by Endre Farkas
“How do you know this stuff?”
“Well, I come here occasionally, and my uncle owns the El Gitano. They serve it there. Another place is a Hungarian café on Stanley Street, the Pam Pam. Have you ever been there?”
“No.”
“They also serve espresso and café latte, two other kinds of really good coffee. And they also have the most delicious Dobos.”
“Dobos? He corrected her pronunciation. “The ‘s’ is a ‘sh’ sound,” Tommy said, feeling slightly better now that he could contribute to the conversation. “I love Dobos. My mother buys it from a Hungarian bakery on the Main. I love the creaminess and specially the crunchy top part.”
“Then you’ll love mille feuille. It’s a bit like the Dobos but the layers are thinner. It has a thousand leaves.”
“Wow! It must be huge.”
She laughed. “It doesn’t really have a thousand leaves. That’s just its name.”
“I figured,” he said and smiled.
A hiss, like that of the pressing machine in his parents’ factory, whistled through the room. Tommy spun. He let out a gasp.
“Hey, that’s a good impression,” she laughed.
“What are you talking about?”
“Of the espresso machine.”
He winced and smiled back.
The waitress brought their coffee and the mille feuille.
Tommy stared at his. He had never seen one like that. The white foam was flecked with dark sprinkles.
“Chocolate,” Marianne said.
“Oh…”
“Try it.”
He lifted the cup to his lips and sipped. He nose touched the foam. She smiled and dabbed it with a napkin.
“It’s strong.”
“It’s delicious.”
He took another sip. This time he kept his nose out of the froth. He watched Marianne take a sophisticated sip.
“Do you like it?”
“Yeah.”
“Here, now close your eyes and taste.” She held out a piece of the mille feuille on her fork. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth. She slipped in the fork.
“Slow. Don’t swallow it all at once. Enjoy it,” she said as she pulled out the fork.
He tasted the sweetness of the icing, the crispness of the feuilles and the lushness of the filling. “Umm. You sound like my father,” he said when he finished the morsel.
“What do you mean?”
“When I was kid in Hungary, I loved rock candy. They’re these diamond-hard pellets. My father taught me to eat only one at a time and not crunch it but move it around and play with it to get it smooth and round so the pellet dissolves. That way its flavour spreads like a river through your entire mouth. He always eats very slowly and most of the time with his eyes closed. He tells me that it makes the flavour even more flavourful, and it lasts longer, which, when you are poor, as he was, is important.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. Your father is a wise man.”
Tommy, in turn, broke off a bit of the mille feuille with his fork and extended it to her. She leaned in, opened her mouth and took it in. As he watched her he was overcome with a feeling that he could only describe to himself as a flowing lightness and a grin spread over his face. When she opened her eyes and saw it, she laughed.
“What?” he asked, almost in a panic.
She just shook her head and said nothing. They finished the coffee and mille feuille in comfortable silence.
More people were drifting in.
“You want to know why I wanted to meet?”
He was taken aback by her directness. “Yeah.”
“Because I like you.”
It caught him off guard. Guys were supposed to make the first move. But so far, it had always been her. “I like you too,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. “Is that why you didn’t want me to tell Speedy anything?”
He watched her run her fingertip around the rim of the cup, skim off the froth and lick it. “Oh shit,” he thought, “I had to go and say something stupid.”
“My family is very strict about boy and girl stuff. Especially about the way girls should be. Especially good Catholic girls. I used to accept it, but now, I can’t. I find it really hard to be what they want me to be. Times they are a-changing,” she said. “I want to make my own choices. I don’t want to get married yet. Maybe never. I like you, but you’re Jewish and Speedy, he’s such a big brother with macho ideas.”
“You’re the older one though, aren’t you?”
“I am but he acts like the big brother. So, I thought it would be better if we got to know each other before we started to see each other.”
He wasn’t sure where this was leading. “He already sort of warned me not to be interested. I don’t want to cause problems with you and your parents, and I don’t want to lose my friendship with Speedy either.”
A silence settled between them. “But I like you a lot,” he said.
The waitress went from table to table, lighting the candles. She dimmed the lights and stopped the music. She stepped up to the microphone and tapped it a couple of times.
“Tonight, two people are going to read their poetry. We’re going to start with Artie Gold. You all know Artie, the Prague poet laureate. Please welcome Artie Gold.”
The scruffy guy who had been scribbling in his notebook got up and strode to the stage. People applauded and called out to him as if he were an old friend.
He talked and read fast. His poems had images and references to things and people that Tommy didn’t get but the others did. They responded with comments and laughter.
“And this is my last poem.”
Sun filters through my window
Casts velvet bats’ shadows that
Flutter about my room. I share the unrest.
The sun is doomed with movement
Sunup sundown; ground sky ground
Its orbit is small comfort to my habit.
