Loves of Yulian

by Julian Padowicz

  Then, turning to Irenka and straining the limits of her Portuguese, Mother said, “Irena, let me present Sr. Andre O’Brien,” her tone suddenly formal, a smile fixed on her face. “Andre, this is Senhorita Irena Troboska.” Then she whispered in Polish, the one word, “Hand,” the smile still on her face. In French, she said, “Brought up by the good sisters.”

  Irenka extended her hand, and Andre flew across the room to shake it. They exchanged formal greetings.

  Mother and I went to the beach that afternoon and to the movies on Sunday. Irenka was sitting in the living room, when we got back. “It was awful,” she said. I could tell that she had been crying.

  “Awful?” Mother said. “What happened?”

  “Nothing happened. I just didn’t know what to say—I couldn’t hit a tennis ball, and I made Andre lose terribly. Then I didn’t know any funny stories. I didn’t know any of the people or the places they talked about. I know I embarrassed him.”

  “Nonsense. Andre doesn’t know how to be embarrassed.”

  “He was very nice to me all the time. And I was so stupid.”

  “Of course he was very nice to you. You’re a very beautiful woman.”

  “I’m stupid.”

  “You’re not stupid. You’re being stupid now. You don’t know any people in Rio because you just got here. You don’t know funny stories or how to play tennis. So what? You were brought up by the Sisters. Go fix your makeup, and we’ll go somewhere for supper.”

  “You told him I was brought up by the Sisters? That’s blasphemy.”

  “It’s not blasphemy. Go fix your face.”

  “I don’t want supper.”

  “Yes, you do. We’ll sit down someplace nice, you’ll have a cocktail and tell me all about the weekend.”

  “You watch,” Mother said to me a few days later. “Andre is coming to take us all out to dinner tonight. But what he really wants is to take Irena out and thinks he’s going to hurt my feelings, if he doesn’t ask me too.”

  “H. . . ow do y. . . ou k. . . now th. . . at he w. . . ants to t. . . ake I. . . renka out, and n. . . ot y. . . ou? Sh. . . e s. . . aid that sh. . . e em. . . .bar. . . .rased h. . . im.”

  “She just thinks she embarrassed him. He’s a sweet boy. I’ll be very surprised if he isn’t in love with her.”

  “L. . . ike y. . ou’re in l. . . ove w. . . ith S. . . enhor S. . . egie. . . ra?”

  Mother blushed suddenly. “Who told you I was in love with Sr. Segiera?” She said it with one of those smiles that isn’t really a smile.

  “Who t. . . old y. . . ou An. . . dre was in l. . . ove w. . . ith I. . . renka?”

  Suddenly, Mother grew very serious, and I was afraid I had spoiled our fun by saying something I shouldn’t have. Mother was sitting at the desk with her solitaire, and she said, “Come here, Yulian.”

  She didn’t sound angry, and I walked over from my sofa. Mother took my two hands. “Sr. Segiera,” she said, in a very serious voice, “has asked me to marry him.”

  I wondered if that had been before or after my aborted airplane ride. “Are y. . . ou g. . . oing to?”

  “What do you think I should do?”

  I wasn’t surprised by this, and I had my own opinion, but I shrugged my shoulders.

  “You like Ernesto, don’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “He likes you too. And you like Paolo, don’t you?”

  I nodded again.

  “Well, I have to think about it.”

  This was cold water. “Wh. . . at do y. . . ou h. . . ave to th. . . ink a. . . bout?”

  “Well, we’re on our way to America, you know.”

  “We’re an o. . . cean aw. . . ay fr. . . om Eu. . . .rope n. . . ow,” I said, using a phrase I had heard Mother use.

  Mother sighed. “Yes, we are. And Ernesto is very sweet. But I want you to grow up to be an American.”

  An American Jew, I thought.

  “Being American means you can do and be anything you want.”

  “I d. . . on’t w. . . ant to be a c. . . owboy.”

  “Oh, be serious.”

  “I want to live with Paolo and his grandmother.”

