Baltimore

by Jelena Lengold

  “Which person in your life couldn’t you forgive?”

  “You already know. I told you about it. But this has nothing to do with that story.”

  She made that face of hers, ‘I know everything and I can sympathize with anything,’ and said:

  “This has nothing to do with me, this anger you’re feeling.”

  Well, now she made me really angry!

  “Of course it does. I can do you a favor, if that’ll make it easier for you, and tell you it’s really projected anger against my father, mother, a former lover, or whoever, but it wouldn’t be the truth. This is exclusively your doing. Don’t tell me you’re incapable of making a mistake?”

  “What is on the other side of your anger?”

  Sometimes, she really confuses me with her cross-examination. Really, what is the opposite of anger?

  “Well, I guess some kind of passiveness, an inability to fight back.”

  “May I say that you’re very sensitive?”

  “Of course you may. I’d even feel better if you did.”

  “Why?”

  “I always thought of myself as being more sensitive than most people, but then it occurred to me that this kind of thinking might be overly narcissistic. Everyone is sensitive in their own way. But, if you also think I’m sensitive, in a way that confirms my assumption….”

  “Well then, from now on, I’ll have to watch what I’m saying to avoid hurting your feelings.”

  “No, you don’t. That would put a strain on you. You can say whatever you like, but allow me the right to react in accordance with my feelings. Like now, for example.”

  “Of course you’re entitled to that. In fact, therapy is a combination of mutual understanding and confrontation. Going through these two processes leads to authenticity. But… you mentioned most people. How do you see yourself compared to most people?”

  “With regard to what?”

  “Anything.”

  “You can’t generalize. I’m average in some things, in others above average, and still others below average. I really can’t answer that question.”

  “Yes, that’s a fair and reasonable answer. But, if you observe yourself as a whole, couldn’t you say whether you were above or below average, or just average?”

  “You’re forcing me again to say something I’ll feel bad about later. All right, if we’re talking about things that are important to me, if we’re talking about spiritual growth, I think I’m a little above average, but for God’s sake, people don’t say things like that out loud and why are you making me do it!?”

  She clasped her hands in her lap. Here come the conclusions.

  “You see, we’ve been talking about your anger for almost an hour and you can’t find it in yourself to forgive me.”

  “That’s not true. There’s nothing to forgive here. I don’t doubt your good intentions. This is more of an intellectual problem, which I wanted to discuss with you, than anger. You called it anger.”

  “Nevertheless, you can’t forgive me… and this sets a new boundary between us.”

  Could it be that this was hard on her?

  “What are you doing now?” I asked. “Am I supposed leave here with a guilty conscience as well?”

  “Of course not,” she laughed. “However, if it bothers you that you have problems with forgiveness, we can work on that.”

  “Well, it might be good to let go of some of my anger. It’s a little absurd to be angry with someone all your life because of something that happened long ago. It’s a heavy load to bear.”

  “I agree.”

  Then she said something and I got over my anger in an instant, if I ever really was angry with her:

  “If I were your friend, I would now be able to engage in this conversation in a very different manner, meet you head-on and play the power game a little. However, since I’m your therapist, this confrontation is very precious to me.”

  Aha! So I see! You could knock me down if it weren’t for the code of ethics. You could easily beat me if you wanted to.

  “If your goal was to remove my mask of excessive politeness, then you have certainly succeeded,” I said on the way out.

  “Do you think it’s off now?”

  “Good God! I’ve taken off only one of them. This is only the beginning….”

  Something truly incredible happened!

  I tuned into Baltimore at 2:10 in the afternoon, like I do every day, expecting Edgar to show up. And he did, at 2:15 as usual. He stood at the bus stop with his briefcase in hand, like he always does. He was wearing the blue jacket I’ve grown accustomed to. Underneath it, I saw the dark blue pullover I also knew well.

  Then suddenly, Edgar turned around for the first time, and looked straight at me! He was really looking at the camera, but it was just as if he was looking at me. First he turned around, but then, it appeared as though he realized there was a camera there, moved toward it a step or two and looked up. For an instant, our eyes met. Edgar smiled. He really smiled. He stood there for a while longer examining the object holding up the camera. This was the first time I was able to actually see his face. I had an uneasy feeling that he could see me as well, that he literally knew I was sitting here, watching him as he waited for the bus. Edgar was looking right at me and then, he scratched his head. He smiled into the camera again and then looked around worried, I guess, that somebody might see what he was doing. So, Edgar also does crazy things when he thinks nobody’s watching!? Aha!

  At that moment, his bus arrived. Edgar moved toward the front door of the bus and, just when I thought it was over, when his figure was already in the bus, for only a split second, I saw Edgar secretly waving his fingers behind his back. And that was that. The bus was gone.

  Edgar was probably just playing around. Or not. Or he assumed that there was a good chance someone was watching him at that moment, considering the enormous number of maniacs sitting at their computers. So he waved and smiled. To whoever. But why today? Why to me?

