“That is a fine idea, Richard. I will tell him that his nieces and nephews are doing well here, and that coming to this country has not been so terrible for us.”
Richard sighed. “No, Tim, you have to tell him the bad stuff too. The painful stuff. The stuff you aren’t talking about. That’s the whole point.”
But how could I burden Darroti with more pain? How could I want him to know that we still suffered, in our exile? And so, when I no longer saw Richard, I indeed began to write letters to Darroti, but only happy ones: about the garden, and about the cars at the museum, and about Zamatryna.
10
Customs
She went out with Jerry because he was there. Howard the math genius had exhausted her; his flights of inspiration had alternated with fits of despairing self-doubt, and so when he suggested that her work for the food bank was taking up time she should have been devoting to her classes, she’d happily used the issue to pick a fight and dump him. She was already getting straight A’s in a double major in the Honors Program: why on earth would she have wanted to spend more time on schoolwork? If Howard wanted to be a neurotic workaholic dweeb, that was his privilege, but he’d have to do it by himself. And her sorority sisters had never been able to talk to him, anyway, although several of them had made heroic efforts. Howard wasn’t someone who could help Zamatryna reconcile the complications of her life.
She didn’t think Jerry was, either, but she knew him, and he had never been anything but helpful to her, and she couldn’t imagine anyone less like Howard. Jerry was steady, dependable, forthright. And if he was also boring, well, there were worse things than boring, especially after six months of Howard’s 2 A.M. phone calls about his grade-point obsessions. Jerry never would have dreamed of calling her at 2 A.M., or of suggesting that she spend more time on coursework. Jerry was in awe of her accomplishments, which he very properly recognized to be far above his. Jerry knew his place.
And so when he invited her to his fraternity’s Spring Fling dance at the end of her freshman year, she accepted. It would be fun; it would be relaxing to go to the dance with someone who was more of an old friend than a boyfriend. She had exams to study for, and she didn’t need first-date jitters on top of them. Jerry would be perfect.
Her sorority sisters acted like she’d landed a date with the President, and Zamatryna, rolling her eyes, tried to discourage their gossip. “I know him from high school, okay? I’ve known the guy for years. He went out with one of my best friends. Just chill. This isn’t a big romance.”
“Right,” said Sarah-Bee. There were five girls named Sarah in the sorority; all five had blond hair and blue eyes, so they’d picked ways to distinguish their names. Sarah-Bee and Sarah-Cee used the first initials of their last names; Sarah-Lee and Sarah-Sue used middle names; Sarah-Harrah used her status as the niece of the current owner of Harrah’s Casino. Sometimes they called her Sharrah, but that made whomever was speaking sound drunk, which they tried to avoid on principle, since so many people thought sorority girls were always drunk. “Come on, Zama, I’ve seen how Jerry acts around you. He always looks at you like you’re the only person in the room.”
“Well, he probably looks at whatever’s in his range of vision that way. I don’t think he can absorb very much information at once.”
“That’s mean,” Sarah-Bee said, although she was laughing. “You shouldn’t go out with the guy if you’re going to make fun of him.”
“You’re right,” Zamatryna said with a shrug. “I shouldn’t. I’m sorry. But I doubt I’ll be seeing him very long. It’s probably just for this dance.”
“Not if he has anything to say about it.”
“What, he’s talked to you about this?”
“Of course not. He’s very honorable.”
Zamatryna rolled her eyes. “How old-fashioned.”
Sarah-Bee laughed again. “Well, he’s got to be better than Howard.”
“Yeah. At least he knows how to tie his own shoelaces. I think Howard would have had to be institutionalized if he’d been born before the invention of Velcro.”
“Damn, Zama! Why are you so bitchy today?”
“Dunno,” Zamatryna said with a shrug. “PMS, maybe. Or chocolate withdrawal.” But in fact, she knew very well why she was in such a sour mood: because her college classes, true to Rumpled Ron’s prediction, were almost as boring as her high-school ones, and because Betty, picked up by the cops for vagrancy, had just had to spend a night in jail again, and because Macsofo had been beastly again last night. He’d come home raging about his job, about how stupid his boss was, about how he wanted to quit and do something else, anything else. He’d heard that the railways were hiring freight handlers for the trains to Yucca Mountain. The pay was supposed to be very good. He planned to apply for one of those jobs.
