Baltimore (9 page)
Authors: Jelena Lengold
“It reminds me of my grandfather,” I say.
“What was your grandfather like with you?”
How do I explain this to her? I wanted to say that he was the love of my life.
“He always had time for me. Lots of patience. He would let me write on his typewriter. We would go to the Russian library together and read newspapers. We liked similar things. We would go on boats and tour the city from the river. We would go to the movies. We would tell each other all kinds of stories… basically, we had a wonderful time when we were together.”
She’s going to make me cry again. And yet, I’ll feel bad about it when I get home. I even put mascara on, intentionally, to prevent myself from crying. But it looks like it’s not going to stop me.
“So, what message was he sending through his actions? What was he letting you know by doing all these things with you?”
The message was: “I love you,” that’s what he was letting me know.
“Well… the message was probably: ‘I have all the time in the world for you, I enjoy your company.’”
“We could also say the message was: ‘You matter.’ Right?”
“I guess….”
And here go the tears again. An outrageous amount of tears. She says:
“Let it all out. Don’t keep anything back.”
And I let it out, but only to a degree. She sits silently for a while, and then she asks me when my grandfather died and where I was when it happened.
“I was twenty-five at the time, and I was by his side when he died. It was a solemn experience and it was a good thing I was with him at the time.”
I told her everything, wiping my tears the whole time. I also told her I didn’t cry at all, not then, nor later at my grandfather’s funeral. The tears came later. I told her how I let go of my grandfather’s hand when I realized the end had come, so as not to disturb him in his passing. And how I looked up, thinking his soul was already somewhere on the ceiling, looking at me from above, suddenly confused and frightened, not knowing what was happening to it. And how in my mind I tried to comfort and calm the soul on the ceiling by whispering to it that it’s all right, and that now it will slowly go into the light.
“So, you can accept other people’s weaknesses. You know how to conduct yourself with people, even during their most difficult moments. Why can’t you accept your own weakness? Why does it make you angry?”
I’m silent. I have no more strength left to answer her questions.
“What would your grandfather say about your occasional display of weakness?”
“He would probably say I inherited it from all those Russians and that it’s something I should be proud of. That would be so like him….”
“But still…?”
“But still, whenever we talk like this, I can’t help but observe the two of us from the outside, from a different perspective, and to me, all this seems so dreadfully pitiful and pathetic. It’s like there’s always someone else sitting here, in this other chair, mocking everything I say.”
“And what is this other person sitting here saying?”
“They’re saying I’m pathetic. And immature.”
“What would this critic’s message be?”
“The message would be: ‘Grow up already, it’s high time!’”
“If I asked you what star you were born under, what would your answer be?”
“I wasn’t born under any star. I was born under the Moon.”
“And what is the Moon like?”
“Melancholic.”
Her eyes were telling me: “There you go. There is no cure for you. It’s just the way you were born.”
And then, who knows why, she brought up the question of trust. Do I trust her? I told her I entered into this with honest intentions and that, sometimes, I might be playing a kind of game, in which case I’m not purposely deceiving only her, I’m also deceiving myself.
“Do you think I have any doubts concerning your honesty?” she asked.
“No, not at all,” I said, and I truly meant it. “I think you know I’m being completely honest.”
And then, out of the blue, she felt the need to state her conclusion. I liked her specifically because she didn’t make any big conclusions, and now, suddenly… just like that, she told me to think about whether I opened up to her in my own pace. Could it be that I opened up too much and too quickly? Is this something I usually do? Do I establish trust that quickly in other situations as well?
No, no, no, I wanted to scream at her, don’t do this to me, you yourself asked me if I trusted you, and now this is turning into a nightmare. Why are you doing this? I don’t understand. And then, as if she wanted to finish me off, on my way out, she told me I had this need for a happy ending. Where did she get that idea? Oh yes, from the fairy tale I told her.
“That’s not true at all,” I was picking up pieces of my self-respect, along with my purse, cigarettes, sunglasses. “It’s been a long time since I had any illusions about a happy ending. What sort of happy ending can one expect if everyone dies in the end anyway?”
She was smiling, and I could tell she didn’t believe me. She had already placed me in a drawer where she keeps all those hopelessly waiting for a happy ending. And there was no changing her mind.
It occurred to me later, because I always remember what I should have said after the fact, that absolutely every fairy tale had a happy ending. Besides, what’s so terrible about expecting a happy ending? A part of me knows I’ll die, sooner or later. Another part of me still hopes for the fairy tale happy ending. Is that any reason for her to knock me down on the way out!? Or am I supposed to learn something from this?
Even if that was the case, I still wasn’t getting it. I was just getting more and more angry with her.
This is why this is the perfect time for me to tell you something I didn’t want to mention before because I didn’t want you to think I was a nit-picker, but now I don’t care anymore. After our second or third session, I forgot my sunglasses on the end table in her office. I realized this as soon as I left the building, but the next patient was already inside, and I couldn’t go back and interrupt them. So I decided to send her a text message. A very simple message: “I forgot my sunglasses in your office. Please keep them for me until next week.”
