“Told you I had glitches to sort out.”
“We didn’t make the movie. She broke up with me.”
He dashed his hand across his face.
“Because you forgot about the cinema?”
“You could say that.”
His voice shook.
“Bummer. Still, you’ll soon find a replacement.”
“No, Astrid. I won’t be looking for a replacement. Trust me.”
Air leaked out of him, in a long, slow hiss. “I have to go out, go to the gym and stuff. I don’t think I’ll be back when your show finishes.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
My attention was already claimed by the delicate beats that curled around the studio like smoke.
Thinking about the show filled my stomach with a sudden niggling ache. Withdrawal symptoms, nothing more. I checked the phone for a progress report from Jazz. The inbox was empty. I typed, then deleted:
Hp u srvivd putin my sho on d rd.
I hefted myself off the bed, preparing to re-enter the fray.
When I reached the bar, they were all sitting at the long table, now rendered almost unrecognisable by a white cloth. Cliona sat at the head of it.
“How’s the vision, Cliona?” one of the guides was asking her.
“Oh, you know. The tunnel gets a little darker every year. But I always endeavour to find the light at the end.”
She delivered her penny philosophy with a heavy sigh.
Waitresses wearing green and white uniforms were gathering up dinner plates. Johno was surrounded on all sides. Kim stood up to let me slide onto the long couch seat, then perched on the edge of it, beside Cliona’s chair. I was sandwiched between him and Mia, my escape route blocked.
“You’ve missed dinner,” Cliona said. “Mia said she tried to call you, but you didn’t hear her.”
“Surrendered to the arms of Morpheus,” I muttered.
“What’s that?”
I shrugged, I didn’t see the point in elaborating.
“Never mind. I doubt they’ll serve you now.”
“Reckon they’ll spring for a plate of chips?”
“You are wanting chips only, ja?”
The waitress materialised from nowhere.
“Yaw,” Johno shouted.
His imitation was far from perfect, but everyone guffawed. Seconds later, the waitress set a plate of chips in front of me. They were a little dried out, but I knew better than to quibble. Cliona embarked on another monologue. The word ‘disco’ leapt out at me.
“What sort of disco?” I asked.
Cliona gave her short, barking laugh.
“Oh, well I was actually referring to my charity. It’s called Disability Cooperative, or DisCo for short. We help visually-challenged people find meaningful social outlets. In fact, we’re the ones who spearheaded the trip. We continue to raise the funds each year for the facilities we enjoy when we come.”
“It’s a brilliant opportunity,” Mia said, rubbing her hands hard enough to generate electricity. “You know, to meet other people like me, who understand, like.”
“Well, we blindies have to stick together.”
I hoped she wasn’t including me in that classification. Somewhere in my mind, gates clanged shut. Cliona turned the laser beam of her attention on me.
“What do you do in life, Astrid?” she said.
“International spy.”
Mia giggled. Cliona’s chin jutted out.
“I won’t dignify that with a response.”
I decided to take a different conversational tack.
“I read that article about you in the paper. The one describing your epic mountain odyssey.”
“Really. And what did you think?”
Her voice quivered in anticipation of plaudits.
“There were seven typographical errors,” I said.
She clicked her tongue; the sound was growing familiar.
“And how’s the course going, Mia?”
“Oh, great. But it’s not important stuff like you’re doing,” Mia answered dutifully.
Bits of Mia’s hair were escaping from her ponytail. She didn’t move her head in Cliona’s direction. Matthew always drilled me to follow the direction of his voice. Look at me, Astrid. There’s no reason you shouldn’t be able to look people in the eye.
“Well Mia, education is the first step on the road to independence,” Cliona stated proudly.
Mia beamed.
“Mia’s doing Disability Studies,” she explained to me.
Gimptronics. A smirk hovered on my lips. Such a term could be considered cruelty to the blind.
“That’s where I began. It’s such a wonderful grounding. It helped me to see how important it is to embrace your blindness.”
I remembered Cliona pointing me out at the airport and again when I came down for the ‘welcome ceremony.’ Not the behaviour of a blind person. I tuned out the white noise and attempted to plug into Johno’s roared conversation with the Greek Chorus.
“This is me third time here,” one of them was saying.
“He dragged me into it.”
“You’re an awful man altogether,” said Johno. “Sure I’m a virgin, you’ll have to go easy on me.”
They all howled with laughter. I figured the number of beer glasses collected in front of them accounted for much of their mirth. A vodka was in order. I speared my last chip and stood up, squeezed past Kim, and accidentally knocked against Cliona’s chair. Her glass wobbled and fizz spilled over the edge. She called after me. I looked over my shoulder.
“Excuse me,” I said. “It’s very important for the visually challenged to obtain sustenance.”
Martin was at the counter with some of the other guides, who were all trading insults at the top of their lungs. The barman approached me.
“Vodka, please.”
“You vant I give you Coke with that?” he said.
“No.”
I drained the glass. The vodka blazed a trail through my stomach, suffusing me with warmth. The first hit was always the most satisfying.
“You’re a hard one, aren’t you?” said Martin. “You’ll want to go easy on those if you’re to be fit for the slopes tomorrow.”