“The pay’s good because the work’s so dangerous,” Erolorit had said sharply. “Max, those trains are full of plutonium. That’s poison. You don’t need to do that.”
“Ah, the fear of plutonium is a bunch of tree-hugger propaganda. There has never been an accident.”
“There have been close calls,” Timbor said, his voice grim. “I do not want you doing that, Macsofo.”
“And who are you to tell me what I can do? Am I a child?”
“You are my child. I have already lost one child; I do not want to lose another. Whatever extra money you would earn, we do not need. You liked being a bricklayer, when we were in Lémabantunk.”
“Yes, but we are no longer in Lémabantunk. We are in Reno, where I must earn extra money because no one else seems capable of doing so. Especially my wife, who in all these years has learned to do nothing more useful than paint smiley-faces on other women’s fingernails.”
“What then would you have me do?” Aliniana asked quietly.
“Oh, you could always be a prostitute. That way you could make a lot of money doing for other men what you will not do for me.”
Once this comment would have had Aliniana weeping for days. Now she did not even blink. “How then should I do for you, husband, when you are always wilted with whiskey? Do you think they will hire a drunk to work on the plutonium trains? Oh, that makes me feel very safe!”
“They will hire anyone who will do the work,” Macsofo said, and spat at her. His spit landed on the side of her head and dripped onto the table; Zamatryna and the others sat, frozen, while he stormed out of the room. When he was gone, Aliniana got up and cleaned herself off, and then ran a new sponge under very hot water and wiped the table.
“I am sorry you heard that, Zama. I am sorry for everyone, but you most of all. Would he have spoken that way in front of his own daughter, I wonder? I am glad she and her brothers were not here!” Indeed, Rikko and Jamfret and Polly spent more and more time away from home, and Zama thought they were probably seeking to escape their father.
“He hates himself,” Harani said, her voice strained, “and so he is trying to make us hate him, too.” Zamatryna had said something very similar, once; it was what everyone in the family thought.
“He succeeds,” Aliniana said drily, giving the table a final scrubbing, and Zamatryna felt her stomach knotting. Kind, simple, loving Aliniana, who had always been so devoted to her husband: hearing her say such things was worse than listening to all of Macsofo’s hatefulness.
Zamatryna needed to remember that there were still people in the world who were kind and simple, and she could think of no better proof than Jerry, a considerate and consistently untaxing companion. And so she went happily with him to the dance, where the loud music spared them the necessity of conversation; she was pleased to note that he drank only one beer. He drove her carefully home at the end of the evening, and shyly kissed her cheek—a gesture she found almost comically straightforward, after Howard’s baroque agonizing over all things sexual—and shyly asked her if she was free for dinner the following week. And because he was kind and simple, she said yes. “Great,” he said, beaming. “I’ll make you spaghetti with m
y grandma’s sauce. She’s from Sicily. It’s awesome.”
“Zanger’s Italian?” Zamatryna asked, intrigued.
“No, no, Zanger’s German. My mom’s side of the family is Italian. Are you okay with anchovies?”
“Um, sure. I mean, I guess so. I haven’t eaten them much.”
Jerry frowned. “I’ll leave them out, then, if you aren’t sure. Anchovies are one of those things you have to be sure about.”
“He’s cooking for you?” Sarah-Bee said the next day at lunch. Sarah-Cee and Sarah-Harrah were also at the table. “After one date? Are you serious?”
“Spaghetti’s cheap,” Zamatryna said. “He may not be able to afford a meal out, you know?”
“Fuck, Zama, he’s on a football scholarship. He can afford whatever he wants. You don’t seriously think his feelings are still platonic, do you?”
“He’s gonna put the make on you,” Sarah-Cee interjected. “Cooking. In apartment. Bedroom also in apartment. It’s transparent. There’ll be mood lighting over the couch, mark my words.”
