Mama Leone

by Miljenko Jergovic

  Dad stopped by every half hour, listened to what Mom was saying to Nano, putting his hand on her shoulder and gently stroking her hair. He was in his white doctor’s coat, a silver fountain pen peering out from a small pocket. In his doctor’s coat my dad wasn’t the same dad as the one without a doctor’s coat. Regular Dad lied, didn’t keep his promises, and was often weak and downhearted. He looked like someone liable to be hit by a car on a pedestrian crossing or prone to spilling plates of soup in his lap. This dad, Dad the Doctor, he was God, Comfort, and James Bond. For him there was no such thing as an incurable illness, nor a life bearing any resemblance to death, not even a life in a deep coma. Every moment was worthy of celebration, and there wasn’t a single moment when you pulled the shutters down on life and said fine, that was that, now I’m dead and I’m leaving. My dad didn’t let people leave, and he was sure Nano’s eyelashes would give the world a signal, that humanity would shudder the moment a lone hair on any one man moved, having stolen itself away from the world of darkness. There are medical truths that serve the healing process and medical truths that confirm that healing is not possible, gravediggers can worry about the latter because I won’t. That’s what he once yelled at drunk Dr. Jakšić, who when we were on a trip to Mount Trebević said that even in the coffins buried in Bare Cemetery, Dobro – my dad – could find a couple of people to declare alive and try bringing back to life.

  On the morning of the third day Nano heaved two deep sighs and stopped breathing. Life ends with a sigh, that’s no surprise at all. When I sigh I say to myself okay, fine, let’s start again from the beginning. Sighs are like sleeping, they separate life into a thousand thousand pieces, and before going to bed you put them together and that’s how memories are made. There’s no sighing or sleeping in memories; in memory life is whole again. When death came Nano sighed, told the deep coma well that’s that, and left without saying goodbye. The deep coma waved to him, but Nano didn’t see it, so it was left there with its hand in the air. Nobody ever says goodbye to deep comas when they leave.

  Dad hugged Mom and whispered we lost him. Mom cried a little on his white coat, then Dad called Dr. Smajlović over and said exitus, and Dr. Smajlović looked at his watch, took out his fountain pen, and entered the exact time of death in Nano’s hospital notes. Even though they straight-out forget it, don’t have to tell anyone, and nobody ever inquires about the hours and minutes in question, the exact time of death is very important to doctors. In a filing cabinet somewhere there’s a file with the time of death written down, just in case it becomes important one day as some details in life do. Auntie Doležal is of the view that one day God is going to assemble all souls and assign them grades. The time of death in one’s hospital notes is just waiting for that day, even though we live in communism and none of the doctors believes God exists. But like our own, this belief is a little shaky. So, who knows, maybe Nano will appear before God and maybe God’ll say so often you used to say I didn’t exist, and now you’re not in the least surprised to see me.

  Dad and Mom went outside. He took out a packet of cigarettes, and Mom said look how much snow there is already. The snow was as thick as the pillows in the rooms of gentle giants, falling without pause on Mom’s black jacket and Dad’s white doctor’s coat. By the time they’d each finished their cigarette their shoulders were covered in snow, and if a bird had chanced overhead, they would have looked as white as each other, my mom and dad, and the bird would’ve thought them two creatures of winter, in love.

  Mom said go, you’ll catch cold, and he said no; I think in that instant he was ready to remain in the snow forever, just to hear her say that go, you’ll catch cold a few more times. A love sometimes returns like a word you believe to be true, then it flies away and never comes back; but in its wake it leaves a brilliant trail, which gives a winter morning a certain meaning, and so even after a farewell a little hope remains – let’s say the hope of stumbling upon the magic word, even if it comes after a death and the sacrifice of a Nano.