  Then Mother said, “We’ll talk about that some more later.”

  It was only a few minutes before Andre was supposed to arrive, that Irenka came home.

  “Where is she?” Mother had asked, several times, which I knew was a question that wasn’t really directed at me. Mother was dressed and ready to go, though I knew that, at the last moment, she would go back into the bathroom and fix her makeup. “Oh, that woman!” she said as well, crushing out her cigarette. “The only thing she’s learned since she came is the Brazilian custom of being late.”

  That wasn’t at all fair. For one, Irenka had learned a lot more Portuguese than Mother had. And Andre would, of course, be late himself. Then we heard someone at the door, and, on the chance that it might be Andre coming early, Mother made her exit into the other room.

  But it was Irenka, and she wasn’t alone. She was accompanied by a man who looked very nervous and slightly familiar. She introduced him to me as Diego, and, as we shook hands, he looked at the floor and his hand was completely limp in mine.

  Mother came charging out of the bedroom. “Get out!” she shouted in Portuguese, and I suddenly recognized the man as one of the hotel waiters.

  “Get out!” Mother repeated, advancing toward Diego, who quickly made his exit.

  “What are you doing?” Mother demanded of Irenka.

  “I don’t want to go,” Irenka said. “I. . . I don’t think I should go.”

  “What are you babbling about? Of course you’re coming. Do you want to go back to being a chambermaid?”

  “Diego says that I could. . . ”

  “Oh my God, you’re talking like an idiot!”

  I could see how scared Irenka was, and I felt sorry for her. Mother was being mean to her.

  “I mean. . . ”

  “Look, you are from an old Polish family. Remember that,” Mother said, not as though she were informing Irenka of it, but as though Irenka should be ashamed of acting the way she did. “Your father was a colonel, and was killed defending Warsaw against the Nazis. He was a hero. You were brought up by the Good Sisters. Now go get dressed.”

  “I really. . . ”

  Mother had taken Irenka by the hand and she led her into the bedroom. “Talk to Andre,” she said to me, over her shoulder, as the door closed behind them.

  Andre was, of course, twenty-seven minutes late. I let him in and invited him to sit down, since Mother and Irenka would still need a few minutes. He asked me how school was, and I told him that I was now reading aloud, like the others, except, of course, not as quickly. He told me that he had been a very bad reader, himself. But he was good at numbers. He was working at the bank that his father had owned or run or something. He had, also, been the fastest runner in his class, which made him popular with the girls. I told him that I was the fastest runner in my class, too, but I didn’t know any of the girls. Andre said that he would introduce me to some. We men had to stick together.

  I really liked Andre, but I was glad that it was Sr. Segiera that Mother loved. Andre would have made a great older brother.

  Then he asked me if I knew how to dance. Irenka, he told me, was a wonderful dancer. . . .as was my mother, though I was sure that was an afterthought. Then he said that he would have to teach me to dance, and got up. “Come on,” he said from the middle of the room, holding his arms out.

  Suddenly, I was embarrassed.

  “Come on,” he repeated, but nicely.

  I got up and let him hold me like they do in dancing. He started humming the tune to a waltz that I knew, and pushed me backwards. “Come on, follow me,” he urged. I took a step backwards, but he was already stepping to the side. I would have fallen, if he hadn’t been holding me. Andre laughed, and I laughed with him. “Just pay attention to which w
ay I press you, and step in that direction,” he said and began humming again. After a bit, I think I was actually dancing. “That’s good,” Andre said. “That’s good.”

  I realized that, with Sr. Segiera, I would have been very embarrassed to dance, but with Andre, it was all like make-believe. Then Mother was standing in the bedroom doorway. “What are you teaching my son?” she asked, laughing.

  “A little waltz step,” Andre said. “I’m going to introduce him to some girls.”

  Now I was embarrassed again, so I laughed to show that he was joking. I had no interest in meeting any girls, but I enjoyed being friends with Andre.