“There’ll be mood lighting over the stove,” Sarah-Harrah said with a snort.
“No,” Zamatryna said, annoyed now. “That’s not—he’s not the type. One of my best friends went out with him for two years, okay?” She actually wasn’t best friends with Jenny anymore; they hadn’t even talked to each other for six months. But it would weaken her argument to point that out.
“He’s not what type?” Sarah-Bee asked. “You mean he’s not straight?”
“No, of course he’s straight! I meant he’s not a seducing creep. You were the one who told me he’s honorable.”
“Well, he is honorable. He’s not going to rape you. But honorable guys can still be horny.”
“Bring your own condoms,” Sarah-Cee said. “In case he’s run out. Guys can be dopes about that stuff.”
“So,” Zamatryna said firmly, “how about that latest anti-plutonium demonstration, huh?” But they’d spooked her enough that she did bring condoms with her to Jerry’s apartment, along with the salad he’d asked her to bring. The way the Sarahs had gone on about it, she almost regretted having accepted his invitation.
She needn’t have worried. Jerry was a perfect gentleman, and there was no mood lighting anywhere in the apartment; there weren’t even candles. It was a spartan studio, the single bed made with military corners, Jerry’s accounting books arranged neatly in the one bookcase, spices racked alphabetically in the kitchen. Jerry, it turned out, liked to cook. He had a file box of German and Italian recipes from his family, and his kitchen table—oak inlaid with blue and white tile, the only piece of furniture with any personality in the apartment—had been built by a great-uncle who was a cabinet-maker. Jerry had already made the sphaghetti sauce, but while the pasta was cooking, he told Zama how this great-uncle had made him toys when he was a little boy. “He made me go-carts, you know, and wooden puppets. He died of cancer about ten years ago, and my cousins’ kids have the toys now, so when I came to college I asked if I could take the table.”
Zamatryna thought of Darroti’s doll, and shivered. She knew that Timbor had made wooden wagons for his sons when they were children; she could just barely remember Rikko and Jamfret playing with them, back in Lémabantunk.
She’d come here so she wouldn’t have to think about any of that. “So how were your classes this semester?” she asked. Jerry gave her an odd look.
“They were fine,” he said. “How were yours?”
Boring. “Fine. Do you want me to set the table?”
“Sure,” he said, and showed her where plates and silverware and napkins were. “I should have done it before you got here.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “I like to help.” And indeed, setting the table made her feel useful. “These are pretty plates.” They had flowers and birds on them, which seemed incongruous for a football player.
“They were my parents’ first everyday set, when they were married. They have better ones now. What kind of dressing do you want on your salad?”
He had a collection of salad dressings; he had salad forks, and laughed at Zamatryna when she didn’t put them out. “It’s not like washing two more forks is so much work.” They ate salad and the spaghetti, which was indeed very good, and she helped him do the dishes, and then—just as Zamatryna was wondering when he’d suggest moving to the couch—he said, “I thought we could go out for ice cream for dessert, and maybe walk by the river.”
“Sure,” she said, relieved. “That sounds great.”
It was a beautiful night, with a full moon shining on the Truckee. They strolled along the well-lighted paths by the river; Zamatryna deliberately held her ice-cream cone with her right hand, since Jerry was walking on her right. That way he couldn’t try to hold her hand, at least until the ice cream was eaten. She ate it very slowly, and racked her brain thinking of things to talk about. Movies. Movies were always safe. “So have you seen The Excellent Adventures of the Mummy’s Chiropractor yet?”
“Naw. That stuff’s stupid. Where’s your family from?”
“What?”
“Your family,” he said patiently. “Where are you from? You know, like I’m German and Italian. What are you?”
“I—well, we’re from very far away. You won’t have heard of it.”
“Zama. I’m not that stupid.”
“What?” She stopped, ice cream dripping onto her hand, and stared at him in dismay. Now she’d hurt his feelings. She hadn’t meant to do that.
“I’m not that stupid. I know everybody thinks I’m a dumb jock because I don’t talk a million miles a minute, but I’ve heard of other countries. I’ve looked at maps. I know the United States isn’t the entire world, you know? So if you tell me where your family’s from, I’ll probably recognize the name.”
