Some Sunny Day

Some Sunny Day

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Some Sunny Day

Paul Davies

INSOMNIAC PRESS

Copyright © 2005 by Paul Davies All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher or, in case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from CANCOPY (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency), 6 Adelaide Street East, Suite 900, Toronto, Ontario, Canada MJC iH6. The setting, characters, and circumstance of this novel are fictional, even as real or historical persons, places, or events might be described. Thanks to Mike O'Connor, Philip Leon, Bill Keith, Simon Dardick, Joan Francuz, and Jack David.

CANADIAN CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION DATA

Davies, Paul, 1954.' Some sunny day / Paul Davies. ISBN i>894663'95'0 i. Title. PS8557.A8I97S642005

C8i3 .54

02005/903425/4

The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council, the Ontario Arts Council and the Department of Canadian Heritage through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program.

Printed and bound in Canada.

Insomniac Press 192 Spadina Avenue, Suite 403, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M5T 2C2 www.insomniacpress.com

We'll meet again, Don't know where, Don't know when, But I know we'll meet again, Some sunny day. PARKER and CHARLES, We'll Meet Again

Once I was a soldier, And I fought on foreign sands for you. Once I was a hunter, And I brought home fresh meat for you. Once I was a lover, And I searched behind your eyes for you. TIM BUCKLEY, Once 1 Was

for Sherab Drolma whose story this is

2000

When he first came into the store I could see he was taken with me. People were frequently taken with me because I was young and attractive. Slender and full/breasted, with a knock/envdead smile. A sexy white smile that could slay the sourest heart. I'm not boasting, saying that plainly now. Even when I thought well of myself at the time, I didn't have the confidence to tell any/ one, and was often confused about the value of these gifts to me as a person. If you roll your eyes at this matter of the person inside, you are already lost to yourself and have no business reading my diary any further. Goodbye. I could have shunned my own attractiveness and let it fall into ruin. But I didn't. I didn't play it up particularly either. I was an active person, and the activity of my life kept me fit. I watched what I ate, a vegetarian diet mostly, and cared about my health and hygiene. I dressed well, admittedly often in tight/fitting things to accent my shape, but without any special urge to be fashionable or seductive. Why shouldn't I enjoy the face and body I'd been blessed with? Most of the time, it made me happy about myself. Besides, beauty might be slandered as fleeting and fickle, but make no mistake — it has great value while it lasts. It also has limitations to reconcile, of course, and contradictions. You learn that it brings you undeserved opportunities. You learn how it can forgive other inadequacies. You learn that its power is not absolute. Ugliness, instead, is usually tragic for the person inside, but wields little power and is less complex. Although, standards for both are different in different places and have changed over time. For instance, the way Titian liked chubby girls. That sort of thing. My body had appeal in my own time and place. 7

S O M E S U N N Y D A Y : 2000

Excessive appeal at times, and I'd learned at an early age that I had to defend myself against exploitation. As a young adult, I could decide for myself whether an action was exploitation or pleasure. Decisions I made for myself didn't have to be consistent either. I could take risks, and experiment. I suffered for my bad decisions and enjoyed some deliberate excesses. Whatever I did, I tried to be true to myself and to avoid situations I could see would be hurtful, I was wounded from time to time, when I couldn't see. There was something about this person — the man taken with me that day in the store — that didn't fit the usual pattern. Looking into his eyes, I felt peaceful. Looking into mine, he was paralyzed. I'd had lots of guys go apeshit seeing me for the first time, but never before a seizure quite like this. His jaw dropped to the floor and his face went white. He couldn't move a muscle. I was fearful for a moment. Anyone at all can come into a retail store, and we got as many nutbars as any other place. But this wasn't a nutbar. I could tell by the softness in his eyes. And it wasn't sexual. Wasn't desire. This I could spot blindfolded and locked in the trunk of a car, being frequently pursued. He muttered a few syllables, unintelligible, collecting himself. Then he said, "Are you a dancer ?" I smiled. The famous smile,, although it didn't deepen his distress. That was already past saturation. "No," I said. "Oh," he replied. The colour was gone from his cheeks. Like someone in shock, I thought. I liked that. I liked him. The greater part of me had assumed an attitude of defense — I always did that speaking with someone for the first time — but I still liked him. Whatever had disarmed him seemed to me innocent, even sweet. "You are the living likeness of someone I knew once," he said. "A dancer. She was a dancer. I didn't think you were she. But I wondered if you might be a dancer too. Just that you might be." 8

S O M E

S U N N Y

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:

2000

He was trying to recover. I didn't punish him. "No, I've never done anything like that." Another smile. I could see his body was beginning to relax a little. "What's your name?" Laura. "Her name was Gabrielle. My friend the dancer, I mean. I didn't think you were her. That was quite a few years ago. But I thought you might be one yourself. Just having a dancer's body." "Nope," I said. "A remarkable likeness." I smiled again. He smelled nice, too. Although I could tell he smoked. "Please forgive my behaving like this," he said, gradually coming to grips with himself. "I was just amazed at the likeness." "That's nice," I said blithely. He glanced down, and my gold bracelet caught his eye. Then he looked at my hands, rotating his head slightly. "You've written 'Big Nose' on the back ofyour hand," he quietly observed. "What does that mean?" A slight startle came to his face. He'd pulled himself out of one danger only to plunge headlong into another. "Ifyou don't mind my asking," he added. I occasionally wrote reminders to myself on the back of my hand with a ballpoint pen, if there was no paper handy, but I couldn't remember what I was thinking when I wrote this! "I don't know!" I said, and laughed. I didn't know if I should trust him. I thought he was sweet, but I was cautious toward him, at first. Now I know the weight he was bearing inside. I would have done worse than he, had things been reversed. Had it been me who'd remembered, seeing him suddenly. Had it been me who'd been looking. Looking — and hoping. Every day for twenty years, getting up every morning, hopeful. Then, much later along, finally giving up. Or, if not giving up, adjusting.