New World Fairy Tales Page 2

  ‘I’m Hazel,’ she said. ‘And you’ve done this before. Tell me who?’

  She was imperious, and I was lonely.

  ‘My husband. Then my mother.’

  She snorted.

  ‘One of nature’s doormats. A good nurse, mind. You know to let your patient have a moan when she needs one. Bet you don’t know when to tell me to shut up and be grateful, though. You let those two step-daughters of yours walk all over you.’

  ‘They’re my daughters,’ I told her, absently wiping dust from the mantelpiece.

  ‘Gave birth to ’em, did you? Carried them for nine months and cussed out the doctors while they came into the world?’

  I put down my duster.

  ‘They’re my daughters.’

  We looked at each other in surprise. Then she chuckled.

  ‘You’ve got some blood in your veins, then. Still, at home on Lundi Gras . . . definitely one of nature’s doormats. But I’m going to transform you, my dear.’

  ‘What —’

  Her eyes were like rain-washed berries in her wrinkled brown face.

  ‘Go to the closet,’ she ordered.

  I opened an ornate wooden door, looked inside, took a breath.

  ‘You like it?’ she demanded, sitting up in bed and straining to see my expression.

  ‘It’s — oh, it’s just . . .’

  Hanging on a padded hanger was a crimson dress: long bell-sleeves, a low neck, a fitted bodice, a long, flared skirt. Ruffles trailed around the décolletage, across the bodice and down, down — a dress for a princess, for a queen, accompanied by a red sequinned Carnival mask and crimson silk heels.

  ‘Put it on,’ Hazel commanded.

  ‘I’m too old.’

  ‘Rubbish. Put it on.’

  ‘I’m thirty-eight years old, and I can’t wear that dress.’

  ‘Horseshit. You can, and you will. Put it on.’

  ‘I —’

  ‘I used to be a costumier,’ said Hazel. ‘Sewed for the finest Krewes of the city.’ She held up her ruined hands. ‘I dressed the Parade Kings and Queens every year for twenty-three years straight, till my joints got too bad, more’n ten years ago. That’s one of the last three dresses I made, and it’s waited a long time. Age is nothing. I’m seventy-three years old and I’m still not done. Thirty-eight’s just getting started. Do as you’re told, Ella, and damn well put — it — on.’

  The cool silk made my skin shiver. My bra showed in back, so I tossed it recklessly away, to lie grey and discouraged in a corner. I shook my hair loose; I tied on the mask. The shoes held my feet like jewels. I showed myself to Hazel.

  ‘Ah,’ she sighed, her face bright with satisfaction.

  ‘How does it — ?’

  ‘There’s a mirror on the closet door.’

  I opened the door and looked, and looked, and looked.

  ‘Old Hollywood,’ said Hazel, smiling. ‘So. Now are you going out?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  I stepped into colour, smell, noise, freedom, and was instantly lost; but I didn’t care. I felt found. I floated lightly on the tide of people, and I was by the kerb as a Spanish Galleon sailed round the street corner. On the deck stood a man in black doublet and hose, a white lace ruff, a pointed beard beneath a black leather mask. As he tossed doubloons into the crowd, he saw me.

  At his command, the float came to a slow halt, and he leapt down. I tried to hide, but he thrust through the crowd, found me, took my hand. The skin of his palm was warm and rough.

  ‘Come aboard,’ he invited.

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because — because —’

  I had no idea who he was, how old he was, what he looked like. But my hand rested in his, our bodies whispering to each other, even as we tripped and stumbled over our tongues.

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘We’re not supposed to stop, so I’m already in trouble. But it’s worth it if you’ll come with me.’

  His hand was so warm, so dry.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  We sailed the streets, throwing coins, laughing, talking. He couldn’t tell me his name –Krewe memberships were still secret then — and I refused to share mine. He called me Isabella; I called him Vasquez. And we talked, oh, how we talked; talked as if we’d starved for it all our lives.

