, and then returns. Luckily I have a spare and he changes it expertly.

  “Someone slashed your tire,” he tells me when finished. “Let’s go in and report it.”

  The clanging of doors opening and closing, the sound of engines and the blaring of car horns bounce off the cement walls, floors, and ceiling of the garage. The smelly fumes and the thought of someone purposely slashing my tire makes me nauseous.

  “Not right now. I’ll do it on Monday. I need to get out of here,” I say.

  I finally drive out into the open, but my eyes, accustomed to the dim garage, are blinded by the sudden, brilliant sunlight hitting my car window. I squint, and for an instant, feel disoriented.

  In Mulirena, in my last year of school there, I used to walk home with my teacher, Signor Gavano, who came all the way from Piemonte and boarded at Don Cesare’s house. Out of nowhere, images of people from the past pop into my mind, as though hiding around the corner I just turned.

  26. MISS PARK EX

  THE SCENE OUTSIDE THE SCHOOL is chaotic. Over two thousand jeans-clad teenagers, with shiny skin and stringy hair, have poured out of the school entrance and into the residential street, already narrowed by cars parked on both sides. Usually the junior students are let out half an hour earlier to avoid this congestion.

  The crowd disperses by the time I reach Jean-Talon, but I still drive slowly and absent-mindedly. Was the tire slashing a random act of vandalism by students or a more sinister act to threaten me for defying the department? Mike had fumed at me for having accepted a special-ed student in my class.

  On the way to the garage, I had entertained the thought of going shopping for winter clothes at the posh Rockland Shopping Centre in the Town of Mount Royal, but in my new state of mind, I decide to head for home. The afternoon is bright and sunny and I drive slowly in cruising mode

  The shopping centre separates wealthy TMR from poorer Park Ex. Since working at WLHS, I sometimes drive through the bucolic streets of this “Town” within a city, with streets named Roselawn Crescent, Walpole Road, Sunset Circle, and dream of having a home with Sean there. The maple trees are so old and tall that in some streets their branches and foliage meet to form a protective canopy. From what I hear, the cost of homes in this part of town is prohibitive, but I like the tranquility provided by greenery. Living here would be the closest thing to living in a village all over again, but I wonder whether Sean and I will remain together long enough to ever even consider affording a house in this area. One thing is sure, though. If we do marry, I don’t want to move northeast to the new developments, with rows of monotonous duplexes and triplexes, and no green spaces, built by Italian contractors who have made a bundle of money in the cement and asphalt business, some of whose names are beginning to pop up in the news in connection to the investigations.

  In contrast to the fashion boutiques at Rockland Centre, the windows of the little shops along Jean-Talon Street are cluttered with merchandise. One store in particular catches my attention with its sign, Nouveau Acropolis: Vêtement
s Pour Toute la Famille, in blue and white ceridic letters—the colours of the Greek flag. The household goods on display—the embroidered tablecloths, brocade bedspreads, first communion white dresses—would be right at home in a remote Mediterranean or Greek mountain village.

  What made the owners of Nouveau Acropolis choose such a grandiose-sounding name for a dry goods store? I muse. Are they hoping to establish their own new Acropolis on the corner of Wiseman and Jean-Talon, or is it a futile attempt to hold onto their past?

  I impulsively stop my car and park it in front of a Greek restaurant, Miss Park Ex. I feel like eating something to relieve the gnawing in my stomach. On entering the restaurant, I’m hit by a surge of hot air, permeated with a mixture of smells that I can’t identify. Miss Park Ex is really a greasy spoon, as well known for its all-dressed pizza as for its Greek fare. I know the owner, Costa. In his twenties now, he’s a graduate of WLHS and runs the restaurant for his father. The short-order cook looks familiar too. I could swear that he’s the night janitor I saw coming out of the Tech-Voc staff room with Frank and the others earlier, but he doesn’t seem to recognize me. I order a souvlaki. “Go easy on the tzatziki,” I tell Costa.

