Dora Borealis: a novel

By Daccia Bloomfield

A great love comes with bells…

Flip is an unemployed writer with a heart of gold and limited social skills — he’s also very much in love. And you? You’re invited to witness the carnage… .

It’s a story we’re all familiar with: just as the right girl finally comes along, Flip’s leg is broken, his roommate has gone nuts, and his father’s threatening to cut him off by cancelling his credit cards… . And then there’s that other small matter — he's still in love with Belle, the ghost he met when he was eight.

Thank God he’s well taken care of — how does anyone manage this kind of thing alone?

Daccia Bloomfield’s Dora Borealis is a not-quite-coming-of-age novel and a good old-fashioned love letter written in the era of the open relationship. Set against the backdrop of Toronto's insular art scene (itself haunted by the ghost of meaning), this story about connection (in a town hooked on missed connections) explores what it means to be truly haunted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ECW Press
• Release date: Oct 30, 2008
• ISBN: 9781554903412

Book preview

1

You went on and on and on and on, and of course I was grateful.

You introduced yourself, and I liked your leggings. Because I liked them, we had a conversation about them. We talked about how much I liked them — their colour, their length, their opacity, the interesting pattern turning roses around and around the length of your nice toned thigh, how they were different from every other pair of leggings I had ever seen.

Next, we talked about how in early November, you went to the trouble of dressing up as a fashion victim for a late Halloween party. We talked about how nobody got your costume, about how everybody thought you were just a drowned hipster, and about how that was more or less the same thing.

— And isn’t it? —

Right after that, we had to start the introductions over again, because really, it’s impossible to remember anybody’s name the first time you hear it.

Your charm was tactile and rendered precisely (and in a tight pattern) by what stands in for genuine warmth these days — knitting, of course. I recognized two lines of knit and two lines of purl. You were inquisitive but not impolite. And you were in your clothes completely, leaning softly against one of the solid wood posts in Lamb’s new grown-up apartment.

How did you break your leg?

Walking.

I’m almost finished with this oversized sweater.

It’s pretty big.

Yeah.

I considered your size in relation to the red sweater. The repetition of your movements, click and click and click, seemed to soften out your corners.

It’s supposed to be big.

There was no edge to this. You carefully and quickly swung the knitting around and started the next line. You didn’t seem to have to think about it — knowledge put to use, recruited muscle memory. Non-knitters and knitters can be friends because of a thing called imagination. Your hands fell to your knees. You allowed your work to rest as a blanket over your legs.

"This sweater will go with these leggings. Do you think cashmere is extravagant?"

"Not necessarily. But maybe that much of it is."

You laughed.

"No, dummy. Nobody would make an oversized sweater out of cashmere. That would be totally expensive."

What’s the cashmere for, then? I asked.

"It’s for a tiny, precious white hat I’m working on." You said tiny and precious the way girls at art school say intimate, transnationalism and inclusive — exactly as if you had just learned the word as part of a code and were eager to try it out.

What? you asked.

Sorry — it’s just warm in here. I could feel the outline of a bead of sweat on my back. You held up button samples.

Brown or red?

Brown, I said. No-brainer. I like how shiny they are.

You didn’t want to talk about anything but your sweater. You pressed the button against the knit, then corrected, trying it for placement. Your eyes never left your hands.

I think I’m going to try to go to the country, I said. You know, like, to get away. Maybe in a week or two. Or maybe I’ll just get a room somewhere.

I like the country, you said.

Cool, I said.

I’m not sure if brown is right for this red yarn, though. Do you really think so?

I don’t know, I said, because I really didn’t. But I think the country would be kind of good for me.

You stared at me blankly. Why? You don’t need to travel to relax.

What?

Imagine a forest.

What?

Just close your eyes, take a deep breath, and on the exhalation count of six, imagine a forest. If you imagine a forest, it’s as good as being there. You put your hand down flat on the sweater-in-progress.