  Finally, we docked at Parade’s End.

  ‘I have to go,’ I said.

  He stroked my wrist shyly with his fingertips. His touch was melting, paralysing.

  ‘Can I see you again? Please?’

  ‘How — ? I don’t know your name.’

  ‘Be at Fat Tuesday tomorrow and I’ll find you.’

  He kissed the inside of my wrist. Something inside me caught fire.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  Fat Tuesday dawned. Beth and Cindy shimmied into their costumes.

  ‘D’you know,’ said Beth discontentedly, ‘the parade stopped yesterday because some guy wanted a spectator up on his float.’

  ‘He should have picked you, Bethie,’ said Cindy. ‘It was a ship, Mom. Beth would have looked perfect.’

  ‘You both look perfect now,’ I said sincerely.

  ‘Good.’ She glanced at the ball dresses hanging on the door: gold and glimmer for Cindy, silver and shimmer for Beth. ‘We can’t go to the balls without invitations.’

  ‘You’ll be asked,’ I said, smiling.

  ‘Oh, Mom,’ said Beth. ‘You’ve been out of the game too long, you don’t know how it works . . .’ She frowned into the mirror. ‘I need a different mask. Can I borrow some money?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  Beth was already rummaging in my wallet. ‘I’m taking ten dollars, all right? Oh, hang on — Cindy wanted silver stockings — those ones we saw, remember? Twenty should be enough. We’ll see you later, okay?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  The door had hardly closed before I heard Hazel thumping; her hearing was supernatural, I thought, or else there was no soundproofing. She was in her chair this time, damaged hands resting cautiously on her stick.

  ‘You look better,’ she complimented me. ‘Less dead. You met someone, didn’t you? About time, too. You already wasted twenty years. The next twenty have to count for double.’

  ‘They were not wasted!’ I protested. ‘I was bringing up my daughters!’

  ‘Hmmph.’

  ‘Don’t be mean about my children, Hazel . . .’

  ‘Oh, be quiet.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘Look in the closet.’

  An empire-line column of soft green taffeta, slit to the hips and trimmed with old-gold ribbon. Filmy, sequinned wings, outrageously wide and feather-light; a mask crusted with crystals and topped with peacock feathers; sandals too delicate to be worn more than once. A dress to make Titania weep. I felt tears come to my eyes.

  ‘Why are you doing this for me?’ I asked.

  Hazel smiled to herself.

  ‘Every woman needs a little help sometimes,’ she said. ‘Don’t even think about ruining the line with those ghastly underpants. You could hide them under the red frock, but not this one. And leave that dreadful thing you call a brassiere as well.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘Trust me, you’re better off naked than wearing them. Get dressed. And then . . .’ she held out a little box.

  ‘What’s in there?’ I asked, feeling taffeta caress me.

  ‘Make-up. I can’t do it for you, these damn things —’ she shook her hands and winced ‘— are no use, so you’ll have to do what I tell you. Exactly what I tell you, mind you.’

  ‘Will it show under the mask?’

  ‘You think we’re going to paint your face?’

  An hour later, under Hazel’s direction, my body bloomed with leaves and flowers, winding and winding
around my limbs, my chest, my neck. I looked beautiful, but eerie, faerie; I looked transformed.

  Hazel chuckled to herself.

  ‘Of course, what I should have done is make that dress without a bodice, and got you to paint your tits,’ she said. ‘Far too pretty to keep under wraps. Never mind. Now, about tonight’s ball. He’ll offer; don’t you dare turn him down.’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’

  ‘You know perfectly well,’ she said severely. ‘Promise me you’ll accept?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  I’ll find you, he’d said, but how could he, in this ocean of humanity? He didn’t even know what I looked like. Nevertheless, my stomach was full of butterflies.

  On Bourbon Street, I smelled the Mississippi on the breeze. The costumes here were wilder, more risqué; I saw women with their breasts bared, one painted with a trompe l’oeil Wall Street suit, red suspenders and striped shirt, stalking naked down the street with her head held high. I remembered Hazel’s words — I should have got you to paint your tits — and shivered.

