“Rio is a magic place.”
“That’s good. That’s very good. Now go play. You won’t need to stutter anymore.” I felt her release my hands, and her eyes stopped circling. The senhora had picked up her book and was reading again, her head tilted to avoid the cigarette smoke.
I was in no mood to go play. Sra. De la Vega had cured my accursed stutter. I wouldn’t have to stutter anymore. Of course, if she had the power to cure my stutter simply by looking into my eyes, it was very likely that she had also read my mind, which must, surely, be easier than curing a stutter, just as looking at a picture is much easier than drawing one, and so she must have seen my embarrassing thoughts. But she hadn’t said anything about them or looked upset about it, so it was best to just leave it alone.
I didn’t want to disobey the senhora, after all she had done for me. If she didn’t see me playing, as she had told me to do, she might think that I wasn’t grateful or something, so I began digging a hole in the sand with my hands.
The feeling came gradually, but I was, now, aware of being filled with the thrill at being able to speak, again, like normal people. I wanted to savor the thrill more intensely, so, with my back turned to the senhora, I began to, silently, mouth the first thing that came to mind, which happened to be The Lord’s Prayer. I had no difficulty with it.
At the same time, I was also aware of the appropriateness of this particular text—that the first normal words out of my mouth were a prayer. Contrary to my zeal of a few months earlier, I was no longer totally sure, anymore, that there even was a God who listened to prayers, but, if there was, then I had scored some points with Him.
How surprised Mother would be when she heard me speak!
Ordinarily, I would have grown quickly bored with an activity like digging a hole in sand that kept pouring back in to fill the hole. But my mind was playing a film in which I come back to our room, Mother asks how the beach was, and I, casually, begin telling her about the people playing with the feathered beanbag, and I don’t stutter anymore. And then I run into Mrs. Kosiewicz on the street, and I say, “Good morning, Please Missus,” and she says, “Oh Yulian, you don’t stutter anymore. How wonderful!”
Then there was a scene in which I’m walking along the street with Mother, and I see Mrs. Kosiewicz about to cross the street, but she doesn’t see a bus that’s about to hit her, and I shout, “Irena, watch out for the bus!” I address her as Irena, because it’s a faster way to get her attention, and then she says, “Oh Yulian, you saved my life.” At one point, I even found myself mouthing the dialogue.
After quite a while, the senhora looked down at her wristwatch and said that I had had enough sun for my first day, and should go back to the pension. Since I didn’t see her make any move to get up, I realized that she meant for me to walk back by myself. I had never been allowed out on the street by myself—to say nothing of crossing the thoroughfare, but I did not say this to the senhora. And, suddenly, I was quite nervous about surprising Mother with my new speech.
I thanked the senhora, ostensibly for bringing me to the beach, but implying her curing of my speech impediment. Careful, lest I stutter again and shatter the new reality, I spoke very slowly and deliberately, dragging out the first sound of each word.
The senhora patted my cheek, and sent me on my way.
When I got back to the pension, M. Gordet was finally gone, and Mother was sitting cross-legged on our bed, playing solitaire. By the expression on her face and the way she laid the cards down—almost throwing them down—I could tell that something more than the solitaire had gone badly.
“Did you have a good time at the beach?” she asked. Her tone made it almost an accusation.
I took a breath in preparation for my stutter-less performance. But, with a stack of un-played cards still in her hand, Mother suddenly swept all the cards together, spilling some onto the floor. “Well, it turns out,” she said, “that M. Gordet is no gentleman.”
Each time Mother brought the word, gentleman, into play, I would find myself cringing inwardly a little. Over the past months, Mother had found a number of men—as well as myself, with my dirty fingernails—to fall short of that designation. And, except in the case of my nails, the reason for this demotion was always rather unclear, but charged with angry emotion.
“The only man that I can trust is you,” Mother said. “You are my knight in shining armor, aren’t you?”
She had called me her knight before, and, while I had, at first, felt complimented, I had soon come to identify it as an appeal for either my support or my collaboration in some impending crisis. And, in the end, it had never turned out well.