So did she answer back?
You’re right. She didn’t.
What did she think? That she would get involved in something that goes outside the boundaries of a patient/therapist relationship if she replied to a simple text message? Or maybe she thought I intentionally forgot the sunglasses in order to take our relationship to a level that was not acceptable?
There’s something demeaning about that, if you really think about it.
Next week, my glasses were waiting for me exactly where I had left them, but I never forgave her for not replying to my message. And I never will. This doesn’t mean I didn’t consider the possibility that maybe, subconsciously, I did leave them there on purpose. See what they’re capable of doing to us.
I’m at the door, leaving. My husband is touching my face.
“Your cheeks are so hot!” he says.
Then he slides his hand down to my neck.
“And your neck is cold. That’s odd. A flushed face and a cold neck.”
What do I tell him now? Nothing. A kiss. Quickly, a kiss. That always helps. And a smile. My best smile. Maybe I should caress his balls? Would that be too much? Of course it wouldn’t. I always do that. I’ll do it again now. Don’t be paranoid. Easy. Easy. A few more seconds and you’ll be out the door.
“You better watch out when you get back,” he says as he places his hand over mine, while I gently stroke his balls through his pants.
And he gives me a devilish smile.
Some green monsters from outer space are scattering across the TV screen behind him.
Outside, I’m greeted by science-fiction fog. I am breathing loudly through my mouth.
This fog is suffocating me. I’m old. Meanwhile, I’m hurrying off on a date with a boy. If someone happened to attack me in this fog, I wouldn’t even be able to run. I’d choose to stay there, and die.
I listen to my steps on the damp pavement.
I’ll never get to the cab stand. He’s probably already coming after me. But even if he is, I wouldn’t be able to see him in the fog. That’s just stupid. Of course he’s not following me. He’d never run outside in his sweat pants. He won’t even go to the corner store dressed like that. There’s no way. I’ve gone out at night like this a hundred times in the past. A thousand times. And nothing. There’s nothing different about tonight as far as he’s concerned. And intuition? What about intuition? Men have no intuition. Women do. The hell they do. They’re the last to find out their husbands are cheating on them. Such intuition doesn’t exist. It’s something we only read about in books.
I turn to look behind me in the dark. No one’s there. No one’s there. Just a few more steps. I get into a cab.
So, this is what it looks like. I’m on my way to meet the boy I met in the dirty chat room. And it’s quite clear we’re going to make love tonight. Why else would we be meeting in an apartment? What if my husband is in a cab behind me? What if he’s following me? Dear God, this is so absurd. He’ll leave me. There’s no doubt about that. To risk losing everything for one fuck. Don’t think about that. Think happy thoughts. Prepare yourself. Think about the eyes of that young man. Gazing at you. Over there in the darkness. The way he moaned when I moved my hand across his back….
Suddenly I feel a mild spasm, somewhere in the pit of my stomach. I lean my head against the headrest. I realize my fingers hurt from gripping onto my purse so tightly. I ask the driver:
“May I light a cigarette?”
And then I gaze at the streets and buildings and traffic lights going by. The city looks absolutely eerie in the fog. I look at my watch.
Five more minutes and I’ll be there. A kiss at the door. Or are we going to be all embarrassed again? The hell with embarrassment.
And what if the cab driver goes back to the same cab stand and my husband, who was of course following me, approaches him and asks where he took that flustered woman? Maybe he’ll even discreetly place a bill in his hand for this information, just like in the movies. Do cab drivers have some sort of honor code that restricts them from giving out such information? Should I perhaps warn him of this possibility and remind him that he mustn’t tell? That he should be vague and say something like: “I took her downtown…”? No way. I can’t tell him that. He’ll think I’m crazy. He’ll know exactly where I’m going. I’ll look ridiculous if I tell him something like that. Besides, no one is following me. Turn around. Discreetly. See. There’s no one there. The hell there isn’t. He’s there somewhere. It’s foggy. I can’t see a thing. Finally, here’s the building. Pay the driver. Should I nevertheless warn him on the way out? Nonsense. Don’t make a fool out of yourself. Step out of the cab. Calmly. As you would normally. Look behind you. No one’s there. The street is completely empty. One, two, three… third floor. Lights. He’s waiting for me. That handsome boy is waiting just for me. Go on… smell your collar. Nice perfume. Go on. The elevator. The mirror in the elevator. Everything is fine. I have dark circles under my eyes. So what? I also had them when I was twenty. The lips are fine. The eyes are a little tired, but other than that, they’re okay. The perfume, the perfume is the most important thing. Great perfume. We’re stopping. Stop staring in the mirror and get out of the elevator! Should I knock or ring the doorbell? Knocking would be silly, sort of old-fashioned and conspiratorial. Nor will I cheerfully ring three times. I’m not cheerful. I’m terrified. One short ring. Oh, God. He’s going to open the door now. Oh, my God….
