The Melting Queen

by Bruce Cinnamon

  The crowd cheers, and then a group of DJs takes to the stage and a huge rave begins on the Legislature Lawns. The Melting Day playlist blasts through a disorienting array of musical genres. Baroque harpsichord segues into Ariana Grande then bounds on through Elvis and Edith Piaf. “Orinoco Flow” blends into “You Only Live Twice.” The playlist is decided by popular submission, and nobody’s suggestions are turned away. Like all else on Melting Day, the result is a lovably terrible hodgepodge.

  As a Stravinsky concerto blares out, jolting the merrymakers into euphoric leaps, Sander suggests we go around to the gardens behind the building to see Her statue.

  Years ago, someone decided it was a good idea to haul the statues of all the famous Edmontonians from across the city to the Legislature gardens, where they could stare at each other for all eternity and be stared at in turn by picnickers and pigeons. As we walk through the statue park, Sander points out this important Edmontonian and that one, jabbering on about their contributions to the city.

  I tune out Sander and look around at the crowd. People keep glancing at me, admiring my postcard gown and my mane of ginger hair. I straighten my back and hold my head high, enjoying their attention. I’m glad someone appreciates the effort I put in. Odessa and Sander sure don’t seem to care. They’re back to debating each other again, arguing about whether some of the statues of old racist men should be taken down and destroyed or left up with signs explaining their true histories. I sigh, wishing my friends cared more about discovering my new self and less about winning arguments with each other.

  We arrive at the centre of the vast gardens, where a sacred rite of spring is taking place. At the heart of the Legislature Statue Park stands a larger-than-life sculpture, the most important Edmontonian of them all. May Winter is over six feet tall, and her features are impossibly serene. Unlike most of the other statues—whose bronze has blackened and whose marble has chipped—the first Melting Queen is made of bright burnished copper that glows like a pyre in the night. Sander told me once that the statue is polished every day by the devoted followers of the Cult of the Melting Queen, who revere Her as a goddess—the fertility queen who breathes life back into Edmonton every spring. Two white-robed acolytes stand on either side of the statue now, handing out green pieces of paper.

  On Melting Day, a special ceremony takes place at the statue. Women and girls of all ages write their names on “leaves” and affix them to the copper foliage of May Winter’s famous dress. Just after dawn, the thousands of names will be harvested by the people who select the next Melting Queen, and Melting Day will end with the Naming of the new Melting Queen tomorrow morning.

  Women and girls have been adding names all day, and the statue is covered by several layers of green paper leaves. I watch as a mom lifts her little girl way up over her head so she can affix her leaf to the statue. May Winter’s smiling face shines down on them.

  A stooped old woman has been waiting behind a group of teenage girls for the past few minutes. When they’ve finally stopped taking selfies and stuck their leaves to the statue, the old woman approaches the statue and reaches up with a frail, trembling arm. She presses her leaf onto May Winter’s dress—quickly, self-consciously. She turns away and hobbles off through the crowd, and a moment later her leaf tumbles off the statue and onto the ground. One of the acolytes sees it, looks after the old woman for a second, then steps slightly to the side, covering up the leaf with his foot. Neither Sander nor Odessa seem to notice.

  “We only started this tradition fifty-eight years ago, you know,” says Sander, staring up at May Winter’s shining face with reverence. “Before then the Melting Queens were chosen by a committee of prominent women called ELLE, the Elite Ladies League of Edmonton. For a few years in the thirties the city even tried to have a vote, but that ended straight away after Saoirse Beltane was voted in and led the Hunger March against the government during the Depression. And at one point in the fifties the outgoing Melting Queen just chose a name out of the phonebook.”

  “I’ve always wondered how the current Melting Queen has time to look up all the names in the city directory,” I say. “It seems impossible.”

  “Of course it’s impossible,” says Odessa, leering at the statue and the massive crowd of Melting Queen hopefuls. “Clearly this leaf thing is a big sham. They obviously just have pre-approved list that they choose from.”

  “That’s not it at all!” says Sander. “They have an automated system that sorts and ranks all the leaves, and then a huge team of researchers reviews all the submissions and selects the best choice.”