  A taxi arrived and Dad asked do you want to see him again? They went back inside, the taxi driver opened his newspaper and switched the meter on. Nano’s pillow was gone, Mom looked at him but didn’t cry, she just stood there silently, not moving, at a loss. She’d seen her uncle for the last time and knew that from now on she’d only be able to imagine his face or look at him in photographs. He was dead, and she’d seen him for the last time in her life. When she leaves this room, something in her will be forever, just as death is forever. My mom felt a little dead, something she’d later repeat quite often. There was no sadness in the story, just astonishment in the face of how little it takes for one to bid farewell to the world, just a single glance, how much one sees each day for the last time in one’s life, unaware, not thinking, goodbyes the furthest thing from one’s mind.

  Dad went up to Nano, placed his hand on his forehead, and said the last gentleman. Every summer he’d play Preference with Nano in the gardens in Ilidža, and Nano would tell him stories about Vienna and the beautiful Jewesses who in the fall of 1917, as the dual monarchy crumbled, would open their ladies’ umbrellas, their ankles so slender and angular, so fragile you had to approach them on tiptoes in case they would break. Dad didn’t know anything about Vienna or Viennese women. He grew up in a harsh, hard world in which you had to guard your refinement and sensitivity, and for him Nano was someone from another world, one where things of beauty seemed inherent and certain, where now forgotten words still existed, a world where such things could be preserved. That morning my dad only managed to remember the word gentleman.

  So in the end I missed out on the wristwatch. Nano was buried the day after Christmas, Mom baked her cakes, and everything was ready in time for a strange celebration at which nobody celebrated anything, but because of me, she and Grandma decided we couldn’t just skip New Year’s. They went around the house all in black, the mood not festive in the least. I don’t understand this! I never understood how they didn’t know how to celebrate and grieve at the same time: celebrate the special occasion and grieve because of Nano’s death. With them it was always one or the other, as if they were scared someone was secretly watching them, testing the depth of their grief and the height of their celebration. When Nano died they wouldn’t have paid any mind if I laughed at little slant-eyed mothers, but they weren’t on the news anymore. The war in Vietnam was over, and other wars didn’t make the news in the lead-up to New Year’s. What a shame! If I’d laughed Mom wouldn’t have started with the nurturing stuff. That was a sure bet.

  Dad came over on New Year’s Eve, bringing something with a thousand pieces. He sat down in the middle of the room and began putting it together. I sat down next to him, my hands on my knees, waiting to see what it would be. I wanted his building to go on and on, that we would stay here forever, in this room, on this rug, that the whole world would wait until we were finished, that nothing would happen before Dad had built whatever he was building, that time would stand still too, that everyone would look at their watches believing everything comes to an end, that eventually they’d see what he’d built, that it would be and stay like this forever and that nothing would ever happen anymore.

  My dummy dear

  Dad brought the kitten home. It’d been meowing in a doorway up on Koševo in the late-November rain, a little black kitten the size of a child’s hand, one eye open, the other closed. Kittens are born with their eyes closed; sight only comes when they’ve sniffed and licked the world around them, once they know what they’re going to see. Dad had it in his pocket, I had to, he said, it’s okay, said Mom. Grandma fetched a saucer of milk and an eyedropper. Placing the kitten in her lap, she turned it on its back and fed it, drop by drop, while Mom and Dad discussed its chances of survival. Grandma didn’t say anything, not then, and not in the days to follow. I’d head off to school and she’d be there with the dropper in her right hand and the kitten’s head in her left, and when I came back she’d be doing the same. And so it went fo
r days. It was three weeks before the kitten began to drink milk on its own, to explore the house and to purr. When her other eye opened we knew she would live.

