Christo went to Poland many times to look for Teresa. He couldn’t find her, or so he said. He never remarried. He raised the girl she left behind and the girl was more beautiful than a children’s fairytale.
There was no sadder father than Christo in the whole world. He started drinking. The girl grew up and turned into a very attractive sales associate at a lingerie boutique, and after that—people say—into a prostitute. Maybe they said such things just out of spite. But maybe they were right. You never know with people.
*
—hey
—you’re hey
—hey
—what?
—i want you to write a book about me, zack
—i will
—promise?
—lean toward me a little, like th-a-a-t, look at the camera
—do you promise to write a book about me?
*
I start peeling the lemons into small, martini-ready lemon twists. Then I drop them into the bag and shake it. I should have bought more. On the other hand though, the weed seems fresh, moist, and it should stay like that for quite some time. This bag contains thousands of joints. God willing, in a few days I’ll be in New York and it should still be as fresh as it is now. I just have to get my act together if I want to finally turn the tide. It’s about time. It is time. It has been for a long time now.
“Hello, Gabriela.”
“Yes . . . sir.”
“Thanks for the sharp knife.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You can send Juanita over.”
“She’s already off. You can leave it in your room. Housekeeping will take care of it tomorrow.”
“A knife in my room? I don’t know, I don’t think it’s a good idea, Gabriela.” I say. “Who knows what I might do . . .”
“Of course, sir.” She stiffens up immediately.
“I am joking, Gabriela! I’m joking. I’m calling for something else, though.”
“Yes?”
“I need to find a guy, but I don’t know his number.”
“Do you know his last name?”
“Yes.”
“If he’s listed in the directory, I’ll be happy to help you find him.” I spell his name to her and in a minute Ken’s voice is on the other end.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Ken! How are you?”
“Zack? How are you doing, my friend?”
“I’m OK,” I lie quickly—what are friends for? “I’m on my way to the East Coast.”
“When’s your flight?”
“Uh, I’m not flying. I’m driving.”
“Oh, even better! Driving through the great American wilderness. You’ll stop by, right?”
“That’s why I’m calling.”
“Is Stella with you?”
“Stella’s not here . . . I’ll be by myself. Are you and Linda still together?”
“Yes.”
“Is she living with you?”
“Well, it’s complicated. I’ll tell you all about it.”
“I’ll be there in a couple of days, amigo.”
“Great. Drive safely.”
“OK.”
“Check in from time to time from the road!”
“Sure thing. See you later, Ken.”
“See you later.”
I hang up the phone. Yellowish light from the reading lamp, wallpaper with a floral pattern, a brownish table with a glass of water on top, a wet towel on the floor. I’m naked, on my back, alone, here and now. That’s it. Nothing but me. No Stella. No mother, sister, father, friends, tribe, pets. Naked. Foreign country, foreign motel, foreign bag with foreign marijuana. Alone, stripped to the skin, to the blood, to the marrow . . . to pointlessness.
I almost reach for the remote control but stop. Why fill this room with foreign images? Why fuck up this perfectly lonesome moment on top of the covers of a cheap motel room?
Suddenly, for a split of a second, I separate from this male body and look at it from above, from the corner of the room. I also see my consciousness, my thoughts, my anger, my . . . jealousy. My jealousy? Did I mean jealousy? Instantly, I am back here and in myself. Jealousy? Impossible. I am not JEALOUS. I was not jealous. Jealous of whom? Another man? I’ve never been jealous. Jealousy is for . . . jealous people. Insecure people. People who cling to someone else. To something that doesn’t belong to them in the first place. Jealousy is fear of losing love. Jealousy is fear.
Is this possible? Is it really possible that I am handcuffed to this motel bed by a feeling that has used me up and left me dry and helpless? Is it possible that I have been guilty of the biggest betrayal of any true love—sleeping with jealousy? Have I been sleeping with jealousy this whole time?
