by Sara Dillon
ARRIVING SUD EXPRESS TOMORROW LOVE JAKE
Let’s never talk about it, Brett kept saying to him, though that would not have been my approach. Let’s never talk of it, don’t let’s ever. Of the young matador who wanted to marry her. There were some funny things, though, Lady Brett said to Jake. I liked that phrase, it worked for me. There were some funny things, though. And then their olives in the martini glass, the understanding bartender. They got away with all that.
There were some funny things, though.
Montrose; 1990s
It became a thing in Turlough that I was sometimes on the television, commenting on the Clinton visit to Ireland, hanging about in the television studio, dropping in off the cuff remarks about American politics.
There you are, up in Donnybrook with all the big noises, I’d hear as I walked through a pub door in Turlough. Our own star of stage and screen.
Clement would hear all the news from the lady who cooked and cleaned in the monastery. They were all talking about me being on the television. She asked me what age you’d be, he said, laughing quietly. And I told her, around the thirty mark.
Everywhere I went, from the hardware store to a walk up the Park Baun road, it was the first thing mentioned. Last Sat’day, there you were with the high ups and our own Martina Cuniffe on a quiz program the same night. By Jayz, we were well represented.
Back and forth I went, and it always seemed to rain on Sunday afternoon as I headed back to Dublin. As I dreaded the deep dark nights in Park Baun, I was glad to get back, though there was little point in the return either. I was suspended in fog and cloud, driving and driving, walking up the aisles of shops with a basket over my arm.
I wrote pieces on the imminent destruction of Ireland, the folly of road building, the death of culture, the disappearance of the landscape.
Once before a meeting of preservationists in an ancient house on the Dublin quays, one of the few left amid the cheap and tawdry apartment blocks, I climbed a ladder in a half renovated attic and looked out on the roofs of the city; how much it still looked, at least from that height, as it did from the window of my room at the northside hostel when I was sixteen. And I felt how small and hard my heart had become, like a tiny stone. I would not be able to save the old houses brick by brick, I would not succeed in saving the fields of North Galway. I saw the rooftops and felt how timid, how false, how terribly hidden I was.
Aix; 1999
Little squares with dry combed sand in the evening; the breath of the South; the generous roses. There could have been no place lovelier than Aix-en-Provence in late April, nor any greater contrast with the muddy, ravaged landscape of Turlough. The little apartment I stayed in in Aix was not lovely, but apart from that virtually everything, right down to the shop selling shampoo, was lovely once I stepped out the front door onto the street. I heard the little rushing sound of water as it passed down through the mouths of fountains. Old men sat and talked in the cool evening, though it was not yet truly hot even in the day. It was a place I should have come to long before.
Except for having seen too much of reproduced Cézanne all my life, the real thing in his actual town was marvelous. Right down to the color of shutters on the windows of country villas, each thing in that part of the world was seen to with care. The vats of wine at the side of the road, pouring a glassful from the little spouts, trying it, as it cost almost nothing, citrus, tart, and cold. The bright low bushes, the calm of the South, the beige stone, a startling blue against dry and muted green.
But God, what I was there for! To lecture on international trade matters. I couldn’t manage that sort of subject in French, though I did launch into some half-remembered phrases by way of self introduction to the class. You see, she can speak! they whispered to one another, as if this showed some treachery on my part—but to then subject them to hearing about trade law in English! Good Lord, who could endure that, and why should we?
There, in Provence, to speak on trade, on trade! On industrial subsidies, on anti-dumping, all the while apologizing for the fact that I just could not handle that sort of thing in French. Surely they could appreciate that? But they were no longer listening—in fact, they had only listened for the first half hour or so and then put down their pens, indifferent, this would gain them nothing, and began to talk and laugh among themselves. What a bore! What a drag! Trade law in English!
Oh, they need the language practice, it will be fine, the course director had said, perfunctorily, it meant nothing to her either. I was there to provide some practical knowledge on how the world worked, maybe to aid their careers. If that was not the case, well, huh, tant pis.
