The Skin Beneath

by Nairne Holtz

  Romey doesn’t discuss her feelings. She’s quieter than every other woman Sam has dated. Femmes aren’t supposed to be strong, silent types, but Romey is. Sometimes she talks a lot, but she is capable of sitting on her balcony and smoking her du Mauriers for hours without saying much of anything. Sam can riff about her day or not—Romey is as comfortable with Sam’s silence as she is with her own. Women usually present Sam with full narratives of their lives, their traumas, their dawning awareness of their sexual attraction to other women. But Romey offers her history as though she were a croupier dealing cards. When they run into people Romey knows, she introduces them to Sam but that’s all. There’s the guy at the Atwater market who sells flowers. Even though Romey never buys flowers, she always greets him. Sam finally asks, “How do you know him?”

  Romey says, “We went to CEGEP together.” CEGEP is Quebec’s system of junior colleges.

  “What did you study?”

  “I took a bunch of different courses.”

  “Do you ever think about going to university?” As she says it, Sam feels like an asshole, is reminded of her father. What’s your plan? You know you can’t be a dancer forever.

  “A university won’t take my application. I never got my diploma from CEGEP. I quit.” Words spat on the ground, shower of dark hair tossed with a sharp movement of her head.

  Sam drops it—the same way she dropped trying to find out what happened to her sister. After their first date, Romey and Sam don’t talk about Chloe. All of Sam’s efforts to find out who sent her the postcard, what exactly Chloe was investigating before she died, what Omar is hiding, are abandoned. Sam tries to set aside her memories of her sister, to tuck them into bed like a tired and cranky toddler you hope will sleep for awhile. When Sam is away from Romey, however, thoughts of Chloe intrude. While washing racks of dishes at the restaurant where Chloe used to work, it is hard not to think about her. The problem is, Sam doesn’t want to. She remembers her father telling her she was going to Montreal for her own reasons. Maybe he’s right—maybe she moved here to get over Chloe. Or maybe Sam’s just afraid to try to find out more about Chloe’s death in case it screws up things with Romey. Even though she isn’t hanging out with Omar these days, she talks about him fondly. Whenever he has some kind of Egyptian community event to go to, he takes her. “I’m his beard,” Romey laughs. He’s not gay, of course, but his girlfriends have a tendency to be heroin-using drama queens. His current girlfriend is married to someone else. Meanwhile, Omar’s mom really likes Romey. “You should marry her,” his mom says, stabbing her finger at Romey. And the truth is, Romey acknowledges, their friendship has outlasted all of their lovers.

  As Sam is leaving work one afternoon, she runs into Francis, whom she last saw more than two months ago. He’s standing in front of Le Lapin Blanc talking to one of the Somali busboys whose name it takes Sam a minute to remember: Hassan. The busboy who informed her they put fags in jail in his country.

  Sam trips down the steps of the pub to join them. They are pointing out marks on the ground where some drunken kids chalked a hopscotch game on the pavement and filled it in with signifying numbers—”13,” “69,” and “666.”

  “Hey, Francis, Hassan. You guys know each other?”

  Francis looks up at her. “That would be a correct assumption.”

  Hassan interrupts: “A bientot” Without waiting for Francis to reply, he flounces off. There’s an effeminacy in his manner of departure that makes Sam wonder for the first time if he’s gay. A curtain opens on the argument she witnessed between him and the waiter, revealing both the staged drama of what she saw and another hidden dialogue. Had Hassan rejected the waiter’s advances, only to have the waiter take revenge by reaching for racism, a reliable weapon, never far from one’s side? And fearing being outed, had Hassan responded with homophobic overkill?

  Sam asks, “Is Hassan your boyfriend?”

  Francis laughs, displaying his teeth and a flash of tongue. “That would be an incorrect assumption. Hassan and I play chess together. He’s one of the few people who can beat me.”

  “You knowing someone I work with is quite a coincidence. Oh wait, you don’t believe in coincidences.”

  Francis kicks a stone from the hopscotch game into the street. “Now that’s not an accurate paraphrasing of my theories. Besides, in this case, there’s a simple explanation. I’ve played chess here for years. It’s how I met your sister. And you got a job here to gather information about her. Speaking of Chloe, I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you. I kept meaning to, but I’ve been busy doing all these interviews with a journalist.”

