Postcard Story IV: Dead Women

Two dead women have been found: one on a golf course and one on an ice floe. At last…I wondered if they would ever get to admire my handiwork. The young one was fifteen. I was idling my car outside her school. I knew she would be walking home alone. She is not pretty, and no one cares about her. Her red top has been washed so many times I’ve watched it fade to pink. I followed her around the corner to a residential street. I put the car in park. No one was around; you don’t get a chance like this every day. I grabbed her. I told her to keep her mouth shut and I showed her my hunting knife. She turned pale and she obeyed. I took her to my house, to the basement, and raped her. Then I took her to the golf course and hit her with my car jack hard enough to do the trick.

The other one I found drinking in a north end bar. She was twenty-nine but roughed up by life already. A face lined like a wood engraving. I could tell she would stay until closing time. She had argued with a man; I could hear her complaining. At two, when she wobbled outside, it was easy enough to follow her. I offered her a cigarette and we smoked while everyone else drove away. Then I forced her into my car. She kicked harder than the girl. I had to knock her out cold. On the journey, her head lolled around and finally hit the dash with a thunk. I wanted to rape her but when finally I undressed her, I was disgusted by what I found. Some dirty guy had spread his filth to her. I slit her throat clean. That’s the medicine she needed. I dumped her on the ice floe in the river and watched her float away.

No one would have given two shits about those whores unless I killed them.

Shame

We said we would meet here, on the platform at the Stade de France train station. On the journey, my heart was like an unmoored anchor, clanking against my ribs. It was almost impossible to read my book. The white and grey Paris suburbs stretched into the horizon outside the train window. I thought of you. When we parted, I was doubting myself, and you said:

“You are a woman… So much more than a girl. Do you understand?”

But I arrived feeling giddy as a ten year-old. I stepped out onto the cement. You were not there. I was convinced you would be there. Where are you?

I sit on the bench and the crowd moves past me. I return to my book. Suddenly there are voices.

“Hello? Mademoiselle? Can you hear me?”

I look up. There are two Arab men standing over me. A thin one and a short one. The thin one steps so close that I can smell his jeans have not been washed in weeks. He moves closer. “I hope that’s an interesting book,” he says. “It’s a long wait for the next train.” I nod and force a smile. He takes this as a license to sit next to me. Right next to me. His friend laughs. The thin Arab says, “Are you studying to be a doctor? A lawyer? The next president of France?” Another laugh from his friend who is like a hyena. The thin Arab is inching closer. He has been smoking. “Won’t you teach me to read so I can be smart like you?”

I cannot say anything. What would they have me say? I fix my eyes on a cigarette butt lying on the platform. I try to make all expression leave the muscles of my face. But this doesn’t please them.

“You won’t talk?” he says. “That’s not polite, is it?” Now his breath is on my cheek. Damp and fetid. “If your professor asks you a question in class, do you sit there mute like this? No, I bet you don’t. You say, oooh, Mr. Professor, please let me answer that! I know the answer to that! What do I get for being such a smart little student?”

His voice has gone falsetto to mock me. My eyes have not moved from the cigarette butt. Vincent, where are you? We agreed to meet here at two thirty. From his body heat, I can tell that the thin Arab is sweating under his shirt. This is sport to him. Why does he hate me? I never saw him in my life but he hates me.

“Are you waiting for your boyfriend?” he says.

I am alone with them. They could do anything. I try to make my head move. Just the smallest nod of acknowledgement.

“You are? What is he? A businessman? A classy guy?” He jabs questions into me like pins. “Because you think you are classy, right?”

His friend lights up a cigarette. I can see the plumes of smoke through my peripheral view. He is settling in to enjoy this.

“Yes, I can see you think you are a classy girl,” the thin Arab goes on. “The shoes, the hair… How much did you pay at the salon?”

I won’t answer.

