Girl Unwrapped (31 page)

Several days later, she sits behind the cash register at Browsers’ Paradise observing “the boys.” That’s how Mr Abbott refers to a group of odd young fellows who frequent his store, often just before closing time on Saturday afternoons. They have narrow waists, sensitive features, giddy manners. They eye one another hungrily while leafing through slim volumes of avant-garde poetry or glossy photos of God and Adam sparking one another on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Mr Abbott doesn’t seem to mind their presence, though they rarely buy the expensive books they like to finger. He smiles indulgently and pats their cheeks. Some time ago, Toni realized these young men were homos. She was disgusted, of course. She was disgusted because anybody would be—it was a natural reaction—but also because this lot was so bloody blatant. They carried on right under Mr Abbott’s nose. Once, down in the basement, she heard a strange, unwholesome ruckus from behind the bathroom door. Bristling with indignation, she warned Mr Abbott that a certain type of clientele might scare off other customers. He put his hand to his chin and contemplated her with gentle blue-eyed consternation.

“They do no harm,” he murmured vaguely.

Did he know, or didn’t he? She couldn’t be sure. It seemed quite within his character, that of a kind little elf, to look beyond the depravity to the human being underneath. She decided to tolerate the boys for his sake.

She’s become used to them now. She even enjoys the excitement they bring into the shop, the innuendo that goes over her head but that charges the air with a sense of daring and fun. Lately too she has become intensely curious about their secret lives.

This evening, two of the regulars—Brian and Winston—are in the shop. Brian sits in the rocker with Mr Pickwick sprawled on his lap in a posture of ecstatic abandonment. Winston bends over them. The two boys stroke the cat, their fingers ploughing through the long grey fur, and giggle while Mr Pickwick purrs at full throttle.

“You going to the Blue tonight?”

Winston straightens and smoothes back the long blond hair that has tumbled forward into his flushed face.

“Where else?” Brian shrugs. “Hope springs eternal.”

He lowers his voice and whispers something Toni can’t hear. The “Blue” they’re talking about is the Blue Nile, a nightclub in the seedy section of Sainte Catherine Street East that features bars and striptease joints. From afar Toni has glimpsed neon signs that depict nude, female dancing legs kicking up and down. She leaves her spot by the cash register and approaches the rocker and gives Pickwick a flick under the chin.

“Hey, fellas,” she says as casually as she can. “How’d you like some company at the Blue tonight? I’ve got this old suit of my dad’s I tried on the other day. I’d blend in—look just like one of the guys. Wouldn’t it be a gas?”

She kneads the cat’s ears the whole time she speaks. When she’s done her little speech, she dares to look at Winston. His arms fold over his chest and his mouth twists into an expression of amused surprise. He and Brian exchange glances.

“Well!” Winston says dramatically. “Well! I never thought I’d live to see the day. I could see her blending in. Eh, Brian? Don’t you think?” He gives a mighty wink. “But believe me, darling, you’d really be much better off at Loulou’s.”

From this casual remark, Toni learns about a world beyond anything she had ever imagined.

chapter 24

Loulou’s is on a marginal strip of Dorchester Avenue, an area in transition: part commercial, part residential, with ma-and-pa grocery stores and shabby rooming houses that have seen better days. A few blocks away, Sainte Catherine Street hums and glitters, but in this pocket of the city the traffic is sparse. Only now and then a shadowy figure rushes by with collar pulled up against the ear-chewing wind. Toni stands on the corner behind a telephone pole, scanning a row of modest buildings that are neither one thing nor the other: neither swanky downtown, nor racy east end, neither English nor French, but something in between. The linguistic dividing line used to be Saint Laurent Boulevard—the Main—but lately the French have come west. A new sense of pride and entitlement has awakened among the masses, bringing their fast, loose-vowelled lingo into territory that was once almost exclusively English. Among the thoughts that tumble through Toni’s brain as she lingers in the shadows is the question of what language they speak at Loulou’s. If French, she’s not sure how she’ll manage because, though she did well enough in the subject at school, there’s a world of difference between passing an exam and understanding the argot of the street.

Toni trots back and forth, casting quick glances at the door that will lead her to happiness or perdition. It’s on the ground floor, half hidden by a long flight of outdoor stairs. The sign above is so discreet it’s easy to miss, spelling out Loulou’s Lounge in faint, flickering blue neon, a colour like the last light of an evening sky. If you weren’t looking for that sign, you’d be sure to miss it, and even now it seems like a mirage. She has lingered on the corner and wandered around the neighbourhood and frozen her butt for over half an hour. The evening is slipping by, and still she can’t make her move. She watches as several couples arrive, knock, and are admitted, while a brief gust of chatter and music blows into the street. Then silence once more. Blank walls and a dark closed door.

