An August heat wave is wrapping the apartment in a claustrophobic shroud when Tamara opens her eyes. This and the prospect of another seven and a half hours in the hospital pharmacy feigning a busy schedule motivate her to break her own personal dress code. The new dress hanging in her sister’s closet, with its pastel pink, its off-the-shoulders, scalloped neckline and tantalizing cool cotton, is the antithesis of office attire.

How many times have I worn a dress? As she walks to the bus stop she revels in the material’s frothy, sensuous skimming over her muscular body, bringing to mind a gypsy dancer from a 1950s Hollywood extravaganza. Only three weeks to go and I’ll be back at university. What is it about the pharmacy that makes the days stretch so interminably? Is it the environment with its eight-foot tall, green-meshed windows? The industrial grinding of the air conditioners? Second pharmacist in command Pizette, who enjoys treating her like a char? The other pharmacists are comfortable enough to work with, in spite of their devotion to the clock. Their this-is-unacceptable frowning whether she is three seconds or thirteen minutes late. Only three more weeks.  The university computer card in her purse reminds her that she has until five this afternoon to pick up her registration package.

“Hey, babe!” A red traffic light forces her to stop at the corner of Rue Simpson. Out of the corner of her eye she can see the scarred fender of a white convertible. “Can I give you a lift?” The dress. It is too late to go back home and change. Damn these aggressors in their macho tanks. Most of them wouldn’t make a squeak without the protection of their glass and metal prowlers. “The air conditioning’s going full blast.”

Go to hell, screams her brain as she stares nonchalantly up at the eternal red signal, wishing she could crush him under the flat rubber sole of her sandal.

“Come on, babe, don’t play frigid with me.” The humidity and expended adrenaline are sapping her strength. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those frigid witches?” She has no doubt that his hatchet voice belongs to a meat hook body and matching fists. Harassers are a breed all to themselves, whether they are leering behind corporate tans and grays or smacking their jovial lips beneath baseball caps. As the traffic light turns green they both lurch forward. “Go screw yourself!” As he spits out his final retort she wishes she had remembered to grab her yellow cotton jacket.

An unexpected August gust pushes the dress’s flimsy pink hem above her knees, reminding her having read about pennies being sewn into all of Queen Elizabeth’s hemlines to prevent such impromptu exposures. What is it about the urban landscape that so easily burns the civilized veneer off these primitive aggressors? If it isn’t the dress, then why does she feel so profoundly and suddenly revealing? No, the same monsters are out there whether her body is wrapped in January wool and leather or shielded behind a roomy April trench coat and rain-soaked boots. The most disturbing factor about the dress, she concludes, is its highlighting of her own body awareness.

Five minutes after entering the pharmacy she detects an off-kilter reaction from the others engaged in the typical morning hum. The back room shippers approach her with abnormal silence and exaggerated can-I-help-you etiquette, tongue-tied or sniggering when she hands them the daily dialysis order. There is Chief Pharmacist Moulin’s nice-girls-don’t-dress-that-way insinu-ating frown, and her nemesis Joceline Pizette’s only-a-trollop-would-wear-a-dress-like-that seething lower lip. The same Pizette who slinks out of her lab coat every afternoon to show off her latest crushed velvet burgundy cocktail dress, or tight summer skirts whose brilliant dyes telegraph their made-in-Europe origins. By ten-fifteen she wishes she had taken the day off. Tomorrow I may just show up in a black patent corset, red mesh tights and spiked sandals.

After lunch the pharmacy clock ticks like a reluctant stalactite on the cancerous green wall above her desk, feeding the atmosphere with its never-depleted store of tedium. The battered air-conditioner rammed into the meshed window chuffs out groan after industrial groan. As the frosty mechanized air continues to numb her shoulders she pulls the scalloped neckline up over them.

Beyond the metallic green-grilled window she can see splotches of sun on untamed shrubs and cracks of blue sky between the adjacent high rises. From the next room she can hear the vague chirping sounds associated with counting pills, the pharmacists’ mumbled cursing of doctors’ hieroglyphics and the snapping of white plastic lids on sterile tubes.

It takes Pizette until four o’clock to concoct the appropriate punishment. “You will immediately photocopy for me, please, the first fifty-seven pages of this catalogue. I want to go over some of the new pharmaceuticals.”

“It’s four o’clock and there are line-ups for the sixth floor copy machines. I’ll never be able to get this done by four-thirty and I have an appointment.”

