Dogs With Bagels

by Maria Elena Sandovici

  It was a fantasy, an adventure they liked to imagine together, a secret game they played. Victor would list all the advantages they’d have, in America, even silly things, such as being able to go to a store and buy anything they pleased. There would be a never ending supply of consumer goods, sparkling on store shelves, just waiting for her to pick them up. She could finally get shoes her size, and he promised to buy her the very best. Fine, soft leather, and perfect craftsmanship, made in Italy, or maybe Brazil. She’d have a pair in every color. She’d have a walk-in closet full of pumps, flats, sandals, wedges, and sexy knee-length boots in black patent leather. She could of course get birth control in America too. And anything else she wanted.

  When she realized he was being serious, she panicked. She loved her life, her home, her few friends, and her extended family. It would be crazy to trade all that for political freedom, reproductive rights, and a closet full of Brazilian shoes. But she was willing to consider giving it all up for her husband’s happiness. And so she never mentioned her misgivings. This was Victor’s dream, and Maria was careful not to express anything but support and enthusiasm.

  Still, as much as she cheered him on, he sometimes questioned her resolve:

  “It would be irreversible, you realize. There would be no way to come back. We’d have to leave everything behind. And everyone. Are you sure you’d be willing to do that?”

  He looked at her, and she avoided his eyes. She thought how for him, she’d be willing to do anything, no matter how painful.

  “You realize you might never see your mother again, or your grandmother?”

  It was true. Leaving the country in those days, especially fleeing to the West, was illegal. There was no turning back. Once you were gone, you stayed gone. Even Maria was aware of this.

  Yet she laughed it off, saying that one never knew, things could change. And that she couldn’t live for her mother, anyway. She had to live her own life. Deep down she didn’t believe this. The conversation struck a painful chord. But she buried her fears deep inside and kept smiling.

  It took years to accomplish Victor’s plan. Taking along his children and his wife from the very beginning was a non-negotiable, and this made their escape more complicated. She never understood exactly how he managed it.

  When she finally learned that they were to indeed leave for America, via Germany, she panicked. She considered telling him that she could not go, that she wanted to follow him to the end of the world, but that she couldn’t. She was ashamed of her reluctance, of her cowardice. What would he think of her for changing her mind after he tried so hard to get them out? Would he be angry? Would he be disappointed? Would he stop loving her? Would he go anyway, without her?

  The day she finally worked up the courage to tell him, they got some dreadful news: The beautiful villa they were living in would be demolished, together with their entire neighborhood. Blocks of flats would be built instead.

  Victor took it with stoicism: “See, Maria, I know you have your reservations about leaving.” How did he know? She’d never expressed them. “But we do have to leave. We cannot go on here. What is happening here is simply horrible, and it’s only going to get worse.” She had to agree with him. That night, after they made love, she stepped out of the house, and sat underneath the walnut tree, smoking a cigarette. It was early March, but it was warm outside, and she was comfortable, wrapped in her spring coat. She thought of how she would miss it, the yard, the tree, the bench. She thought of how she would miss their house. But then she had to remind herself that she would lose it anyway, that it would be torn down. Victor was right. They had to leave. It was the right thing to do. But then why was she so scared? Why did she feel like somebody was about to tear her heart out? Why did she feel that she was making an irreversible mistake?

  She was terrified of telling her mother. But when she finally did, her mother was supportive, though sad at the thought of such a separation, a separation that would probably be forever. It broke Maria’s heart to see her around the children after that, the way she kissed their little hands and faces, the way she hid from them so they wouldn’t see her cry.

  Nobody was able to tell her grandmother. Maria never forgave herself, but she just didn’t have the heart to do it. She loved her grandmother most of all. She was the one Maria would run to for comfort whenever she was in trouble. She was the one who’d brush her hair, wipe away her tears, and speak to her in a soothing voice. She was the kindest, wisest woman Maria ever knew. But her wisdom was the simple, raw, peasant kind. You laugh, you love, you toil away and eat the fruits of the earth, you play with your children, and you bask in the sun. Then one day you lie down and die, and there is peace, and the sun shines on. Who’d ever heard of moving across the ocean in pursuit of happiness?

