Cat's Eye - Margaret Atwood [18]
Today we hang. An unfortunate term.
I tuck myself into my clothes, handling my arms and legs as if they’re someone else’s, someone not very big or not very well. It’s the powder-blue sweatsuit again today; I didn’t bring very much clothing with me. I don’t like to check things, I like to jam it all under the airplane seat. At the back of my mind is the idea that if something goes wrong, up there in the air, I’ll be able to grab my bag out from under the seat and jump out the window, gracefully, without leaving any of my possessions behind.
I head out into the open, walk quickly along the street, mouth slightly open, keeping time in my head. Keep happy with the Happy Gang. I used to jog but it’s bad for the knees. Too much beta carotene turns you orange, too much calcium gives you kidney stones. Health kills.
The old emptiness of Toronto is gone. Now it’s chock-full: Toronto’s bloating itself to death, that much is clear. The traffic is astonishing, there’s honking and barging, people drive right out to the middle of the intersections and sit there when the light changes. I’m glad I’m on foot. Every building I pass down here among the warehouses seems to cry Renovate me! Renovate me! The first time I saw the word Reno in the real estate section I thought it meant the gambling resort. Language is leaving me behind.
I hit the corner of King and Spadina, walk north. This used to be where you came to get wholesale clothing, and it still is; but the old Jewish delis are disappearing, replaced by Chinese emporia, wicker furniture, cutwork tablecloths, bamboo wind chimes. Some of the street signs are subtitled in Chinese, multiculturalism on the march, others have Fashion District underneath the names. Everything is a district now. There never used to be districts.
It comes over me that I need a new dress for the opening. I’ve brought one with me, of course; I’ve already pressed it with my travel iron, clearing a corner of Jon’s workbench for the ironing board, folding a towel across it. This dress is black, because black is the best thing for such occasions: a simple, sober black dress, like those of the women who play cellos in symphony orchestras. It doesn’t do to outdress the clients.
But the thought of this dress is depressing to me now. Black attracts lint, and I’ve forgotten my clothes brush. I remember the Scotch tape ads from the forties: mummify your hand in inside-out Scotch tape, defuzz your clothing. I think of myself standing there in the gallery, surrounded by one-of-a-kind boutique wear and real pearls, widow-colored and linty where the Scotch tape has missed. There are other colors, pink for instance: pink is supposed to weaken your enemies, make them go soft on you, which must be why it’s used for baby girls. It’s a wonder the military hasn’t got onto this. Pale-pink helmets, with rosettes, a whole battalion, onto the beachhead, over the top in pink. Now is the time for me to make the switch, I could use a little pink right now.
I cruise the cut-rate windows. Each one is like a shrine, lit up from within, its goddess on display, hand on hip or leg thrust out, the faces beige and inaccessible. Party dresses have come back, bows and flamenco ruffles, straplessness and crinolines, puffed sleeves like cloth marshmallows: everything I thought was left behind forever. And miniskirts too, as bad as ever, but I draw the line at those. I didn’t like them the last time around either: too much underpants. I can’t wear the ruffled things, I’d look like a cabbage, and not the strapless ones either, not with my collarbone high and dry, my hen’s-foot elbows sticking out. What I need is something vertical, maybe a little draped.
A SALE sign lures me in. The name of this store is The Sleek Boutique, though it’s not really a boutique: it’s crammed full of ends-of-line, low on overhead. It’s crowded, which pleases me. Salesladies intimidate me, I don’t like to be caught shopping.