“Are you deaf? I said I need those copies tonight.” Pizette scrapes her ballpoint pen against the metal edge of the counter where Yoshi and Francine are measuring their daily quota of pills. Her two protégées are holding back fits of laughter behind their superior’s back. Even her own underlings detest her. As they rake their allotment of yellow capsules into tall glass jars several pills go skittering in awkward directions, missing their target.

According to the backroom grapevine it was Pizette alone who put up a ferocious argument against Moulin’s decision to rehire Tamara for the third summer in a row. “I’ll come in early tomorrow,” she persists, “I’ll have those copies on your desk by nine on the dot.” She pulls open the triple-locked pharmacy door. “Good Night.” As she hurries down the hallway Pizette’s rancorous bellowing trails after her. “I’ll report you to Moulin, do you hear?” Let her complain. It’s only a summer job. I don’t give a damn anymore.

As she exits the hospital, its ice-packed ambience is immediately replaced by molasses-thick humidity. Ignite, ignite. She welcomes the sun’s melting down on her shoulders as she strides down the hill toward Avenue Penfield. Twenty-five minutes. She looks at her watch and notes that there is plenty of time for her to walk to the university and pick up her registration package. As she reaches Penfield a taxi’s honk rips into her brief meditation. “Allô!” sings its wind-burned, white-haired driver. She extends her stride and curses the clinging consistency of the pink dress.

As she walks along Penfield the women of Montreal are floating past her in dazzling cotton ensembles, billowy dresses, knee-length shorts, florid blouses and slacks. Every figure but hers, every curve and contour, it seems, securely obscured. Here I am, the flashiest female circus in Montreal. She launches her five foot nine inch frame into a more military rhythm.

***

“Rape is rape,” she overhears Francine arguing with quiet-spoken Yoshi during coffee-break one morning. “It has nothing to do with attire or a woman’s sexuality.”

“All I’m saying,” says Yoshi, “is that if a woman wears certain clothing, she might turn on a potential rapist.”

“Turn on? Rape has nothing to do with seduction. It’s assault. Elderly nuns have been raped.”

“Oh, come on—”

“What if a victim takes her attacker to court and the judge dismisses the case solely because of attire? ‘Lady, by wearing that tight skirt you invited the passions of this unfortunate sub-human.’”

“If she dresses decently she’ll give the sub-human one less excuse.”

“‘Decently’? Let me put it this way, then. What if I decided to go after some guy, pour a sedative in his wine and perpetrate all manner of tortures on his body? Could I cry to the judge, ‘but Your Honor, those tight pants, that white open-collar shirt and that gold shark’s tooth drove me to acts beyond my control’?”

“That’s crazy!”

“It’s the law that’s crazy.”

***

At Rue de la Montagne she nearly jumps when a shiny red Civic pulls over to the curb and its balding, scrubby-cheeked driver leans out of the passenger window. “Excuse me, Miss.” The East Indian accent is emitted from smiling lips and glistening teeth. There is a white lace handkerchief propped in his vest pocket. Why did I stop? “You need a lift perhaps, on this very, terribly hot day?”

“No, thank you,” she answers him with equivocal courtesy and turns to face the traffic light. Red again.

“You look sweet.” His fingers are squeezing the polished red steering wheel and his pearly teeth are clenched. “I am a prominent businessman. Maybe you should be sweet to me.” As the light changes and she crosses the street his revving engine bites into her as abruptly as an expletive. So much for courtesy.

Crossing Metcalfe she recognizes the familiar green of the campus. Oasis. Its mellow atmosphere is already coaxing the residual anxiety from her system. Illuminated by afternoon sun the hypnotic greens and golds, in tandem with the tranquil tableau of the surrounding buildings, contribute to the illusion that she has entered a mythical zone. The distant skyscrapers, asphalt and exhaust somehow do not belong in this sacred realm. She surveys the academic edifices on either side of her as she walks slowly along the gradient, deliberately walking on the grass bordering the concrete path that leads to the Arts Building. Its symmetry and domed solitude are already beckoning.

It’s four-forty-six. I’ll cut through Arts to the Administration Building.