Whatever we do is best left at home
The truth of our moment is too predictable
Yet I delight in the sun, it’s monumental
In the sky with certainty rising, setting
Looking to the greater cycle, there is colour,
A yellow angel pedals about the world.
Marianne applauded loudly. Tommy also applauded but wasn’t sure why. Artie Gold’s poems weren’t like the ones he had studied in his compulsory Intro Poetry course last year.
“That was great, man,” the waitress said. Artie gathered his papers and strode back to his table. He sat, took out his notebook and started scribbling again.
“And now for our open mic part, we have Marianne Gonzales.”
Tommy turned to her. She gave him a nervous smile. It was the first time he had seen her so unsure of herself. She reached into her peace purse and took out a folded sheet of paper. He watched her walk up to the stage, hesitant, unfold the paper and smooth it out. She stood shyly in the front of the microphone. The paper in her hand was trembling. She looked right at him, took a deep breath and stood tall. Her voice came out steady and clear.
“I have only one poem to read. It’s called ‘Nobody.’”
Nobody
Nobody, Nothing is
Who or what they seem
You show up at your door
In your dreams
In all sorts of disguises
Lost soul of the night
Sometimes as a trick
Rarely as a treat
You figure because you give
You should get?
Not so easy my friend
Love
Grace
You
are not earned or learned
You are what you are
daily chores spring-cleaned
&nbs
p; the voice in the shower singing perfectly of imperfect love
the hunger in your belly feeding your hunger in your belly
the human cry unheard by passersby
You are you standing erect
Staring at the sun
Howling Beware.
Tommy applauded enthusiastically. She was blushing. The music came back on. He smiled at her with admiration. She sat, folded her poem and put it in her bag.
“You sure know how to do a lot of stuff,” he said.
She smiled back at him.
“Let’s walk,” he said.
On their way out, Marianne stopped by the poet’s table. “That was amazing,” she said.
“We should get together sometime,” he said in a way that made Tommy dislike him intensely. “Here’s my phone number.” He tore off the corner of the page he was writing on.
“That would be great.” She beamed as she slipped it into her purse. Tommy reached for her hand.
“See you,” she said
“For sure,” he said.
“Why did you take his phone number?” Tommy asked.
“Because he gave it to me.”
He didn’t know what to say.
“Because I’d like to talk to him about poetry.” She gave him a hard look that reminded him of Speedy.
How could she say one minute she liked him and then, in front of him, make a date with this other guy? It made no sense.
“Where to?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Let’s just walk.”
“Let’s go up to Redpath Park,” she said.
They headed up Crescent towards Sherbrooke. It was a clear night. Her hand felt good, perfect in his, but he was angry.
“I like this park,” she said. It was a small one. Mount Royal was behind it and downtown Montreal in front of it. Well-dressed elderly people were walking their dogs.
“Here,” she said. She sat on a bench under a huge maple. He sat with a heavy sigh.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“Still a bit hard to breathe but it’s okay.”
“You sure?”
“Uh huh.”
They sat in silence holding hands.
“That’s Sacred Heart.” Marianne pointed to the building across the street. “I went there.” With its turrets and fieldstone walls, it resembled a castle more than a school.
“Impressive.”
“We used to call it Sacred Farts. We were taught by nuns who put the fear of God and men in us. Every Friday we had to go to confession. Even if you didn’t have a sin to confess, you had to make something up.” She had a sad look on her face.
“I went to Baron Byng. We called it Bing Bang. Ninety-nine percent of the students were Jewish there. I remember our math teacher, Mr. Bierman. We were pretty sure that he was a Nazi. Maybe his punishment was to teach a bunch of smart-aleck Jewish immigrant kids. When he came into class, we stood and as he walked toward the front of the class, we would click our heels. He would turn and yell, ‘who did dat?’ I remember there was a kid, Hymie Moscovitch. His family had money ’cause he always had a bunch of quarters that he would noisily stack and restack. One day, Bierman had enough. He stormed to the back and scooped up all the quarters. ‘Typical,’ he said as he pocketed them, walked back to the front and continued to teach. After a few minutes Hymie put up his hand. ‘Vat?’ Bierman snapped. Hymie stood as if he were going to answer a question and said ‘Sir. Can I have a receipt for those quarters?’”
Both of them laughed. They faced each other. Tommy leaned in, closed his eyes and kissed her. Her lips parted slightly and gently kissed him back. He opened his eyes, reached out and stroked her hair. Oh, how he had wanted to do that ever since he saw her. It was thick. His fingers curled in and out, sliding, tumbling, holding on. She closed her eyes and leaned into his shoulder. He could hear her soft breathing.
“Since when have you been writing poetry?” he asked, breathing in her fragrance.
“Since I was a kid, but I’m not a poet. It’s just one poem. What did you think?”