I looked past him and ordered another.
Boots & Memories
Perfecting my look made me late for breakfast. I began with my hair, slathering on even more gel than usual to ensure that it was immune to the elements. Mia’s inane chatter distracted me, despite my best efforts to filter it out.
“I have to ring my mother later,” she was saying. “She gets worried. She’s been saying prayers for me and all. I was in an incubator when I was born, you see. That’s how I...”
She hovered behind me as I inspected my appearance through the black spots in the mirror. I turned around. Her hands hung by her side, her hair fell in a curtain over her face. Her ski suit was in disarray, twisted straps, buttons in the wrong holes. Her zip was suspended in mid-air.
“I can’t find my gloves. Or my sunglasses.”
She was still in that incubator.
“Here, let me fix your buttons.”
I bent over and readjusted the buttons and straps. In order to access her zip, I was forced to kneel in front of her; she was a Lilliputian. There was a clasp at the top of the zip, to keep it in a fixed position. My fingers brushed against her stomach as I felt for it. It was a little too early in the morning for girl-on-girl action.
I rummaged for her gloves and shades while she stood to one side, twisting her hands. The shades were on her locker. The lenses were the colour of cellophane and the frames were similar in texture to the plastic that held beer cans together. Not even authentic knock-offs. The gloves were
harder to retrieve; they were obscured by the lid of her suitcase. I thrust them at her.
“You better go down,” I said. “I’m going to take about another million years.”
Unlike the previous day, the sun was obscured by thick clouds, but its glare still penetrated. Full riot gear was required.
“No, it’s okay,” she said. “I’d rather...”
Rocks remain impervious to the presence of the limpets that use them for shelter. I turned my attention to my ski suit, which hung in the wardrobe. It was black with flecks of yellow. Almost new. I fancied it gave me an air of menace. The rest of my armour consisted of a Prism baseball cap and a pair of Adidas wraparounds. Not an elegant look, but an unbeatable combination for fending off rays. I plastered on layers of suncream and composed a text to Jazz in my mind, Armed 4 d slopes. But as Mia pondered her choice of breakfast, the words evaporated, like steam. She attached herself to my elbow as I pushed open the door, with the grip of someone accustomed to having elbows take her everywhere. I contrasted it with another touch, a touch which landed on my skin with the grace of a butterfly. The strange, niggling ache returned to my stomach; knots began to form.
A breakfast buffet ran along one wall. It was almost obscured by a humming swarm of waitresses who hovered around it, selecting choice titbits for the Cabbage Patch Kids. The Greek Chorus sat at the long table, which was strewn with plates. I plonked Mia beside them and a waitress bustled up to her.
The buffet consisted of serried ranks of cheeses punctured with holes and sausage meat of various hues, which glistened up at me. I decided to bypass it; these items were far too random to be eating for breakfast. A pot of coffee stood on a heating plate at a separate table. It produced viscous black liquid that was the consistency of recycled road oil. Just how I liked it.
Johno was now sitting beside Mia, wearing a ski suit in an unfortunate shade of red that clashed with his ruddy complexion. At least all the components of his ensemble were in place. He had no need for a nursemaid, although he was enjoying the attention of a serving wench. The Greek Chorus were explaining that they had enough sight to find their bits and weave their way to the bar. This prompted yet another blast of laughter, setting my teeth on edge. I sat at the other end of the table, giving them a wide berth. My hands laced tight around my cup. The table was scrubbed to a whitish shade; its surface was free of cracks or splinters. The coffee scalded my throat, shocking my system into life.
“All right, Astrid.”
I jumped, turning around. Martin stood there, grinning at me. He pulled up a chair and flung himself onto it.
“Hungover, are we?”
Did he have to be so bluff?
“No way. Takes a hell of a lot more than I had last night.”
“Nervous then.”
“Oh, you figure?”
How did he know?
“Thought you might be, if you’re off your grub. Don’t worry. I haven’t pushed anyone off a cliff yet.”
He laughed. A silence fell.
“Right. We need to have a bit of a chat.”
He shifted in his seat.
“How much can you see?’
None of your business. Fucksake.
“I know, I know, it’s everyone’s favourite question.”
“Enough.”
“Light make everything wonky?’
I nodded. My cheeks prickled.
As we stepped out of the hotel, our feet made contact with puddles of slush and slick pavement. The ground became uncertain. A loose conga line formed, with the Cabbage Patch Kids holding onto the elbows of the guides. We were an expeditionary force, in search of skis and boots. Relieved of my shadow, I decided to make a break for it, stride ahead. But my legs had other ideas. They slid out from under me, made spectacular zig-zagging motions. Martin’s arm shot out, a lifebelt offering rescue. I gripped it, letting instinct take over.
“Nice bit of break-dancing, that,” he said.
Everyone laughed. I didn’t quite grasp the joke.
The pink ladies were our leaders. They were supposed to be called helpers, but I called them pink ladies because they wore soft pink cardigans and had pink faces to match. They wore other colours as well, but most of the time they wore pink. They didn’t hold my hand, like Matthew or Mrs O’Brien. Instead, when I walked down steps, or on ground that wobbled, I held on to their elbows.