I don’t know if I agree with that. But can I get you something to eat? I stood up. I took up my crutch and started to move towards the food. Next to the table was a girl.

Maybe some of that cake, you said, pointing. "That is a gorgeous ganache."

You know how to make a cake. And you are okay with saying things like gorgeous ganache, aren’t you? And it was a gorgeous ganache, wasn’t it? The backstory goes: Lamb made that cake, while I watched. What a whore of a cake it was, too: shiny, brown–black and beaded with its own sweat. I cut a piece for you and I heard somebody say, I love chocolate.

(Love is one of those words that self-capitalizes. Think love. All of a sudden it’s got a big L on it, doesn’t it? Why not like? Like is a generous word with lots of room in it for things like favourite food and boyfriend and sitting around reading fashion magazines with your feet in an aromatic soak. There’s room enough in there for chocolate, surely. I wouldn’t use the word love, but other people do, girls especially, for how they feel about CDs and half-price sweater sets.)

It didn’t seem right to ask, Don’t you think people exaggerate when they use the word love so casually? Beatific and totally untouchable, you click-clicked away, just like Lamb does, like every girl does. You were safe from my questions by at least a foot of yarn. When you ate your cake, it was as though it had been a dangerous while since you’d eaten. I noticed the thinness of your wrists, and I felt part of the problem, finding you pretty.

Nice enough party, I said. Eh?

Who do you know here? you asked.

A few people, I said. I’m going to grab my coat and get some air. And I meant to. You were having fun. Passing through the living room, I recognized Jan, speaking to his girlfriend’s left breast in German. I forgave Lamb this party: she’s an artist, and her parties are always art parties. She was in the kitchen, working her poor little fingers raw.

What’s that? I asked.

Radicchio. Don’t you ever eat vegetables? What’s the matter with you?

I sat down at the light pine kitchen table to rest my cast. I have the same kitchen table, but in slightly darker wood. It goes well with my kitchen, which is far manlier than Lamb’s.

Can I go out on the balcony? I asked. I’m hot.

I don’t want the cat to get out, said Lamb.

But you said the view was the best part.

So look at it.

She pointed past me at the floor-to-ceiling window. I nodded. I could see a tangle of highways, some tiny cars all in primary colours. A couple of attractive women stroked Lamb’s long granite counter-top. None of us gave a rat’s ass about countertops six years ago. I noticed with quiet alarm that the strokers had interchangeable haircuts. In turn, they asked Lamb if they could help with the food. Lamb didn’t need help, so they sat down in the two empty chairs, one on either side of me. They talked about protein. It relaxed me because all I had to do was nod. I stopped listening, except for nodding cues, until I heard "You know, Montreal is gorgeous. But you’ll need to deal with the French Canadians. My uncle used to refer to them as N-words of the North."

There followed some academic guffawing. I said, My stomach hurts.

Lamb said, Go out on the balcony if you want, Flip. You’ll need your coat.

I know, I said.

My coat was resting casually on Lamb’s faux-distressed finish, off-white rocking chair. I picked it up and moved my one good foot forward onto the rug. Lamb calls that sensation Super Comfy. Knitting’s in that category too, as is any sweater or Native-inspired slipper. She says Super Comfy is a whole new aesthetic, but then everything with Lamb is both new and aesthetic. Somebody — did you see him? — told everybody about the journey of discovery that was his decision to change his name from Greg to 543. Turning away as from a hot fire, I bunched my coat and got ready to go.

Cool sound, said a guy in a jean jacket, with a ponytail. His jacket was covered in political buttons.

What? I asked.

That jacket.

What?

It sounds kind of interesting when you bunch it like that.

He took it out of my hand and pushed it against the microphone he was holding. It made a sound. I let him do this for a long time, because I am compassionate.

Can I have that back? I asked eventually.

Sure, buddy, he said, but he looked hurt.

Pop and hiss. The guy with the ponytail and the jean jacket did some strange shit with his mouth. People clustered around him. I felt bad for the guy. I whispered, Hey, dude, I think the mic’s totally fine, okay?

