Dogs With Bagels

by Maria Elena Sandovici

  “How much is your rent?” I ask.

  “What do you care, missy?”

  Rachelle raises an eyebrow, then turns back to Jurron whom she is now wiping dry with a fluffy white towel.

  “Well, maybe I might…”

  “Might what?”

  “Be your roommate…”

  “And why the fuck would you do that?”

  Rachelle doesn’t curse. She says it’s important to speak politely, yet firmly, and also to speak properly. She says society expects Black people to be uneducated, and all ghetto, and she wants to challenge that stereotype.

  “Because you need a roommate, and I…”

  “You what? Want to help? Now why would a white child like you want to help a sister like me?”

  I’m taken aback. I’m used to her setting me straight, but this time it’s unwarranted. And why does she have to bring the whole race thing into it?

  “It’s not just that, it’s also… I would like living with you.”

  “But you already have a place to live. In Manhattan.”

  “I’m not sure it’s working out.”

  Rachelle claps her hands together and starts laughing.

  “Oh, listen to this one! This child’s incredible! It’s not working out! And she just moved there. Just moved there. I’ll tell you what, miss I-wanna-live-in-the-big-city-and-have-a-lot-of-fun: If it’s already not working out where you are, then why should I take you in? Do I need more trouble? Do you think I’ve got time for your drama in my life?”

  I leave as soon as Rachelle is done putting the baby to bed. She seems relieved to see me go. I walk slowly along the East River trying to convince myself I hate the place anyway. It’s too much like being back in Queens, exposed brick and all. Isn’t it actually part of Queens? But every whiff of salty air from the river makes me long to live here. As I stare into the dark water from the tramway and say my goodbye to the Island, I can’t shake the feeling that this would be a nice place to live. If only for the thrill of riding the tramway every day.

  Back in Manhattan, my mood is so gloomy, I need major cheering up. So I walk to nearby Bloomingdale’s, a place I worship, but where I’ve never shopped. It’s nearly closing time, but navigating through the cosmetics counters like an expert, I manage to buy a small bottle of Angel perfume. I stroll home feeling like a sexy, sophisticated woman. O femeie sofisticată. A woman in whose life wonderful things will happen. And what better way to celebrate it, than an ego-boosting late dinner with Momo tomorrow night? I’ll wear my new sexy scent, a pair of Gretchen’s Manolos, and my new leather bag.

  I suddenly realize that Rachelle did not compliment me on it, or on anything else about my appearance, which has dramatically improved now that I’m wearing Gretchen’s clothes. Hater.

  At home, I sneak quietly into my room and hide my new fragrance in the pocket of an ugly sensible coat Mami bought me long ago. This thrills me somehow. My new secret fragrance. Mon parfum secret. Parfumul meu secret.

  The next day I slip out before Juania gets there. I drag around a headache all day, and I feel like I’m going to fall asleep on my feet. Not even a double espresso from Starbucks helps. Instead it gives me a burning feeling in my stomach. I have to buy a bagel just to calm it down.

  Luckily Momo will treat me to dinner tonight. I anticipate quite the culinary delight. Momo has good taste, and she’s generous. I freshen up in the bathroom at Bella, and spritz on plenty of my new parfum secret. I’m wearing a taupe dress, and a pair of gold sandals, both belonging to Gretchen. I leave work feeling well put together and sexy, but seeing my reflection in a shop window, I regret matching the crème purse to the taupe dress.

  I have three hours to kill until Momo gets off work. Three hours with no cash and uncomfortable shoes. I sit myself down in the nearest Barnes and Noble, and start studying a travel guide on Italy. Bad choice. The pictures make me want to cry. Maybe I’ll never ever go there. Not with life in the city being so expensive, and my debt towards Gretchen. I mean, where am I gonna get a few thousand dollars in cash? I wish Gretchen took credit cards. I can just imagine myself, swiping my Visa through her mouth. That wouldn’t even help though. I’m almost up to my credit limit. I’ll have to wait for the next paycheck and just give Gretchen what I can, then ask to pay the rest later. I put the Italy book away, and spend most of three hours sulking, staring at people, unwilling to get up from the couch, though several seatless readers shoot me angry glances. I feel lethargic, heavy. And strapped cruelly into Gretchen’s Manolos, my feet are killing me. Ma dor picoarele. See, I’m already turning into Mami.