  “How come?”

  “He’s writing a book.”

  “About you?”

  “About my father.” He gives her a small frown, a warning not to pursue the topic, then continues. “Anyway, I’ve been chatting with my friend Ray in Detroit. He told me there’s this fellow who runs a group for men with Gulf War syndrome. Ray thinks it might be a good place to try and find the guy that Chloe dated. Do you still want to go?”

  “Of course,” Sam lies. The truth is she almost forgot about their conversation, their plans to go to Detroit. As she and Francis discuss dates, times, and car rental arrangements, Sam’s thoughts shift to her sister and the Gulf War conspiracy she was allegedly investigating. Except Sam feels as though she were taking out an old toy that no longer conjures a secret world. A toy like the kaleidoscope she found in her apartment, which she gave to Romey last night. As they sat drinking beer on Romey’s balcony, Sam goofed around, aimed the kaleidoscope in the direction of the sky as if it were a telescope. She shifted the tube at the tangle of stars as if she were able to zero in on distant planets, as if she were discovering a big new faraway world, instead of watching a tiny canvas of subtly moving colour. A canvas she ignored, even though it was directly in front of her.

  After Sam sees Francis, she goes to Meow Mix with Romey. Meow Mix is Montreal’s dyke night, held irregularly at an old-style cabaret club with chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and a stage with red velvet curtains. Preening dyke hipsters come to watch a short stage show followed by their own show—their personal romantic dramas.

  Just inside the door a curvy woman with long black hair and short bangs takes their money and stamps their hands. As she inks Romey’s knuckles, she glances up. “Where’s your bad boy pal tonight?”

  For some reason Romey colours slightly. “I haven’t seen him lately.”

  “Too bad.” Wet cranberry lips arch into a smile.

  The club is almost full and buzzes with energy. Most of the clientele are women in their twenties and thirties but there are also a few men, both gay and straight. Sam asks Romey if the woman at the door was referring to Omar.

  “Yeah, he tags along with me sometimes. It’s so pathetic—he’s gotten lucky twice, which is one more time than me.”

  Sam is surprised to hear this. Women must be intimidated by Romey. Either that, or she’s more of a Catholic girl than she seems. “Did Omar sleep with the door girl?”

  “Uh huh. She’s bi.”

  The show begins with a burlesque dancer who has a pretty body but a not very interesting peek-a-boo routine. Sam asks Romey if she has ever thought about dancing at Meow Mix.

  She rolls her eyes. “Every now and then some artist chick gets a job at The Triangle. They quit within six months, then wind up doing performance art about it for the next three years.”

  “So?”

  “So, I’m not one of those girls. I’m not a dancer who is ‘really an artist.’ I’m just a girl who takes her clothes off for money. Don’t try and upgrade me.”

  “I don’t think I was,” Sam says while wondering if Romey’s right. Sam does think Romey underestimates how funny and smart her dancing is. She is way better than the woman they just saw.

  Next up are drag kings performing Devo. “Are we not men,” they sing and pantomime with flower pots on their heads. The vixens and studs in the audience smirk—the crowd is too co
ol to laugh. Devo is followed by a performance artist who, the MC informs everyone, has come all the way from Berlin.

  When the artist walks onto the stage, she is naked. A stage light pinpoints an object in her hand: a bundle of black suture thread with a curved needle stuck into it. She begins pulling frantically at the thread, letting it web across her body. A joker in the audience yells “plotte” which Romey explains to Sam is French for both vagina and a ball of yarn. After the artist has partially unwound the suture thread, a stage hand approaches her to give her a bucket, which she tilts, allowing the audience to see it is filled with ice. The stage hand gets on her knees, takes an ice cube from the bucket, and rubs it over the belly of the naked artist. When the ice cube melts into transparency, the stage hand picks up another ice cube and repeats the procedure. Just as Sam is beginning to be bored, the stage hand ducks back behind the curtain. The artist then threads the needle and reaches down to pierce her stomach. She pulls the needle through her skin a second time, making a stitch while the audience collectively grimaces. The light beamed onto her pale, concave belly reveals dots of blood. The artist gives the audience a merry smile, but as she continues to sew her skin, her expression and posture become more taut and fearful. She’s leaking but cannot contain what is inside of her. She is trying to mend herself, except she is the source of her pain.

