The Colour of Darkness

1

The woman, white and plucky as widely-read literature can make her, stumbled upon an oddity of a book, not as widely-read, which went by the name of Centre of the Universe. It told the story of a blacksmith named Smith Black, who became an outlaw by the name of Black Smith and who sold black slaves for the purpose of creating a smithy. The woman understood why it was not widely read. I mean, Jesus Christ, what is up with this guy? she thought, somewhat anachronistically for the mid 1910s. But then she thought about the book...who thought it was a good idea to publish Centre of the Universe? The language was course and vulgar as its plot and its main character and it seems to spiral into pure madness midway through, with Black Smith, or Smith Black, there seemed to be an inconsistency in the writing, as it constantly switched back and forth between the two names, much to the irritation of the woman, but either way, this fellow suddenly travelled through time for no reason and the novel began switch back and forth between the 1880s, which was the setting for the book up to that point, and then the year 0 AD, with Black Smith standing alongside the Roman armies and using his pistols on the attacking Gauls and then the year 2000 AD, and there it began to insert lyrics from rap music, which was absolutely vile to read. By this point, the woman was beyond frustration and felt nothing but confusion and curiosity to read further, to see where the book would go next. It ended with the universe folding into itself, shrinking back into a tiny spec in whatever vastness lies around it or came before it, the descriptions of it all vague and abstract, but with a great certainty that all the characters had burned away as the universe shrank and that everything that had happened before this meant nothing.

All this recommended by Valentine, a jumped up French Sapphite. That description alone reminded the woman that of course it would be Valentine who recommend such a book. Valentine was a woman of dignity and stature, always dressed in green, her eyes as green as her clothes, auburn hair let loose and flowing—the woman was getting a hard on just thinking about her—and was a mad as a bag of cats, which made no sense, but then neither did Valentine. Unless, of course, mad as a bag of cats referred to anger, and cats would naturally get mad if they were thrown together inside a bag, but then again, Valentine wasn't exactly known for having a temper. Valentine was often caught smoking a long pipe, filled with goodness knows what, but it made her happy all the same, and she often talked to the woman about her travels to Mexico, about the tribes, about the peyote, about how she traded her husband for a bag of beans—

Beans? asked the woman.

Not the ones you're thinking of, my dear, replied Valentine, before taking another puff and choking violently this time. The woman handed her a glass of water. Valentine swilled it in her mouth and spat it out on the fireplace.

Puffed too hard that time, said Valentine. Where's Jenkins?

Here, madam, replied Jenkins, the typical tall, posh, middle-aged butler stereotype.

Could you get us some coffee, Valentine said to Jenkins.

Jenkins bowed and exited the room.

He always bows before leaving the room, Valentine said to the woman, he should consider a career in theatre.

What kind of beans were they, asked the woman, getting back on topic.

Fuuuck, replied Valentine, looking out at her window in a state of euphoria.

I beg your pardon?

That's how I felt when I tried those beans, positively worth it.

But what were they? Were they really so good that they were worth trading the man you married?

Valentine took no notice of the woman's concern.

They were, she said. Valentine turned to face the woman. There was an expression on her face that simply didn't care for morality and the morality of this time period they found themselves in. This time we find ourselves in was an expression frequently used by Valentine, as if she was saying she did not belong here. But then there was the We part of it. As if she and the woman did not belong here, as if they tumbled into this world through the cracks of history, another term that Valentine might use, as she was fond of vague language of an existential or philosophical nature. The woman became close to Valentine when she told her about her condition, that she felt like a woman, not a man. Valentine had a solution to that and said to the woman, more of you will come, I will protect you for now, before handing her a formula. The woman changed overtime. Now, will you give your name, inquired Valentine at the time, as the woman looked at herself in the mirror, ecstatic as to what she had become. I, replied the woman, for now I will myself I and you can call me you, and you can refer to me as she, and you can refer to me as her, and you can call me woman. Woman, said Valentine, nodding her head and smoking a cigarette. This stuck out in the woman's mind for the rest of her life. Valentine, a woman who gave her everything, lying on a couch, smoking a yellow-paper cigarette, with green eye shadow, dressed in furs, likely of wild beasts she had actually killed in her travels in Canada, with blood red lipstick...blood red...maybe her lipstick was made from blood...it certainly tasted like it, when the woman tried it. The woman was made one with Valentine that night and she remained Valentine's friend and confident since then.