The guy with the ponytail and the jean jacket took a step back, away from the mic. He looked at me and I got this feeling that there was a possibility we would fight, like real men. From across the room, you leaned over your knitting, and said, Flip, it’s a sound poem.

All of the girls I know have become women.

You are solidly anchored on that narrow, plush, pink loveseat between your untidy circle of red yarn and an overly tanned guy who I recognize from bad Toronto daytime TV. He’s smiling at you, and his face is too close to yours.

I return my gaze to Dora. I’ve only just met her. I don’t know her name yet but you do. She stares ahead.

What a pig, she says.

Then she says, My name is Dora. She points at the guy with the ponytail and the jean jacket, who is close enough to hear her say, He spilled a whole bottle of wine on the table while he was doing all that gay, yelly shit. Women are everywhere, everywhere at Lamb’s party. It’s a total sushi party. The two identically coiffed women present from the kitchen and move together into the living room. They catch the light here and there on earrings and on fake bling, and they operate as a couple of long, similar, conversational prisms. I can see you watching quietly, listening and looking over your knitting as they split and refract the conversation to bits. They revel in saying this dangerous, racist word over and over. Dora looks antsy, so I offer, At least people are taking an interest in history.

Dora’s a girl next to some snacks. It’s already spoiled — I’d describe her for you, but you are looking right at her. And besides, it’s difficult to describe a girl you’ve fallen in love with just two minutes ago.

This is Dorajustaminuteago, by the giant cheddar and Gruyère table and Lamb’s tray of high quality chocolates. She looks at what’s left of the gorgeous ganache. It is not the cake it was, but it’s still got it. She is not still. Every bit of her, from the winced brow, furrowed, low and serious — huge, beautiful, obscene eyebrows! — to the tassels on the weird retro skirt she is wearing — all of it, the whole picture — moving around like crazy. Stasis doesn’t seem to suit her.

But maybe you don’t notice her at all. You’re busy letting people come to you. Your come-hitherness appears to be working wonders on the men. You are still; Dora isn’t. Every single thing about her moves, even as she stands in place. I’m struck by the vibration lines around her. You’re missing it. Imagine that there’s a trace of her body following behind her in ghost copy as evidence that she has just moved. Perk up a second and look! You’ve missed it. She’s a sketch of a cold person shivering out of a comic book.

Have we met? I ask.

Could be.

Not gonna commit to that? This is uncharacteristically charming.

Do I have to sign a contract? she asks.

Yep, I say, absolutely. I reach into the front pocket of my gingham dress shirt and pull out a little notepad, and also a pen. Gingham becomes me. I’m told it pulls up the pinks in my skin tone.

That’s pretty dorky, she says, and points at the pen. Are you in math?

No, I say, and I draw a dotted line on the page. Sign on the dotted line.

Dora signs her name.

Dora Djurdgel

Her name, handwritten, joins up with her giggle. These connect to form a line.

What is a line?

This particular line is a teaching line. You know what I mean? Sorta like the lines they draw to show you how stars connect to each other to form meaningful things like men with weapons, or sea creatures. Lines don’t just say: A to B. They also say: A with B.

Dora is busy with another kind of line — she stands up to curl a long, bright turquoise string of yarn (sprung free from her wool sweater) around her wrist, straight, then round again, straight. I think about your yarn and her yarn and how it has become a really woolly world. She reaches for a piece of cheese, stops, redirects her hand, and chooses instead a thick hunk of blue-black chocolate. She is wearing gloves.

This is my total favourite!

Is it?

"Yeah, I mean, you just gotta love chocolate."

"I don’t know if I’d say love. I’d say I like chocolate." I struggle with the details.

Right, she says. That looks bad.

What? I look down at my leg in its cast.

That big cut on your hand.

Oh that’s just a stupid paper cut. Pretty gory, eh?

Yes. Terrible.

Not really.

You should disinfect it.

She’s right.

