Baltimore
Authors: Jelena Lengold
Baltimore
Copyright © 2014 Jelena Lengold
English translation by Persida Bošković
Front cover and layout design by Sadie Crofts
Serbian Modern Literature Series (SMiLeS)
Published by:
Blooming Twig Books
New York / Tulsa
www.bloomingtwig.com
All rights reserved.
This book may not be photocopied for personal or professional use. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without permission in writing from the author and/or publisher.
Hardcover: ISBN 978-1-61343-052-1
Paperback: ISBN 978-1-61343-053-8
eBook: ISBN 978-1-61343-054-5
Printed in the United States by arrangement with Geopoetika publishing (Belgrade, Serbia)
www.geopoetika.com
Let’s get something clear first:
If this is going to be one of those stories in which everyone is nice and polite, then we’d better stop now.
I would like to tell you everything about everything, and there is so much to say. You get that, don’t you? When you want to say it all, not everyone can be pleasant and polite. Least of all me.
Then, there’s my family. With its highly developed sense of drama, a trait I too acquired at an early age as its equal member.
Then all those diseases, which frightened me and still do.
The numerous lies I sometimes lose track of and then think I’ll get confused and forget what I said and to whom.
The amount of disdain I feel, mostly in the morning, while I’m taking off my nightgown, throwing it on the washing machine and getting into the bathtub.
The things I try to forget, but sometimes go back to, then chase away yet again and remember once more… this can be exhausting, you know.
The predictability of certain conversations – well, this is perhaps the worst of all.
The predictability of everything that follows.
And immediately after, or parallel to this, the hope that soon someone will surprise me in a superior and completely magical way. But, this doesn’t happen anymore. If it ever did. All right, it used to happen, but back then I was more easily surprised.
When do we stop being young? When we feel back pain for the first time, or when there is nothing left to surprise us?
The time difference between Belgrade and Baltimore is six hours.
You might think this is crazy, but almost every day at 2:15 p.m., I sit at my computer and watch this guy in Baltimore on his way to work. He has the misfortune of living on a corner where one of those street cameras was installed. This is the location of a fast-food place. A street light. A bus stop. Nothing out of the ordinary.
He leaves his building every morning at 8:15 a.m., local time, usually carrying a briefcase. Naturally, I gave him a name. It’s Edgar. Along with a name, I also gave him a biography. Edgar works for an insurance company. He’s single. That is to say, I’ve never seen him leave his apartment in the morning with a hottie. It looks like he doesn’t have a dog either. He walks out of his building and waits for the bus, completely unaware of the fact that some silly woman from Belgrade is watching him as he goes to work.
I wait for the bus with him almost every day. The angle at which the camera was set up enables me to always see only a part of his face, and sometimes Edgar turns his back to me as he looks to see if his bus is coming.
Sometimes Edgar is late. He runs out of his building with a sandwich in his hand.
Sometimes he walks slowly, looking tired, as if he hadn’t slept all night.
Sometimes he stares at some papers, without even looking up, while walking down the path from his building to the bus stop. As he waits for the bus, he continues his reading.
Always alone. He never carries an umbrella. If it does rain, Edgar just pulls his hood over his head and shelters that briefcase of his under his jacket. This brought me to the conclusion that the content of the briefcase was more important to Edgar than his own head.
By this time, my work day has long begun and I usually imagine myself buying an overseas plane ticket some day and then flying to Baltimore, getting out of the airplane and into a yellow cab, giving the cab driver the name of that street, arriving at the bus stop at precisely 8:10 a.m., local time, and waiting for Edgar to appear. He arrives wearing his yellowish hooded jacket. I look at him and say:
“Hello, Edgar. I know everything about you and your life. I know how lonely you are. Fuck going to work today because I’ve travelled halfway across the world to spend this day with you. Let’s go to the zoo. Let’s go to a big park. Tell me what it’s like in this insurance company, Edgar. Are they giving you a hard time?”
This is usually when my inspiration gives out on me.
Edgar, whose name of course isn’t Edgar at all, would probably see me as just another crazy woman with a strange accent, move back a step in a politically correct manner, and turn away from me.
Or, he just might surprise me. Who knows?
I made an effort to be on time. Even though I knew this could also be construed to mean something. Everything could be construed to mean something. If you’re late. If you forget an appointment. If you arrive early. All these things can give you away. All right, then. I’ll try to be punctual, regardless of what it might reveal about me.
I pressed the button on the intercom at precisely a minute to six.
She opens the door and tells me to wait in the front room. I guess that means the previous patient is still with her. Then she disappears again, somewhere in the back.
Not very professional, I think to myself. Why is it that I can’t be late while she can keep me waiting, and for our first appointment no less?
Maybe this is some sort of tactic? Maybe there’s a small camera, over there above the sink, which records what the patient is doing while waiting to go in for his psychotherapy? Maybe she left her purse here intentionally, along with her notepad containing who knows what sort of information, and a computer? How could she possibly think I would be so naïve?
Okay, looking over the room. Even if the camera was taping me, looking around is normal. I don’t suppose she expects me to sit here and stare into one spot? Not very imaginative posters. Emphasis on the “female” touch. Dried flowers. Aquarelles portraying romantic pregnant women. Numerous real potted plants. Yuck.
I have a clear view of a wall clock from the bench where I’m sitting. Ten after six. This is now becoming a bit rude, don’t you think?
I can hear someone laughing in the other room. If only they were crying, then delaying my appointment would make some sense, but laughter? I try to make out the words, but all I can hear is mumbling. The only distinct sound is that of occasional laughter.
I get up and pour myself a glass of water. I’m not thirsty. I do this just for the sake of doing something. Then, I observe the small bubbles as they rise to the surface and fly upwards without hesitation, racing on their way to the top, towards the light, to unite with the open air in the room.
And then I hear something. Here they come. They’re leaving the room. I return to the bench, a bit too quickly. Like a guilty person. What foolishness. I just got up to pour myself some water.