  When she exits, she receives a smattering of applause. Sam can’t decide if she liked the performance or not.

  The show is over. Women who know the routine begin stacking tables and chairs along the sides of the venue, and a queue forms for the bar. Sam offers to get drinks. As she is waiting in line, a hand waves across her eyes. It’s Deejay Sick, house deejay for Ciao Edie. Of all the women Sam could run into from her hometown, she’s relieved to see Deejay Sick because there is no drama between them. Born in Japan, Deejay Sick is too thin and androgynous to sexually attract Sam. Always joking, dancing, or working the turntable, Deejay Sick is an agitated hummingbird. With a tip of the brim of her black cowboy hat, Sam greets her friend. Tonight, Sam’s a sweet transwestite in jeans and a black gabardine shirt with front patch pockets and pearl white snaps. The only problem with the ensemble is it covers up her tattoos.

  Leering at the wall of women, Deejay Sick asks, “Someone caught your eye?”

  “No! I have a girlfriend these days.” Sam cranes her neck around, looking for her lover amidst the art dykes with low-slung pants revealing curved tummies. She finally spots Romey standing in a corner talking to a short, chubby man with a goatee. What is Romey doing talking to a guy? Does she know him from somewhere? Hopefully not work! Sam points out her lover to Deejay Sick with a certain pride. Even in just a shirt and jeans, Romey is so gorgeous! She catches them staring at her and wanders over. When Sam makes introductions, she gives Romey’s butt a slightly territorial squeeze. Romey shakes Deejay Sick’s hand but otherwise doesn’t contribute to the conversation about the relative merits of Montreal vs. Toronto. As soon as Deejay Sick leaves, Romey clutches Sam’s arm. “I just ran into this woman I slept with, and she’s taking T. I didn’t even think of her, I mean him, as all that butch. You’re more butch.”

  “What do you mean by butch?” Sam asks. Calling herself queer is easy because it embraces so much. It is like saying she’s a rebel; how can she not want to be a rebel? But Deejay Sick says she’s a “boi” as do a few other women Sam knows. Some of them bind their breasts, but Sam doesn’t care to. If she did fall further along the masculinity continuum, she doesn’t think she would call herself a “boi.” Boys don’t grow up; Sam isn’t sure she’s grown-up, but she wants to be.

  Romey jacks her lip up. “Are you ashamed of being butch?”

  Since they have just reached the head of the line, Sam raises her palm to tell Romey to hold onto her scorn for a minute. Then Sam orders their drinks: a beer for herself, a Cosmopolitan for Romey. While Sam likes the way Cosmopolitans taste, she isn’t going to be seen in public drinking a cocktail. She doesn’t like the word, but, yeah, she’s butch.

  “Are you ashamed?” Romey persists.

  Sam shakes her head. “It just sounds so old school.”

  “Plus fa change, plus c’est la meme chose.” Romey pauses to pick up her drink from the counter. “Taking hormones though, that’s another story. But I’m not surprised. When we slept together he didn’t take off any of his clothes, not even his baseball cap.”

  Sam crosses her arms. Romey is so close-mouthed, except when it comes to sex, where she overshares—like the time she told Sam she got wet at work dancing for an attractive straight couple. “I don’t want to hear what it was like to fuck a tranny boy, okay?”

  “What’s the big deal? It was casual, just a hot fling.”

  An image swims into Sam’s head—the transman licking Romey, the bill of his baseball cap turned around to facilitate it. What the Berlin artist did to her skin couldn’t be worse than the way Romey is ripping Sam open. She hates herself for feeling so jealous—it isn’t like her. Or maybe it is—she’s never gotten close enough to another woman to find out. Why did Romey suggest going to Meow Mix anyway? In Sam’s life, going to a dyke bar with a woman she is sleeping with signifies the end of the initial frenzy of lust, which is also when Sam looks for a new partner.

  After tipping the bartender, Sam leaves the lineup. Romey follows her, asks, “What’s the matter with you tonight?”

  Sam stops, takes a swig of her beer. Her breasts are swollen, but admitting her crummy mood is related to PMS is almost as embarrassing as discussing her insecurities. Instead she tells Romey about running into Francis, and her decision to visit Detroit with him.