  In those years the seasons marked the comings and goings in our house just like in children’s books. Spring: Mom takes the rug out into the yard, throws it over a clothesline wire, beating it with a wicker paddle. The blows of my tennis-playing mom resound and the dust flies everywhere, every blow a thunderclap. Other moms are out beating their rugs too and the whole city reverberates, the air dusty like the heart of an old watch, every ray of sun visible. The sun circles the earth to the rhythm of a thousand blows, the city a heavenly disco. In the broad light of day all the angels and all the saints gaze down to see what’s up as moms beat their rugs in the early spring. Or the summer: Footprint traces in the fresh asphalt, I become famous with every step, each imprinted forever. Sweaty I enter the cool of our house, so good in the summertime, its coolness a contrast to the heat of the whole steaming world outside. I’ll be off to the seaside soon and already miss the house. I’m going away, that I’ll be coming back is no relief because there’s no coming back worth such a leaving. Autumn: The house is fragrant, the rain falling outside our steamy windows. Paprikas, tomatoes, cabbages, and floury apples jostle about the floor, we’re making winter preserves, warming ourselves with their scents and colors, warming ourselves on the feeling of immortality among all this food to see us through the winter. Now we can sleep like bears and dream big long bear dreams, until with the first days of spring, warmed, we wake from our slumber.

  With the cat the first fateful month entered our house: February. She was already a year and a half, her coat shone in the light, a cat ready for the catwalk at a world expo of miniature beauty. She was asleep on top of the television, but occasionally opened her eyes, eyeballing us huddled there in front of the screen with our hands in our laps, as if she didn’t like what she saw, as if bestowing a magnificent contempt upon us all. And then she just disappeared, leaving the house and not coming back for three days. On her return she was matted and muddied, one ear bitten. She went straight for her feeding tray, meowed her way around the house, and then curled up under the table to sleep. Been out whoring have we? said Grandma. The cat opened one eye, but under the eyelid was another she didn’t deign worthy of opening. She was smug; February had come.

  Two months later Mom was in a flap, we’re going to have kittens. Grandma scowled in Dad’s direction, and he scratched his head, the guilty party. I was peeing myself with joy. What are we going to do with so many kittens? It doesn’t matter, kittens don’t eat much, they’ll live with us, but next year when February comes there’ll be more kittens, and that’s okay too, even that many kittens don’t eat much. A thousand kittens don’t eat as much as Grandma, Mom, and me, let alone Dad when he comes to visit; he eats more than a hundred cats put together.

  At the beginning of May the cat tried to sneak into the linen cup-board, get out! Grandma trailed her, then she slunk under the bed, get out! Then she tried my toy box, get out! Grandma shunted her from one hiding place to the next, and I didn’t get it. She picked up the cat and set her down in a box of rags in the broom closet. That’s that, she said. What? . . . Doesn’t matter what. We sat there watching TV, Mom was flicking through the newspaper, and I forgot about the cat until I heard this weird meowing. It’s started! . . . What’s started? I jumped up. Come take a look, said Grandma knowingly. Don’t want to, I was a little bit scared. Come on, nothing’s going bite you . . . Do I have to? . . . Oh to hell with you if you don’t want to! But I did sidle up, peering out from behind Grandma and Mom. The cat was meowing, looking Grandma straight in the eye, but this time she wasn’t sneering, just inquisitively staring what’s this, what’s happening to me, I haven’t a clue, why didn’t anyone teach me about all this, why didn’t you tell me? But Grandma just nodded her head and whispered everything’s okay, it’s okay, everything’s going to be okay.

  Look, the first one! Mom yelled. A little lump that really didn’t look much like a kitten popped out of the cat. Then she remembered what to do. She licked the lump until it became a furry something. The tiny kitty was as big as a key ring. Look, there’s the second one! It’d been ten minutes. Look, the third! . . . the fourth! . . . the fifth! . . . Look, the sixth! Mom was hollering as if she were the courtier at a royal feline court and it was her job to announce the number of neonates the queen had borne to city and state.

  Now she needs peace and quiet, Grandma commanded, and Mom exited the broom closet obediently. I was proud of Grandma; it was like she had this infinite feline or maternal experience. But my pride was short-lived, because three days later something happened that I’ve never told anyone and which I spent years trying to forget. The season of great deaths had to come, so I could start processing it and add my offering up to the time when the seasons and February disappeared, and all victims became something we could speak freely of until we made someone cry or fly into a rage.