Wait, don’t misunderstand me, I am one of you, I wish I could have said. Instead, I continued with my notes, as dramatic a reading as I could make of it, page after page, painstakingly gone over at dawn, the WTO, OMC to you, I conceded, this got an upward glance from some, Oh that, sure, yeah, then back to something interesting, dates, intrigues, where to have lunch, ouch, it is so crowded everywhere.
Mais, ce que vous pouvez dire, vous dites bien, said the Aix Dean, charming and urbane. It was easier and certainly nicer to over-attribute, to assume the very best. And what he said was true of me always, as a matter of fact. That which I could say, I said well; it wasn’t much of an achievement, but always true. I was picky about what I said, even the smallest thing. No clichés. No idiocies. I would give myself that one. But then again to be lecturing on a business law course; and about trade, trade!
The generous flowers of the sloping park, the tall gate, the tree-lined road with a casino at one end, restaurants up one side and down the other. The sun set late and pale cardigans came out; the shops drew their shutters.
My clothes were all wrong for the place. April in the Mediterranean world was not April in the West of Ireland. I had on dark tights—wrong, all wrong. A dark skirt—the wrong fabric, uncomfortable, frumpy shoes. My hair—a fright. Lipstick—too dark. My French; look, I had not really spoken French since high school, apart from the Molière plays at Saint Theo’s, so what was I to do? I had oversold my French, and then was expected to shoot the breeze about trade policy—it was unfair. My jacket—too bulky, slung over the back of a restaurant chair; I wished that I could lose it, never to see it again. I normally went to great lengths to recover lost items, putting in phone calls to train stations, detailed verbal identification of how the sleeves had been hemmed, but this lot I would gladly have walked away from. Alors, Aix, my gift to you.
I was poorly dressed and it was awkward. Think summer, opening up into the mountains and the sea with such promise. If only I’d done Mediterranean studies, a PhD in the Mediterranean world, Phoenician aesthetics, stone iconography, inner sea and outer sea, wine red sunset. If only there is one life, why couldn’t I have done Mediterranean studies? But of course, I had not. And here I was lecturing on you know, trade, trade rules, subsidies, dumping, dispute settlement. Madame, ce que vous dites, vous le dites bien.
It was a small city; I walked its circuit every evening. And then on the outskirts, an abrupt departure into the literal world of Cézanne. Trees lined the roads with perfect posture, grace and calm; the little villas held wine and olive parties; small terraced parts of houses jutting out over shimmering dry green.
I was poorly dressed, and nothing could hide it. A scruffy raincoat, dark heavy socks. I had shoved everything into my suitcase, not paying attention because there was little choice in the matter. I didn’t have much by way of clothes. I didn’t shop for clothes, nothing ever fit.
I needed a dress, needed to have my hair done, clipped away into some sort of shape, the tousled mane look would not make it here.
I visited a town that seemed to be carved all out of one block of stone, the houses all connected, the church, the town hall. The breezes at the top of the hill were tremendous, dry and sloughing, the world far below, the hot inland behind me, the crowded, overly desirable and seductive sea in front. Why, why such a waste, when I could have been
setting out olives, tomatoes, bread and oil. Somehow it was all forbidden to me; a door marked do not enter; the beauty itself designed to pain, not please. Microfibre black trousers, a black sweater. Families stopped at the lookout point, tumbling out, pre-divorce, post-divorce, happy after a fashion, chic, pleasantly fatigued.
At the weekend, I saw the outdoor markets in Aix, saw them setting up and setting out all the shining blue kitchen ware, the bolts of cloth, the crisp emblems stamped across shining white. Mountains of fruit, scent of coffee. At the corner café, the coffee I would have invented in a dream, the steaming milk, the wide bowl.
More than would have been the case when I was young—it would have been quite the opposite—I saw in the sky over Aix, in perfect lettering, the simple message, Non.