  How could they do it? How could they be so exposed, their bodies bare while their faces hid behind a mask?

  But a part of me envied them their freedom.

  Of course, even then no-one could parade through the Quartier, so I made my way to Canal Street. How could Hazel have known the parades that day were Faerie-themed? My costume could have come straight from one of the floats that drifted through the warm, heavy air. Woodland scenes, court scenes, nymphs reclining by water; seven beautiful girls and seven beautiful boys going down to hell with chains around their necks.

  And then — a gigantic ass’s head, ears flapping in the breeze, a long tongue poured between vast yellow teeth to form a carpet, the King of the Faeries on a filigree throne. Next to him, Titania’s vacant place. This time I didn’t wait to be fetched from the crowd.

  ‘I thought each Krewe only paraded once,’ I said.

  ‘We’re rule-breakers,’ he said gravely. ‘Hadn’t you noticed?’

  As I took my place, he kissed me, a brush of his lips against my ear that made my pulse race. We were supposed to throw coins to the crowd, but we didn’t. Instead two woodland sylphs took over, while we devoured the air between us, ravenous for each other’s words.

  ‘But how did you know?’ I asked. ‘How did you find me?’

  His eyes roamed over me; it felt like being touched.

  ‘How did you know?’ he asked. ‘That frock . . . that mask . . . that make-up . . .’ he sighed.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I wish we could be alone,’ he said simply. ‘I want to see if you’re painted like that all over. That sounds very forward, I wouldn’t dare say it without the mask, but it’s true.’

  I didn’t know how to answer.

  ‘Come to the ball tonight,’ he said, offering a scalloped card. Our fingers touched.

  ‘Say you’ll be there,’ he said. ‘Please, Titania.’

  ‘Yesterday you called me Isabella.’

  ‘Because you won’t tell me who you are really.’

  A widow of twenty years with two grown-up children, closer to forty than thirty.

  ‘You wouldn’t want to know,’ I said.

  ‘I do, but I’ll wait — I just have to see you again — will you come to the ball?’

  Don’t you dare turn him down. Hazel could have been standing beside me.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  I was only just in time for Beth and Cindy. Of course, they’d been offered invitations too. Meekly, I helped them dress. But I was all alive inside, wondering what Hazel had planned. When the summons came, I took cookies and milk.

  ‘These aren’t bad,’ Hazel said, pleased. ‘And in return . . .’

  As I went to the closet, she caught my wrist. Her touch was light, her poor, arthritic fingers had no traction, but she had me captured.

  ‘This one takes courage,’ she told me.

  ‘All right . . .’

  ‘I mean it. You open that door, you’re putting it on. You hear?’

  I was mystified, and afraid, and desperately curious.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, and opened the door.

  ‘You need talcum powder,’ said Hazel calmly. ‘Don’t shake your head, Ella. It’s going on.’

  ‘I won’t, I can’t, I —’

  She held the talcum out.

  ‘Turn it inside out and shake this over it. Then turn it right-side out again. Take your time, it’s not something to rush. And don’t roll it up, it’s not hosiery. Just step into it. Oh, don’t cry. It’ll be astounding.’

  I wiped tears off my face.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ Hazel repeated, and touched me under the chin. ‘Trust me.’

  I took the cold, heavy, slippery, strange-smelling thing into the tiny bathroom and stripped naked, not daring to meet my own gaze. I turned it inside out and shook talcum all over it, then turned it right-side out again.

  It looked like nothing I’d ever seen.

  ‘Damn it,’ I wailed, and stepped into it, slowly, as she told me to, and felt it slither over me, and pulled the zipper smoothly up in back.

  And then . . .

  . . . then, the black rubber catsuit held me in a cool, firm embrace. It sculpted and lifted, smoothed and firmed; it clung to every inch of my skin; it was my skin, my new skin, my skin I could wear outdoors. I looked in the mirror, and laughed out loud.

