Savoir Faire

Scene One – Jaz

“Brrr-i-nnng. Brrr-i-nnng.” The abrasive sound of the old twist doorbell rang out, always impatient. “I’m coming! I’m coming!” Jaz called as she stumbled out of her bedroom. Wearing only grey sweats and a sports bra, she wrestled with her tangled, Western U hoodie. One arm completely inside out, the other only partially right way around. She managed to get it on wrong way out, as she clambered over the colorful piles of floor cushions and ottomans which filled her living room. She squawked, scowled and swore when she stubbed her toe on a footstool and tugged impatiently at her sweatshirt.

“Brrr-i-nnng. Brrr-i-nnng.” “I’m coming!!” she shouted again.

Growling, she managed finally to get her sweatshirt on right side out. Jaz yanked the black hair elastic off her wrist, swiftly wrapped her mass of black, wavy hair up into a messy bun, stopped for a moment by the kitchen, and inhaled deeply, savoring the heady aromas from the Moroccan tagine simmering away on the stove.

Calmed by the deep breath and delicious smells, she looked back at the bare-chested young man who tumbled out of her bedroom after her, t-shirt tossed over his shoulder and struggling to pull on grey sweatpants. Jaz strode backwards towards the front door, flapping her hands to shoo him out the balcony door. “Hurry. Hurry,” she whispered sharply, smirking to herself as he hopped from one leg to the other trying to shove his bare feet into his shoes. Giving up, he pulled open the balcony door and waved a quick ‘see ya later’ at Jaz, with the hand that held his socks and runners, and leapt out onto the balcony.

Jaz yanked open the heavy oak door greeting Harper with glee. “Harper, welcome home! Ooh-la-la! How was Paris?” She embraced her friend warmly.

Scene Two – Harper

“Fabulous!” Harper purred, leaning around Jaz, craning to get a better look at the balcony where she spied a backside clad in a pair of Juicy Couture sweats disappear into the forest of potted plants Jaz called her kitchen garden. Crooking an eyebrow questioningly, Harper asked, “A little dessert before dinner?”

Embarrassed, Jaz ushered Harper in, as she giggled, “Indeed. And how sweet it was.” She followed Harper’s gaze to check that her visitor had made a successful escape. “Come on, let’s have some wine and you can tell me all about Gay Paree!”

Harper, indeed, had the look of classic Parisian chic. She wore well-fitting jeans, a crisp, white shirt, a bold, red pashmina and red suede Hermès ankle boots. Her infamous Jackie O shades held her deep, chocolate brown hair away from her face. Tall and incredibly striking in appearance, her Athenian features reflected her elegance and her formidable corporate lawyer presence.

Harper swept into Jaz’s home. “And you can tell me all about what you had for dessert,” Harper teased.

Scene Three – Kate

Beowulf spotted somebody walking down Palmerston Boulevard and simply sat. Kate was partway up the walk at the other end of his leash. She was jerked to a complete stop by Beowulf’s sit. One leg flew up in the air. One arm outstretched behind, her wrist tangled in the leash, Kate spun around on tiptoes. Finally she landed face-to-face with the mountain of a dog. He licked and slurped her adoringly for the performance. A canine equivalent of a standing ovation?

“Wulfie!” she squawked as she struggled to move him toward the house. “Come on, you beautiful beast! Time to go home.” Kate leaned over the giant Harlequin Great Dane, rubbing his ears and head. Following his gaze up the boulevard, she spotted what had caught his attention. An elderly woman, well dressed in a somewhat dated look, but couture, nonetheless. She was tiny, slightly bent with age, yet carried herself with a frail, faded grace. The woman wore an elegant, pink, vintage Chanel suit with navy trim. Her navy pill-box hat was set at a slight, jaunty angle. She proceeded slowly with the aid of a walker.

Kate held firmly onto Beowulf, ever the hero, but unpredictable. She wasn’t sure if it was the walker or the candy-pink, chew-toy-like image of the small woman that likely bounced around in his head that he lusted after, but at 125 lbs, he could easily demolish both with hugs and kisses. Beowulf was sure to devour either of them. He was a good boy. He adored people and toys and anything that resembled either.

Beowulf’s excitement grew as the woman slowly drew closer. Wriggling around on his spot as the woman approached, he slapped Kate up the side of her face with his enormous, wet tongue several times. “I have to stop using the lemon verbena moisturizer when I walk Wulfie. He likes the taste way too much.” She sighed to herself, dodging the beast as he tried to go in for seconds and thirds.