*
We closed on Valentine’s Day. It just happened. It was the second house we saw that morning. The realtor’s white BMW pulled in front of a two-story house painted in light-peach with a RE/MAX sign stuck in the dewy lawn. The realtor, a skinny woman in her late forties, opened a folder with printouts and spent some time informing us about the neighborhood—schools, daycare centers, shopping, demographics . . . things we didn’t really care about. The lawn sprinkler squirted water onto a decade-younger version of our agent, who was smiling against a background of red, white, and blue balloons on the FOR SALE sign. The house was actually bigger than what we needed—two levels, three bedrooms, spacious garage—but I guess we let ourselves be convinced that this was the best deal at the moment. We were supposed to be getting more house for less money. While the agent cornered Stella and chattered on in that unbearable tone of voice adopted by supposedly successful, independent American women, I walked away, wandering through the empty rooms. I could lightproof one of them and turn it into a black and white lab where I could hide and pretend that digital photography didn’t exist.
There was a garage and a tool shed that could be turned into a studio for Stella. She would then have a place to work anytime she wanted. The owners of the house were Koreans who had relocated to Chicago. They were asking a very reasonable price. The unpleasant part was that the empty rooms had soaked in an unfamiliar, sweet and sour smell, and dark spots on the beige carpet gave away the damaging presence of small children and pets. The real estate agent was quick to reassure us that there was some odor removal spray—she would tell us where to buy it—that does miracles in getting rid of absolutely all sorts of smells. There was another one, too—for carpet stains—in case we should decide to keep the carpet instead of changing it. But if it were her, oh, she would “change it in a heart beat.” She showed us the back patio, which overlooked a canyon choked with greenery. There was a tangerine tree, a tall palm tree, and lots of bushes. She winked at us conspiringly, grinned, and with a flick of her wrist literally unveiled the house’s last bonus—ta-da-a-a-a! From under a vinyl burgundy cover, she uncovered a Jacuzzi in a corner of the yard near a rose bush. Its chlorine eye reflected a piece of the blue sky above. Neither Stella nor I would ever spend a minute in a hole in the ground filled with hot water, so we just smiled at each other and shrugged—we could still read most of each other’s thoughts. The realtor, if she detected our lack of interest, did not show it and continued, most professionally, talking us into buying the property. Then we went out to the street. All the houses were painted in subtle variations of peach. The sky—trivially blue and empty. It was strangely quiet—still and uninhabited, as in the aftermath of a hydrogen bomb. We did not look any further. Out of courtesy to the agent and fairness to ourselves, we saw several more properties, but all of them made the Korean residence seem more and more attractive. We made an offer that same afternoon. We were approved for a mortgage and, within a month, we moved in. It was easy.
*
I glimpse at the digital clock on the night stand. 11:09. It is 11:09 here. Stella, where are you? Are you just waking up? I loved being there when you woke up—with your bleary eyes, messy hair, and pillow-traced face. I love watching her wake up. You know that you are truly in l
ove with someone when you want to wake up together more than you want to fall asleep together.
*
The den on the ground floor was supposed to be my darkroom. I hired a contractor to connect two large, stainless-steel darkroom sinks and print washers to water-supply and drainage lines with shut-off valves and PVC traps, in accordance with all the existing codes, the whole deal. I securely light-proofed the windows with black asphalt paper. I installed exhaust vent hoods (once I had passed out in a darkroom without one of those after breathing in photo chemicals for ten hours). I covered the floor with rubber mats and bought a nice-sized print drier. I bought a big Durst enlarger equipped with a Schneider lens from eBay. On Craigslist, I found functional darkroom casework from some defunct industrial photo lab. I spent weeks shopping for containers, shelves, and cabinets to furnish the lab that was supposed to take me back to photography. I was creating the lab of the future. I didn’t use it once.