Lamb offers us devilled eggs. Who makes devilled eggs? She flashes us a French maid–esque smile of knowing, and says, Enjoy. Lamb swishes off, tossing her head — I’ll give her this, she swishes well.

Dora looks at me, and at Lamb as Lamb swishes. The line between us pixellates.

How long have you two been friends?

A long time.

How long? she asks. What’s your name?

Flip. Oh, God. Like, forever.

She puts her hand to her neck. Her gloves are white. Cold? I ask, pointing at her hands. She blushes. I drop the topic, returning to the limited but known, How long have I known Lamb?

Long enough to know better.

Too long.

Not long enough.

You know, I’m not totally sure I can remember exactly how long I’ve known her, I say, although this is a lie. But it’s been years and years. To illustrate how long it’s been, I tell her about how Lamb and I used to ride bikes together when we were children.

Do you have a bike in the city?

Of course, I say. Who doesn’t?

It’s dangerous. Do you wear a helmet, at least?

Not always, I admit, feeling vaguely ashamed.

Would you fuck a stranger bareback?

I wobble. PLING! There is a sound like a bell in my forehead — until my whole head is an empty bell, reverberating.

Where did you grow up? I ask. I touch my temples, where it hurts.

Here, she says.

In this living room? I am proud of my flirting — it’s a major charm move, a glowing stat thrown up like a light on a decidedly un-charming record.

That was fucking stupid, she says. Where did you grow up?

Well, certainly not in this living room. I milk the joke.

Riiight. I get it. Toronto?

Yeah. The Annex.

Nice. Richies, I guess.

Yeah, I say, because it’s true. I’m ashamed.

What did you do for fun when you were a kid? How does the other half live?

I do not say: The other half lives vicariously.

I do not say: When I was a kid, all I did was watch other kids.

What did you do for fun as a kid? I ask. I mean, what, did you grow up in the projects or something?

She sloshes her drink a little. She looks at it, experimentally.

That was completely offensive, she says.

Okay, then: what foods didn’t you eat as a kid?

Didn’t I eat? That’s not a very interesting question, she says. She looks disappointed.

It is to me.

Glass noodles, she says.

No way! Me too! I still don’t like them. I mean, I love the idea. Glass noodles — what a beautiful, architectural notion, really. But they make me gag.

She laughs. Yeah. They’ve grown on me over the years, but I know what you mean.

Your gaze is not unkind. You’re stuck at the receiving end of an MMF conversational gangbang. We lock eyes momentarily. Is that approval? You return to correcting a bad stitch, but not before nodding in my direction. Dora catches this. A bit of me hopes she is jealous. Is that petty? It turns out instead that she recognizes you. She waves, and you wave back.

I feel like we’ve met, says Dora. Like, as kids or something.

I look over at you, and back at Dora. "You did wave at her."

No, Dora says, you, Flip.

You didn’t wave at me.

"No, no. I mean, I knew you when you were a kid."

I consider this. Summer camp? Pottery?

I mainly hung out with cats when I was a kid. It’s honest, but it sounds a little affected. And Lamb, of course.

Oh. She sticks her neck out a little, and pulls it back, like a turtle. I’m not a cat.

No. I say. You are not a cat.

And I’m not a lamb, either.

I look at her.

So, says Dora, licking melted chocolate from her fingers. "Tell me about your fascinating childhood hanging out with cats."

Do you title your party anecdotes? I do. It helps with the filing. A title tells you an anecdote is too long. My fascinating childhood hanging out with cats is always too long. It gets filed under M for mistake, or S for social suicide. Childhood is not an anecdote. Every conversation is its very own touchy constraint-based art project, and there are lots and lots of rules. My fascinating childhood hanging out with cats would be a trip for me to relate, but I control myself. I reach for the mediocre fruit spread and tell Dora that Lamb’s always been partial to chocolate.

This is her favourite, I say.

Interesting.

Are you a milk chocolate girl, or a dark chocolate girl?

"That’s kind of personal, don’t you