  6

  Happy Anniversary!

  August fifteenth is the day Maria hates most. Each year she tries not to think about it, but her mind refuses to obey. Finally, a few years back she decided to give in and allow herself a secret celebration. Nothing big, nothing too conspicuous. Just a little treat to get her through the day. A consolation prize of sorts, to divert pain and anger: a bar of 80% dark chocolate from Fauchon, a piece of black Spanish soap, a small cup of gelato on a park bench. A cappuccino maybe. A really good one. Served in a china cup, not in a paper cylinder with a plastic lid.

  But this year her treat is something big, something exciting and crazy, something she’s been aching for all these years. She’s not sure it’s appropriate, and she’s not sure it’s the right decision. She’s not even sure she’s going about it the right way. But it might be her last shot at happiness.

  She doesn’t know if it’s nervousness or excitement, but she slept poorly the night before, and she couldn’t bring herself to eat any breakfast this morning. She feels jittery, and has trouble hiding the trembling of her hands. Her stomach feels heavy, like a rock. But she keeps telling herself it’s the beginning of a bright new future, and that she should be proud of taking such a big step on the saddest day of all.

  Dressed in a crème linen suit, which was a bargain, but looks like it cost a fortune, wearing Italian leather sandals that kill her feet but show off her perfectly pedicured toes (her only friend works in a salon, and treats her on occasion), with her shiny dark hair falling neatly on her shoulders, Maria knows she looks presentable. She could pass for one of the well-groomed women who shop at her store. But her knees are shaking, and she can’t stop staring at the clock on the wall, willing its arms to move faster.

  She arrived at the bank early, taking the whole morning off, and having decided to even treat herself to lunch in a fancy little bistro later. It took her forever to fill out the application, which she peered over with a dictionary, and help from Madalina. Now, holding the form in her hand, she tries to compose herself. She wants to act confident, relaxed, like a woman used to walking into banks and asking to borrow large sums of money. In truth, she never before applied for a loan, and she doesn’t use credit.

  Her friend Mada, the quintessential consumer, who charges up a storm in every sale known to womankind, laughed when Maria confessed her estrangement from the financial world. She went through great trouble, sharing knowledge about loans and banks. But Maria opted for the only bank she herself was familiar with, the one Victor uses, the one whose name was printed on the checks he wrote out for the kids’ college tuition. She even decided to go to the very same branch. It’s nerve racking, of course, the thought that he could actually wander in, and see her here, but it is almost worth the risk, because the place where Victor banks must be a sound, reliable institution. She hates to admit it, but he’s very competent. He’s the kind of person who takes risks, risks that drove her to despair when they were still together, but which paid off in the long run. She still remembers how angry she was when he borrowed money to start his business, how she yelled at him, how she refused to speak to him for days, and how she cried herself to sleep at night, quietly, so her daughter wouldn’t hear. And here he is, nine years later, a successful entrepreneur, while she still toils away for an hourly wage in a department store.

  She looks at her wedding ring. She decided to wear i
t today, hoping a little jewelry would make her look more worthy of a loan. It feels unnatural on her finger, like a shackle, weighing her down.

  Twenty-four years ago, in her youthful infatuation and total ignorance, she committed her life to Victor, his fascinating persona, his needs, his wishes, his desires, and most importantly, his dreams. It was the happiest day of her life. But in hindsight she knows it was the day she gave up on herself. How ironic that her entire family gathered in the lush greenery of her grandmother’s garden, to congratulate her, wish her well, drink champagne, and celebrate that Maria, from that moment on, would cease to grow, and eventually cease to exist, that she would slowly but surely become her husband’s shadow.