“Eighty euros or more, I bet…”

Just then, I hear footsteps elsewhere on the platform. Someone is coming. I don’t dare turn my head to see. What if it’s a friend of theirs? My body is going to melt in the mid-afternoon sun. I would rather melt before they get me. I hear a scuffing sound. A sweeping sound. The newcomer is a cleaner. The short Arab calls out.

“You missed a spot there.”

I look up. The cleaner is another Arab, but older. Stooped over like an old tree.

“What did you throw that away for?” the short Arab says to the cleaner. “You could have eaten that.”

The cleaner simply goes about his business. He is a saint to me. How does he do this job, day after day? For as long as he is here, I don’t think anything will happen. As if in defiance, the thin Arab continues to stare at me. We are frozen while the cleaner continues to move about, slowly and wearily. I hear the clunk of plastic against plastic.

The short Arab finishes his cigarette. He crushes the filter. A breath of a breeze carries the orange sparks.

Suddenly I hear a distant roar. The ground starts to tremble. The train is coming. Vincent will be on it. He must be. Nothing changes in the thin Arab’s posture. He is leaning into me as if about to bite my cheek. His friend giggles. The ground is now alive, as if we’re on the belly of a giant beast that is digesting something. The roar is too loud for talking. Thank God. Vincent will be on the train and I will be safe.

The train enters the station. There is a blast of a tepid wind, then the long, slow screech of brakes. It takes forever to stop. The Arabs are still there. They haven’t moved. Now I can hear the hiss of the doors opening. It’s time to stand up. I stand up. People are spilling onto the platform. Where is Vincent? The thin Arab is also standing. I start to walk toward the head of the train. The thin Arab and his friend follow me. Faces are flashing past me, hard like stones. The thin Arab is right beside me as if I belong to him.

Vincent… There he is. I quicken my pace. He sees me. A moment later, he sees the thin Arab and his face clouds with confusion. I rush to him. I take his hands.

“Delphine,” he says.

The thin Arab interrupts.

“So you are the lucky guy,” he says to Vincent. “This is what I think of your girlfriend. Your fancy whore.” His face lunges toward mine and he spits on me.

The Arabs rush away. They vanish into the train and the train groans out of the station. I feel as if I have burst. Tears are streaming down my cheeks. I have crumpled to the cement floor. My body is shaking. I can’t control it. I want to control it for Vincent but I can’t. I have not been so helpless since I was a girl.

Postcard Story III: Lie in State

When I die, I want to lie in state like the pope. Preserve the last solemn smile on my face; fold my arms over my chest; dress me in my finest suit, and let everyone come wish me well. Here lies a man we used to drink with, they will say. Let’s hope there is plenty more merriment in store for him. Or: here is the man that didn’t love me. I suppose I can forgive him now. Whisper softly, as if afraid to wake me.

Then take me down to the North Saskatchewan as the springtime current rips by. Set me on the bank where the roar of breaking ice floes fills my ears. Retire to a picnic table at a quiet distance, and watch. The seagulls are coming. They are hovering over the surface of the water, ruffling their feathers in the wind, a little disconcerted by the commotion. Beyond the flurry of their wings, sunlight glints from the placid downtown towers that reach in vain for the clouds.

Now leave me. Don’t entomb me in the dirt. I want to be free to haunt you. My eyes will open when you have departed. I will stand up. I will walk, gather momentum, then my feet will leave the ground. I will glide like I’ve dreamed of since a child. I will float in through your windows; see old lovers with new lovers; observe friends forming new friendships; visit family and former family, who will now be spirits, floating like me over hilltops and treetops, across the great ocean. I will linger in warm places, feeling the pulse of the living. But I will only ever watch, listen, and smell the freshness of life like spring soil. I will never interfere.

Maybe, in a moment as still as death, when you are alone, you will feel something like electricity moving through the air. Just as soon as you sense it, I will go away again. For a fleeting second, you might think this is me. Then you will remember me as you last saw me, lying in state, fragile, as if made from porcelain. You will never suspect what a mischievous thrill of energy I have become.