A queer dresser (tale for the dashing)Caroline Bergvall
Let the good times roll, she said. Oh well who knows, I thought,
pulling up my sock well above the knee. Now, there are times when even
binoculars cannot make me see the light, but a little illumination might
just do the trick — sharp hard bursts to make me lose my stance, coming
and going as she did, insisting on some decisive form, one two steps to
the left, one two to the right and a little pirouette might well find me
falling headlong into the pool of her lap (I thought with a faint sigh).
Times of fishes in the dark river-flow always inevitably shuffle the studied
effect of my garments. The pride of my presence here: this layered parade
of fine wools and hand-woven silk, the way I move my hands across these
surfaces. Many an hour I spend organising, reorganising it all to achieve
that sense of style, the subtle finishing touch, that grip of magic that will
move me from flat to flamboyant, from flamboyant to dizzy, from dizzy
to voluptuous. If not suddenly weighed down by one excessive turn, one
small but disastrous lack of judgement, a shiver of the hand which sends
lipstick thick outside the corners of my mouth or glues mascara in
clutters at the tip of each eyelid or the sordid story of those complicated
brass earrings that tore many a lobe and bruised the side of my face. In
the case of this particular encounter however, I must at first have seemed
quite a natural, flaunting a shiny red creation with the casual elegance of
a carp.
Indeed it came to be that having brushed past me frequently enough to
wear out the back of my velvet jacket, her pointed bra breaking the air as
though cutting through butter, she eventually hit a pause behind me and
leaning over my right shoulder said something to the effect of letting
good tongues roll.
I was about to reply in the high-pitched voice I felt would befit my wear
for the evening, when I suddenly noticed the peculiar brooch fastened to
the left corner of her lycra: an enormous gold-plated brooch in the shape
of an eye or a crab, with chains of glittering pearls glaring through a
cluster of nylon feathers. The lot heavy like a fist, slowly pulling at the
thin fabric.
Where do you get it from, I said impressed, pushing back a lock of hair
with a nonchalant gesture, my legs suddenly porous as if about to
crumble. I mean this walk, this peculiar somnambulism, your aquatic
dream-life shifting the fabric of my shapes as you pass?
Darling dear, she said with the wisdom that a sudden adored is always
graced with, the day is wider, much much wider than the widest of
turn-ups.
Ah yes, I said in wonder. And has more flow than the sheen of your garb,
she continued or the spread of your finest of skirts, she insisted, pushing
her tongue in my cheek. Then reached for my jacket, swiftly grabbed one
of the buttons (the nice ones, the ones with the small plastic-ivory
mermaid discs stuck in the middle) and pulled it off, as some women
currently do when displaying a detached sort of attachment.
The fashions of behaviour are undeniably strange, I thought looking at
the bits of thread sticking from my lapel and gasping at the thought of
the capricious poses we were undoubtedly about to strike (throwing
ourselves at each other's feet, moaning and pleading, pleading and
moaning, splitting the seams of our vests, hard perfumes slowly mingle
with the smell of soft lace and warm underwear, bloodstreams swell and
accumulate under our nails, objects sharpen and change as we reach for
them, candles, bottles, tea-pots, pens and cups and cups break as we
dildoe and electrify, wine soothing as we slip and swallow, letting an arm
hang like poets do down the side of the kitchen-table). Where do you get
it from I insisted, combing my left eyebrow with the fingers of my left
hand in a Dirk-like manner and pointing at the brooch with the other.
The very idea of provenance, of origins is a constant mystery to many
but not to the likes of us, darling dear (said she with the wisdom that etc.)
and your own elaborate displays are certainly a proof of that. Your body
adorned my sweet adoring is the message and the message is the nature
that we rely on to originate.
How beautifully clear, how harshly magical, I thought from the depths of
my gleaming frock, from the slick of my perfumed neck, from the well of
my satin lingering, from the thick of my rubber straps, from the lines of
my pointed suede shoes and the high heat of my hairdo.
Truly there is nothing in this world but that which meets the eyes:
the first, the second, the third eye. The short-sighted, the long-sighted,
the deep-rooted. The near, the wide, the discerning. The hungry,
the searching, the full.
Baffled by the revelations this conversation was bringing about and in
sudden need to be reassured that this was not only being said but actually
being said to me, I decided to rest awhile in a more familiar mode:
reclining in my chair studiously, I brought the back of my right hand to
rest on my brow.
Now, it is frequently said that one should carry through such a position
by closing one's eyes and give out a quick, short cry, a pleased "ah" or
a languorous "oh", depending on the situation. There, I thought.
Unavoidably, she will be stepping one and two and three, then one and
two and three then one and two and pirouette I thought, tightening my
thighs in expectation of the soft fall of her prepared body.
(Minutes later and a cramp sets in.)
Fine times amiss, I whispered opening my eyes to find a blank space
where she had been standing. Straightening myself and noticing a faulty
detail, I brushed the feather from my crinkled crinoline, from my tired
finery, from my wet armour. Then got up to leave, pale and operatic as
one would be.
Could this then serve as an example of the way some old-fashioned
girl's queer sense of dresscoding does not easily slip down the
experienced décolleté of the women of her own plunge? The difference
between Orlando's fine leggings and her fine legs remains the same as
that which takes one from the hyperdressed to the undressing: it is
always hard to know when these end and these begin. I, for one, always
sleep with my best clothes on.