brumous
“Surrealism is destructive, but it destroys only what it considers to be shackles limiting our vision.”
The girl woke up to the crisp clatter of dishes on metal. The waiters were clearing the remnants of the night. Cups with dregs of foam and kisses at the rim. Stone ashtrays and napkins smeared with oil and cheese.
Six ladies of midnight sat on a wooden bench in the courtyard. One held a knife and sliced wedges of apricot on her lap. She passed the fruit down the line, juice dribbling to her shins. The pits were placed in one clean napkin tucked at her crotch.
The sounds of morning depended on where you were.
The girl missed the splash of the fountain outside her window. The bed where she slept was narrow, and her feet hung off the end. She wanted a fan though it was too rich for her to afford. Coolness in the humid heat must be paid for and she had hidden the few gold pieces left and paid with service for the night.
The girls smiled and sighed. It was a cloudy day, heavy with unmet needs, and the sun was known to rise though the girl didn’t think they would feel its warmth. Condensation swirled thickly overhead. Rain would be a welcomed treat, though it was unlikely they would receive the wet.
Stuck somewhere in the middle, desires unrequited.
The girl pressed herself up and wiped her eyes. She needed a wash. There was a basin below a long gold mirror. The water was brown, so the girl left it. Instead, she spat in each palm and rubbed her face, wiping her eyes with a bit of her dress on the inside of each wrist. Her clothes were filthy, though at least it was the girl’s grime on the inside.
Appearances were misleading. The girl often discovered that the thing she admired was not to be trusted. Her first heartache came from the purple flowers Moira brought in for her. The girl had sat and admired the frothy petals and erect stem for days until she woke and the flower had stripped itself. The shock of it brought the girl to her knees.
Why is it like this! She’d asked Moira.
Beauty comes to pass; we must appreciate it while we can. You’ve eyes to see and strong legs to run. Find yourself something magnificent.
I want this flower; I want to see it burst!
The girl collected bright bouquets of flowers she tied with twine and set in tall slim vases. Perched on the windowsill, she’d watch the petals drop and water mould. The decay was more desirable than the luscious blossoms.
Assessing her visage in the greasy mirror, the girl combed her hair with her fingers before braiding it in a long, loose plait that fell like a rope at her back. She’d placed the small hairpin pearls in a burlap bag the size of her palm and tied it to the waistline of her skirt, from the inside, where she could feel the knot of pressure against her left hipbone if she pressed her hand to her lower pelvis.
The sun sprayed light through the room, and the girl saw the lines in her reflection. Like roots churning the dirt and tunnelling down deep into the earth's core, the girl hid in the muck. She did not want to be the frothy flower someone wanted to pluck and put in a glass vase to look at.
She had to keep moving. From a container, she would not grow. Trapped. She’d be like the bouquets she kept on the bright ledge. Beauty had its compromises. Better to be dirty so no one pays you any attention. Better to be hidden in plain view, a mask of mud that allowed the girl to sink her feet in the present moment.
Leaving the hostel by the long winding staircase, the girl stepped into the sunshine and felt its warmth on her face. Her direction was south, away from the mountains that protected her.
The ladies at the bench looked up at the little girl with the grime-streaked face and floppy sandals tied around her ankles with the rope she’d used for a belt.
Where are you headed, little one? The woman with dark eyes asked.
South.
Come with us. We are also moving south. We will go once we’ve eaten.
I’m fine. I prefer to travel alone.
You will not make it on your own, little one. You are safer with us than what you will meet on this road.
The woman with the dark eyes gestured to the little girl.
Come, have some fruit and bread. We go quickly and quietly. You need to eat.
The woman cut the girl slices of the warm fruit and passed it to her with a napkin of sourdough bread.
Eat and then wash.
Where will I wash?
There’s a facet behind that building. Turn it twice to the left and stick the napkin under. Do your face and neck first. Rinse everything. It's a long walk through the woods, and we won't have water for a few days.
I'm fine.
The woman laughed, her companions joining her.
Eat. Rinse. Then, we go. It is not a question.
It's a command, then?
The woman surveyed the small girl, taking in the posture of palms as she cradled the bread. The arc of her spine and the angle of her chin. The way her knees and ankles touched.
You were raised somewhere fancy. Poised. Someone trained you well for eating decorously. You cannot hide behind a dirty robe. You will get plucked out and torn in half, quickly and quietly returned to wherever or whomever you are running from. Do you understand?
The girl looked down. Nodded.
They left the courtyard as a man appeared from the building where the girl had washed. He used a metal rod to roll open the front-facing windows and set out large, puffy loaves of bread on the legde.
One of the girls flicked her green dress toward him, revealing long legs and bright orange toenails.
The baker whistled as the girls rose and waved them over.
They walked south with a bundle of fresh bread and a powdered white cake to go with their fruit.
Photo source.
