Roses are red_(2)

“There is a striking resemblance between the act of love and the ministrations of a torturer.”
-Angela Carter

***

“Why does the wolf eat Grandma first?”

The question floated out of Angela‘s mouth before she realized what she was saying and hung in the air, pregnant with possibilities. Nicolas wiped his mouth with a red-checked napkin and raised an eyebrow to indicate she should go on.

“Think about it: The Big Bad Wolf meets Little Red Riding Hood in the forest and wants to eat her. So why not just eat Little Red then? Why bother running ahead and impersonating Grandma and the whole thing? It doesn’t make sense.”

The café was crowded and they sat almost shoulder-to-shoulder with the next table. Angela pushed her salad plate away and picked up her almost empty glass of red wine. Nicolas shoveled a bite of meaty lasagna into his mouth, staining his lips tomato-red. He had a way of talking with his mouth full that somehow never showed what he was chewing and never seemed rude. “Some people would tell you it’s because the story is about sex.”

“I’ve heard that. I never picked up on it myself.” She noticed that the people at the next table were listening in.

“Grandma has to go first because if a sexually predatory male like the one the wolf represents wants to take advantage of a girl he has to make sure there are no maternal figures around to warn Little Red about guys like him. That’s one reading, anyway. And of course there’s the red hood. All that blood imagery: menstruation, womanhood.”

“And red is a warning color. And a color of passion, emotion, carnality…”

“Red is the color of sin. That’s why Little Red dies in some of the stories: She’s sinful. A scarlet woman.”

“Little Red Riding Hood dies?”

“Oh sure.”

Nicolas fumbled in his briefcase and brought up a dog-eared paperback book. She skimmed the back. “You carry around books of fairy tales in your briefcase?”

“What do you think the class I teach is about?”

She read the pages he indicated:

Meanwhile, the wolf arrived at Grandmother’s, killed her, put some of her flesh into the pantry and some of her blood into a bottle, then put on her clothes and climbed into bed. When Little Red Riding Hood arrived the wolf bid her eat and drink some of whatever she found in the pantry. When the little cat who lived in the cottage saw the girl eating the flesh of her own grandmother it screamed and ran away.

Angela made a face. “Charming.”

“If you think that’s bad, you won’t like the ending.”

She kept reading:

“And Grandmother, what big teeth you have!” Little Red Riding Hood said.

“All the better to eat you with!” said the wolf. And with that he grabbed Little Red Riding Hood and ate her one bite at a time. The End.”

Angela put the book down. “I guess I’d have liked that ending better when I was a kid.”

“It wasn’t always a kid’s story,” said Nicolas, shrugging. “But I guess kids have got to learn to stay away from wolves sometime. Now, if you didn’t like that, you should try this one instead.”

He handed her a different book, with a faded cover of red leather. At first it looked like another book of fairy tales, but these were different, and she saw it had only been written 20 years ago. Nicolas had again marked one for her to read, but before she could begin she realized what time it was. “I have to get back to Anna,” she said. “My mother is watching her, but she has night classes.” She tried to give the book back, but Nicolas declined.

“Keep it,” he said. “I have others. You’ll like this one. Trust me.” He tried to pay for her but they ended up splitting it. He cleaned his glasses on his shirt, and a few seconds passed. “It was really nice seeing you,” he said. “I wish we could more often.” He paused. “Do you think —?”

Angela stood. “I have to go. I’ll miss my bus.”

“I can give you a ride?”

“That’s all right,” she said, faster than she’d wanted to. He watched her leave. Outside it was gray and blustery. She saw the Number 44 retreating from the curb, red taillights blinking at her, and she ran after it, cursing. It was already out of sight by the time she got to the corner. Sighing, she sat on the plastic bench, reading the book Nicolas lent her while she waited for the next one:

The forest is full of dangers, from pernicious goblins who twist off little boy’s toes and gobble them like candy to red-eyed witches who flay the hides off young girls and sew curtains out of them. But wolves are the worst of all, because the wolf is the only creature whose hunger is never satisfied. In the truly dark, cold days of winter, nothing is more terrifying than the howling of a wolf. He’ll eat you up, one-two, one-two, and be hungry again before you’re swallowed.

Angela giggled. She realized someone else had come into the bus shelter, sitting on the other end of the bench. He looked her up and down, smirking. She ignored him and kept reading:

The girl was too young to be alone in the forest. Too young to know the difference between men and wolves. But she was not so young as to really be called a girl anymore. She was almost a woman, and that put her in even more danger. She was in full bloom, like the bobbing red blossoms of the roses that grew along the path. The handsome stranger she met seemed like any common hunter to her. She did not spot the feral gleam in his eyes or detect the telltale rumbling of his ever-hungry stomach. He hid the bloody red stains on his teeth well.

The man in the bus stop was barely more than a teenager. He sat sunk over in his puffy red jacket and wouldn’t stop staring at her legs. He might as well have licked his lips. He coughed and said, “Where you going?”

“Home,” she said, without looking up from the book. “To my daughter,” she added, putting as much emphasis on the word as she could.

“I’m going to visit my grandmother,” the girl said. The hunter smiled. “What a sweet little girl you are,” he said. “Red-cheeked, and as toothsome a morsel as any.” The girl blushed bright red and looked away.