All I could see on my eyelids was green. The colour was leaching through my brain and out my eyelids it was so strong. Of course, I’d seen green before, but it was usually that brown bush green, or tropical green, or the green of a granny smith. This rich green was almost obscene-the kind of green I associated with driveways that circle past your front door, interior decorating and blatant flaunting of water restrictions. At home this green was as sinful as sticky date pudding. But here, no one marvelled at it-the green grew as it was expected to and that was that. The green rolled off their eyes just as thoughtlessly as the French rolled off their tongues. I’d only been here a few days and already I was nostalgic for the “mother country”. This, of course, was Australia. I’d like to say I was your typical Aussie girl, but who isn’t? It’s not exactly hard criteria to meet. Ok, I wasn’t blonde, but my skin had a certain tan to it that was part natural, part living under the hole in the ozone layer. Profession: Artist, or so I hoped. When I was at the top of some local hill, calf deep in scrub, all I could paint was fantasy, not the landscape. My paintings were generally well received; I’d even sold a few.
“That girl is such a dreamer-you wonder were it all comes from.”
I had overheard my teacher saying once. It did come from my head really. Some people say art is an expression of how artists perceive the world, but not even my imagination was fertile enough to imagine duchesses dancing in the bush. So I created it all with the most tangible connections to reality.
But here, all I could think of painting was the landscape around me; the green grass, the green leaves on the brown trees, the grey roofs that frequently matched the sky. Okay, so grey isn’t a particularly enviable colour usually, but this was the kind of grey you would make a cashmere sweater out of. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those people who paint a canvass blue and say, look at the sadness, it’s a reflection of modern society. How unoriginal. Also, my past attempts at painting landscapes had failed when I drew the environment just as it was. It seemed so empty; it was missing people, but something else: emotions, conflict and meaning. Anyway, I was here to paint new experiences, perhaps I would try my hand again at a landscape. I thought to ask Celia for advice.
I pulled off my smock and went to wash the non-existent paint off my hands before I went down stairs. As I descended I could see a greying blonde bob bobbing to the sound of the classical music on the radio. The bob swivelled to reveal a kind, if worn, face with big smile.
“Good morning! I have practised my English, now you must speak French!” she said, her smile widening impossibly.
“Er...Bonjour, vous avez bien dormi?”
She let out a hearty laugh.
“Yes, yes! But you are the guest. I say...the question of sleep. Tu comprends?
I blushed. My French was horrible, but my grasp of manners was even worse. In the mornings at home I mainly just grunted and although that would translate, it probably wouldn’t be well received.
“You have been painting this morning! What time did you wake yourself?”
“Mais non, je voudrais peindre, mais, je ne sais pas... »
« I know, I know, it’s hard. The artist must see what to paint! What can you see but the street and the park? C’est impossible!” She always switched to back to French before I switched back to English. That made me feel so lonely.
“C’est difficile, mais n’est pas impossible. » I sighed. I really had to practice up my French if I wanted to learn anything in school. Celia interrupted my thoughts.
“You better get dressed for school. I will walk you there.”
Sighing, I trudged back up stairs.
La salle de class was an artist’s dream. It was full of easels and dry paint splattered the seats and counters that were around the perimeter of the room. I entered the classroom early so I could introduce myself to the teacher, a short, intense man named Monsieur Holme. Luckily, his English was excellent, even if his manner and accent made him a little formidable.
“Welcome, welcome! You are the Australian girl, yes?”
I nodded. How could he tell?
“Yes, I’m Lydia Thompson. You must be Monsieur Holme. I’m very grateful to be here.”
“Lydya? You ruin a nice name. No matter, soon you will be French enough. The class starts soon, please take a seat, I will introduce you to your classmates.”
My head throbbed.
“Oh, there’s no need to...”
“If I don’t introduce you now, my boys will not be able to paint!” Insisted Monsieur Holme, marching to the door and throwing it open to reveal the class waiting outside.
Several chic young people wandered in, carefully disguising their curiosity. I suppose poseur was a French word, after all. The class sat down at the counters and looked to the teacher for explanation.
“Elle s’appelle Lydia, elle est Australienne... »
I’m afraid I didn’t understand anything he said after that. I tuned out and thought of what I was going to paint today. I was musing over the merits of pinky toes when I was aware the class was laughing at me.
“Elle n’ parle pas français? Quelle Barbe! » a diminutive girl next to me chattered to her classmate, unaware of my vague understanding. I shot her a glance that could’ve cured meat. For the rest of the lesson I worked on my painting in silence, blocking out the rest of the class. My concentration didn’t bare much fruit though, as I’d managed to paint something that look a little too much like late Turner, when he was going blind and no-one knew what his paintings where. The bell rang and it was time to have a break. I’d dreaded this. The other students would all have their little groups and I would either be rescued in a show of kindness (not likely) or have to throw myself at the mercy of the person with the friendliest smile or, alternatively, find a quiet place to sit by myself.
I’d always been good at finding those little knooks and crannies around the place. I looked along the concrete surrounding the small school. I walked around the building and came to what looked like a cleaner’s closet. I tried the door. Okay, so it wasn’t the secret garden, but beggars can’t be choosers. I sat down, leaning my head against the bottom of the shelf. “I should be thinking of things to paint right now,” I thought, as my dark curls bounced in front of my eyes. “But I’m so tired.” I closed my eyes.
The sun shone brightly on the glass table as I scrunched the napkin under my fingers. I didn’t know what was doing here, in a cafe at midday. I watched the people on the street walking past, too anxious to see their faces. Until one dark haired man fell out of step with the crowd, and strode towards my table. I looked down in case he had noticed me staring at him. The chair leg squeaked and the sun’s light was blocked as he sat down.
“Hey,” I said, being more forward than usual.
“Hey, I’m Zeno. And you are?”
“Zeno? I get it... I really shouldn’t tell strangers, my name, should I?”
“Are we strangers? We seem like old friends, drinking little coffees at a nice cafe.”
A little coffee cup appeared in my hand. I gulped it down fast. I hated the taste of coffee.
“Well, I’m Lydia anyway.” I glanced at his face, inspecting it closely. Dark curly hair and strong proud features gave away his Greek heritage and his eyes were dark and kind, staring into mine.
“You think I’m handsome, don’t you?” he teased.
“No, I find you exceedingly ugly.” He let out a loud laugh.
“Are you really quoting Jane Eyre at me? I knew reading such books would make girls rebellious. Don’t worry, I’m no Mr. Rochester. What you see is what you get with me. I’m going to tell you everything, things you won’t want to hear. And what’s more, I’m real.”
I smirked.
“No you aren’t, this is just a dream.”
My eyes snapped open and I banged my head on the shelf in my haste to get up. How long had I slept? That dream had been really lifelike. I grabbed my bag and extricated myself from the cleaner’s closet. I checked my class schedule: Art history. I ran to the class room, trying to remember how to apologize for being late.