  The day of their departure her mother kept feeding her little greenish pills, extraveral, a mix of valerian extract and other plants. She insisted it was a natural tranquilizer, totally safe. She also insisted Maria should not let her husband or children see her cry. The pills made her feel loopy, but helped her control her tears. She didn’t cry as they rode away from the house she would never see again. She didn’t cry when she hugged her mother at the airport, when she felt her firm grip on her shoulders and wondered if she’d ever be able to touch her again. She didn’t even cry when she waved at her for the very last time.

  Later, on the plane, she felt dizzy and nauseous. Her children wouldn’t sit still, and she realized Victor expected her to calm them down. She wondered if slipping them a little green pill was ok, it was made from plants after all. One of the stewardesses brought them a children’s magazine. Communist cartoons, little pioneers marching around, printed on rough, porous paper. She looked at the familiar images, and realized she’d never see such things again.

  Suddenly the knot in her throat gave loose, and an uncontrollable wave of grief erupted, tears like hot lava, burning on her cheeks. It is to this day one of the most embarrassing episodes of her life, sitting on that plane, weeping uncontrollably, in front of all those strangers. No matter how hard she tried, she could not stop herself. She felt that the pain in her heart could never be contained, that she would never be able to stop crying. All of the sadness in the world had gathered up inside her, and she would surely die and feel the same, she knew it.

  She can’t recall much of the months they spent in Germany. They stayed with friends of friends of friends, who treated them coldly, but were actually generous to put them up. It was Victor who kept reminding her of their generosity, in a reproachful tone, as if she were a spoiled child who was being unreasonable. She was scared that one day his patience would run out, that soon enough he’d sound like those unfriendly nurses in the hospital himself. She knew by now that he was disappointed with her for her constant crying, and for her inability to control the outbursts of energy of their children. Lili and Alex were eight and five by then, and they embraced their new life with so much curiosity and enthusiasm that she could barely stand it. She herself was terrified of just how strange everything and everybody looked. At Frankfurt International Airport she wanted to run and hide at the sight of so many foreign people, people of all creeds and races, people wearing clothes she’d never seen before, sporting turbans and saris, green spiky hair, and nose rings (!). She was scared, and deeply disappointed. If this was what the West looked like, she wanted none of it. But Alex and Lili were full of excitement for everything new and foreign they encountered. And since neither she nor Victor had the heart to tell them they were never going back, they showed no signs of homesickness.

  The only person who was homesick was Maria. She missed things she never even registered before. The cracks in the ceiling at her mother’s house, the postal worker who delivered their mail, the stray cat who sometimes came to their yard, the way the rain smelled in early spring, the light fixtures in her bathroom. All of the mundane details of her previous existence, once of little significance, were lost to her forever, and as she tried to embrace the
memories, to capture the taste and feel and smell of what was lost, she realized that it was gone forever.

  For most of their time in Germany she hid in the bathroom, crying. One day her hostess knocked on the door. “Water is very expensive,” she explained in German, and then, when Maria didn’t understand, in English. Finally, Victor had to translate for her. She spent most of the other days in their room, crying in bed, hiding her face in the pillows.

  Finally, in the summer of 1989, jetlagged, feeling filthy and battered after the journey, her patience tried severely by her two overly active children, but with dry eyes and mascara that would finally stay in place, Maria arrived in New York City, and took up residence in the borough of Queens. From that moment on, her marriage to Victor would uncontrollably and unequivocally spiral into an abyss.

  Looking into the blank face of the bank employee in front of her, Maria is overcome by despair and hopelessness. The young man hands her a pile of documents. Useless as they may be, Maria thanks him. She knows she’s been wasting his time. As she walks out of the building she curses the moment it occurred to her to schedule her meeting for today. Of course, on any given day, her financial situation would be the same. But looking for an outlet for her anger, it’s too convenient to blame it on the date. This anniversary is nothing but a commemoration of disappointment and betrayal. How could she ever think such a day would be good for business?