The worst moment came at a faculty dinner held at a painfully quiet restaurant several miles from the town. My French, as the Dean had indicated, sounded good, but was soon dismissed as inadequate for discussing architecture or the true origin of the Ligurians. After a while, I could not get away with such remarks as: Oh, tell me more about that, or, I had not thought of it that way! At the end of what seemed the longest meal ever endured, the Dean turned to me and asked if I would kindly order the cheese for all. My God, it was meant as a kindness! The cheese! At a table of mistralian academics! I crumbled in despair, waved my hands. It had gone too far. Cheese! What was I to say, That white one here, that yellowy one there? Impossible, the cheese!
On the next to the last day, the teachers in the business law program took me to lunch at one of the student eateries. We sat in the sun, the gentle wind tickling at the crowd, the plastic table cloths, the stunted trees. One of the teachers, I cannot recall her name, was dressed impeccably in matching grey and pink, grey suit and pink accessories, pink hairband and smooth hair. She took out photos of her husband and baby, having to hold onto them carefully in the wind. She seemed to have no interest in the business law end of things, which was to her credit, and didn’t mention the OMC or European antitrust. Rather, there in her perfect late spring ensemble, she showed us her baby and smiled indulgently at the photo.
She looked up at me; how serious I felt, how impossible to explain the least thing about myself, where I was from, why and how I had arrived there, what I had thought of the place. How much work it would have been, and how little will on anyone’s part to bring about that kind of knowing. I hadn’t the optimism or the lightheartedness that allows for instant friendships, phone numbers exchanged, husbands encouraged to bond in a game of squash or over a beer. And oh, my dark clothes.
And you, she asked, all brightness and good cheer, and you, do you have children, Madame?
My first thought was that no, I wasn’t allowed to. Mommy said I couldn’t.
No kids for me, I had to stay a little girl myself, or else someone might be mad at me.
You see how it is?
No, I replied to the perky, perfect young teacher who had much more and better things to think about than world trade and European business. I don’t have children, I’m afraid.
Would it have seemed absurd at my age to add, not yet?
I hated leaving it on that note of tragedy, regret, I’m afraid that, as if something unkind had interfered, and here I was, in my bad clothes, no photos to show. As if I were inviting their sympathy.
It reminded me of the time I went to a midlands wedding with Seanie, when in the course of the ceremony the priest asked the couple, And will you accept and raise all the children that the Lord might send to you? I leaned over to Seanie and asked, How old are they? as they certainly did not look young. Somewhere in the forties, he said, with no sense that anything was amiss in the dialogue.
She no doubt expected me to say, Yes, I’ve two college age, all grown up, and here I was thinking, Not yet. No, not yet!
And it was then, at that moment, in Aix-en-Provence, that I decided I would never answer that question in that way again. I would be able to answer, Yes, I do; I do, too.
Air East; end of 1999
All through the night we had waited at the airport in Moscow; we couldn’t understand the flight announcements, and there were no chairs. Stray cats roamed about. Finally, panicked about missing our flight, an announcement was made and we jumped up and started to follow another group down a dark corridor toward the outside door. A kindly man stopped us and gestured to us to go back.
Going to Uzbekistan, he said emphatically, Uzbekistan.
When our flight was finally called, at around two in the morning, we walked out into a cold that I had never felt before, not even in Vermont in my young days. We had to get across the sweeping tarmac ourselves, and climb the stairs of a plane that sat, dark and deserted, in the middle of the frozen asphalt. The night was clear, deep marine blue and prickly with cold. After a long wait, a kind of giant Bunsen burner removed the ice from the wings and off we went, a peaceful and calm flight across Central Asia.
In the morning, I looked down and saw nothing but white, with here and there some tall grass sticking up from the drifts. Animals moved about; were they dogs or horses, I wasn’t sure. Then there were the tops of small houses, and we landed. The airport was dark, no lights turned on yet. We filled out customs forms in the dark, filling in answers for Russian questions we couldn’t read. The bus that came to meet us had broken windows. It was the early days, perhaps the worst days, of the Central Asian post-Soviet transition; it was bleak but vast; grim but sparkling. I was going to get Madina.