  Andre had brought a car bigger than his white sports car. It was a black Buick, and he made a big show of being particularly attentive to Mother, who sat in front with him, while I sat in back with Irenka.

  At the restaurant, he asked Mother to dance, but she said that she had a headache, and didn’t feel like dancing, but he should dance with Irenka.

  Andre and Irenka danced a number of times through the evening, and when we got home, Irenka was still smiling.

  “So, was it terrible?” Mother asked.

  Irenka smiled with clamped lips and shook her head.

  “He’s sweet, isn’t he?” Mother said.

  Irenka nodded her head.

  “You like him, don’t you?”

  Irenka’s tight-lipped smile grew bigger, and her head nodded again.

  “Next time,” Mother said, “if he asks me, I’m going to have a very bad headache.”

  Irenka bent over and kissed Mother on the cheek. Then she ran into the bedroom. Mother had a cigarette in the living room, before following Irenka.

  Apparently, Andre and Irenka spoke on the phone, when I was in school, because he surprised Mother and me, when he arrived a few days later. He came to take Irenka to dinner and brought a bouquet of flowers, which he presented to Mother.

  Irenka wasn’t around much on weekends, anymore, and she was out with Andre many weekday evenings, as well. She still managed, though, to wash, iron, and mend my clothes, have a snack waiting for me after school, and have supper with me, when Mother wasn’t there.

  As for Mother and me, we spent time with Sr. Segiera, going to that deserted beach, driving in the mountains, and he even persuaded me to fly my wind-up airplane again, in a field with long grass, where it wouldn’t get hurt when it crashed. Sometimes, he would have to fly away to different places for the government. Once he tried to get Mother to go with him, but she wouldn’t go up in the airplane. “What will happen to Yulian if I’m killed?” she asked.

  One weekend, both the senhor and Andre were away, and the three of us went to the beach. I was sure it was the first time that the three of us had been to the beach together, and Irenka even got Mother to go in the water with us. I was concerned about Mother’s ring, but she was very careful and didn’t get wet much above her ankles.

  Then we went home, and, while Irenka was in the shower, Mother suddenly said, “Where’s my ring?”

  We searched the suite. When Irenka came out of the bathroom, we searched the bathroom, but there was no ring.

  “I know I had it, when I came out of the water,” Mother said. “I had my fist clenched all the time.”

  The only place it could be was on the beach, and if it was there, Mother said, it had either worked its way into the sand, by now, or someone had picked it up. Mother explained that she had broken the nail on her ring finger, the day before, and it was sore, and she would not have felt the ring slipping off.

  I volunteered to go to the beach and search, even though Mother said I would never find it. But I figured that this was a matter so important, that it was worth pursuing even the most infinitesimal chance. And it did not escape me, what important a mission I had volunteered for, and what a coup it would be, if I did happen to find it. I didn’t ask permission, but just told her I would go, and Mother, sitting in the armchair and looking stunned, nodded her head.

  I went down and found the spot where I was sure we had spread our blanket and began to dig around. There was no ring. I walked around to see if anyone near our spot was wearing it. There wasn’t much chance that anyone who might have found the ring would be wearing it now, but I felt I had to take that chance too.

  When I came back, Mother was still sitting in the armchair, looking very, very sad. She looked as though she was trying very hard not to cry. Irenka was kneeling beside her and patting Mother’s hand. She, I could see, had been crying. They both looked up at me, as I came in, but I shook my head, feeling incredibly important.

  “All right,” Mother said, sitting up suddenly. “We are not going to sit here and cry anymore. That won’t accomplish anything. Let’s go downstairs and have some tea and nice cake to make us feel better.”

  Irenka and I both looked at her in surprise.

  Mother had forced a smile onto her face. She clapped her hands. “Come on, no sad faces,” she said.

  “Yes, yes, that would be good,” Irenka said, finally.

  I did not feel much like drinking tea, under the circumstances. Of course, with the ring gone, we probably would not be able to go to America, and Mother would have to marry Sr. Segiera. But I could not shake our group sadness.