*
I get up and stand by the window. The moonlight oozes through the blinds in long stripes. Banal. I look out at the empty parking lot. I look at the full moon. There is a strong wind. Banal. Everything is so banal. Then I see the headlights of an approaching car pulling up in front of the motel. A girl and boy get out of the car, hugging and staggering. He stops under the lamp and starts fumbling in his pockets for a long time. She bends over to pick something up off the ground. The wind blows her long hair in all directions. He also squats down. They start kissing right there, squatting, leaning against each other—wobbling and funny.
I move away from the window and lie down.
*
1988, Varna
An empty apartment, late spring, lots of people, cheap gin, tonic. We were twenty and wild. Van Halen, Pretty Maids, Krokus, Kool & the Gang, Metallica, Judas Priest, midnight, jumping up and down, knocking over furniture, screaming from the balcony, dancing, pillow fights, soccer in the kitchen, infuriated neighbors, and the police. End of the party.
Outside was a full moon. The night was silvery. I took her by the hand and we walked. She didn’t know where I was taking her. I didn’t know what I was doing. We passed the last few buildings on the fringes of town and crossed the railroad tracks. She grew silent, but kept following me without asking questions. We jumped over a small brook and kept going up the dirt road. Two shadows, hand in hand, as if in a trance. The gate was locked. I kicked it open. We went it. I led her through the dark, short rows. Only a few graves away from the fence, I threw myself on her. I remember she was wearing tight jeans and it took me some time to unzip them. I pulled her T-shirt up. Her breasts were white in the moonlight. I didn’t have time to look at them though. I entered her with a strong thrust, painful for both of us, and crashed over her soft body in a few seconds—guilty, dirty, and disgusted with myself. I wanted the grave upon which I had desecrated her to open up and swallow me forever.
She lay under me with eyes wide open, looking at the moon over my shoulder. The scent of lilacs suddenly filled the air. The crickets started chirping unbearably loudly. She pushed me off her. She got up, pulled on her jeans, and zipped them. I looked up toward her outstretched hand. The full moon around her head. She helped me get up.
Then she gave me the world’s hardest slap.
*
I hear a squeak.
I am tangled in a hazy net of images. I dream that my teeth are disintegrating. First—the right eyetooth. Then the next one. And then all the rest. They crumble like river limestone, like chalk. In their place, I can see only small, rotting stumps. I don’t have teeth anymore. I am horrified by the fact that I am losing them, that my mouth is turning into a big, moist wound. I’m crying? I never cry. I haven’t cried since I was a kid, since . . . I wake up with a low, muted growl. My jaws are numb and hurt from clenching. Tears wet my cheeks. I can’t figure out where I am. Then reality slips into my thoughts. Discovering that my teeth are right where they belong doesn’t make me feel better. I want to cry even more. I cried in my dream, clenching my teeth until I woke up. I lie on my back trying to calm my breathing. Is this night endless? I turn on the TV. Idiocy and old movies and infomercials and country music and wild fires and ads and no love anywhere. God, what am I doing here? What’s happening, God? What’s the point of all this? What’s the point of me even looking for a point? Is there anything I might have missed, God? Anything I have to know? Am I going bananas, God? Am I going nuts? And if I am, why? And if I’m not, are you sure? God, what if I decide to put you to the test? What if I put you in a situation in which you would have to make a decision? Huh? Huh? Huh? Huh? A situation in which YOU will have to decide between:
(a) your devout servant in this motel room, or
(b) your stupid principles of non-intervention.
What if I fill the bathtub with water, plunge in, and slit my wrists beautifully—all the way down—with Juanita’s big knife? Who’s gonna bring me back to the living then? Who? That’s what I thought, too—no one. NO ONE. No one, I tell you. No one. N-o o-n-e. No way.
