Painted Stairs – Part 1: Paint on Her Hands

The stairway climbed the hillside in two hundred steps, each one painted a different colour. Camila stood on a ladder halfway up, a brush in her teeth and a pot of turquoise balanced on her hip, finishing the wing of a giant blue bird.

"Excuse me," said a voice from below. "Do you have a permit for that?"

Camila looked down. A woman in a grey blazer stood on the steps, clipboard in hand, hair pulled into a tight bun. She had sharp dark eyes, a strict mouth and an expression of weary patience.

"I have a bird," said Camila, around the brush.

"I need a permit, not a bird."

"The bird does not need one." Camila took the brush out of her mouth. "I am Camila. I have been painting these stairs for six years. You are new."

"Isidora Rojas. Municipal inspector." The woman consulted her clipboard. "There have been complaints."

"About the bird?"

"About the paint on the railing. A neighbour says it is slippery."

"It is not slippery. It is waterproof." Camila climbed down the ladder, wiping her hands on her overalls. She smelled of turpentine and sunlight. "Come, I will show you."

She led Isidora up the stairs, step by step, talking about the colours. The red step was for the sailors who had built the harbour. The yellow was for the lemons that fell from the trees in March. The green belonged to a woman who had sold herbs there for forty years, and who had died last winter.

Isidora climbed slowly, clipboard forgotten in her hand. At the top, the whole bay opened below them: cranes, ships, the long blue curve of the Pacific.

"It is beautiful," she said quietly.

"It is illegal," said Camila. "But beautiful."

Isidora laughed, surprised at herself. "Can I ask you something?" she said.

"Yes."

"Why do you paint them? Nobody pays you."

Camila looked down the steep stairs, the colours tumbling to the street.

"Because my grandmother lived at the bottom," she said. "She climbed these steps every day, and they were grey. I wanted to make them something worth climbing."

Isidora was silent for a moment. Then she tucked the clipboard under her arm.

"I will write a report," she said, "that recommends a permit."

"A permit?" Camila stared.

"I am very good at paperwork. Can I ask you something else?"

"Yes."

"Would you let me come back on Saturday, with no clipboard, and help you finish the bird?"

Camila's grin was wide and slow. "Yes," she said. "But only if you promise to get paint on your blazer."

"Deal," said Isidora. "Green?"

"Green," said Camila. "Very green. Bring a brush, inspector."