Finally, numb of toe, trembling of limb, Toni scoots across the road and into the gloom beneath the outdoor staircase. Shortly afterward, she hears footsteps, someone striding down the street, who stops just inches away from Toni’s hiding place and stands in the ghostly pool of light cast by the neon sign. It’s a woman with dark, handsome features— long, strong face, hawk’s-beak nose, conquistador’s mouth, thick eyebrows. Her hair is cut in a short masculine bob, and she wears a black leather jacket that gives extra heft to her square shoulders. If she’s noticed Toni, she pays no attention, but instead whisks out a comb from her back pocket and rakes it along the sides of her head. One hand combs, the other smoothes in quick, self-assured movements. On the pinkie finger of one of those powerful hands a gold ring flashes. Toni holds her breath, weak with excitement. She’s aware that had she seen this manly woman on Saint Catherine’s an hour ago she might have thought her freakish and averted her eyes. But now, suddenly, perhaps because of the place and time and the gesture with the comb, Toni sees something new, the compelling appeal of ambiguity. It is a face that breaks the rules.

The woman draws herself up, trots down the steps, and raps a smart tattoo on the door.

“
Ben,
Juanita!
C’est toé!”
a deep, heavily accented voice booms out. “About time. Get your ass in here. Your gang’s waiting.”

They speak English at least.

Again, from inside, banners of carefree noise issue forth—clinking glasses, laughter and dance music—and are abruptly cut off when the door slams shut. Toni’s heart thunders against her ribcage. Perhaps, beyond this threshold, an underground of toughs, gangsters, and freaks awaits. Army boots and switch blades and bearded ladies. Perhaps she’s arrived at the gates of hell, but she must go forward. She hurls herself at the door, pounds with her fist.

The door opens a crack and a pair of eyes sweeps up and down her like a policeman’s flashlight, taking Toni’s measure.

“
Ouai
?” says the same husky voice that greeted Juanita. And when Toni just stares, “You look for someone?”

“Can I come in?” Toni breathes.

The door opens a touch wider. The person behind the voice leans forward into the gap. In the dim glow of the entranceway, Toni makes out a tall, hefty build, a broad face, a squashed-in nose, and a thatch of straw-coloured hair tumbled over the brow. Shrewd lines crinkle the corners of the eyes.

“How old are you, kid?”

“Eighteen,” Toni answers, without thinking to lie.

“Tell me another! Anyway, even if you are eighteen, you’re underage for this
établissement
. And you’re wearing jeans. I have a dress code. No jeans.”

“I didn’t know.”

Toni swallows down the sob rising in her throat. She notices now that her interrogator wears wine-red slacks, white loafers, and a gaily patterned shirt with the sleeves rolled up. There’s a heavy gold chain around her neck and another on her wrist, but these ornaments look more like weapons than jewellery.

“Tough luck,” the woman snorts as the door begins to close, but Toni’s foot juts forward of its own accord, wedging itself against the jamb.

“But I’m a friend of Juanita’s.”

The words have come out of nowhere.

“Heh? That so?”

The woman sounds doubtful, nevertheless she turns and shouts, “Hey Juanita!
Viens icitte.
Someone here says she knows you. Ever lay eyes on this kid before?”

The Spanish-featured woman appears in the doorway. She has shed her leather jacket and now stands before Toni in a man’s suit—solid black, the pant legs pressed into razor-edge creases—and a white, open-necked shirt. She regards Toni blank-eyed, stone-faced, and Toni can only look back at her in trembling silence.

“Sure, I know her. This one’s trouble,” Juanita finally declares in a slow, firm voice.

“Thought so,” says the doorkeeper, crossing her arms over her chest. She has biceps as big as Toni’s knees.

“But I’ll keep her in line. She’ll answer to me. Give her a break, Rick.”

Juanita still doesn’t crack a smile, though a twinkle has come into those obsidian eyes.

“
Eh, ben
, it’s cold standing here. Come in if you’re coming.”

The door swings open.

Toni’s in.

Hand clamped on her shoulder, Juanita steers Toni through a long, narrow, crowded room with dark-painted walls and wreathes of smoke snaking up toward the ceiling. There’s a bar on one side, a small scuffed-up dance floor beside a juke box, and a few tables at the back where Juanita’s friends sit waiting.