“This is something you want to remember, Yulian,” she said, but sounding as though it was I who was being accused. “Remember it for when you grow up. A woman will give anything to a true gentleman.”
“D. . . d. . . did h. . . he t. . . take y. . . y. . . your r. . . ring?” I stammered.
Mother didn’t seem to have heard me. But I could see the ring still on her finger, and breathed a sigh of relief. On the other hand, I had had no idea how insecure our possession of that ring actually was. Apparently, had M. Gordet been a true gentleman, she might well have given it to him.
On the one hand, I couldn’t imagine Mother giving away her ring—really our ring, now that it represented our joint security—to someone just because he was a gentleman. On the other hand, I well knew how many incongruities and contradictions to my vision of the world were presented by life all the time. And, perhaps, what Mother was really telling me was to be on my guard against the eventuality that she might meet a true gentleman and be inclined to give those twin diamonds away.
“Tomorrow we’re moving out of this pension,” Mother went on. She had gotten down from the bed and was packing our suitcases again.
“M. . . M. . . M. . . Moving?. . . ” And I stopped before finishing, because I was, again, aware that whatever it was that the senhora had done for my stutter, had just come undone.
“Yes,” Mother went on. “It seems that this pension is where M. Gordet likes to bring his lady friends.”
It was clear that this was not a time for us to be moving, since I, evidently, needed another session with the senhora. “W. . . W. . . Why is that a r. . . reason to m. . . m. . . move?” I asked.
Mother put her fingers to her forehead, “Will you please stop that stuttering!” she said.
I knew that she knew that I could not do that. What she was saying now was out of exasperation. She was upset by whatever it was that M. Gordet had done, and, when she was upset by something, my stuttering disturbed her more. . . just the way that my stuttering got worse when I was upset.
Mother must have realized something of the sort as well, because she sucked in her lips and raised her hand in a gesture that seemed to imply an apology.
With a great effort, the kind of effort that I hadn’t needed when speaking to the senhora, I repeated my question, “S. . . o w. . . hy is th. . . at a r. . . eason to m. . . ove?”
“It just is,” Mother said.
I knew that Mother didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “W. . . here w. . . ill w. . . e m. . . ove t. . . o?” I asked. There was more than just curiosity to that question. It just might, I hoped, make Mother realize that we didn’t know any other places. “We d. . . on’t kn. . . ow anyone else i. . . in R. . . io.”
“I’ll find us another pension.”
That remained to be seen.
CHAPTER III
I had forgotten about Mr. and Mrs. K. I had seen Mother exchange addresses with Mr. K. before disembarking, so now it was him that she called the next morning, and, that same afternoon, we were unpacking again, this time at the Kosiewiczes’ hotel, in a suite right above theirs.
The hotel was closer to the center of town than the pension had been. It was a totally urban setting, and there were stores and apartment buildings across the street. We were on the fourth floor and had a bedroom
and a living room with a cot, meaning that I would have my own bed. We also had a telephone on a little table next to my cot.
On the bad side, however, was the fact that we were in the same hotel with Mr. K, whom I didn’t trust to begin with, and had even more concern about now, in view of Mother’s confession of the previous day. My concern increased when he telephoned Mother that same afternoon and then came up from their suite on the floor below to talk with her.
I had hoped that Mrs. Irena would come with him, but she didn’t. He did, however, bring a briefcase from which he produced a diamond necklace and some earrings to show to Mother. They sat together on my cot, and he let Mother hold them. She turned them one way then another in the light, as I had seen people do with jewelry. I could tell from her expression that she liked them.
They spoke quietly, so that I wouldn’t hear, but, if he was hoping to sell them to her, he was barking up the wrong tree because we had no money. Of course, it could have been a trick. I had heard of pickpockets, people who would distract you in some way so that you wouldn’t notice them robbing you. Kiki and I had even seen a stage performer who could take the watch off your wrist or the wallet out of your pocket, without your knowing it. And so Mr. K. could have been trying to get Mother so interested in his necklace and earrings that she would not notice him sliding the diamond ring off her finger.
