Something.”
“All right,” she said. “Let me think … something, something …”
But what came out was more than one something. It was a pile of somethings. She told me about arriving in Canada as a war refugee in 1941 at the age of ten and growing up within the small Polish community in Montreal, where she and Stasha attended Polish school every Saturday and church on Sundays and tried to pass as English speakers the rest of the time, slowly erasing their accents by copying announcers on the radio. She told me about collecting pebbles and pressing flowers, how from an early age she had shown an interest in objects that were small and precious. She told me about going to regular school and being told by classmates that she smelled like stinking cabbage and urine, that she was a stupid Polack.
While all of these somethings crowded my mind, Pippa searched her purse and brought out a small photograph taken of her family in Montreal. I examined it carefully: snowflakes floating in the air, four people standing on metal stairs outside a dreary-looking brick house. The father stood with a slight hunch on the lowest step. The mother, pudgy and unsmiling, held the railing near the top. Between them were two light-haired girls in long skirts and dowdy winter coats.
“Just look at us,” Pippa said. “No wonder people thought we were a bunch of potato-filled peasants.”
“I wish your classmates didn’t call you names,” I said, returning the photograph. “People are mean to me too,” I said to comfort her.
She smiled but didn’t say anything.
“It’s true. But I can’t imagine anyone ever being mean to you.”
“Oh, Marcel. No one has it easy.”
Then she swept the air with her hand as if to clear away all the hurt, all the mess.
I looked back at the skaters and wondered,
Where were Oliver’s stories?
It wasn’t the first time the question had occurred to me, but Pippa’s story made it feel more significant. Everyone had childhood stories. Why were there no pictures of Oliver’s family? Why was there anger as well as sadness on his face whenever someone mentioned his mother? What about his father? I couldn’t think of a reason why anyone would not talk about his parents, even if they
were
dead.
The week after we went to the ice rink, Pippa announced that we were going to a “real party.” She was wandering around the flat in a bra and a cream-coloured half-slip that was stretched tight between her hip bones. There was a long bumpy scar down the centre of her tummy, whiter than her skin. Her face was lit up by sunset coming through the window.
I had been napping on the sofa, and roused myself slowly while Pippa dashed around getting ready, calling out: “Wake up, lazybones.” Within ten minutes she was dressed in a smart olive tunic with a black corset belt around her waist. Her eyes were dramatically lined with bold wings. She held up an outfit she had chosen for me—grey school shorts and a black jumper. Once I was dressed, she de-linted me with a roll of sticky tape.
The party was held in a cold warehouse in Camden Town belonging to a former shoe manufacturer. Many of the windows were broken and criss-crossed with planks of wood. There were loud banging pipes, and after climbing five flights of stairs we found ourselves in an enormous, crowded room.
Pippa grabbed my fingers and led me across the floor, making introductions. I seemed to be the only child in the group and it took me a while to overcome my shyness and keep track of names: Oy-A, Shibata, Ryszard, Lukacs, Nam, Mikkel,Le Vanni … The artists I met spoke with French, Japanese, Hungarian, Danish accents and delivered their thoughts in whispery snippets or long impulsive glides. From what I could tell, they seemed to spend most of the year wandering from city to city, living, as one man put it, “on the outer rim.”
I listened, trying to look intelligent by nodding a lot. I gathered that they were big on bartering. They would
“All right,” she said. “Let me think … something, something …”
But what came out was more than one something. It was a pile of somethings. She told me about arriving in Canada as a war refugee in 1941 at the age of ten and growing up within the small Polish community in Montreal, where she and Stasha attended Polish school every Saturday and church on Sundays and tried to pass as English speakers the rest of the time, slowly erasing their accents by copying announcers on the radio. She told me about collecting pebbles and pressing flowers, how from an early age she had shown an interest in objects that were small and precious. She told me about going to regular school and being told by classmates that she smelled like stinking cabbage and urine, that she was a stupid Polack.
While all of these somethings crowded my mind, Pippa searched her purse and brought out a small photograph taken of her family in Montreal. I examined it carefully: snowflakes floating in the air, four people standing on metal stairs outside a dreary-looking brick house. The father stood with a slight hunch on the lowest step. The mother, pudgy and unsmiling, held the railing near the top. Between them were two light-haired girls in long skirts and dowdy winter coats.
“Just look at us,” Pippa said. “No wonder people thought we were a bunch of potato-filled peasants.”
“I wish your classmates didn’t call you names,” I said, returning the photograph. “People are mean to me too,” I said to comfort her.
She smiled but didn’t say anything.
“It’s true. But I can’t imagine anyone ever being mean to you.”
“Oh, Marcel. No one has it easy.”
Then she swept the air with her hand as if to clear away all the hurt, all the mess.
I looked back at the skaters and wondered,
Where were Oliver’s stories?
It wasn’t the first time the question had occurred to me, but Pippa’s story made it feel more significant. Everyone had childhood stories. Why were there no pictures of Oliver’s family? Why was there anger as well as sadness on his face whenever someone mentioned his mother? What about his father? I couldn’t think of a reason why anyone would not talk about his parents, even if they
were
dead.
The week after we went to the ice rink, Pippa announced that we were going to a “real party.” She was wandering around the flat in a bra and a cream-coloured half-slip that was stretched tight between her hip bones. There was a long bumpy scar down the centre of her tummy, whiter than her skin. Her face was lit up by sunset coming through the window.
I had been napping on the sofa, and roused myself slowly while Pippa dashed around getting ready, calling out: “Wake up, lazybones.” Within ten minutes she was dressed in a smart olive tunic with a black corset belt around her waist. Her eyes were dramatically lined with bold wings. She held up an outfit she had chosen for me—grey school shorts and a black jumper. Once I was dressed, she de-linted me with a roll of sticky tape.
The party was held in a cold warehouse in Camden Town belonging to a former shoe manufacturer. Many of the windows were broken and criss-crossed with planks of wood. There were loud banging pipes, and after climbing five flights of stairs we found ourselves in an enormous, crowded room.
Pippa grabbed my fingers and led me across the floor, making introductions. I seemed to be the only child in the group and it took me a while to overcome my shyness and keep track of names: Oy-A, Shibata, Ryszard, Lukacs, Nam, Mikkel,Le Vanni … The artists I met spoke with French, Japanese, Hungarian, Danish accents and delivered their thoughts in whispery snippets or long impulsive glides. From what I could tell, they seemed to spend most of the year wandering from city to city, living, as one man put it, “on the outer rim.”
I listened, trying to look intelligent by nodding a lot. I gathered that they were big on bartering. They would
Similar Books