  She starts walking in the direction of the store. She briefly contemplates throwing her stupid wedding ring into the East River. But the gesture would give her little satisfaction.

  She no longer feels like having a fancy lunch. She buys herself a hot dog from a street vendor. Halfway through eating it, she gets disgusted thinking of the meat processing facilities. She feeds the leftovers to a bunch of pigeons. On her walk back to work she discovers that she smeared ketchup on the sleeve of her favorite suit. What a perfect fucking day!

  7

  Food Fight

  I wake up late on a beautiful Sunday morning. Outside the sun is shining, but I feel tired and sore, as if ten hours of sleep were not enough. I’ve been working overtime recently, hoping my commission would amount to something. But August is the slowest month in New York City retail. Most people with money flee the muggy heat of Manhattan. Bella is empty and quiet, and I spend my time waiting uselessly for customers, tallying up the extra hours I’ve put in, and hoping that Francesca will find some way to reward me. But Francesca is my boss, not the tooth fairy. Come pay day I’ll get my stupid commission, nothing more.

  I have trouble falling asleep these days, and then more trouble waking up. I’m in a codependent relationship with the snooze button on my alarm clock. Just five minutes, please, five more minutes. Then the five-minute naps pile up, and I’m already late. Mornings are cruel that way. Twice I got to the store after opening. Francesca was not pleased.

  Today, at least, there’s no alarm, nowhere to go. It’s Sunday, and I’m happy to sleep in. Still, I don’t feel relaxed or rested, but rather weak and drowsy. I want to go back to sleep. I’m glad I declined Gretchen’s invitation to brunch. At least sleep doesn’t cost any money. I stretch lazily, like a cat, and enjoy the luxury of letting an indefinite amount of time go by before finally getting up. This is worth saying no to Gretchen. It was the first invitation to hang out together since that awkward conversation about money. I wanted to say yes. But I’m behind on sleep and short on cash. Fifteen bucks for eggs Benedict, and another fifteen or so for each Bellini? Ouch. Before, I might have hoped Gretchen would pay, but the way things stand now, I doubt she’d even offer.

  On my way to the kitchen, I make a face at my reflection in the mirror. My features are puffy, and my hair is dull and messy. I’m wearing white pajamas, a gift from Mami. She likes getting me pajamas for my birthday, and underwear and socks for Christmas. Yuck. To make matters worse, they’re always plain white cotton. So not sexy.

  I brew a fresh pot of coffee, and congratulate myself for buying milk, bread, and a jar of Nutella last night, in preparation for eating breakfast at home. Mami would have paid half of what I paid, shopping at the grocery store, not the luxury deli downstairs, but at least making breakfast at home is a step towards thriftiness. I have to give myself credit for that.

  Oddly enough, my milk carton looks like it’s been opened. Gretchen probably wanted some last night. It feels light, like she drank half already. And it’s not closed properly. I hate it when people leave milk cartons open. Still, given the pristine emptiness of the fridge, the milk smells fine.

  I pour coffee and cut two slices of bread. The jar of Nutella feels sticky. The cap is smeared and de-geu-lasse! Disgusting, which even en francais, is still pretty darn disgusting after all. G has eaten most of it, straight out of the jar by the look of it. I place it on the counter, wipe my hands on my white jammies, and contemplate whether I’m willing to eat Nutella laced with Gretchen’s drool. I’m craving chocolate, damn it!

  As I rummage for a knife, I hear a key in the door. I freeze. I feel like I’m being caught red-handed, though it’s my own Nutella I was planning to attack.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Gretchen is not alone. Joan comes in, talking in a low voice on her cell-phone. She holds her index finger up towards me, silencing me before I even have the chance to speak. Finally, she snaps her cell phone shut.

  “Leahanna. Good morning. Or should I say, good afternoon?”

  She looks at my Nutella-smeared white jammies with disgust.

