Graffiti Magic
by John Benson
‘Madame, don't you think it would be better if you encouraged him to do that in the gutter?’
The old lady looked at me in surprise and disgust, and not without a little contempt. There was an unnerving silence.
‘I knew,’ she said, moving away, ‘That there were new people in the building,’ she paused for effect, ‘But no-one told me they were foreigners.’
If I was a more dramatic sort of a person, I suppose my mouth would have dropped. As it is my lower lip just quivered a little.
‘You know,’ she continued, fixing me with a pair of pitiless eyes, ‘It is quite forbidden to take furniture up in the lift, I shall certainly inform the body corporate of the building.’
Her animal companion having finished its business, she reeled it in on her mechanically assisted power leash, and entered the building with a swish of fur-trimmed overcoat. The click of the door behind her ended the whole performance in a ridiculously appropriate and, I'm sure for her, satisfying fashion.
I was immediately furious. About five seconds too late.
‘That rotten, filthy, old, racist...’ I thought to myself.
The fact was that I had lost the exchange completely.
I looked around. Before me was a rather large and opulent door way, like all the doorways in Paris. The building itself was a testament to the taste and culture of French civilisation. Sculpted corners and delicately pregnant balconies gave an impression of static beauty that the over-ornate wedding cake Italian architects could only dream about.
And yet, spreading out in a semi-circular fan from the steps, there was an unsightly cemetery: the calling cards of the animal companions that presumably brought a little love and affection into the lives of its inhabitants. Entering the building required attention as to the placement of feet, and the multi-coloured smears (proof of the ingenuity of the makers of pet food in the metropolis) bore mute, yet pungent, testimony to the fate of those who had been less fortunate.
I was enraged.
I went and bought my morning baguette and came back to eat it with my morning coffee, which I have always hated, but which is essential to a French breakfast. The whole way I recreated the scene, casting myself as the hero with witty and acerbic replies to the bigotry and unhygienic practices of my fur-clad neighbour. How did she reconcile her choice of clothes with her love for ‘Our friends, the beasts’, anyway? I asked myself. If she really loved it, wouldn't she give it to a friend in the country? Did it really enjoy being asked to do its business on a freezing slab of concrete in public? And besides wasn't it dangerous to expose people of her age to the danger of slipping on the results of her thoughtlessness?
By the time I got home, I was pleasantly worked up, which is really the only way to deal with one of these situations where you feel impotent and put down.
And after feeling agreeably indignant for a little while, a cool wave of revenge washed through me. Emotion-distorted logic overtook my feelings of confusion. The problem, as I saw it, was that given the acceptance in general by the surrounding society of the phenomenon, I had a snow-flake's chance in hell of changing anything on a global scale. If eyes ever glow red, I'm sure mine were like lasers in the morning gloom.
‘Fine,’ thought my internal Mr. Hyde, ‘We'll just have to keep it personal then.’
The first shots in the campaign were fired about a week later. It had taken me that long to find exactly the shade that I wanted, a really hot fluorescent pink (about double the price of the normal colours). Coming back from the pool, as casually as possible, I took the spray can out of my bag and stooped briefly at the door to put a small thick circle of screaming pink around the freshest evidence that I could find.
Upstairs I danced a most childish jig of victory for the next half hour.
People's routines rarely changing, and certainly not mine, I passed the enemy in front of the door, as usual, the next morning. I made a point of being surprised at the new and extremely vulgar (it is true that putting something in a frame adds emphasis) piece of graffiti that had been added to the pavement. Clucking my tongue I walked away, careful not to cast an accusatory glance. Not yet.
I waited, it is my only asset. I waited like a coward for a coward's revenge.
At the end of three months the pavement in front of the door resembled a psychedelic lunar relief map. It was worth paying the few extra francs, the stuff really was waterproof. Not a word more had been said between myself and the subject (I had acquired a sort of clinical objectivity by this time). Every day I added to the work of art which, twenty four hours a day, pointed an accusatory finger at the denizen of apartment 2B (I had quickly localized this with an idea to expanding my area of operations, but in the end decided against it).
The tide broke on a Friday, very gloomy with leaden skies and an unhealthy wind blowing. As I stepped out the door into the glaring arena of colours, an Olympic nightmare (having by this time diversified into some greens and purples), I could see that She was looking at me directly. Internally I was terrified. I knew that there were two possible outcomes. Either she really did have a hide of iron and she would send me packing, forced to clean up (the shame and bitter irony) my own mess from the pavement with threats of police and fines, or... I clucked my usual clucking, shook my head, feeling her gaze upon me, and slowly turned to meet her look.
One look at the bulging eyes and clenched jaw told me that I had won. She started yelling at me, meaningless sound and words. It washed over me, feeding my revenge, satisfying it. Her shaking finger darted towards me, her dog was yapping, I was in heaven, my head lifted up. Vaguely I saw her step towards me over the lurid battlefield, screaming with rage.
And slip in a sort of slow motion on what I can only hope was a solid canine lubricant.
I looked down as if from a great height on the mass of rocking furs and high-heels below. She struggled to her feet vociferating and brushing indeterminate lumps from her clothes. Shaking my head I turned and walked away taking the route to the boulangerie. All the while thinking about the sheer magic of graffiti.