Beowulf jumped to his feet and barked in a happy, friendly greeting. A “C’mon, play with me,” bark. “We can roll around on the grass. I have a nice lawn here and a bigger one out back.” He was prancing excitedly from one paw to another, tail and bum wagging wildly.

“He’s very friendly,” Kate called out. “He loves to greet people. He’s just so-o-o big. Wulfie, sii-i-it.” Beowulf sat, still vibrating with excitement. “Good boy,” Kate said, rubbing his head as she moved to hug him between her legs. Beowulf, panting, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, began to calm down. Kate kept gently cooing to him, rubbing his head and ears.

The woman stepped closer, offering her white cotton gloved hand for a sniff. “Aren’t you a lovely boy?” she said calmly a few times.

Relieved that he didn’t mistake her for the giant chew toy, Kate echoed, “Yes, he is a lovely boy.”  Making introductions, Kate said, “This is Beowulf, Wulfie for short. I live in the neighborhood. Not here, though. I’m just walking this big, beautiful beast,” she said. “I’m Kate, by the way.”

“Well, Beowulf, you are an extraordinary creature—a strong, courageous hero, I’m sure—protecting the neighborhood from squirrels,” the woman chuckled.

Kate laughed, “Indeed. Squirrels, acorns, and the occasional runaway juice box.”

“Wonderful!” she exclaimed gently. “Nice to meet you both, Kate. I’m Elise. Have a lovely afternoon. I hope we meet again,” Elise said, giving Beowulf a goodbye caress.

“Thank you. You too, Elise,” Kate replied, hugging Beowulf tightly as he squirmed to deliver his farewell.

Kate toiled to coax Beowulf into the house. When she finally succeeded, she kissed the creature goodbye and made her way outside.

Kate pulled her own beast out from the side of the house—a baby blue vintage Reid three-speed.

“Merlin, my trusty steed,” Kate said, patting the old, tan leather seat. She mounted her bicycle and pedaled down Palmerston Boulevard.

Scene Four – Jaz

Jaz was in her element, stirring, smelling, tasting. Adding a pinch of this and a dollop of that. Bliss.

Harper’s voice cut in sharply. “Jaz, where’d you go?! Here I’ve been waxing poetic about my adventures in Paris and you haven’t heard a word I said, have you?”

“No, no, Harper, I was listening, honest,” Jaz grumbled.

“All right then, what is the name of my Parisian lover?” Harper demanded, laughing.

“Um… er…  uh… it had something to do with cooking,” Jaz muttered. “Ganache, brioche, basil, consommé, al fresco, chiffonade—oh! Chiff, Chip, Chas. No! Julien!” she exclaimed.

“Finally! Though really, Chiff? What kind of a name is that?” Harper asked.

“Well, you know chiffonade, julienne, brunoise,” Jaz said loftily. “It’s all cuisine to me.”

Scene Five – Kate

Kate loved this time of year with all the early shades of green everywhere. The first bursts of color from spring blooms—snowdrops, hyacinths, daffodils—peeking through the delicate greens in the front gardens all along the street.

Kate swooped along the boulevard, feet up in the air off the pedals every once in a while. Clad in Chucks and Lululemon gear, absentmindedly sailing along the way.

It was a lovely spring day. The warm, early afternoon sunlight was filtering through the canopy of old maple trees that shaded the charismatic street. This mile-long stretch of Palmerston was a charming enclave in Toronto, bound at each end by stone and wrought iron gates, Bloor Street to the north and College Street to the south. Both sides of the boulevard were lined cheek to jowl with late Victorian red brick homes. Not quite mansions, but grand and majestic, nonetheless. Old-fashioned cast-iron lamp posts ran along the sidewalks. A peaceful elegance still lingered here, a whisper of the past breezing through the street.

Leaving the quiet neighborhood, Kate rode east along busy College Street for a few blocks, then south through the chaos of sounds and colors that was Kensington Market. Fruit and cheese shops, bakeries, aromatic spice stores, a multitude of cafes and restaurants, the market was always bustling. She crossed Spadina Avenue through Chinatown and on to the few blocks of Baldwin Village.

A small collection of late Victorian storefronts, most now updated and converted to chic restaurants, bistros and cafes, Baldwin Village continued to house a few older businesses, including an old antiques and curiosities shop called Salmagundi, where Kate worked a few afternoons a week.