  Of course, at the tender age of twenty, and madly in love, she didn’t see it this way. She’d already known Victor for two years then, and had grown downright obsessed with him. As part of an amateur theater group, she met him at an impromptu party after a performance. She only played a small part, if one could even call it that. She played a tree. She didn’t even have any lines. All she had to do was stand there, her arms stretched out towards the sky, tulle flowers hanging from her fingers. Ironically, it was the most exciting role she’d ever get. Her incorrigible shyness, which she had hoped to cure by acting, and her lack of talent, prevented her from getting good parts, in spite of her beauty. She got to play bystanders in crowds, and once, years later, in her last performance, she got to deliver a line. But it was as a communist worker, in blue overalls, complete with a ridiculous protective helmet, and her line was: “Everlasting glory to socialism!” She quit shortly afterwards.

  In the fall of 1978, however, she was quite happy to be playing a tree. The role even seemed challenging, as holding up her arms for such a long time, yet giving them, as the director had instructed, some natural grace, the roundness, kindness, and miraculous beauty of a tree, was difficult. After the play, her arms were sore, and when a tall, dark and handsome stranger extended a champagne flute her way, she smiled, but declined it.

  Yet later she danced with him, and she was happy he asked, in spite of her clumsy refusal of his drink, and in spite of her shyness, which, as all her friends told her, was usually perceived as lack of interest, possibly even as the conceitedness of the most beautiful girl in the room. This was, she knew, one of the reasons young men didn’t court her.

  He told her he was an architect, and that he had designed their costumes, paying most attention to that of the tree, as he considered it by far to be the most important role. “Really?” she asked, staring at him in disbelief.

  “Of course. It is the only character who remains on stage from the beginning to the very end. It holds the whole piece together, don’t you think?”

  She smiled proudly and told him she had even been instructed to stay there during intermission. He laughed, and though she was serious, she laughed with him.

  “Well, you see now, why I thought it was important for the tree to look best. I’ve repeatedly commended the casting people for picking you.”

  She was confused. There were no casting people. Apparently there was no costume designer either. He was joking. Though he really was an architect. She was embarrassed for thinking he was serious. Whenever she liked a man, she lost every ounce of wit she possessed. This was another reason nobody courted her. She was shy and clumsy.

  But Victor was persistent, almost aggressive. It seemed that once he made up his mind to have her, nothing could stop him. His desire and his persistence attracted her like nothing else before. Whenever he disappeared for a few days, whether he went on a hiking trip to the mountains, or to the Black Sea with his friends, she was tortured not just by his absence, but by a deep and painful fear that he would not return to her, that he would lose interest, that he was maybe at that very moment dancing with another girl, or lying on the golden sand next to the tan voluptuous body of a smarter, more experienced woman, a woman who knew how to please a man. But Victor returned to her after each of his trips, resumed taking her out, and tried once again to extract more than a few passionate kisses. He mocked her prudishness, and her reluctance to participate in the trips he so often went on with his group of friends. He kept assuring her teasingly that her virtue was safe, that he was indeed desperate to have her, but that he wouldn’t take advantage of her in some mountain resort. She blushed and made excuses about having to study. She was embarrassed to admit her mother wouldn’t let her go.

  It wasn’t until way into their second year of dating that she agreed to go to the Black Sea with him for May Day. She was impressed that he weathered the mockery of his chauvinistic male friends (whom she had overheard saying quite vulgarly that ‘he should have banged her by now’) as well as the additional expense, and gotten her her very own room overlooking the sea. She was almost disappointed, as by now she had worked herself into a frenzy and convinced herself that she should sleep with him, because she really loved him, and he wanted her so much. She had gone from wishing to be the kind of proper girl her mother had raised her to be – which required, among other things, holding off until marriage in order to make sure he wouldn’t ‘fuck her then leave her’ (the way her own friends vulgarly put it) - to wanting to give in to him, to please him above all else. She was afraid she was making him suffer too much, and the thought of him suffering, of him being denied even the slightest wish, pained her deeply.