  He replies, “Got you, Miss,” as if he were still in school.

  “You’re expecting a busy night,” I say, pointing to the empty pizza boxes, stacked on the counter, ready to be filled and delivered.

  “E-e-v-e-e-r-y night is a busy night here,” Costa replies, dragging himself around, as he gives the order to the cook who, unlike Costa, moves nervously from the pizza oven, to the hot plates, to the toaster.

  On the menu above the counter are plastic-laminated pictures of a jumbo hot dog, a hamburger, and a club sandwich, each on a plate garnished with heaps of French fries and coleslaw. The restaurant is long and narrow. It’s stuffy, and smells of cheese melting over pepperoni, and of Costa’s sweat. The wall-to-wall carpet, judging by its stains, looks as if it hasn’t been cleaned in years.

  “I can imagine the stink,” Costa says. Noticing my puzzled expression, he explains. “I heard they stink-bombed the whole school, Miss. I freaked when I heard it. It was bound to happen, sooner or later.”

  “You’ve heard already?” I ask.

  “Here, I hear everything, Miss. If parents only knew what goes on at that school, they’d freak out, but … say the truth, Miss. We were never that bad. We talked about doing things like that, but we just talked, but today…. It’s bad in there, Miss, say the truth.” Costa becomes animated, and he spreads his arms as he talks.

  “Oh, it’s not as bad as it looks, Costa,” I say. “Most of the kids are okay. You know how it is. It only takes a handful…”

  “Then it’s the pushers. I think there’s too many dope heads in there. It’s bad. A whole generation of kids, and families too, are being ruined, not just the school, Miss, believe me.”

  The cook stops fidgeting and, with a spatula in his hands, comes closer to the counter, trying to cut into Costa’s ranting, “I hear they want to lock all the doors. Pretty soon they’ll be hiring guards,” he says and returns to the grill.

  Costa looks back at him and replies, spreading his arms, “Well it’s about time, George. They gotta do something about those pushers. They’re pushing dope on the first year kids these days. What do you expect the school to do, open the doors to them?”

  “Yeah, Costa, and you think that’s going to stop the kids from getting the dope? It’s supposed to be a school, for Cris’ sake, not a jail.” George seems angry. He stuffs the meat into the pita bread, wraps it in wax paper, and throws it on the counter, while Costa rings the cash register.

  Costa whispers, “George is pissed off at all the changes the principal is trying to make.”

  “Do you work as night janitor? Weren’t you in the Tech-Voc staff room just a little while ago?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I just returned from my night shift,” George replies morosely.

  “You can tell how hard he works at night. He comes straight here, nice and rested. Eh, George?” Costa says, laughing. “Have a seat, Miss. I’ll bring you a drink. What do you want? A coffee? A Coke? It’s on me,” Costa offers cheerfully.

  “Nothing, Costa, thanks anyway. I feel like eating outside.” I pay for the souvlaki and walk out, unfolding the wax paper so I can take a bite.

  I walk slowly as I eat, dawdling in front of each store window, but there’s not much to look at in that stretch of street. The souvlaki is tasty but too greasy for my liking, and I throw it in a wastebasket and return to the car.

  I cross Park Avenue, drive under a rail underpass, and enter Little Italy. I live east of here, past the open-air Jean-Talon Market where, as a pre-teen, I used to go with my mother every Saturday to buy fresh vegetables and fruits, and even live chickens. I pass Jean-Talon Hospital, where Lucia is still in a coma. I should visit her again one evening, maybe with Angie.

  At the next stop sign, I make a jerky U-turn and get back on Jean-Talon. For a moment, I think of stopping at the journalist’s office, with the excuse of wanting to buy his latest book of essays, Multiculturalism: The Institutionalization of Ethnicity, whose launch had been advertised in his magazine about a month ago. On Papineau Street, I panic, and drive back in a circle to my apartment.

  The apartment is flooded with sunlight and every speck of dust on the furniture and windowpanes seems magnified, but I’m in no mood for cleaning.

