World of Glass

by Jocelyne Dubois

  “You never have any money,” he’d complain. Our apartment on King Street West was on the second floor. I left behind my dresser, an antique couch, two lamps and bookshelves. I couldn’t afford a truck to bring my belongings with me. I had planned to make a fresh start. I would buy a new sofa with throw pillows, original paintings from small galleries and a new computer. Yes, definitely a computer.

  I wonder now, how is Justin getting along with his new girlfriend? Does she smoke? He found my cigarette habit intolerable, so I switched to smoking Old Port cigars for a while, thinking that the smell would be sweeter.

  I think about the letters she sent him from Vancouver. There must have been over twenty of them. Some came with photographs of her sitting on rocks by the ocean. She was moving to Toronto to be with Justin. Get an apartment, move and find a job. I stay motionless on the lawn with my towel under me. My hair is damp and sweat drips down my neck.

  The room is crowded. I have been waiting forty minutes to see Dr. Ali. There is a woman with a young boy, no more than ten, facing me. The boy tells his mother to “va chier,” the mother smacks him on the head. The boy howls and kicks his feet. Dr. Ali walks in. “Chloé.” I nod and follow him into his office. There are no pictures on his walls. White blinds on the window. They are shut.

  “How go medication?”

  “5 milligrams is better.”

  “You burn face.” I nod.

  “No sun with medication. I keep it at 5 milligrams and 900 milligrams of Lithium.” He scribbles on a prescription form, hands it to me and says,

  “No sun.”

  Seasons pass. It goes on like this for four years.

  CHAPTER IV

  I SIT BY THE front window at a small table at Toi, Moi et Café. I wear my black jeans and flowered print blouse. I hear a young woman. She is dressed in black silk pants. Her lips are painted scarlet. She whispers quickly on her cell phone. A white cup with foamed milk and chocolate sprinkled on top sits on her table.

  “J’ai un cours au H.E.C. ce soir,” I hear her say. I look up. The café is long, narrow and half-empty. I see a wooden patio through windows. A disheveled middle-aged man wearing corduroy pants, hair long and tangled, reading Le Devoir. I take An Angel at My Table by Janet Frame out of my bag. A book that Justin sent me a month ago. On the title page he wrote: “Chloé, while she was in the hospital, the doctors were going to give her a lobotomy. She won a small literary prize, so they decided not to give her the operation. That was in the 1940s. Thank God you’re living in 2004.”

  I take out a Rothmans from my pack. I can’t find my lighter. I look up and see a man with wire-rimmed glasses and behind them, very large brown eyes. An owl, I think. He is typing on his laptop. I walk up to him and say, “I’m sorry to disturb you.” The man glances up at me.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have a light?”

  “Sorry. I don’t smoke, but you can find matches at the counter.”

  “Of course.” I get up and stroll to the cash register. There is a yellow bowl brimming with matchbooks. The café’s logo on them. I take one, then stop behind the man with the laptop. I see that his shoulders are hunched forward, his shirt collar is folded inward, the tail of his shirt hangs over his black jeans. I look up at his head. He is balding.

  “Are you a writer?” I say.

  “Yes, I write poetry.” He stops typing. There is a book called Crow by Ted Hughes and Roget’s Thesaurus on the table.

  “Do you mind if I ask you to read to me what you’re writing?”

  “Sure, have a seat.” I sit facing him. I notice his double chin.

  “It’s pretty dark stuff,” he says.

  “If it gets published, the world will know about you.”

  “Don Marquis said, ‘publishing a book of poems is like dropping a rose petal into the Grand Canyon and waiting for the echo.’ It’s not quite finished yet, but here goes.”

  SHAFT

  I am dead

  he said.

  Such a solemn air, he thought –

  So weighted with despair –

  His body hurtled down a shaft

  At the movements of his lips.

  And so he whispered

  Once again

  “I am dead.” And laughed.

  Silence. The espresso machine hums, Oscar Peterson’s piano flourishes the background.

  “I know how you feel,” I say and stretch my hand over his and squeeze, then quickly release it. “I’m Chloé.”

  “I’m Mark.” The waiter comes by. I order a cappuccino and he refills Mark’s cup. “Merci,” Mark says with an English accent.

  “I’m only in the city for a few hours. Needed to get out of the suburbs,” I say. “Do you live around here?”

  “Yes. On Hutchison. I just came from a swim at the Y.” He points at his gym bag.

  “How many lengths did you do?”

  “About fifty.” I find this remarkable. I cannot imagine swimming so many laps.

  “Where do you live exactly?” he asks.

  “Terrebonne. That’s an hour away, but I prefer the city.”

  “Then why are you living there?”

  “Well,” I say. I pause. My shoulders slowly hunch over, my head tilts toward the table. I wonder whether he is trustworthy. I stay mute.

  “Is everything all right?” I cough as if something is stuck in my throat.

  “Well.” Pause. “I suffered a breakdown. I live with my mother.”

  “Oh,” Mark says and stares out the window. “…hard. Traumatic, one might say.”

