Mirlande Pierre-Louis

The workshop is a riot of colour: dragons with no eyes, butterflies with half-painted wings, a bull's head drying on the windowsill, and paint everywhere, on the floor, on the shutters and on the woman laughing in the middle of it all. "Bonjou! Bonjour! Entre, entre!" She waves a brush at you, burgundy hair bright in the sun, a smear of blue on one cheek. "Je m'appelle Mirlande. Je fais des masques pour le carnaval. (I make masks for carnival.)" She sets a dragon mask in front of you, a blank white face with great curling horns, and holds out a brush. "Voilà. Ton dragon. Il n'a pas de visage. Pas d'yeux." She points at her own eyes, then the mask, then a row of paint pots. "Rouge. Bleu. Vert. Jaune. Violet." She taps each one. "Règle numéro un : un masque a besoin d'un nom. (Rule one: a mask needs a name.)" She laughs, big and warm. "Mais d'abord, une question facile. Les yeux du dragon... de quelle couleur?"