“Hey gals, look what the cat delivered. Fresh meat. Okay, this here’s Maggie. That’s Rhonda and Renée. Me, you already know, right? So what’s your name?”

Toni tells them.

“A first-timer, gals, fresh from her mommy’s tits. ’Course I know. Saw you shivering under the stairs with your eyes big as hubcaps. Welcome to our den of iniquity.”

Juanita bends in a mocking bow.

“Come sit on my lap, honey,” Maggie says, winking and patting her knees. She’s a chunky older woman—forty at least—with short, curly, muddy-brown hair. She’s wearing a tartan blazer with brass buttons and a lapel pin that’s halfway between a cross and a dagger.

“Don’t trust Juanita, she’s an animal, but I don’t bite. Not unless you ask nicely. Har, har. Poor kid, doesn’t know what to make of us. She’s going to faint or run screaming out the door.”

“No I won’t,” Toni mutters, but sidles away from Maggie to an empty chair near the other two—Rhonda and Renée—who sit pressed close together like lovebirds on a wire. Rhonda, who’s clearly the “guy” of the couple, though she’s pink-cheeked, baby-faced, and skinny, extends her hand for Toni to shake. The grip is surprisingly firm. Her sweetheart ignores Toni. In her own way she is as arresting as Juanita. Renée is tiny and ultra-feminine, wearing a low-cut cocktail dress that shows off the tops of voluptuous breasts but also a knobby hump at the summit of her spine. She hunches at the table, a cigarette balanced between white fingers that end in scarlet nails so long they curve inward. Heavy makeup, swirls of stiff black hair, a pouting mouth, and a seemingly permanent morose expression complete the vampish picture. Rhonda’s arm rests protectively on the back of Renée’s chair. They seem an unlikely couple, the one an exotic bird, the other like a little boy dressed up for a birthday party in a blue suit and red bowtie. Toni can imagine her mother’s hissed verdict:
Grotesque
.

“So am I right?” Juanita says. “Scared shitless?”

“If I was, I wouldn’t tell you,” Toni answers, trying to keep the quaver from her voice.

This earns her a burst of friendly guffaws. Soon she’s clutching a beer, puffing a fag, soaking up the repartee and gazing eagerly around the room. A truth slams down upon her mind like a pot lid finding its pot. She swoons with the euphoria of a Newtonian discovery. Every last soul here is female. The fact is no less remarkable for being obvious.

The chatter in the room is both in English and French. She sees a great variety of girls and women. Almost no one’s wearing jeans; Rick wasn’t lying about her dress code, but otherwise everything goes—casual pants, dark turtlenecks, mannish suits, mini-skirts, slinky gowns, sturdy winter boots, elegant pumps. Some patrons seem indistinguishable from the chic set that parades down Sainte Catherine Street on a Saturday afternoon. Some wear the wool ponchos, black berets, and owlish glasses of college intellectuals. A few are similar to the gang she’s with now—carefully turned out and differentiated to resemble the male or female of the species. Some faces are plain, some attractive, and a few are heart-stoppingly beautiful. Toni finds herself seeking out those special faces. Their loveliness strikes her as especially poignant here in this warm, smoky room, sealed off from the outside world. Her senses keenly alive, she thinks she might be turning into the kind of animal Maggie alluded to, but she has no regrets. And this transformation has happened almost instantly, as if the air at Loulou’s were a secret, powerful potion that made you anew.

“Look at the eyes on this puppy. It’s rude to stare.” Maggie cuffs her gently on the side of the head. “Are we boring you, miss? At least you don’t claim to be doing a project. You can’t imagine how many of these college kids come in here claiming it’s just for medical research. They want to study us and find a cure. You look like you caught the disease. She’s cute like this, ain’t she?”

“Not your type,” Juanita chuckles as Maggie leans across to Toni and Toni pulls away.

“But,
dites moi
, what type is she?” Renée inquires disdainfully, emerging from a tête-à-tête with Rhonda. The two had withdrawn into a private world of whispers and teasing smiles. “She’s got no style.” Renée waggles a finger to indicate Toni’s outfit of jeans and baggy sweater, ornamented with a flower-patterned silk scarf she’d slipped from her mother’s drawer and awkwardly tied around her neck before leaving the house. She’d been trying for the ascot effect—it always looked so stylish on Mr Abbott—but her knot was all wrong. She’d had no idea what to wear.