  I really want to talk about everything that has happened, but to whom? Will I have the courage to ask Sean to move out if he won’t commit to marriage? Most of the furniture is mine and I can’t be the one to move now that Angie will be living with me. Bruce would probably make a good listener. But I can’t just go up to him and say, “I’d like to talk.” I’d feel silly. In any case, it’s not like me to open up to just anyone like that.

  I browse through the stories I had written about my life in Mulirena, before the sea voyage, and reread one about my third grade teacher, Signor Gavano. It was the need to recapture those very moments, places, and people that had formed my childhood that had made me want to write in the first place. How do I go beyond that? I would like to connect the past to the present that is unfolding and changing in ways I had never imagined. The task feels overwhelming. Maybe I should leave things alone, let the past be, and just concentrate on my own personal issues with Sean.

  Yet, memories arrive unannounced. The store Nouveau Acropolis brought back an image of the only shop in Mulirena that sold men’s shirts, white muslin cottons, and the floss used by girls to embroider their trousseaux. My neighbours often sent me there with colour samples to buy embroidery floss for them. The small store was dark and cool and had its own particular smell from the bolts of new cotton and the smooth silk threads that begged to be transformed into borders of delicate flowers and multicoloured butterflies for the marriage-bed sheets and pillowcases.

  Signor Gavano also smelled of clean cotton. I haven’t heard a single word about him in the twenty-odd years since I left Mulirena, yet he makes an appearance in my thoughts from time to time in his beige-and-brown tweed jacket and limpid clear blue eyes. Of Canada, he only taught me about the immense expanse of land and water, but what could he know at the time of polyvalent high schools, Park Ex, and jumbo hot dogs?

  27. ALFONSO

  IN THE MORNING, I PUT a new notebooks in my briefcase. I’m determined to keep a close journal of what is happening now and tie it to my previous writing. How coincidental to have become reconnected to Lucia through her daughter at this turning point in her life. And at what point is it exactly? Is this its ending? It can’t be. What if this is not an ending yet, but another beginning, both for Lucia and me?

  On Sunday afternoon, after the family lunch, Tina, Mother, and I sat on the balcony and chatted for over three hours. Tina had also been jilted by her village sweetheart, Michele, after he left for Rome, even though they had been engaged. I wonder if,
after all the years, the hurt of having been abandoned by Michele had lessened for her. She now has two husky sons and a very docile husband who depend fully on her to run the household. I see her frequently and yet I know very little about how her past life has impacted her present.

  And what about Aurora? No one has seen her or heard much from her since she immigrated to Argentina after she married in her Sunday best, but without a white dress and veil. All I remember about her are her grey eyes and light-coloured hair, and the blue satin sash that she was going to wear in the play as Our Lady of Lourdes.

  The past is far removed. How reliable is my understanding of what happened? I had seen things through the eyes of a child and I only know the women’s side of the story.

  If only the journalist had been more forthcoming with me when I first had asked for his help. I’m sure he’ll still discourage me from investigating the past. I wrote to him a second time:

  Dear Antoine,

  Why do you ridicule the efforts made by young Italian Canadian writers to write about their past?

  Rina

  Dear Rina,

  First, let us put the ethnic label to rest. It smells of ethnic cleansing to me. The compulsion to write is typical and normal for the children of immigrants who have come of age, to either record their experiences for posterity, to purge themselves of guilt, or of perceived hurts, or to pay tribute to aging parents. But they often do so under the glow of nostalgia because they don’t really remember; they can only imagine the idyllic pastoral life of their nonnos. Well, reading about nostalgia gives me gas pains, because I remember a time back home when people tore at each other’s throats for a bucket of water and some sold their souls for a visa to America. The diarrheic confessional memoirs of the first generations may be of therapeutic value to the writers but they contribute nothing to the community’s body of literary works. My concern is to enlarge our own reality, to rise above the personal, and aim for literary truths that will lead to universal truths.