God, I know . . . I have to do something. I have to write. I can’t check out of this world before scribbling out a few sentences. It’s not cool. It’s not me. There was some blank, white paper and pens somewhere here. I have to write a few lines for my little sister, for my mom. This has nothing to do with you, my darlings. Zack will just retire for a little while. Nothing personal. Nothing that . . . I’m looking for a piece of paper. I open the drawer of the nightstand. There’s no paper there, only a Bible. What’s an American motel without the Holy Bible? Aha . . . Here’s a pen “Dear,” I begin writing. “My dear little sister, when you read this . . .” The pen is running out of ink. The pen is running out of ink at the beginning of the most important letter of my entire life. So much for good luck. I start shaking it furiously. “. . . don’t know how . . .” What do I want to write, actually? How . . . what? What? I need a break. I pull the Bible angrily from its spot and open it to a random page. My eyes fall directly on “. . . there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.” Goosebumps. I read it again word for word.
And then suddenly I feel the chill. A real, physical chill. It comes from nowhere, but it is especially for me. It’s some kind of personal chill. It wraps me in its icy veil and pulls me somewhere. My face quickly gets numb. I feel my muscles freeze one after another. My lips withdraw toward my teeth. My skin thins out and stretches over my cheekbones. Underneath it, invisible nails grasp my skull. I start shivering all over and my teeth chatter uncontrollably. The Bible starts shaking in my hands and falls to the floor. I hear a snarl from my stomach. I’m trembling.
Then the sudden chill releases my body as mysteriously as it came. However, the sense that the male body here in this motel room belongs to me returns far more slowly, so it takes time for me to remember how everything works. I put my body, my feet, and my arms back on and shake my shoulders. I bend over slowly and pick up the small Bible from the floor. It had fallen open to “. . . weeping and gnashing of teeth . . .” This is the most precise description of the state in which I woke up. I awoke to the gnashing of my own teeth. And to my weeping. Weeping? Oh, weeping. Weeping. I put the pillow back on the bed, sit down, lean back, and start turning the thin pages.
“. . . there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth. And when he said that, he shouted: Whoever has ears—let him listen!”
Listen to what? To whom? I read the lines above.
“And cast the worthless servant into the outer darkness; there will be weeping and . . .”
I know this already—“gnashing of teeth.” What is “outer darkness,” though? I keep reading further above.
“For to every one who has will more be given, and he will have abundance; but from him who has not, even what he has will be taken away.”
Serious business.
“So take the talent from him, and give it to him who has the ten talents.”
Is this the parable of the talents? The same one in which the master goes abroad and calls upon his serva
nts to entrust them with his property? He gives one five talents, the second one two talents, and the third—one talent.
“. . . to each according to his ability.”
According to his ability, huh?
“He who had received the five talents went at once and traded with them; and he made five talents more. So too, he who had the two talents made two talents more.”
And the one with the single talent buried it in the ground.
“Now after a long time the master of those servants came and settled accounts with them. And he who had received the five talents came forward bringing five talents more, saying, ‘Master, you delivered to me five talents; here I have made five talents more.’”
Sucker!
“His master said to him, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant; you have been faithful over a little, I will set you over much; enter into the joy of your master.’”
The same thing goes for the second servant as well. But then comes the third one, who says:“Master, I knew you to be a hard man, reaping where you did not sow, and gathering where you did not winnow; so I was afraid, and went and hid your talent in the ground. Here you have what is yours.”
How does the master treat his faithful servant who did not want to take a risk?
“You wicked and slothful servant! . . . You ought to have invested my money with the bankers, and at my coming I should have received what was my own with interest.”
And he punishes the servant. But why does he give five talents to one servant and less to the others in the first place? Why doesn’t he give them equal amounts? The one with the five talents worked with them. But I guess it’s easy to take a risk when you have five talents. You can afford to lose one and then win it back. The pastor on the radio this morning explained that one talent is about ten thousand dollars. So, even if you lose ten grand, there’s a chance you’ll be alright, because you are still left with forty. Now, the other guy with the two talents seems braver. He risks more: fifty-fifty. Definitely braver. But the third servant? The third one. Just one talent: now what? If he loses it, he’s toast. That’s why he doesn’t risk it. Why should he? Yet the master sees his caution as laziness.
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