As she pulls on the solid brass handle of an oak door and heaves it open a whirl of marble cooled air rushes over her. Her eyes adjust to the dim lighting and she spots two workmen in the far right corner of the cavernous vestibule. They are heaving bulky planks, joking and swearing. She strides in the opposite direction, down the brief corridor that leads to the adjoining building. The glass doors whisper shut behind her. There is nobody in sight. To her surprise the usually off-limits private staff elevator is open. On a whim she steps inside the tiny, mahogany-lined car and presses the button that will take her one floor down. After picking up my registration I’ll walk down to Café Lejou.

“Bonjour!” A massive white-knuckled hand jams between the elevator doors just as they are in the process of sliding shut. An anxious qualm rushes through her as she finds herself face to face with one of the workmen, whose triple biceps are hanging out of a torn white t-shirt. How did he get over here so quickly? Her heart is throttled by adrenaline that continues to be emitted like lava, filling every vein with molten liquid. Be calm. Her diminishing inner voice is hurtling down some mega-distant inner chasm. Don’t lose control. She attempts to adjust her breathing, pleading with the lead in her lungs to thaw back into oxygen. Don’t dissolve.

“Bonjour!” A booming, gurgling voice emanates from the six-foot-four inch frame knobbed with muscle and fat. His expression instantly reminds her of a panther toying with its prey.

What an idiot, she castigates herself. Rule One: beware of elevators. The two men must have pretended not to see me. Once again, she remembers that she is wearing the pink dress. It feels downright slimy at this moment, its scooped collar drooping down her arms, her happy-go-lucky gypsy demeanor rapidly being replaced by that of a caged danseuse.

“Tu descend?” The grinning beast pushes the ground floor button and the elevator begins its voyage downward. Only one floor. I can make a run for it as soon as the doors open. Instinct warns her, however, that if she makes any quick movement or reveals one iota of panic, his response will be indistinguishable from that of a grizzly bear surprised along a deserted mountain trail. As the elevator continues its oily descent, he purposefully extends his right index finger to her bare shoulder. “Tue es jolie,” he gurgles, brushing his sandpaper finger against her smooth exposed skin. I’m trapped. There are only two inches between her spine and the side of the elevator. Terror mingles with her own primitive rage, the urge to lash out. Don’t let him know you’re terrified. A fragment of her brain struggles to keep itself separate itself from the paralysis of fear.

“Tu es jolie,” he grunts again and eases closer. So close she can count the cracks between his smoke-stained, bouldering teeth. “Tu es très jolie. Trè jolie…” As his hand clamps down on her shoulder she can feel his eyes digging in, feasting on the hors d’oeuvres his instinct has singled out.

“Jolie?” she repeats, deliberately mispronouncing the word. He pauses, slightly bewildered. “Ha ha,” she continues, emitting a deep-toned, jerky laugh while daring to inch a fraction away from his coarse hand.

“Moi, je m’appel Guillaume!” he states solemnly, his finger hovering next to her left shoulder. The elevator stops and the doors refuse to open. What is the matter? she fumes. “Et tu?” What now? Every portion of her body feels as if it is being gradually encased in glass, neither warm nor cold, all nerve endings shutting down. Open, damn doors.

“Uh,” she assumes the demeanor of a vacuous tourist and shrugs, “no comprend.”

“Tu,” his stumpy finger taps her shoulder, “aime les grands garcons, oui?”

“Garçons?” She flaps her arms. “No, no. Pas les boys. Moi, I like girls!”

“Quoi?” His hand freezes a fraction away from her bare shoulder, his mouth puckering with disbelief. Brainless move, chastises her inner voice, why didn’t you tell him you had a disease instead?

The elevator doors finally begin to open. “Oh no,” she laughs, her energy returning as she squeezes past him, “only les filles!” As she steps out of the elevator she realizes she is standing in a pitch black room as silent and sealed as a mausoleum. The Administration office is closed, she realizes in horror. A defeaning blow of panic slams through her. Daylight is leaking into the small corridor, trickling across the locked wickets and a platform stacked with registration packets. A rotund clock over the doorway reads four fifty-five. Impossible! It was clearly written on the computer card that the Administration office would be open from 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m.

She takes a deep breath, emits another quirky laugh and gallops from the elevator over to the platform of registration packets. Only seven feet away, she can see the sunlight drip tantalizingly across a grass-bordered walkway outside the glass doors. Her hopes sink when she sees that the long metallic door handle is draped with a heavy chain.

