46. The Studio
In which a network is revealed…
Pernilla Ågren’s studio was the last building on a street of wooden houses painted the red of old barns, and it had a card in the window that said ÖPPET and in smaller letters below, Open.
Inside was glass. On shelves, on iron stands, hanging in the windows on fishing line, glass that looked as though it had been poured and had set halfway through the pouring.
@EmpressaurusKitty went straight to the largest piece, a slab of blue the height of a door, said “Oh,” in a voice that carried, and stood in front of it with her hands behind her back. Gosie went to a shelf of small pieces by the window, reached out a paw and then slowly withdrew it.
“I’m Pernilla, welcome to my open studio. You can pick up the glass,” said a woman in a leather apron, coming past with a tray of coffee cups. She was tall and her hair was tied up with what appeared to be a length of copper wire. “That is the point of today. Everyone should feel the work in their hands. Pick them up.”
Gosie picked up a piece of green glass. It was warm from the window and heavier than it looked.
Kitty came in ten minutes later on her own, and walked through the studio to a low bench at the back. She settled down next to a set of scales, a roll of brown tape and a stack of paperwork and shut her eyes. Nobody looked at her. Pernilla, passing by with the empty tray, stroked the top of Kitty’s head without stopping.
At that point a courier arrived. She was a young woman in a pale grey jacket bearing a discreet white logo KS on the top of the sleeves. She had a box in her arms the size of a small suitcase and set it on the bench next to Kitty, who opened one eye and shut it again.
Pernilla came over wiping her hands on her apron. The courier held out a clipboard. Pernilla signed, took the offered sheet, folded it along a perforated line and tore it in two. One half she handed back to the courier, who put it inside her jacket without looking at it. Pernilla placed the other half on the bench.
Then she reached under the bench and brought out a second box, smaller, already taped, and put it on the scales. From a drawer she took a label, tore it in half down the perforation in the middle and placed one half on the bench next to the half receipt. Pernilla then peeled the label from its backing and pressed it on top of the box, smoothing it down with the flat of her hand before handing the box to the courier, who said something in Swedish and left. The whole business had taken a little under two minutes.
Kitty stood up, turned round once, and sat down on both pieces of paper.
Pernilla noticed when she came back with more coffee. “Ah. No. Those I need.” She put the tray down and lifted Kitty with both hands under the front legs. Kitty went long and heavy and when Pernilla set her down on a clear part of the bench, Kitty stood up, walked back and sat down on the paper again.
Pernilla laughed and said, “Whose is this cat?”
“Mine,” said Empressaurus from the far end of the room, without turning from the blue slab. “She’s looking after your paperwork.”
“She is sitting on my money.”
Kitty turned her head and looked down the room, first at Gosie, then at Empressaurus.
“Is it important?” asked Empressaurus. She crossed the room towards the bench. “What she’s sitting on?”
“It is how I get paid for posting packages.” Pernilla took the corner of the paper between two fingers and pulled. Kitty stayed put.
“But you’re an artist,” said Empressaurus.
“Yes. And I accept and post parcels, too.”
“For what purpose?”
Pernilla looked at her as if she had asked what glass was. “For women. You do not have this in England? A woman is leaving a man who reads her post and opens her parcels. She needs to move her things without him seeing where they go. Or she buys something that cannot come to the house. She sends the parcel to somebody like me instead, and I send it on, and it goes to the next person, and eventually it is where it should be and he has seen nothing. I have done it for years.”
“Where do they go?” asked Gosie.
“I don’t really know. A hub, probably, maybe a locker, a shop, someone else’s house.” She shrugged. “I do not get the address. I get a printed label and I put it on the box. I know only the courier who brings me a parcel, because she is standing in front of me, and I know the courier who takes a parcel, because she is standing in front of me too, and she is only a courier. That is all I know. That is how it is meant to work.”
“You’ve never wanted to know more than that?” asked Empressaurus.
“Why? If I knew where every box went, someone might ask me.” Pernilla gave the paper one more pull and let go. “There is nothing to know. Boxes come, boxes go, a woman somewhere gets her things. If your cat would get off my postage I could go and make more coffee.”
Empressaurus lifted Kitty off the paperwork. On the bench were half a receipt and half a label, each bearing the same KS logo and a different QR code. Pernilla put them in her apron pocket and went to make coffee.
Empressaurus bought the small green piece Gosie had been holding when the courier arrived. As they left, Kitty sauntered ahead of them into the street. “How do we find the crate if we have no idea where it went?” asked Empressaurus.
“We need to find the courier company,” said Gosie.
https://myrtlelion.substack.com/p/46-the-studio