  “Liliana,” I say. “L for short.”

  “Elle,” Joan frowns. “Gretchen and I had invited you to brunch, to discuss your little situation, but I see you are too busy to join us.” She puffs though her nose, and under her scrutinizing gaze, I wish I could evaporate. “So I had to take the time and come all the way here to discuss your situation.”

  I hate the way she stresses every syllable. Harmless words seem threatening this way. A situation can be good or bad, but a si-tu-a-tion is certainly a problem.

  “My sister told me that you still have not paid the back rent you owe, and you have in the meantime accumulated yet another month’s debt, so…”

  I interrupt.

  “I…”

  “Don’t interrupt. I just wanted to tell you that I have advised Gretchen to start charging you interest. Against my advice she decided not to evict you, but I have insisted on the matter of the interest and…”

  “I really…”

  “Let me finish.”

  “I have to go.”

  Joan and Gretchen both look at me in disbelief.

  “Go where?”

  “To…eat? Breakfast? Out?” I stammer. My disjointed utterances come out like questions. What am I asking for? Permission?

  Gretchen seems peeved.

  “You wouldn’t have brunch with me, but now you’re going out?”

  I shrug.

  “I have no choice. You ate my Nutella.”

  Before they can say anything else, I slip past Joan, and grab my Italian leather bag.

  Joan stares me down.

  “You are going to breakfast? In the middle of our conversation? In your pajamas?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I don’t catch my breath until I’m in the street. În stradă. My whole body’s shaking, and I have to slow down to catch my breath. I keep looking back, expecting Joan to follow. I need to take refuge somewhere, just in case. I duck into the nearest subway station, and ride the train aimlessly for hours. Tears roll down my cheeks. I wipe them with the sleeve of my pajamas. I blow my nose in it too. I don’t care what people think. They’re welcome to think I’m homeless. Am I not, after all? They can think I’m insane. I don’t care. I grab my old battered CD player from my purse. My headphones will protect me from the world. Soon I start finding comfort in watching the people around, people who don’t look at me, people who are absorbed in their own lives. Strangers distracted by ipods, cellphones, blackberries, and the occasional book. I’m pretty s
ure that among them I’m the only one riding the subway for no reason, with no place to go, and that seems sad. And at the same time liberating.

  Later that afternoon, feeling lighter, as if I cried off twenty pounds of worry, I find myself strolling towards the park. I sit on a bench in the sun, and soon a dog emerges next to me. It’s a mid-sized mutt, with fur of an indistinct yellowish color, parted by asymmetric black lines. It licks my hand, then, encouraged, places its front paws on my shoulders and covers my entire face in slimy, hot, and stinky dog kisses. I laugh, not even trying to shake off the overfriendly mutt.

  “Bobby!” A man’s voice calls out. “Down! Down, boy! Down!”

  The young man belonging to the dog apologizes profusely, and offers to buy me coffee.

  An hour later we are sitting in front of a bakery, Bobby snoring happily on the sidewalk. I have breathlessly devoured an enormous pastry, and am covered in confectionary sugar.

  “So is this the day you usually hang out in the park in your jammies, and make out with innocent people’s dogs?”

  I laugh. He’s not hot, and that puts me at ease. If he were hot, I’d want to impress him. But he’s totally average, and I’m thankful for the opportunity to relax. I never really understood the phrase ‘uncomfortably handsome.’ It should be ‘so handsome he makes you uncomfortable.’ I guess that’s a mouth full. And luckily, it doesn’t apply. I’m so comfortable that I give myself license to lick the confectionary sugar off my fingers.

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I bet,” he says. “So can I take you out again, so you can tell me all about it?”

  Here’s the Catch-22. If you like a guy and try to act your best, he’ll somehow through some completely unfair law of the universe be repelled. But if you don’t like him, well, I mean, if you really don’t give a fuck what he thinks about you, you can wear your dirty jammies to the bakery, eat like a pig, lick your fingers, let his dog drool all over you, and he’ll still ask you out.