  Where are the kitties? I asked. They’re gone, she said. How come they’re gone, where are they? . . . I don’t know, they’re gone . . . The cat’s looking for them, where are they? . . . I don’t know, they’re gone . . . You do know! I screamed, you know where they are, go get them! . . . I can’t go get them, they’re gone, Grandma had turned pale and was trying to get away from me. Bring the kitties back, shame on you! . . . I can’t bring them back . . . Bring them back, stupid! I was crying now, bring them back you bitch, bring them back or you deserve to die . . . Grandma clammed shut, looked away, and tried to disappear every time I’d come near. Something terrible had happened, but I didn’t know what. Something so terrible that I wanted to say the most vile things to her, but luckily I didn’t know how to say them; if I’d known I would have, I would have killed my grandma with words.

  When Mom came home from work she found me whimpering under the writing desk, doubled up like a fetus. The cat roamed the house, meowing in search of her children. But her children weren’t there. Grandma sat in the living room staring at the wall. She didn’t make lunch that day. Mom crouched down beside me repeating my name, but I didn’t respond. I didn’t want to say anything, or I couldn’t, I don’t remember anything else. She wanted to run her fingers through my hair, but I moved my head and hit the wall. My forehead bled; tears mixed with blood. The blood was sweeter than the tears, but it burned my eyes. Mom was crouched there trembling. Grandma stayed where she was. Grandma wasn’t there. I hope she never comes back, I thought.

  She’d drowned the cat’s children in the washbasin and tossed them in the garbage. I’ll never do that again! she said to Mom, never again, those kittens have cost me half my life. I made like I didn’t hear them and that I’d forgotten everything. That’s the best thing to do if you can’t forget anything. I couldn’t forget those kittens.

  Grandma had fed the kitten with an eyedropper, had given her a life already lost and taught her things only grandmothers can teach people and cats, had helped her give birth, and then she killed her children. I couldn’t understand that; I’ll never understand it, even though one day, along with a world and a city that had lost the seasons of the year, I’d get used to living with death and with exile from a life without death.

  Ten years later Dad brought a puppy to the house, black and less than a month old. We’ll call him Nero, said Grandma. For the first few weeks Nero stayed in the house with us, until Schulz, the super, built him a wooden kennel in the yard. By the time he’d grown up Nero had a split personality: one minute he was a guard dog on a chain in the yard, the next he was a household pet sprawled out on our living-room floor. He was a good dog and a stupid one. Though he liked everyone he’d still bark his head off; he even liked cats, but they didn’t like him. The only thing Nero hated was the hedgehog that lived in our garden. He’d go wild when the hedgehog trundled the yard at night, pricking his snout on its quills, his muzzle frothing. Grandma used to say myohmy, my dummy dear, and he’d yelp and whine at a world where there we
re hedgehogs and a dog couldn’t live without constant stress. That’s what my mother so wisely observed.

  The three of us felt pretty guilty the days and nights we left Nero in his kennel, down in the yard. We were actually fine with it when he slept up with us, but for some reason it was unacceptable he switch from being a guard dog to a household pet. I don’t know why we didn’t want him as a pet, but I fear we gave him a kennel and chain because we thought he was dumb, that it was beneath us to live with an idiot. Or maybe we thought we’d be less tied to Nero if he was farther away. I don’t know what it was all about, why we banished him from our daily lives.

  Grandma passed away in early June, out in front of his kennel Nero howled the whole night long. At dawn I went down to the yard, it was a full moon, everything lit up. I sat down to give him a hug; faithful, four-legged Nero. My grandma was dead, but I couldn’t howl like him; it was as if the dog was sadder than me. Though he lived on a chain, he’d lost something I could never be conscious of, something I obviously didn’t even have, so my loss could never be like his. I took him in my arms, trying to make the sadness mutual, to take on a little of his grief, a little of his goodness, so that I too might be ennobled by this late-night grief and for a moment enter a better heaven, a dog’s heaven, where there’s no place for people, because such a heaven doesn’t have anything to do with God but with friends who die in dogs’ eyes.

  Six months later, on the coldest day of the year, worried about Nero I hurried home from university. He was still in his kennel because I hadn’t let him in to warm himself by the coal stove. No one had looked after the animals or plants since Grandma died.