  ‘Do you see?’ said Hazel, her eyes blackbird-bright. ‘Cher Ella, do you see?’

  It was a revelation. He could get close, but he couldn’t touch; he’d see part of me, but he could only caress my smooth outer shell. I was hiding in plain sight.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  Crowds parted as I walked down the street, tall in shiny black heels. The doorman bowed. As I entered the ballroom, a respectful silence fell.

  He was waiting by the long windows overlooking the river, wearing skin-tight white lycra, like a ballet dancer. I saw him catch his breath. This time we barely spoke, we just twined closely together and danced; but a photographer, moving among the couples, stopped and snapped a shot of us.

  ‘You’re going to have to dance every dance with me,’ he said at last.

  ‘Why?’ I asked, knowing the answer.

  ‘Because,’ he said, ‘because, because . . . because this damn costume doesn’t hide a thing, and if I let you go, all New Orleans will see I’ve got the most unconquerable hard-on of my life . . . don’t laugh, I’m serious . . .’

  ‘I’m laughing because I’m nervous. It’s been so long . . .’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Twenty years.’

  He stopped dancing. ‘Are you — you’re not — have I got this all wrong, do you — um — prefer —’

  I laughed.

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Then —’ He stroked my cheek. ‘Did something happen? To make you —’

  ‘No, no, no,’ I said. ‘Nothing like that. It was just — circumstances.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘And now I’m on fire,’ I admitted, with a sob.

  ‘Oh, God.’ his voice was hoarse. ‘Come with me, I have a room. Please.’

  ‘I can’t take this costume off.’

  ‘Then leave it on. Just — let me make love to you. Please.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  Cotton sheets and a gold brocade cover, but I was cocooned in my skin, my slick black second skin. He stroked me everywhere, but he could only touch my face, my hands, my feet, and — somewhere else. There was a second zipper, you see; a modesty fastening, they call them, although I never felt more immodest in my life than when he —

  His fingers, stroking and caressing.

  His breath hot on my cheek.

  His erection, hot and alive under my touch.
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  His voice, begging me to stop, telling me it was too much, he just couldn’t wait if I —

  His hands, stopping me from touching him because I couldn’t stop myself.

  And then he was inside my skin, inside my body, and when we screamed aloud in sheer wild ecstasy, I thought we’d bring the ceiling down.

  I awoke at quarter to twelve. Beth and Cindy — the room left cluttered and littered — my clothes in a heap on Hazel’s floor.

  ‘I have to go,’ I said.

  ‘Wait,’ he said, trying to hold me. ‘Mardi Gras ends at midnight.’

  ‘That’s why I need to go.’

  ‘Stay. Please.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Tomorrow everything’s real again. I can’t be here when that happens.’

  ‘Yes, you can.’ He stroked my face. ‘Stay with me. I want to wake up tomorrow and find you here. I want to peel you out of that suit and see you properly naked. This isn’t the end; it can’t be. Please.’

  ‘It’s late, I need to go —’

  His eyes were intense in the dim light.

  ‘Marry me,’ he begged suddenly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Marry me.’ He slid out of bed and knelt at my feet. ‘I’m serious. I’ve never felt this way in my life. Marry me.’

  ‘I can’t! I have a family —’

  ‘You’re already married?’

  ‘No, no, widowed, but —’

  He began to kiss me. My body was melting; my will was dissolving; I felt the universe hold its breath.

  I closed my eyes, and pushed him away.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  I ran barefoot from the room.

  Why? Well, why do you think?

  Lots of reasons. Because it was insane. Because I hadn’t taken a risk for twenty years. Because the last time I got married, my husband was dead within a year. Most of all, because I was afraid, when the mask came off, he’d see me and think, oh, shit . . .

  The newspaper article? You have a copy? I haven’t seen it since — may I — oh — oh my —

  KREWE MEMBER BREAKS CODE,