They gave me glasses to wear, which were gold around the edges. They also gave me sunglasses. When I put the sunglasses on, they turned everything a pinkish-brown colour and made my nose itch. I kept dropping the glasses and sunglasses and the pink ladies always found them and returned them to me, clicking their tongues and saying Now, now, Astrid. They were always saying that. The other thing they said was, Good girl! When they said it, they sounded surprised. I didn’t feel any balloons burst inside me, like when Matthew said it. And they talked a lot about my eyes. I never knew my eyes were so important. They were just there.
The pink ladies were always touching me, giving me hugs and kisses for no reason. They poked at my clothes and brushed my hair and put ribbons in it, like Mrs O’Brien. I didn’t want them to touch me. They were too soft; they smothered me in a blanket of slow words and pats. There were a lot of pink ladies, but they were all the same.
Everywhere we walked, there was a pink lady nearby, in the corridors, in the yard and at the top of the table in the dining room. They helped us to dress in the mornings. I wriggled under their fussing hands. But sometimes they took a long time to reach me and I was ready by the time they arrived. I didn’t need them to do things for me, like the other girls. I could do things for myself.
I walked beside Martin, boxed in by Cabbage Patch Kids. The sound of our feet crunching on the snow was amplified by the empty street. Low beams of sunlight slanted through the clouds, casting a thick yellow glow over the buildings. Hansel and Gretel cottages and quaint shops nestled against the protecting bulk of the mountains. Snow pooled on their curved tiles. Their glowing white walls threw the dirty colour of the snow into sharp relief. The guides gave a droll description of our surroundings.
“We always do this,” said Cliona. “It helps us fill the gaps in our vision.”
Her voice drilled holes through my skull. The guides gave a précis of the contents in the shop windows. Their words acted as a giant magnifying glass.
The boot shop was situated at the furthest end of the street. As we entered, we were greeted by a blast of warm air, which carried the strong smell of wet material. The conga dispersed in a whirl of activity, as stocky Austrians began plying us with skis and boots. Martin bent in front of me, adjusting the straps on the boots, moving my feet forwards and backwards on the skis. The two orange sticks strapped to my legs were to be my mode of transport over the next few days. They felt precarious.
When my ski fittings were complete, I went over to a set of chairs by the window to practise fastening and unfastening the boots. I wrestled with the straps, trying to imitate Martin’s method. When I was finished, I made an attempt to walk. I gimped back and forth, my movements impeded by the cement-bag heaviness of the boots. A white beard flashed in front of me. One of the Greek Chorus. I pitched forward and he put his arms out to steady himself. They landed just below my breasts.
“Watch it,” I hissed.
“I’m not trying to cop a feel, love,” he said, chuckling.
I wobbled towards one of the chairs and collapsed onto it, covering my face, thinking it fortunate that none of the Cabbage Patch Kids could see me. A thin voice buzzed in my ear; through the gaps in my fingers, I saw my shadow on the chair beside me.
“How old are you?” she asked.
The fastenings were too tight. My fingers fumbled; the grooves that held the fastenings were somewhat bigger than those of a vinyl record.
“Cliona was saying she thought we might be
the same age. I’m 26.”
My head snapped up. She looked young enough to be carded at Prism. Not that she fit the typical customer profile.
“It’s just, there’s something familiar about you. Maybe we were in the same class. Did you go to Immaculate Heart?”
“Huh?”
I yanked at my boot, trying to pry it off. The name triggered a faint chime in a dusty corner of my mind.
“You know, the girls’ school.”
The boot freed itself from my leg with a satisfying glug. My brain dug up the entry for Immaculate Heart. The official name for the pink cage.
“Maybe that’s how I know you.”
So she was one of the dead-eyed girls, the Cabbage Patch Kids. A taste flooded into my mouth, a half-remembered taste of metal mixed with sugar.
“Doubtful,” I snorted.
“Oh really? I could have sworn that’s where I knew you from. It’s an unusual name, Astrid. You’d remember an Astrid. I was there all the time. It was brilliant craic.”
Just then, Mia’s guide Kevin came over with her boots and she became preoccupied with learning to strap them up. She was an animal that thrived in captivity.
When the brown lady came, I was dangling upside down on the tree at the bottom of Mrs O’Brien’s garden. I loved the tree, with its wide, spreading branches, its solid trunk, its rough bark. The O’Brien boys climbed it like monkeys and I wanted to climb it too.
I knew the lady was coming because Mrs O’Brien and I went to Wexford on the bus to buy a dress. She said I needed a good dress because a visitor was coming. Mrs O’Brien had a lot of visitors. When they came, they sat in Mrs O’Brien’s kitchen and talked in low voices. We weren’t allowed into the kitchen while they were there.
The dress was light pink, with a darker pink ribbon around the waist. I’d never had a dress before. The skirt stuck out. When I put the dress on, it was hard to move, because the material was stiff and tight. Mrs O’Brien also bought me a ribbon for my hair, which was the same colour as the dress.
The Pink Cage Page 6