“Incredible!” she chokes as she latches back onto her vacuous, jerky tourist persona. The monster is leaning out of the elevator. Impulsively, she seizes one of the envelopes and waves it above her head like a trophy. Thumping the stack of envelopes she shouts: “What incredible good luck. Now I can actually register!” She begins to babble anything and everything she can wrench from her memory, from the names of poets and novelists, metaphysical discourses, professorial idiosyncra-sies—anything to fill the ominous silence. There is only one way out of here. She steels herself and marches back inside the elevator. “Excusez-moi!” She pushes the second-floor button and the doors begin to slide shut.

“Eh?” As he stands blocking her path, gaping uncertainly, his arms bowed, he reminds her of a caricature of some mindless gorilla whose thick mouth can only emit premeditative, hungry grunts. I don’t have much time.

“Excusez-moi!” she shouts, laughing, rolling her eyes and distorting her mouth. “Voilà!” she confronts him, hoping her hyperactive gestures and tone will keep him distracted. I am a clown, a Patapouf, pancake white face, purple triangles for eyes, a yellow ball for a nose, electric blue wig, square green mouth…

Whenever he attempts to speak or touch her she interrupts with earfuls of gibberish, lopsided gestures and goofy laughter. When he touches her shoulder again she squints at him with the intensity of a crazed squirrel. He draws back as if testing the reflexes of a shifty cobra. As the elevator slowly cranks its way up she is aware of extraordinarily vicious undercurrents, ugly, belligerent seams escalating beneath his temporary bafflement. As he paws at her shoulder again the elevator stops and the doors slowly clank open. Remaining in full Patapouf persona babbling non-sequiturs, she rushes past him, back through the whispering glass doors toward the main entrance of the Arts building. His colleague is directly ahead of her as she sweeps toward the creaky doors leading directly outside. She is aware of some fleeting private signal between the two men. Don’t walk too quickly. No sudden movements. The taste and proximity of freedom provides her survival instinct with all of the fuel it requires for the final break. Stay out of my path. She can hear Guillaume’s heavy padding on the cold floor about ten feet behind her.

She passes his cohort and he doesn’t interfere as she punches open the oak door. Free. Her glassed-in body yields to the sun, lapping its immediate, gratifying warmth. Her sandals clap softly and swiftly down the warm concrete stairs as she aims directly for Sherbrooke Street, the campus blurring past her on either side. A hot open breeze helps blast away the corpselike remnants of fear from her brain. She can hear their odious voices fading behind her.

“That was a quick ride. Is the great Guillaume losing his touch?”

“No way. That one was a crazy, a real farfelu.”

“Tough luck, eh?”

When she reaches Sherbrooke Street her throat is parched and burning, her lungs overdosing on smog-infused oxygen, her adrenaline supply drained. This is still my oasis, she tells herself as she takes a quick peek at the green surrounding the entry gates. The campus is as paradisal as before, its greens and golds as hypnotic and inviting as ever. This will pass. It is then that her brain begins to flood with hysteria, its images thrashing through her like a massive flood exploding through a cardboard dam.

Her brain metamorphoses into a lopsided movie-projector, unspooling loop after loop of random what-if scenarios. Being forced to the Administration office floor, her pale shoulders slamming against the hard cold tiles, her screams obliterated by tidal waves of silence as aggressive laughter barrels out of his berserk body. His torso crushing down on hers, feasting not on sex but on a glut of victimization, pain. An infinity of terror.

It didn’t happen. She permits her brain to continue unlooping its scenarios, hoping to expurgate the taste of horror and residual shock. At the end of the reels, however, there is only a blinding white barrier her brain will not permit her to cross. I won.

The city’s exhaust fumes accentuate the humidity. Smug corporate towers stacked beside cramped corner cafés and bars advertising bière froide, empty boutiques, pedestrians packing the pavement in celebration of fleeting summer. I won. She decides to give Café Lejou a miss and runs to catch the Sherbrooke Street bus instead.

The pink dress clings to her, repulsive as a slab of bacteria, until she is back home. She runs a bath and focuses on the tumbling water smashing extravagantly against the sides of the tub, believing in its power to expurgate the paranoia, the grime and most of all, the anger. Nothing happened, chants her brain as she slides her toes up against the calm blue tiles of her sanctuary. Nothing happened.

~  

© 1994 Sonja A. Skarstedt
[Appeared in The White Wall Review Number 19]

A Brief History of the White Wall Review
By Dennis Denisoff