Dora Borealis

Daccia Bloomfield

Description

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Informations

• Publié par: Ecw Press
• Date de parution: 30 octobre 2008
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781554903412
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

Dora Borealis
a novel
Daccia Bloomfield
Copyright Daccia Bloomfield, 2008
Published by ECW Press, 2120 Queen Street East, Suite 200 , Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4E 1E2 416.694.3348 / [e-mail]
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any process - electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise - without the prior written permission of the copyright owners and ECW Press.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Bloomfield, Daccia Dora Borealis: a novel / Daccia Bloomfield.
a misFit book. ISBN 978-1-55022-857-1
I. Title.
PS8603.L66D67 2008 C813 .6 C2008-902405-2
Editors for the press: Michael Holmes / Crissy Boylan / a misFit book Type: Rachel Brooks Printing: Coach House Printing
This book is set in Columbus MT, Tribute and Fil Sans
The publication of Dora Borealis has been generously supported by the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $20.1 million in writing and publishing throughout Canada, by the Ontario Arts Council, by the Government of Ontario through Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit, by the OMDC Book Fund, an initiative of the Ontario Media Development Corporation, and by the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program ( BPIDP ).


PRINTED AND BOUND IN CANADA
for my father
Dora Borealis
1
You went on and on and on and on, and of course I was grateful.
You introduced yourself, and I liked your leggings. Because I liked them, we had a conversation about them. We talked about how much I liked them - their colour, their length, their opacity, the interesting pattern turning roses around and around the length of your nice toned thigh, how they were different from every other pair of leggings I had ever seen.
Next, we talked about how in early November, you went to the trouble of dressing up as a fashion victim for a late Halloween party. We talked about how nobody got your costume, about how everybody thought you were just a drowned hipster, and about how that was more or less the same thing.
- And isn t it? -
Right after that, we had to start the introductions over again, because really, it s impossible to remember anybody s name the first time you hear it.
Your charm was tactile and rendered precisely (and in a tight pattern) by what stands in for genuine warmth these days - knitting, of course. I recognized two lines of knit and two lines of purl. You were inquisitive but not impolite. And you were in your clothes completely, leaning softly against one of the solid wood posts in Lamb s new grown-up apartment.
How did you break your leg?
Walking.
I m almost finished with this oversized sweater.
It s pretty big.
Yeah.
I considered your size in relation to the red sweater. The repetition of your movements, click and click and click, seemed to soften out your corners.
It s supposed to be big.
There was no edge to this. You carefully and quickly swung the knitting around and started the next line. You didn t seem to have to think about it - knowledge put to use, recruited muscle memory. Non-knitters and knitters can be friends because of a thing called imagination. Your hands fell to your knees. You allowed your work to rest as a blanket over your legs.
This sweater will go with these leggings. Do you think cashmere is extravagant ?
Not necessarily. But maybe that much of it is.
You laughed.
No, dummy. Nobody would make an oversized sweater out of cashmere. That would be totally expensive.
What s the cashmere for, then? I asked.
It s for a tiny , precious white hat I m working on. You said tiny and precious the way girls at art school say intimate , transnationalism and inclusive - exactly as if you had just learned the word as part of a code and were eager to try it out.
What? you asked.
Sorry - it s just warm in here. I could feel the outline of a bead of sweat on my back. You held up button samples.
Brown or red?
Brown, I said. No-brainer. I like how shiny they are.
You didn t want to talk about anything but your sweater. You pressed the button against the knit, then corrected, trying it for placement. Your eyes never left your hands.
I think I m going to try to go to the country, I said. You know, like, to get away. Maybe in a week or two. Or maybe I ll just get a room somewhere.
I like the country, you said.
Cool, I said.
I m not sure if brown is right for this red yarn, though. Do you really think so?
I don t know, I said, because I really didn t. But I think the country would be kind of good for me.
You stared at me blankly. Why? You don t need to travel to relax.
What?
Imagine a forest.
What?
Just close your eyes, take a deep breath, and on the exhalation count of six, imagine a forest. If you imagine a forest, it s as good as being there. You put your hand down flat on the sweater-in-progress.