No. You won’t. Feeling miserable, she looked down at her feet and said, “Well, we’re from a tiny village in central Afghanistan that was destroyed by an earthquake.”
“Afghanistan,” he said, shaking his head. “Did you really think I wouldn’t have heard of Afghanistan? Zama, everybody’s heard of Afghanistan!”
“I meant you wouldn’t have heard of the village.”
“Okay, so try me. What’s the name of the village?”
“Lémabantunk.” What had made her say that? But it couldn’t do any harm, could it?
He smiled. “Well, you’re right. I haven’t heard of that. So do you miss it?”
“No. I don’t remember it well enough to miss it.”
“Does your family miss it?”
“Yes.”
He looked at her. “Did a lot of people die, in the earthquake?”
“Yes,” Zamatryna said, remembering the bomb. “A lot of people died. Jerry, I’m an American now. I don’t—I don’t like talking about—”
“Okay,” he said. “Okay, I’m sorry, Zama. I was trying to learn more about you, that’s all. Because I want to know more about you. Because I like you. You’re smart and you’re pretty and you’re a nice person.”
And I’m too good for you, Zamatryna thought. And I shouldn’t have agreed to let you cook dinner for me. But at the same time, she felt a certain wonder at the serene, uncomplicated way in which Jerry had stated his feelings for her; it had taken Howard seven weeks of dodging and feinting even to say hello to her in class, and nothing at home seemed simple anymore either, if it ever had been. “Thank you,” she said. “I—”
“It’s okay if you don’t like me,” he said. “I mean, if you don’t like me the same way.”
“Sure I like you,” she said weakly.
He laughed. “You do not. Not that way. Not yet, anyway. But can we be friends, and maybe you will, sometime?”
“Sure,” she said, feeling herself redden. “We’re already friends.”
“Great,” he said happily. “So how about dinner again next week?”
“Sure,” she said, wondering what she was doing. “But it’s on me, this time, and I don’t cook
, so we have to go out.” She couldn’t invite him to the house, not with the possibility of a scene between Macsofo and Aliniana.
So she told the Sarahs that Jerry had behaved impeccably, and the following week she took him out for Thai and a movie. Four days after that, he took her out for lunch, at which point she suggested they should do everything Dutch. And so, for the rest of the semester and most of the summer, they saw each other once or twice a week, sometimes at his apartment, sometimes other places. It was perfectly pleasant. He was a gentleman. He never tried to kiss her, even, although she could tell he wanted to. They made decorous small talk and maintained their status as friends, despite the Sarahs’ skepticism. Zamatryna knew that she was using him, knew that she should look for someone with whom she had more in common, but he was restful. Being with him was a welcome break from the tension at home: from the fights between Max and Alini, and the arguments about Max’s new job, and the utter dullness of working afternoons in a law office. Jerry was just a summer fling, and not even that. She’d find someone else when school started again.
A few weeks before the beginning of the semester, she met him for dinner at Blue Moon Pizza, one of their favorite spots. As usual, she had come armed with carefully prepared conversational topics—music, TV shows, even football—but this time, Jerry didn’t seem interested. He wanted to ask her advice about his mother’s garden, which had been suffering from pests all summer. So they talked about roses and slugs for twenty minutes, and then he said, “How do you spell the name of the village you’re from?”
“Lémabantunk?” she asked, instantly wary. Jerry hadn’t said a word about her origins since that second date. “Why?”
“Well, I did an Internet search a while ago. For Afghanistan and earthquakes. Because I wanted to learn more. And I didn’t see anything that sounded like that, but I kept forgetting to ask you about it.”
He wasn’t a very good liar. She could tell from his voice that he hadn’t forgotten to ask her: he’d been waiting for what he thought was a good time. She wondered why he’d picked tonight. “It’s Lémabantunk in our language,” she said, her mouth dry, “but I don’t know what people call it in English.” How long had he been doing research on her, anyway?
The Necessary Beggar Page 23