How bright and hopeful she looked in the little grey photo; looking up at something, a faint smile on her face. Why had she spent so long in the orphanage; I wasn’t sure. She was a big two year old, sturdy and strong. You could well imagine her learning to ride a horse, braving a snowstorm.
From my first step inside the orphanage, I could smell the cooking, the soup, the potatoes and cabbage on the boil for hours. There were heavy-set ladies in white coats, their faces a mélange of East and West, Asian women in Russian-style make up and rubber-soled shoes. The windows were large, and looked out onto bright stars of snow, bare trees, apartment buildings set in sparkling courtyards. It seemed that little shoveling was ever done, except at hotels and public buildings, and I would come to find out that it snowed nearly every night. Sometimes the planes flew in, and sometimes not. Sometimes the trains ran, and sometimes not.
I heard Madina before I saw her; of all the children they brought in to meet families, only she was wailing. They told me that the several words she kept shouting meant, I don’t want to, I don’t want to. She was dressed up in a fancy skirt and shoes too tight, a large bow on top of her head. How hardy she looked, how sturdy. They put her on my lap and she lay still, cautious, wary. She began to play with my pen, clicking it open and shut. I clicked it back at her and she laughed. The tears had disappeared. She looked up at me; I seemed all right. She seemed to have concluded that, and began to rummage in my pockets.
They brought me back to see her later in the day. She was getting ready for the long, long naptime the children had every afternoon. She spotted me from far away and, sitting up on her little bed, in a row of many other little beds, she smiled her biggest smile and waved as hard as she could.
The hotel was big and cavernous; apart from the other families traveling with me, there were few guests. They told us that this was the hotel the cosmonauts stayed at when in Kazakhstan. Every morning the trees were covered with bright bluish-white snow; we bought bread and cookies from the baker in the tall hat. Ice and snow built up on the walkways between buildings and it was hard to keep from falling. Outside it was routinely zero to ten below. Even so, elderly ladies sold hot items from little braziers at the side of the road; some kind of nuts perhaps. They put their hands out over the bit of fire and waited for customers.
Day after day, morning and afternoon, I visited Madina in the orphanage. While the other children played ball and blew bubbles, Madina wanted only two things: my wallet full of cards and my makeup case. She would rub the cr
eam all over her cheeks, and then move busily on to the credit cards, spilling them out to look at each in turn. She walked with one arm hitched up at her side, swinging comically back and forth. Her dull black hair was cut in orphanage regulation style, up and around her ears; her clothes looked small for her.
One day her group was putting on a little dance we were meant to attend. We arrived late, and all the other children were up and dancing to the Russian tune being played on the piano, but not Madina. She sat in her navy sailor pinafore, a great white bow in her hair, crying her eyes out and shaking her head no. When she saw me, she jumped up, smiling through her tears, and held out her arms. I picked her up and danced among the other children, holding her high off the floor.
During regular visits to the room where her grupa stayed, the other children would gather around, lifting their arms up in the air, begging to be held. Madina would push them down and away from us, like a soldier defending a fort; their faces would remain turned up, hopeful, tear stained. When it was time for me to go, Madina would turn wild, kicking her legs and rolling on the ground.
And then at times she hardly seemed to know me or care; she would run after other adults, hedging her bets. She had been in that building for almost three years, after all, through long winters and hot summers. How could she really know who I was? On the good side, whenever she got her hands dirty, she would come to me with them held up in front of her, asking me silently to clean them. She knew her way all around the orphanage, and would take me by the hand, tugging me after her, up the staircase past the cartoon mural. I held her up to the window to look out at the snow. It was familiar to her; she knew about snow.
From that time forward, Madina and I spent five years together every moment, on planes and in apartments, at Park Baun and Boston, always together, Mutt and Jeff, me carrying her until she was nearly as big as I was. For five years, it was everything Madina wanted, every minute; until, that is, I went to get Emmet.