It was, as I thought about it, a rather clever trick. You put somebody off their guard by giving them something valuable of yours to hold so that they don’t suspect that you are actually robbing them. But I wouldn’t let it work here. Sitting in a little armchair by the window, I had my eyes on Mother’s ring every second, and, if he tried anything, I would see it.
On the other hand, what if he simply asked for the ring and Mother gave it to him because she considered him a gentleman? No, that couldn’t happen. There was no way that Mother could just give her ring to Mr. K. I must have misunderstood Mother’s statement yesterday. Or, what was most likely, there were certain conditions under which this was true, conditions which Mother had been too distraught to specify.
I was relieved to see Mother finally hand the necklace back to Mr. K. and him pack it back in the briefcase—with the ring still on Mother’s finger. I thought he might go home now, but he didn’t. Instead, he pulled a large broach out of his bag, and they went on talking quietly.
Then Mother looked at me. “Yulian,” she said, “Mr. Kosiewicz says that his wife hasn’t been to the beach yet. Why don’t you take her.”
Nobody had ever put it that way to me before. It was always someone who was taking me somewhere. If Mother’s suggestion had been just that, a suggestion, it would have presented a temptation that was hard to resist. But I knew that I had no choice in the matter anyway. And, as far as the ring was concerned, if, in my absence, Mother’s ring were to disappear somehow, we would all know who had taken it, and all we’d have to do is call the police and tell them. And, because Mr. K. knew this as well as I did, he would not try anything.
Mr. K. was already on the telephone, telling his wife that she was going to the beach with me. I went into the bedroom to put on my bathing suit, then waited a long time out in the living room for Mrs. Irena to arrive. This time, I determined, I would call her Irena, as she had asked me to on the ship, when I hadn’t been able to.
When she finally knocked on the door and I let her in, she had what must have been one of her husband’s shirts over her bathing suit. The shirt was unbuttoned, and I automatically checked to see if she had on one of the skimpy, two-piece suits I had seen on the beach the day before, but she didn’t, and I was disappointed. It was the same white bathing suit she had worn on the ship. Her beautiful brown hair seemed even fuller and more luscious than I remembered it. A green headband crossed over the top of her head, over which she had a pair of large sunglasses, which I immediately envied.
She shook hands with Mother, then with me. “How are you today, Yulian?” she asked.
“I’m f. . . ine, Mrs. I. . . rena. How are y. . . ou?” I was speaking very slowly so as not to stutter.
“Mrs. Kosiewicz,” Mother corrected.
“Oh no, please Missus,” Mrs. Irena said. “I asked Yulian to call me Irena. I hope that’s all right.”
“Well, as long as he’s respectful.”
“It’ll be fine,” Mrs. Irena said.
“Go get a towel from the bathroom,” Mother said to me, “and you’d better get a blanket out of the closet.”
I saw that Mrs. Irena had brought neither blanket nor towel, so I brought an extra towel from the bathroom. “Let me carry the blanket, and you can take the towels,” she said. I handed her the blanket.
“So, are we ready to go?” Mrs. Irena asked me.
“Y. . . es M. . . rs. I. . . rena,” I said.
I had expected her to lead the way into the hallway, but she didn’t. Then I realized that I should open the door. “P. . . lease, M. . . rs. I. . . rena,” I said, holding the door open.
“Thank you,” she said, stepping through. Then, when the door had closed behind us on the landing, she said, “When we’re alone, Yulek,” using the familiar form of my name, “just call me Irenka. The Missus makes me feel like an old woman. And I don’t look like an old woman to you, do I? Your mother and Tadek probably won’t like it, so you can call me Missus in front of them, but when we’re alone, we’ll just be two friends. It’ll be our secret.”