  “I wish you didn’t have to go.” Romey moves in front of Sam to straighten the collar of her shirt, then pats her lapels. Her hands linger on Sam’s breasts. Romey’s touch is casual, but Sam’s body responds with desperate speeding desire, a vial of crack shuffled from seller to buyer. But fucking Romey isn’t going to satisfy Sam. She wants to wring more out of Romey, out of them, than an orgasm.

  Sam says, “If you told me a bit more, I wouldn’t have to go anywhere.”

  Romey drops her hands. A wariness creeps into her eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “I feel like I don’t know you,” Sam bellows. “You and Omar, you guys have never given me the whole story.” What she is saying is, she suspects, half on-target and half ludicrous.

  Penitent fingers snag Sam’s belt loop, but she withdraws from Romey’s reach. Offering equal parts apology and need, Romey trails after Sam, who is almost disgusted. Her lover is responding to Sam’s nastiness with a weird submissive-ness. Romey is tough, and Sam wanted to break her but didn’t expect it to be so easy.

  When Romey stops to bum a cigarette from one of the drag kings, Sam ducks back to the bar. There isn’t much of a lineup anymore. She orders a pair of shooters and offers one to an older woman standing beside her. They cross arms and sling their drinks down. Then Sam feels a light knock-knock on the back of her head. Her cowboy hat pitches forward, covering her eyes. She grabs at it, but it falls to the floor. When she settles her hat back on her head, she glances up to see Romey sucking on her bottom lip. Sam’s drinking partner melts away—she knows drama when she sees it.

  Romey says, “Can you take me home?”

  Sam nods.

  They walk over to Pare Avenue to get a cab. When Sam turns her head to the right, she can see the giant cross on Mount Royal. During the day, the cross is a tangle of metal and wire, but at night it becomes a majestic totem. The beacon reminds her of the international fireworks competition that began this week; she and Romey sat on the flat tar roof of her building and watched the comets of colour on lie Ste-Helene, cracking pearls glowing in a whoosh from green to red, thunder enmeshed in light. The desire to create a storm is universal; the ability to contain fire separates the winners from the losers.

  They take a cab to Romey’s place. She asks Sam if she’s coming in.

  “Of course. I much prefer to fight in person
,” Sam replies.

  Romey offers Sam a tiny fragile smile. Inside her apartment, Romey makes them fresh drinks and brings one to Sam, who is sitting on the couch. Romey sits on the opposite end. She sets her drink on the floor and doesn’t touch it. Instead she lights a cigarette. Blinking as if to barricade tears, she asks, “Do you think I’m a bad person?”

  Sam shakes her head. Watches the tip of her lover’s cigarette glow orange as she inhales.

  Romey places her cigarette in the ashtray. She slides her hands into her dark, shiny hair as if she is nervous. “When I was growing up, I never got along with my brother. He was always calling me names, hitting me. He got picked on because he was fat and he took it out on me. When I was twelve, thirteen, I remember getting up super-early in the morning so we wouldn’t have to take the bus to school together. But in high school my brother grew six inches, filled out, got friends, and was easier to get along with. We would play the same Led Zeppelin records, bitch about our parents. Then in my first year of CEGEP my brother took me to a party where his friend Paulo got me drunk and raped me.” Her speech reels crazily like a spool of film unwinding. “My brother was in the next room and he didn’t do anything. Afterwards he said I made a big deal out of nothing. And my parents didn’t want me to go to the police—they told me to just try and forget about it, to stay out of Paulo’s way. It was crazy. So I, um, tried to kill myself.” Romey pauses for a moment. “It’s a selfish thing to do. Not that you mean to be. There’s a curtain between you and the rest of the world. The world looks normal, but you’re on the other side. In the hospital I realized what I did was wrong. My parents were terrified. They showed up with this old Italian lady, a witch doctor who was supposed to get rid of the mala, the evil eye someone must have put on me. They don’t have much education, my parents. Grade school, that’s it. My brother even visited me, almost as scared, but he wouldn’t apologize. He just sat there smoking, and I bummed one from him. That’s when I first started smoking.” Picking up her cigarette, Romey takes a long drag.