At the last second, I remembered. I scratched at the door with my nails.
That’s how you go to your lover….
I smile at the thought of this.
This is how he finds me. With this smile on my face. And my hand in the air.
A little later. We’re already drinking our third shot of vodka. Things are beginning to look much better. The boy is simply sitting at the kitchen table, across from me, gazing at me with his hand under his chin. Once in a while, he raises an eyebrow and softly says:
“What…?”
As if he managed to hear a part of what I was thinking about, but not too clearly.
I reply:
“Nothing….”
Or I don’t say anything at all. I just look at him.
I’m thinking it’s a shame I can’t go anywhere outside this apartment with him. It would be nice to show him off to my girlfriends. What a perverse thought: I’d like it if my husband could see him! Sitting here, like this, and gazing at me with that almost lovesick look on his face. How great would it be if he could see this! You idiot. You stupid, stupid, stupid idiot. You’re not doing all this out of vanity, are you? This boy is much too beautiful to be used only to feed your vanity. The vodka is excellent. What does that perpetual reply of mine mean anyway? I don’t drink. Grow up! Adults sometimes drink when they’re having a good time. Or when they’re sad. Or tense. You have the right to do the same. Why not?
“You look sleepy,” says the boy.
“I’m just a little tipsy.”
“That’s not bad,” he smiles.
“No. Not at all.”
He’s sitting very close to me now, hugging my legs with his knees. I occasionally run my hand across his face. Nice drunken fatigue. Blissful indifference.
Fingers, fingers, fingers….
The boy softly trembles under my fingers. Surrendering completely.
All right then, I think to myself, let me show you what I’ve learned in the meantime, while you were still learning to read and write….
“You’ve wiped me out,” says the boy after a considerable amount of time, very softly, while putting his head down on the pillow.
His muscles were still trembling a little, as if stricken with fever.
I start laughing:
“I thought you were going to wipe me out!”
“And I will, as soon as I recover.”
Later, in the cab, the boy whispers to me:
“Will you be online tonight?”
“Why? So that I could tell you how it was?”
“Of course,” he says and gives me a little kiss on the neck.
His hand is still somewhere between my knees. The cab is racing. Empty streets. An even denser fog than before. The boy is then silent for a while, his gaze turned away from me.
So, it’s started. I already need him to look at me, and he’s turning away.
“You’re lucky,” I whisper. “No one is going to ask you anything when you get home. You don’t have to face anyone right away, the second you enter the door.”
As soon as I said this, I realized how stupid it was. He doesn’t know what I’m talking about. He’s only twenty-five years old; he’s never been married and knows nothing about it. He doesn’t care that I have to go back home now and ring the doorbell. What if my husband really did follow me?
“You can do it,” says the boy.
Suddenly I feel this anger building up inside of me.
Easy, easy. He’s just a kid. He’s trying to say something to make you feel better. He doesn’t know that what he said sounds inappropriate.
As I walk from the cab to my building, I feel a surge of completely irrational fear. I’m almost racing, barely able to catch my breath in the fog. I feel like I’m going to suffocate before I even reach the apartment.
I stop before entering the building. I’m trying to calm my breathing. Then, I think about crossing myself.
Why in the world would God help people like me?
Nevertheless, I quickly make the sign of the cross and press the elevator button.
In the elevator, I look at myself in the mirror again.
Where is the woman who was racing off on a date a little while ago? This one looks tired and shaken up. Anyone could tell a mile away what you were doing all evening. You reek of alcohol. Wait… in the pocket, look in the pocket… here it is… a mint. Put your lipstick on. That’s right. But not too much. If you put too much on, it’ll look too obvious.
I undo my scarf and examine my neck and shoulders in the mirror.
Thank God, there are no visible marks. But my skin is slightly red and inflamed. Damn it, it’s not as if he’s going to examine me through a magnifying glass. Calm down. Go straight for the bathroom as soon as you go in. Make a fuss about something. Dear God, it’s almost midnight. So what? You’ve come home later than that numerous times. Yes, but with a clear conscience. My panties are completely wet. What if he hugs me at the door? Of course he won’t. He’s stopped doing that long ago….
He opens the door for me.
How did he look at me?
“Oh, what a horrible night,” I say in a rush, looking away, throwing my purse on the chair. “Have you had anything to eat?”
“Yeah, I made French toast,” he says, like a proud child.
There you go, stupid, you’ve ruined your fun for nothing. The man was making French toast while you were going crazy with fear.
“It’s awful outside?” he asks.
“Terrible. Can’t see six inches ahead through the fog.”
“How did you get back?”
“I took a cab, of course. I’m off to take a shower, I feel the soot of the city on my skin.”
“Do you want me to make you a sandwich? Are you hungry?”
“That’ll be great!” I shout from the bathroom, now feeling at ease, knowing I’d been saved this time and that everything went well. “And put on some tea, will you?”
“Okay, hon!” my husband shouts back from the kitchen. “We’ll get you warmed up in no time.”