Pushing open the store door, Kate was welcomed by the mellow ring of the brass doorbell, the rich aromas of cigars, cardamom, and coffee. The warm air was filled with scent of sandalwood, old books and dust, and strains of Édith Piaf singing La Vie en rose.

Kate’s sensory reverie was interrupted by Étienne’s warm greeting, “Ah, bonjour, Katherine, mon petit chou! Comment ça va?”

“Bonjour, Étienne! I’m well, thank you. And you?” Kate replied. She hung her jacket up on the rack behind the desk and bent to give Étienne light kisses on each cheek. “Coffee’s hot, shall I pour you a cup?’

Kate inhaled the rich aroma of the coffee infused with cardamom.

They chatted for a bit, before Kate turned her attention to the shop and began her vain attempts to tidy piles, stacks and collections of items.

Soft spring light shone through the store windows. It was early afternoon, too early for any hint of sunset to be in the light, but there were shades of red, orange and yellow glinting on objects in the shop. The hints of green, blue and purple gave away the secret of the aged, stained-glass transom panel above the entryway.

Admiring the glints of light, Kate absentmindedly dusted the various relics, trinkets and treasures as she wandered the shop. Salmagundi was a curiosity shop, packed to the brim with antiques, objets d’art and regular old, odd objects—a myriad of kitsch and curios. Established in 1916 and nestled in Baldwin Village, Salmagundi was owned by Kate’s great-uncle, Étienne Beaufort de Orléans, for many years now.

She ran a feather duster over shelves, between stacks of books and plates, inside and over vases and jars, pulling out her damp cloth when a smudge needed to be removed, her dry shammy when a quick polish was required. This weekly undertaking felt like an abundant scavenger hunt to her. There were prizes and treasures everywhere, and her goal was to find them all. She did tire of the pursuit some days most often after happening upon one too many a horrific objects—a dead tarantula, a stuffed rat, a shrunken skull—before finding a treasure—an old family photo, some rare coins or antique jewelry.

This was one of those days. She had lifted the lid of one box carved with delightful little monkeys playing in a jungle scene. Gently lifting the lid, she shrieked at what was inside—a shriveled monkey’s paw. She snapped the lid closed loudly.

Étienne called out from behind a gentle curl of cigar smoke, “Chérie? Are you all right?

“Oui. Oui. Merci. I’m okay,” she replied. “I just found a-a-a thing, a thing in a thing… Again.” She shuddered. “You’re quietly, gently going around dusting, opening bits and bobs, finding little treasures and then BOOM this thing or some other wretched thing pops up. Su-u-uch a delight,” she added with unnoticed sarcasm.

“Yes, it’s like a little magical kingdom, isn’t it?” Étienne empathized. “You never know what’s going to turn up.”  He looked at his watch. “Bon! Time for me to go. The game of Pétanque waits for no man,” he said as he stood. Folding his newspaper on the table, he knocked the ash off his cigar and laid it to rest on the heavy brass ashtray.

He was a robust man in his eighties. His appearance depicted some bygone era.  His thick mustache, long sideburns, and mostly absent hair were bright white, the telltale vestiges of his ginger-haired youth. He slipped on his Burberry trench coat and lifted his fedora from the rack.

“Have a lovely evening, ma puce. Wish the ladies well for me. And you’ll have to tell me all about Harper’s Parisienne adventures, salacious and otherwise. Not a detail to be excluded, especially of the former.” He winked expressively. Etienne kissed Kate on the forehead. The bell above the door sounded as he left.

Kate chuckled to herself over Étienne’s insatiable appetite for all things French and his deep interest in Harper’s affairs. She continued with her housekeeping, adjusting the displays here and there, potentially bringing more disorder than order. Pausing to admire her new arrangements, she spied a little sparkle peeking out from between some stacks of books. She reached in and gently maneuvered out a small, old jewelry box.

Kate turned the box in her hands and gently wound the key on the bottom. Then, given her earlier encounter with the monkey’s paw, she very tentatively pried open the lid as the notes of Swan Lake sounded haltingly. The delicate ballerina was perched, ready to pirouette, but did not. Kate poked gently around the base to discover why the ballerina wouldn’t spin. “Oh, you poor thing. Is your leg broken? Wait, what’s this?” She pulled out a small, folded card wedged under the figure. Still the ballerina would not spin.