  As it had happened more than once before, our noisy little elevator was out of order, and we had to walk. The late afternoon sun came in in rectangular bars, through the windows at each landing, between floors. They were directly below our bathroom window, looking out over the open space above the hotel lobby. As we reached the landing on a level with the lobby roof, I saw a man with a big push broom, sweeping the blacktopped roof.

  “Oh my God!” Mother cried. “Look, look!”

  I thought the man had fallen off the edge of the roof, but he was still there, still sweeping.

  “What?” Irenka said.

  “Look there, there!” Mother cried. “It’s my ring!”

  And, looking where she was pointing, I did, indeed, see the ring lying there, in the still-unswept portion of the roof.

  Irenka and I rushed to the window. I reached it first, and climbed out onto the lobby roof. When I climbed back in, the ring in my hand, Mother was crying, and Irenka was holding her.

  “Oh thank you, thank you, Yulian,” Mother said, as though it was I who had found it. “I. . . I shook out my beach jacket outside the window, like I always do.” She was laughing through her tears. “I didn’t feel it come off!”

  Over tea, Mother told us stories about her childhood. She told about her brother, Paul, who was afraid to climb trees and had said that she was too dumb to know that she could fall. She told about how, in her teens, she was fat, and how Grandmother would take her to fashionable places all over Europe and get young men to dance with Mother by bribing them with socks from Grandfather’s factory. And she told about what a great gentleman my late father had been and how many mistresses he had, before they got married, though, from the context of the story, I was sure that mistress meant something different than just lady friend, as Mother explained it. Irenka and I sat listening, and I had never heard Mother tell so much about herself before. It seemed as though she couldn’t stop talking. Eventually, she began to cry, and Irenka said that Mother was just very, very tired, even though she had done nothing but just sat there and worried all afternoon, while I was the one who was doing all the digging at the beach.

  One evening, Mother was sitting, cross-legged, on her bed, in her sheer, blue nightgown, her face covered with cream, and she was doing her solitaire on top of the pillow. I was teaching Irenka to play gin rummy in the living room, when there was a knock on the front door. I went to see who it was, and was surprised to see Mr. K. standing there.

  “Good evening, Yulian,” he said, in a very friendly tone.

  “G. . . g. . . od e. . . vening,” I said, catching myself in mid stutter, as Mr. K. stepped past me.

  “Hello, Irenka dear,” he said, crossing the room toward her.


  But, suddenly, Mother, in her bare feet and nightgown that you could see through, was standing between him and Irenka. “Get out!” she shouted. “Get out of here! She doesn’t want to see you!”

  “She is my wife, Basia,” Mr. K. said.

  “She is not your wife, you son-of-a-bitch, and don’t you Basia me!”

  Now Mother had her hands against Mr. K’s chest, and she was pushing him backwards toward the door.

  I opened the door again, and then Mother and Mr. K. were both out on the landing. “But Basia,” I heard him say.

  “You come here again, and I will have you arrested!” Then Mother was back inside. “Close the door, Yulian,” she said.

  I closed the door.

  “Oh, Barbara,” Irenka said. “He’s going to be so mad at me now.”

  “Don’t worry about him. I will tell Ernesto to have some of his friends tell him that it would be a good idea to leave Rio.”

  I wondered what Sr. Segiera’s friends might tell Mr. K. to convince him that it would be a good idea to leave Rio.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Christmas was in the hottest part of the Brazilian year. Mother had taken me aside to explain that I shouldn’t expect much in the way of presents, because of our precarious finances, which wasn’t, at all, necessary to tell me. I suggested we forego a tree, and Mother agreed, saying we would make up for it next year, when we were in America.

  But Irenka brought us a little, tabletop tree, which she decorated with stars, angels, and balls that she had cut out of colored paper. She even bought me a box of watercolor paints, that she said were from her and Andre. And, so that I could buy something for my mother, she gave me some money, with which I bought two pieces of bath soap, shaped like an angel, for Mother and Irenka. Mother gave me a cowboy gun belt with two cap pistols.