THE DOLLMAKER
By Michelle Patricia Browne
My grandmother bounced up the steps of the shop with her
usual false gaiety. “You’ll love this little place,” she said. This is what I
did not say: yes, I like antique shops too, but this place is very out of the
way. I also did not say: Grandpa looks like he needs to be shot.
It was quite a peculiar place, but then, that describes more
than fifty percent of Nova Scotia. It was a farm on the mainland, far enough
from the ocean that it wasn’t in sight, yet close enough to catch brine on the
air. It was painted the same shade of blue as a cloudy day, and the windowsills
had white trim. Antique Shop, said the signs outside. Please come in.
With an invitation like that, how could I resist? I
followed, not grumbling, because the little I could glimpse behind the windows
looked exquisitely promising. The curtains were the prerequisite ivory lace,
real Irish, from the looks of it. The door chime tinkled with a sound like the
tines of a fork playing on a wooden xylophone. My grandmother, chattering
incessantly at my grandfather (who grunts occasionally, blinks in a thick,
sleepy way behind his camera-thickness lenses), proceeds into the den
immediately to inspect the pricey antiquities of her youth: the gold-leafed
plates, the china, the relics of a time when washing machines were rare beasts
and cars were tinny matchboxes. I am frozen in the chandeliered entranceway.
The ceilings in this house are low, and if I were just a few inches taller, I
could easily reach up and remove one of the crystals, tuck in my pocket like a
thief. But the golden chandelier doesn’t hold my attention for long. The next
thing I see is the dolls.
They are such dolls as I have never before seen in my life.
These are not the dull, daft-eyed Victorian creations my mother and grandmother
had. No. Perched there on the dark violet brocade, above the intricately
carved, darkly shining wood, these are dolls with a curious soulfulness. I step
over to them, ignoring the entranceway to the rest of the house-cum-Antique
shop. There are half a dozen here, bodies soft, slender, flowing, covered with
thick, cushiony silks and velvets. They have lace at their wrists and necks,
beautiful small charms stitched below their necks and in other places like
jewelled embroidery. They are all dressed the way jesters are, in dramatic
colours. The clothes alone would make them remarkable, but it is their faces
and hands that intrigue me most, force me to kneel before them in amazement.
Their hands are smooth, more like mittens than the proper,
familiarly built, five-fingered ones I am used to. The faces are smooth and
flowing, as if a proper person’s face had been wrapped in a layer of misty
gauze. Arching, smooth brows, pointed, vague noses, hollow eyes with painted,
expressive shadows within. The mouths are lipless, the hair, painted in curling
brushstrokes. They are blurred, formless, and yet oddly, frighteningly
expressive, like Greek statues twisted in ecstasy, yet missing limbs. All are
made of smooth white porcelain.
One is a jester; he’s laughing silently at a joke I don’t
understand and have no wish to. His face is oddly brutal. Two are ladies, in
flowing skirts with wistful expressions, unspeakable sadness. One is twisted,
with doubled hands and two different faces. He frightens me. One is a
gentleman. The last is Death. Death holds a dainty, elegant scythe, and smiles
ambiguously. He is not cheerless, but his face reveals nothing, answers no
questions. I stare at him for a long time before I drift after my grandparents
like a ghost .
There is a cheery tour guide here, who babbles on absently.
I feel as though the sightless eyes of the dolls are following me, that the
creaking of the wooden floor beneath my feet is merely the house conversing
with them, that the soft sloughing of cloth brushing against itself is not
their whispered conversation about the strange, pale, plump girl watching them
with such intensity. There is no relief among the delicately lettered price
tags on the items in here, the stained bureaus and old books. There are more
dolls, one with the face of a lapdog, more jesters, more two-faced men, a king
of spades. I want to laugh at some, others make me shudder in fear. These are
not the dolls children cuddle and slowly destroy with their brutal affection,
these are something else, people and creatures photographed in clay in their
unsuspecting moments. Tolkien’s craftsmen couldn’t have created more exquisite
clothing, rendered the insignificancies of buttons and lost earrings more
intimate and expressive.
I leave and circle through the rooms, seeing more of the
dolls each time, and finally find my way to a staircase I hadn’t noticed. It is
slender, tucked right in against the wall, and the ceiling gets lower and lower
as I ascend. I follow it, and a bending, low hallway—painted white, now that I’ve
noticed; all the rooms had been egg-shell white—leads me around a corner. There
is a tiny set of steps, and more rooms than any house should be able to hold,
all crammed against each other and unexpectedly spacious. I peer through
doorways—children’s toys, more antiques, a washroom. Old rocking horses,
well-loved, tiny houses, teddies, a baby’s nightgown. Suddenly, a vague
instinct grows stronger and directs me THAT WAY. And I follow it, and there it
is. The room.
This is where nightmares are made and dreams are given the
fearful dignity that makes even the most light-hearted, pleasant ones oddly
captivating. There is a modern sewing machine on a disappointingly pedestrian
desk, and on other tables around the room, bits of fabric, chests of buttons,
of worthless jewels, of thread and gleaming silvery scissors and needles. And
then I see them, the dolls’ heads.
The clay is shining, still moist above the newsprint marked
darkly with wet spots. One head is there, perfect, smooth, perched on a stand.
On the face is an expression of incredible agony and heartache, and the
strangely joyful acceptance of a finite existence. It is impossible to
describe, except as a concept, as emotion. There are other heads there, rounded
shadows beneath cloth There is a leather book, thick, old, Victorian-looking. I
have expected it. In chipped, peeling gold leaf on the cover, it says, simply,
Doll Making. I head footsteps and turn, too late, too late. There is a woman in
the doorway.
She is not an incredible beauty, nor is she incredibly old.
There is little incredible about her. She is entirely unexpected nonetheless.
Do that I don’t have to meet her gaze, my eyes travel over her forehead first.
Her hair is curly, and the fawn-coloured ringlets are looped with grey; her
clothes are nondescript. Her eyes are keen, observational.
“I see you’ve wandered up to my workshop,” says the
dollmaker. I nod. My words are gone.
“They’re amazing,” I say. She nods. It is an old art, doll
making. Goes back to the first hex-figures, fertility gods, comfort objects.
The fire in her pupils bespeaks shaman around their smoky fires, holding up
buffalo manikins, African witches, dressmakers’ sightless dummies, mask makers’
sightless, hollow-eyed wooden visages. I am wordless. I can hear my grandmother
clomping around below me, distantly, distantly, as if I were inside a glass
ball. Inside a porcelain shell.
The dollmaker smiles, sits down at the chair before the
Christ-head, begins sculpting it. I am dismissed.
I run downstairs, back to my grandmother’s chattering and my
grandfather’s silence, and I am peculiarly quiet on the drive home. That night,
it takes me a very long time to get back to sleep. All I can see is the face of
the dollmaker—the smooth, blurred flesh of a burn victim.
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