  “Yes. Very, very traumatic.” Silence. “I started to swim at a pool in Terrebonne. I go twice a week.”

  “The Y has a steam bath and the water is always warm.”

  “Does it cost anything?”

  “It’s free for Montréal residents. If you’d like to come with me, you can use my address.”

  “Here’s my phone number,” I write my first name and number on a white paper napkin and hand it to him. Mark gives me his.

  For a moment, I wonder whether he is looking for sex but he does not gaze at my small breasts or bare neck.

  “I have something to confess to you,” he says. “I have no arch in my left foot. I wear orthopedic shoes. I can’t walk very far, but I will accompany you to the bus stop.” Mark closes his laptop and gently places it into his black vinyl bag.

  “I’ll pay for your coffee,” he says, and walks up to the cash register. The waiter gives him back change and we slowly stroll out the door and onto the gray pavement. I look up at the sky and I see no clouds. Mark takes me to the corner of avenue du Parc and Laurier. The bus approaches. I kiss him on the cheek and say, “See you next week.”

  My mother drinks coffee and smokes Dunhills.

  “I made you another sweater.” She shows it to me. It is made of soft emerald green wool. Pure wool.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say. I touch the sweater gently and add, “I can’t wait to wear it.” I plop myself down on the sofa next to her. My mother goes back to knitting.

  “I think I made a friend,” I say.

  “You did?”

  “His name is Mark. He’s a poet.”

  “You can’t make money at that,” she says.

  “I didn’t ask him what he does for money. We’re going to swim together at the Y.”

  “You’re going to travel all the way downtown just for a swim?”

  “No. It’s to see him too. Besides, I feel better when I go into the city.” I get up slowly and say, “I’m tired,” then head for my bedroom to rest. “It was an eventful day,” I say to myself. I lie down on my unmade bed and think about how I have had no nightmares in three days. I close my eyes and hear sounds coming from the TV. My breathing deepens. Slowly, the noise on the TV fades and I sleep.

  I go to Pharmaprix a block away from home to buy goggles. I do not pick the most expensive ones. Not the sturdy kind that the athletes wear. I find a blue pair of Speedos, the lenses also tinted blue. The price on
the box says $9. I pay for it at the cash. Phil Collins sings You Can’t Hurry Love on the store muzak system. Mark invited me to swim even after I told him that I’d had a breakdown, and that I am recovering slowly. He knows this and little else and he still invited me to join him at the pool. I take small steps home. I see a young woman pushing a stroller, then two teenagers in bell-bottomed hip-hugging jeans. One wears a nose ring. They wear matching pink T-shirts. I presume they are best friends. A Toyota Echo zooms by. I breathe in clean air. Exhale. Only a few more feet to my front door.

  I take my medication once in the morning and again in the evening before I go to bed. 900 milligrams of Lithium and 5 milligrams of Risperdal a day. I wish that Dr. Ali would cut down the drugs again soon. I look into the bathroom mirror. I see dark circles around my eyes. I splash cold water onto my face. No soap. I wipe it dry with a small pink hand towel. I splash my face again several times to wash away the dark circles but they will not vanish.

  My mother watches As the World Turns. I yearn for more life. I do not watch TV. Instead, my mind drifts to Mark. I think about his poem. He must have suffered from depression. I remember his low and articulate voice reading this poem to me. I must ask him to read more of his work. The more poems I read, the more I will learn about this man. Tomorrow, I will meet him at the Y at noon.

  I sit on the bus and take out Women and Madness by Phyllis Chesler. A book that Joan sent me. “A classic,” she says. I read the introduction.

  “Those suffering from bipolar disorders, depression or schizophrenia often respond to the right drug at the right dosage level. All drugs have negative side effects.” I look down at my left hand. My fingers tremble lightly. Risperdal and Lithium, I think. My eyes travel to the window. The book stays on my lap. It seems academic to me. We are on the bridge over La rivière des Milles Iles. I see a small island; the water is thick and brown. Soon, we will drive through Laval, identical houses all in rows. Mowed lawns, high-rises. I try to go back to reading until we get to the terminal. I cannot concentrate.

  Mark is reading on a dark blue seat in the lobby at the Y.

  “What are you reading?”