  When they got to the resort, she was amazed how beautiful her room was, how lovely the view. The Black Sea is not aqua blue and translucent like the Mediterranean. Its deep waters turn dark, mysterious shades as they transform like a chameleon from navy to a somber green. Occasionally, Maria thought she saw hints of purple. And what amazed her most was the intoxicating smell of salt and fish, which she inhaled greedily, as if it were her last chance for air before drowning in that very sea of darkness and seaweed and sunken ships. But as much as she loved filling her lungs with the delicious salty air, she had no patience to sit on her little balcony and look at the water. Her restlessness almost made her cry. Her thoughts and feelings were more agitated than the waves themselves, and they all revolved around Victor and her momentous decision to finally sleep with him, a plan complicated by her having this lovely room all to herself.

  On their first night at the resort, emboldened by an extra glass of wine at dinner, she ended up inviting him over, saying something stupid, pretending she was afraid of the dark. He slept in her bed, and he held her all night. It was tender, and quite romantic, but she wanted to scream in frustration. She wanted to slap her own face for her inability to initiate anything. She simply didn’t know how. She was shy and inexperienced, and she knew that any attempt at seduction on her part would be ridiculous. So she just lay there, awake in his arms, until the sun rose across the deep blue sea.

  In the pale melancholy of early morning, she finally peeled herself away from Victor, gently, as not to wake him. She carefully opened the balcony door. He slept on soundly, looking happy.

  It was chilly on the balcony, damp with the salty sea breeze, and somehow lonely. The whole resort was asleep, and the morning looked bluish gray, depressing. The sharp cries of seagulls, and the sound of waves greeted her indifferently as she shivered in her cotton nightgown. Guilt overcame her at the thought that she wore this in front of Victor, that he could feel her skin through the light fabric. Last night it had seemed like a good idea to let him see her almost naked. Now she was embarrassed. And above all, she was cold. Yet she was reluctant to go back in, afraid opening the door again could wake him. She settled into a wooden framed beach chair, sinking into its sun-faded cloth, which smelled moldy, like the whole resort, took in the sea breeze, hugged her knees to her chest, closed her eyes, and pretended she wasn’t freezing.

  It was on that same balcony, late in the afternoon, that he proposed to her and she accepted. He then lifted her salty sunburned body, carried her to bed, and made love to her. It wasn’t what she expected, though for the longest time she couldn’t admit to herself it was rath
er boring. Afterwards, basking in the afterglow of it, while he was enjoying a cigarette, she worked hard at convincing herself that it had been quite lovely. In truth, it had been awkward and painful, though not as excruciatingly so as some of her friends had told her. She tried to focus on the positives: the feeling of his weight on her, the touch of skin on skin, the actual closeness of the act. It made her tingle all over to think of his lips on her, everywhere, the roughness of his stubble on her tender sunburned skin. She took a long shower, and put on her best dress, a white linen dress her mother had had tailored for her that spring. She felt sad at the thought of her mother, whose trust she’d betrayed by sleeping with Victor. But as they later strolled leisurely down the boardwalk holding hands, she felt beautiful, loved, and happy. At dinner she devoured a large grilled pork loin, drank a bit too much wine, and indulged in her favorite dessert, papanasi. She was feeling a little sick when they returned to the room, and suddenly very tired. After making love again, she was sore, and couldn’t fall asleep. She sat on the balcony for most of the night, wrapped in a blanket. The sky was dark. The sea seemed to flow into it. The lonely lights of ships shone far away. Stars and seagulls were her only companions. She read one of the books she had brought with her. Sartre. She shivered under the hotel blanket, which smelled like mildew. She hated Sartre. And she was too anxious to concentrate. Her mother would kill her if she knew she’d slept with Victor. At four in the morning, cold, frustrated, and bored, Maria picked up her fiance’s cigarettes, and smoked two of them on the balcony. He rose at seven, smiled at her sitting there in his shirt, smoking, proclaimed it very sexy, and carried her off to bed again.

  They were married three and a half months later. It was a small family gathering in her grandmother’s garden, at the outskirts of Bucharest. That morning they stood ceremoniously at city hall, between a Romanian flag and a red, communist one bearing a hammer and sickle, and signed their marriage certificate. By that point Ceausescu had pretty much outlawed religion, and people were afraid of even stepping inside a church. But Maria wanted a religious wedding, and a priest had agreed to marry them at her grandmother’s house, with a few friends and family present.