  “And they’ve been doing that for fifty-eight years?” says Odessa, eyebrow arched to the heavens.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, they have,” says Sander. “Maybe not with the computerized system, but they—”

  “That’s bullshit,” says Odessa. “Okay, sure, maybe they get someone to stick up the name they want every year, to keep up the charade. But when do they ever pick someone who actually makes a difference or does anything to upset the status quo? Never.”

  Sander looks ready to either launch into a long lecture or duel to the death to defend the honour of the Melting Queen, so I cut in.

  “Have you ever stuck your name on the statue?” I ask Odessa.

  “Of course not,” she says, practically spitting out the words.

  “I think you’d be a great Melting Queen.”

  “Are you serious? What a horrible job. You’d have people telling you what to do all the time, fitting you into this little box of picture-perfect femininity. It would be a good platform for performance, sure. But still, not worth it.”

  “You’re wrong,” says Sander. “Melting Day is unique in the world. I’ve read quite extensively, you know, and nowhere else is there a festival like this, where a whole city—rich and poor, gay and straight, every race and religion—comes together truly as one. Getting to embody this tradition is an incredible privilege. I think it would the greatest honour to be Named as Melting Queen.”

  “Well it’s too bad you’ll never be Named then,” laughs Odessa.

  Sander’s cheeks flush red and he looks away.

  “Oh Sander,” says Odessa in a sing-song voice, “don’t be like that. Trust me, you don’t want to be the Melting Queen. When are you going to realize that Melting Day is all a lie? I mean sure, it’s fun. But it’s not as freaky or liberated as everyone thinks it is. It pretends it’s risky, but really it’s safe. It promises subversion, but it exists within the confines of a controlled system—all these backwards, intolerant, timid people can point to this one day they were bold and open-minded, as if that excuses them from being boneless assholes the other 364 days of the year. Look around you—do you think all these people are really filled with brotherly love of their fellow Edmontonian? Melting Day is just a big pressure release valve. Without it, the stress of our insane way of life would build up and burst in violent revolution. And on top of that, it’s all just an excuse to sell costumes and booze and limp green onion cakes.”

  I want to believe in Sander’s version of Melting Day. It’s true to a certain extent, or at least for a certain percentage of Edmontonians. Lots of people truly do let their wild sides out on Melting Day, and do daring things that would never otherwise be permissible. But Odessa’s version is just as true. She turns to me expectantly.

  “Back me up on this, Adam.”

  I just stare back at her for a second, but she doesn’t seem to notice my sour expression.

  “Not Adam,” I say. “I told you.”

  “Oh. Right. Sorry. But you agree with me, right?”

  I sigh.

  “I have to pee,” I say. “Will you two wait here? I won’t be long.”

  “Sure,” says Sander.

  I set off towards the Legislature, making my through a mob of people who are increasingly indistinguishable from their costumes. Sailor Moon pushes a very intoxicated FDR past in his wheelchair. Anne of Green Gables and Pennywise the Dancing Clown run by
, giggling and playing tag. A badger with a paintball gun chases a whole khalasar of Daenerys Targaryens.

  I have a headache. I thought that my two strangest friends would want to celebrate my going away. But Sander and Odessa are just making me feel crabby, weighing me down on a day when I should be flying free. I’m sad to admit it, but I need a break from them.

  Escaping the undertow of the crowd, I climb up the main steps of the big sandstone building. The doors of the Legislature are wide open. The crowd has burst inside, filling the halls with laughter and song. The Legislature Rotunda is built out of ammolite, an iridescent gemstone harvested from the Rocky Mountains, made from the fossilized shells of prehistoric crustaceans. The glittering rainbow surfaces reflect the flickering light of fire breathers, who spit flames down from the dome and into the cavernous rotunda below.

  Walking through the palace of Alberta’s government, I see the best and worst of freed impulses—the twin faces of Melting Day, both exhilarating and horrifying. Acrobats hang from strips of silk, performing intricate manoeuvres while suspended from the palm trees in the dome. A ninja fights a pirate in the Rotunda fountain, cheered on by a crowd of bloodthirsty spectators. Captain Jack Sparrow smashes a display case and hefts the province’s royal golden mace, leading a mad parade of security guards through the building. Fine oil portraits of Premiers past stare down on the depravities with mute horror. The Lieutenant Governor himself is swaying drunkenly through the crowd, slamming back tequila shots with anyone who’ll accept a lime wedge. I see a pair of duelling jugglers trying to one-up each other by chucking more and more pysanka into the air, the fragile Ukrainian Easter eggs blurring together into dark circles.