  “Neruda.” He closes the book. I follow him down metal stairs. Mark points to the women’s change room. I say, “I’ll meet you in the lobby in an hour.” I walk through the door and see two water fountains and rows of lockers. I walk around the room. A young woman blow-dries her long auburn hair in front of the wall-to-wall mirror. I turn the corner. There are private showers. Three. One for the handicapped. I open the door to the steam bath. Two women, nude, sitting on towels. They have their eyes closed. The steam makes it difficult to see clearly. I close the door. I choose locker number twelve. A locker where no one will see my scar. I take my clothes off. Put on my bathing suit. I walk through another set of doors to the pool. The bottom is aqua blue. I step down the ladder into the slow lane. I look for Mark but I cannot see clearly without my glasses. I do not know the colour of his bathing suit or cap. I am relaxed and do the breast stroke across the pool. Underwater, I see an elderly man kicking like frog legs ahead of me. He is slow, very slow. I stand. The water goes up to my breasts. I lift my goggles to rub my eyes. The chlorine stings them. Sunlight shines through the windows. A Québecois song plays through speakers. Moi mes souliers ont beaucoup voyagé. Félix Leclerc. All lanes are crowded. I move at a snail’s pace. I do four, no, five lengths and get out of the pool to rest in the steam bath. A thirty-something woman sprinkles scented oils where the vapors come out. I am hot. I feel as though I am melting. Relaxed. Very relaxed. I get out of the bath, shower, rub Healing Garden lotion on my face and legs, dress and wait for Mark in the lobby while trying to read more of Women and Madness. I see Mark climbing up the stairs. He carries a blue packsack over his shoulder.

  “Where were you?” he says.

  “Didn’t stay in the pool long.”

  “How did you like it?” he asks.

  “It’s like spending a day at the spa.”

  “How many lengths did you do?” he asks.

  “Five.” Silence.

  “You must have been waiting a long time here for me.”

  “Twenty minutes.” Mark looks at his watch. “Do you want to go for coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  “Let’s take a quieter street,” he says. We turn down Hutchison. “There are a lot of Hassidic Jews on this street,” Mark says. I look across the street and see a woman in a long black skirt and beige nylons. She is pushing a baby carriage and seems to be wearing a wig. La Croissanterie is a block away. There’s an outdoor terrace with umbrellas at each table. It is a day to sit in the shade. We arrive at the café and wait ten minutes for a table outside. We finally sit and order two café au laits in bowls.

  “I teach tonight,” he says.

  “What do you teach?”

  “English at Vanier.” I have lost my fluency. Silence. My speech is crippled.

  “I’d love to see more poems.”

  “Why don’t we plan to swim again next week? I’ll show you more of my work.”

  I do not know from day to day how I will feel. Words don’t flow from my mouth. I stutter.

  “I, I’d like that.”

  Mark reads a few lines by Neruda:

  Leaning into the afternoons I cast my sad nets towards your oceanic eyes.

  There in the highest blaze my solitude lengthens and flames,

  its arms turning like a drowning man’s.

  “It’s got love, loneliness, longing and death,” I say.

  “You need say no more than that,” he says.

  For a moment, I feel pleasure. I tell him that I am bipolar. He listens calmly. His fist rests on his chin.

  “I’m on powerful drugs.”

  “What kind of medication?

  “Risperdal and Lithium too. I suffered a psychosis.”

  “You seem pretty normal to me.” His face does not reveal what he is thinking.

  “I almost died a few times.”

  “Van Gogh, Sylvia Plath, Robert Lowell, the list is endless.”

  “So you understand?”

  “I can relate,” he says and holds my hand.

  “I have to go, but we’ll talk again next week,” he says softly. I put three loonies on the table. Mark pulls out change from his pocket and puts it on top of the bill. We walk out of the café. Mark unlocks his bicycle from a parking meter by the café. I say goodbye and head toward avenue du Parc. I worry that I have told him too much, too soon. But he does not seem frightened or disturbed. He still wants to see me.

  My mother comes home from her volunteer work at the craft shop. Handmade jewellery, dolls, clothes. Profits go to charitable organizations. While she sits at the cash, the ladies from the neighborhood drop in for coffee. They talk about their children, grandchildren. They gossip. “There’s never a dull moment,” she says. We eat supper. Homemade hamburgers and oven-baked fries.

  “I had a good day,” I say. “Mark is going to read me his poetry.”

  “Poetry isn’t a serious profession,” she says. Silence. I take two bites from my hamburger and eat one slice of crisp potato.

  “I’ll do the dishes in an hour. I need to rest.” I lie down on my bed and feel very grateful to have met Mark. I think about how I enjoyed his company today. Trip downtown. The swim.

  The building on Hutchison where Mark lives is made of grey stone. I walk up the wooden steps to the second floor. Chipped red paint on the door. I ring the buzzer. Mark opens the door. A shorthaired grey and white cat sits in the vestibule.

  “Say hello to Batman,” Mark says as he points at the cat.

  “Bonjour Batman,” I say. I follow Mark through a long dark hallway into the kitchen. The sink is stacked with dirty dishes. He makes lemon zinger tea. I look at rows of books, the colourful abstract paintings on his walls.

  “Did you make these?” I ask.

  “Friends,” he says. We sip our tea on his navy sofa. I glance up at a classical guitar hanging on his wall.


  “Do you play?”

  “I compose my own songs.” He takes the guitar down and begins to play. Folk music. His finger strums the strings with ease. The sound brings a gentle smile to my face. Mark stops playing. He tells me that he hardly plays anymore.

  “I made a CD,” he says. “I sold fifty copies, and then I realized that my music career wasn’t going anywhere, so I went back to poetry.” He goes into the side table drawer and hands me his book of poems. Watercolours on the cover.