I knew that this was going to be hard for me to get used to. But without the Missus in front of her name, I would be free of that third-person form of address. Not only was the third-person awkward to use, but I felt that it put a barrier between people. It was as though I had to wear a glove to touch her hand. As we rode down the hotel’s one elevator, I searched for some equally-intimate response I could give.
“I have a b. . . ear n. . . amed M. . . eesh,” I said, as we reached the lobby. “W. . . hat I m. . . ean is that h. . . e is a t. . . eddy b. . . ear.” As we walked through the little lobby, I realized that I had a problem. I wanted to hold Mrs. Irena’s—or Irenka’s—hand once we reached the street, but I didn’t want her to think that it was because I was a little boy who wasn’t allowed to walk in the street without holding someone’s hand. I still remembered how soft it was, from the two or three times we had shaken hands, and the idea of walking the three blocks to the beach, nestled in that pillowy hand, seemed suddenly like a short sojourn in Heaven.
If she were to ask to hold my hand, as she well might, I decided, I would comply, because that would not indicate that that was my normal practice, but just her supposition of my normal practice. But for me to take her hand, could well be interpreted as though, on the street, I was always held by the hand. .
“Which way do we want to go?” she asked as we stepped out into the sunlight, and she lowered the sunglasses down over her eyes.
“T. . . he b. . . each is j. . . ust th. . . ree bl. . . ocks str. . . aight ah. . . ead,” I said. “so w. . . e can g. . . o either l. . . eft or r. . . .ight
“All right. So which way do you want to go?”
I realized, suddenly, that it was I who was supposed to be taking Irenka to the beach, so it was up to me to make those decisions.
“To the r. . . ight,” I said, and began walking in that direction. Irenka caught up to me, but that put her on the street side of the sidewalk, the side on which, I knew, the gentleman was supposed to walk. I crossed behind her to place myself on the proper side. As I did, I passed the two towels to what would now be my outside hand.
“Oh, you are such a gentleman, Yulek,” she said. To the best of my memory, that was the first time that anyone had actually credited me with that elevated status.
But the blanket stayed in Irenka’s left hand, dashing any of my dreams for the softness of her palm. Then I remembered that I had begun confessing to her about my relationship with Meesh.
“I g. . . ot M. . . eesh w. . . hen we w. . . ere in L. . . voof and I w. . .
as a lot y. . . ounger,” I said. I explained that, at first, I had pretended that he was my son and carried him everywhere, but, later, when we got to Hungary, and I was older, he didn’t like being carried around anymore, but we would still talk together in our secret language.
It had not been an easy confession to make, as I felt myself laying my soul bare in front of my new friend.
“I hope I can meet your bear someday,” she said, and, as I fantasized introducing Meesh to her, the feeling I had was of a sacred bond being sealed between us.
And suddenly, to my horror, I found that, inadvertently, I had slipped my hand between Mrs. Irena’s palm and the blanket.
At what point in my confession I had done that, and how long it had been there, I had no idea. And now I wasn’t even sure that she was aware of what I had done. Possibly, I reasoned, it had happened as we crossed the street.
We had turned the corner, and I could see heads of people as they moved about the beach, some three blocks in front of us. I walked very carefully now so that my hand wouldn’t jiggle against hers and alert her to its presence. If the issue came up, I would pretend that I was as unaware of the situation as Mrs. Irena seemed to be—that it had happened inadvertently, as it had, and that, for all I knew, it was she who had initiated the action.
As we walked now, I tasted again the deliciousness of the words she had spoken on the hotel landing, when she had told me to call her Irenka, and hoped that she had another luscious intimacy to share with me. But then I chided myself for my greed.
“It’s good to have a friend you can talk to, isn’t it?” she responded, at long last. And then I realized that what my frantic thoughts had construed to be a passage of time, had only been a few seconds.
“Y. . . es,” I said.
“I’m sure that your Meesh is very discreet, isn’t he?”
I had heard the word discreet before, but wasn’t exactly sure of what it meant. “Y. . . es,” I said, hoping that she would clarify it.
Loves of Yulian Page 5