  Tomorrow all these transgressions will be forgiven. People will gather sheepishly in Churchill Square for the Melting Queen’s Pardon, and all the drunk and disorderly revellers who got themselves locked up will be released. The Melting Day Fund, which claims a penny from every financial transaction in the city, will be used to pay for any damage incurred in the course of the carnival. Everything will be set right. Back to business as usual. Everybody will hide away their costumes and their kinks. Edmonton will go back to being a grey, bland, introverted city for another year.

  I have to go down to the basement to find a bathroom that people aren’t having sex in. One cramped little men’s room is mercifully empty, and I amuse myself by peeling back a couple postcards like a little door as I stand in front of a urinal.

  I’ve just started to pee when I hear the door swing open behind me and music spills into the room.

  “Whoa, sorry!”

  I glance over my shoulder and see the back of a man in an Oilers jersey, exiting the bathroom at top speed. A moment later he pokes his head back in the door.

  “Wait. Uh, is this...?”

  He looks at the sign on the door, then at me. He finally connects the dots, realizes I’m standing at a urinal.

  “Oh man, I’m so sorry. I thought you were a chick.”

  He shambles up to the urinal beside me in a looping walk.

  “It’s fine,” I barely say.

  “Yeah. Whoops! Fuck. I’m sorry dude. Just your hair. You know. My bad.”

  “Don’t mention it,” I say.

  “Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t mean—you know? Nice costume though bro. I dig it. It’s cool.”

  “Thanks.”

  Everybody loves a man in a dress on Melting Day, when inversions and perversions are queen. Come tomorrow it’ll be a different story. Come tomorrow the candy-coated veneer of tolerance will be shattered just like the river.

  But come tomorrow I’ll be gone, and this humdrum city with its once-a-year splendour can do whatever it likes.

  I finish peeing and go wash my hands as quickly as possible. The guy leans against the wall as he pees—he’s already forgotten about me and seems on the verge of falling asleep.

  I look at myself in the mirror and cringe. I don’t look magnificent or resplendent or glorious. My postcard dress is tattered and ratty. My face is the same gaunt mask with dark-circled eyes. Is this how I’ve looked all day? Like some awkward, gangly man in a cheap homemade costume? So much for my new beginning. I’m so far from the person I want to be, but it seems so impossible for me to get there.

  I leave the bathroom in a slump, trying desperately to maintain the guttering fire of my spirits. I feel so tired, and cold, and ugly. I return to May Winter’s statue, but I can’t see Odessa and Sander anywhere. All I see are more characters, more revelry, more pandemonium. I can’t stop seeing it through Odessa’s eyes now, and it all seems like such an embarrassing, empty farce.

  I go around the grounds looking for my friends, trying to stamp out these dark thoughts that nip at the edge of my mind. I search for them at the Periscopes, at the Holodomor memorial, in the cherry tree grove whose pink blossoms still haven’t bloomed. I go back into the Legislature building and check every room, accepting more drinks from strangers along the way, trying to stem the tide of these depressing thoughts. A sweet one, a salty one, a sour one, a bitter one. The cocktails have imaginative names, but eventually they all taste the same.

  After what feels like hours of searching, I finally find them on the roof of the Legislature, looking down on the vast party below. Odessa has collected a little audience around herself as she does her own interpretive dance to Beyoncé’s “Girls.” Sander is having an argument with John Diefenbaker and Cookie Monster about the viability of the welfare state in the twenty-first century. Diefenbaker has just said something about the healthcare costs of aging Baby Boomers, and Cookie Monster ripostes by talking about Tommy Douglas and the cornerstones of Canadian identity.

  “Where’ve you been?” I shout. I notice my words slurring together. How many drinks did I have? It doesn’t matter. “I looked all over for you!”

  “There’s an all-you-can-eat egg buffet in the Legislative Chamber,” says Sander. “And a fairy with turquoise hair is granting wishes from the Speaker’s Throne.”

  “Cool. Great. I wanna leave.”