“When I was a kid in Hungary, I liked poems. I liked memorizing them. My mother loves poetry. She can still recite some that she learned as a child. But once we got here, I forgot all about it. I was busy trying to learn the language and spent my free time playing soccer. We had to study them in high school, but I never understood them, I never got the meaning. The teacher always had a better, correct interpretation. I’m not very good at understanding them.”
“How did it make you feel?”
He wasn’t sure what to say. “It was nice.”
“But how did it make you feel?”
He wondered if this was a test of some sort. He thought hard. “Honestly? It scared me a little. It made me wonder who you are. And at the end when you said ‘Beware,’ it sounded like a warning. But I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be beware of.”
“Of me. Of you.”
“Why?”
“Because we are not who we seem to be. We have masks. Because there are always our many selves like an ocean that’s between us.”
“What do you mean?”
She just stared into the starry night. She reached out and took his hand. “Come.”
“Where?”
“Naomi’s.”
“It’s late, she’ll be asleep.”
“No. She went to the Townships to visit her parents and left me the key.”
19
Tommy was barely in the door when the hall light exploded.
“Where were you all night?” His mother’s voice hit him like a slap.
Tommy looked at his watch. “It’s only three.”
“Only?”
Tommy’s father stood behind his mother. “Your mother was worried to death,” he said. “We were thinking of calling the police, and then the hospitals. You want her to feel like that? You’re the only child we have.”
Tommy needed to pee. But they were standing there, looking more scared than angry, arms crossed barring the way.
“There was no telephone? Why didn’t you call?”
“It was too late to call.”
“It’s never too late to call. Where were you?”
“Like I told you, I was out with some of the guys and we went to a movie and then went for a few drinks and drove around.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
His parents kept at him. “So, if you didn’t do nothing, why didn’t you come home?”
“Did you get drunk?”
“No, just a few beers.”
“That’s how it starts.”
“So, you couldn’t call?”
“Sorry.”
“Your mother couldn’t sleep all night.”
“Sorry.”
“What’s happening to you?”
“Nothing, it’s Friday night. I’m nineteen.”
“It’s illegal. You’re not twenty-one.”
“You want the police to put you in jail?”
“They don’t do that.” He really didn’t want to be here right now having this conversation. He wanted to be alone to savour the night.
“You don’t want to get in trouble with the police. Only goyim get in trouble with the police.”
“It was late even for Friday night.”
“Don’t ever do it again. You understand?”
His mother never slept much, whether he came home late or not. For her, late was ten minutes before the time he said he would be home. She didn’t like to sleep because she had nightmares. She yelled out names and Hungarian and German phrases. Tommy had often heard her yell out “never again.” He always connected that with her Holocaust experience. The nightmares started shortly after their arrival in Montreal. The first time it happened he was frighten
ed awake but before he could get out of bed, she was in his room, turning on the light. She had a wide-eyed, mad look on her face. Each time she had a nightmare, it would end with her standing in the doorway staring at him. His panic lessened over time, but he never got used to it.
His father tried to convince her to see a doctor but she refused. She didn’t like doctors. Finally, a friend recommended the Hertzl, a clinic that had Jewish doctors. Tommy went with her to translate. She held his hand tightly the entire time while they sat in the waiting room. When she saw that it was a female doctor, she relaxed her grip. The doctor asked about her dreams, but she said she couldn’t remember. Tommy didn’t think she was telling the truth. When he had nightmares, he remembered them. They didn’t make sense, but he remembered them. Maybe that was why he remembered them. The doctor gave her sleeping pills and her nightmares disappeared under a heavy sleep.
“It is like a boot is stepping on my head,” she said. “I don’t enjoy the heaviness in the morning but it’s better than bad dreams.”
Tommy woke with a smile on his face. He stretched, moaned and sighed. He wanted to shout but that would have freaked out his parents. Jumping out of bed, he headed for the shower. As he was about to step in, he stopped. He didn’t want to wash Marianne’s scent off. He took a deep whiff, exhaled, stepped in, yelped, closed his eyes and turned his face toward the scalding spray.
As they walked in silence from the park to Naomi’s, Tommy had felt like he was in a movie. The starry night, the moonlight, the streetlights and the store lights. All the scene needed was music. He’d begun to hum the theme from A Man and a Woman that was playing on all the stations. Marianne joined him. Holding hands, they la la la la lahed along Sherbrooke, down Lincoln and up the steps to the apartment.
Before she could turn on the light, he grabbed her and kissed her hard. She kissed him but gently pushed him back. “Slow,” she said, caressing his face.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay, but slow.”
She lit a pair of candles, got a bottle of wine and poured them two glasses. They clinked and sipped like two sophisticated people. He put down his glass, leaned over and inhaled deeply. Her scent was exotic.