I don t know if I agree with that. But can I get you something to eat? I stood up. I took up my crutch and started to move towards the food. Next to the table was a girl.
Maybe some of that cake, you said, pointing. That is a gorgeous ganache .
You know how to make a cake. And you are okay with saying things like gorgeous ganache, aren t you? And it was a gorgeous ganache, wasn t it? The backstory goes: Lamb made that cake, while I watched. What a whore of a cake it was, too: shiny, brown-black and beaded with its own sweat. I cut a piece for you and I heard somebody say, I love chocolate.
(Love is one of those words that self-capitalizes. Think love. All of a sudden it s got a big L on it, doesn t it? Why not like ? Like is a generous word with lots of room in it for things like favourite food and boyfriend and sitting around reading fashion magazines with your feet in an aromatic soak. There s room enough in there for chocolate, surely. I wouldn t use the word love, but other people do, girls especially, for how they feel about CD s and half-price sweater sets.)
It didn t seem right to ask, Don t you think people exaggerate when they use the word love so casually? Beatific and totally untouchable, you click-clicked away, just like Lamb does, like every girl does. You were safe from my questions by at least a foot of yarn. When you ate your cake, it was as though it had been a dangerous while since you d eaten. I noticed the thinness of your wrists, and I felt part of the problem, finding you pretty.
Nice enough party, I said. Eh?
Who do you know here? you asked.
A few people, I said. I m going to grab my coat and get some air. And I meant to. You were having fun. Passing through the living room, I recognized Jan, speaking to his girlfriend s left breast in German. I forgave Lamb this party: she s an artist, and her parties are always art parties. She was in the kitchen, working her poor little fingers raw.
What s that? I asked.
Radicchio. Don t you ever eat vegetables? What s the matter with you?
I sat down at the light pine kitchen table to rest my cast. I have the same kitchen table, but in slightly darker wood. It goes well with my kitchen, which is far manlier than Lamb s.
Can I go out on the balcony? I asked. I m hot.
I don t want the cat to get out, said Lamb.
But you said the view was the best part.
So look at it.
She pointed past me at the floor-to-ceiling window. I nodded. I could see a tangle of highways, some tiny cars all in primary colours. A couple of attractive women stroked Lamb s long granite counter-top. None of us gave a rat s ass about countertops six years ago. I noticed with quiet alarm that the strokers had interchangeable haircuts. In turn, they asked Lamb if they could help with the food. Lamb didn t need help, so they sat down in the two empty chairs, one on either side of me. They talked about protein. It relaxed me because all I had to do was nod. I stopped listening, except for nodding cues, until I heard You know, Montreal is gorgeous. But you ll need to deal with the French Canadians. My uncle used to call them the niggers of the north.
There followed some academic guffawing. I said, My stomach hurts.
Lamb said, Go out on the balcony if you want, Flip. You ll need your coat.
I know, I said.
My coat was resting casually on Lamb s faux-distressed finish, off-white rocking chair. I picked it up and moved my one good foot forward onto the rug. Lamb calls that sensation Super Comfy. Knitting s in that category too, as is any sweater or Native-inspired slipper. She says Super Comfy is a whole new aesthetic, but then everything with Lamb is both new and aesthetic . Somebody - did you see him? - told everybody about the journey of discovery that was his decision to change his name from Greg to 543 . Turning away as from a hot fire, I bunched my coat and got ready to go.
Cool sound, said a guy in a jean jacket, with a ponytail. His jacket was covered in political buttons.
What? I asked.
That jacket.
What?
It sounds kind of interesting when you bunch it like that.
He took it out of my hand and pushed it against the microphone he was holding. It made a sound. I let him do this for a long time, because I am compassionate.
Can I have that back? I asked eventually.
Sure, buddy, he said, but he looked hurt.
Pop and hiss. The guy with the ponytail and the jean jacket did some strange shit with his mouth. People clustered around him. I felt bad for the guy. I whispered, Hey, dude, I think the mic s totally fine, okay?
The guy with the ponytail and the jean jacket took a step back, away from the mic. He looked at me and I got this feeling that there was a possibility we would fight, like real men. From across the room, you leaned over your knitting, and said, Flip, it s a sound poem.
All of the girls I know have become women.

You are solidly anchored on that narrow, plush, pink loveseat between your untidy circle of red yarn and an overly tanned guy who I recognize from bad Toronto daytime