  “What!?” gasps Sander. “We haven’t even seen the fireworks yet!”

  “Who cares? This is all a sham anyways, right? This is all a big festival of lies anyways, right?”

  Sander looks aghast. Odessa stops her dance and puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “Adam—”

  “No! How many times do I have to tell you!?”

  “Ugh, yes. Christ, sorry, I forgot. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “Yeah, okay, sure. Whatever. I just want to go. I wanted today to feel special and I don’t feel special and I wish I’d just left last night when I broke the river and what am I even doing here?”

  “If you want to go, then let’s go,” says Odessa. “Sander. Come on.”

  “Okay,” says Sander reluctantly. He shakes hands with Cookie Monster and hugs Diefenbaker, who slaps him on the back and pins a “Keep the Chief” campaign button on his pyjamas. We’re just heading towards the stairs when a hush falls over the crowd.

  “They’re announcing the Melting Day Baby!” says Diefenbaker.

  “COOKIE!” says Cookie Monster.

  The Melting Day Baby is like a New Year’s Baby, only instead of being the closest born to midnight, the winner is the baby that’s born nearest to sunrise on Melting Day.

  Odessa shrugs apologetically, then follows Sander back to the roof’s edge. Down on the steps of the Legislature, the parents hold the squirming infant up to Alice Songhua. She kisses its forehead and the crowd roars its approval.

  “Is it a boy or a girl?” asks Odessa, peering down.

  “Boy, I think I heard,” says Sander.

  I feel a thin tendril of nausea snaking up my throat, and I turn away from the roof’s edge.

  “Does it matter?” I ask.

  “Well no,” says Odessa, “but it’s always kind of nice when it’s a girl. It feels like a real moment of sisterhood with the Melting Queen.”

  I look at her and Sander, and all the o
ther men and women leaning out over the building to see the new child. They’re all asking each other the same question.

  “You know what, I think I’m just gonna go,” I say. “You two stay here, enjoy your night.”

  I turn towards the stairs. Odessa grabs my arm and pulls me back.

  “Nope! You’re not going to leave like that. No way. Tell us what’s happening. Why are you in such a mood?”

  “In a mood? Okay, how about this: I told you that I’m not Adam anymore but you keep on saying it over and over—”

  “I already apologized for that.”

  “—and I told you I wanted to use Melting Day to celebrate the start of this new chapter of my life but you just took a shit all over it and made it seem like the worst festival in the world and the stupidest idea to think that today could be special.”

  “And you,” I turn to Sander, who shrinks back. “You’ve just basically ignored me all day. Like, thanks for the history lesson, Sander. But do you even care about me?”

  Sander just stands there looking uncomfortable, looking self-conscious that I’m making a scene even though none of these drunk assholes in the crowd cares at all. Odessa is even worse, with that typical all-knowing, ever-patient smile on her face.

  “And you know what else?” I say, not holding anything back anymore. Fuck it. I’ll probably never see them again anyways. “You’re the only two people I chose to keep. I had to cut everyone out, start fresh. Our friendship has always existed in its own little pocket universe, though, outside of my regular life, so I thought I could keep you two. I thought: ‘Oh, I can keep Odessa and Sander. They’re cool. They’ll understand.’ But you’re just like Brock. You’re just like everyone else.”

  “What don’t we understand?” says Odessa.

  “Can you just let someone else talk for once, okay Odessa? Fuck! This was supposed to be my going-away party, the new beginning of my new life. But you both had to ruin it with your arguing and your shitting all over Melting Day and the fact that you care more about statues and trivia than about me. Haven’t you noticed that there’s something else? I’ve been trying to tell you all day, but I don’t know how to say it. It doesn’t make any sense. I don’t have a good explanation. It’s just a feeling, deep and impossible to get rid of. Like, I’m not Adam Truman anymore. But, like, I’m not a guy at all anymore. Right? That doesn’t make sense. Like every time someone looks at me and says ‘Hey man’ and is all like ‘Yeah bro I got you,’ it feels wrong. It’s not me. I’m not that anymore. I’m not a woman either. I’m just nothing, some other thing. That makes no sense. That’s not something that just happens one day to people. I don’t want that. I don’t get that. So there, I told you, there you go.”