  I stopped believing in coincidences long ago. I think there is a sequence of events that leads us from one point to another. In our inability to control this journey, we call it coincidence. But, of course, there is no such thing as a coincidence.

  You could say it was nothing more than a coincidence when, one day, fifteen years ago, I lost my scarf on the 16e bus that ran from Zeleni Venac to Block 45. I got off before the last bus stop when I suddenly realized I didn’t have my scarf, and it wasn’t just any scarf. My mother bought it in Rome, and after having to talk her into loaning it to me, I lost it. No, that was unacceptable. I ran like crazy in-between the buildings to the last stop because I knew the bus would be parked there for a while before starting off again on its route. When I got there, the bus was already starting to leave and I threw myself in front of it, forcing it to stop. I ran in and the scarf was there. Meanwhile, I was completely out of breath so I sat down thinking, all right, I’ll just ride the bus for a while until I catch my breath and then I’ll get off. That’s when I realized there was a young man sitting in the seat next to me. Don’t worry. I won’t drag on. To cut the story short: the young man sitting there, is my husband. Now you tell me if there’s such a thing as a coincidence. Was it a coincidence that I ran the way I did, that the scarf slid off my shoulders as if, at some point, it came alive and decided to go a separate way; that it was the last stop, when the bus driver takes his break, giving me enough time to catch up? I don’t think so… there’s also the other part of the story, his part. He got on the wrong bus. He wasn’t familiar with this part of the city. So when he realized his mistake, he decided to ride the bus to the last stop and then go back and transfer onto the right bus in another part of the city. He says he saw me while I was still wearing the scarf. But I didn’t even look at him. Didn’t even notice him. Then, I got off the bus and he noticed the scarf lying on the floor next to my seat. He says that he just stared at the scarf in anticipation. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, but he waited. And when
I rushed into the bus again, he knew he had been given a second chance. Or the first and only. Because there’s no such thing as a coincidence.

  This is why I have to see what’s so important about this day, the day Edgar finally looked into the camera, smiled at me, and waved.

  For breakfast, I had cheese and crackers with hot chocolate.

  I started the car on the first try.

  I stopped at a crosswalk to let an old woman cross the street and thought I was being not only civilized, but also generous. It wasn’t as if I had to stop. She looked at me, I gestured with my hand for her to go, she looked at me one more time, as if she wanted to make sure we were in agreement, and then started crossing the street apprehensively. Needless to say, another driver was already behind me, impatiently honking his horn. But I was enjoying the fact that the old woman was walking slowly and that I had a perfectly good reason for annoying him. I waited for her to step onto the other curb before I continued driving, slowly and without hurrying.

  What else happened today, before 2:15? Did I tell you? I work in a travel agency. People come in, tell me where they would like to go, I check to see if there are any available seats and then sell them the plane tickets. Or I make reservations for them on flights of their choice. It’s mostly a pleasant job. All you have to do is search the computer. And answer the phone. Yes, it gets hectic at times. Most people travel during the holidays and in the summertime. That’s when it gets difficult to convince them that there are no more available seats on the flights going to the seaside. But, for the most part, it’s a laid-back job.

  Anyway, a man came in today who happened to be looking for a plane ticket to Baltimore. I usually don’t even look up, and even if I do, I don’t think I could give you a description afterwards. If the police ever came to ask me to describe the man who came in that morning at 9:15 to buy a ticket to Paris, like in the movies, I wouldn’t be able to tell them if he was twenty or fifty years old, tall or short, bald or with a baseball cap on his head, if he was wearing glasses or had a mustache. They all look the same to me, if you know what I mean. They tell me what they want, and I check in the computer and write out the tickets.

  But I looked at this man, because he said he was going to Baltimore. I paused and looked at him. He was a little over fifty, slightly overweight, wore an expensive suit, had grayish sideburns, and a sweaty forehead. He’s probably going there on business, I thought to myself. The only unusual thing about him was his eyes. Very dark and very focused.

  “Baltimore?” I asked.

  “Yes, Baltimore,” said the man, still gazing at me with those eyes.

  “Why are going to Baltimore?”

  “It’s my turn,” he said.

  “Is it true that it’s always raining in Baltimore?”

  “That’s a lie, of course. Just like everything else you’re going to hear about Baltimore from other people. Someone else’s impressions have nothing to do with the way you experience things.”

  “Do you know Edgar?”

  “As you well know, Edgar is a big loner. No one can say they really know Edgar. You probably have the best chance of getting to know him.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing. I’m in a hurry. Sell me the ticket so I can go.”

  No. We didn’t have this conversation. Or did we? I’m not completely sure anymore. We could have had this conversation had it not been for those two women hanging over my head and babbling about yesterday’s game show in which someone almost became rich. I just sold him the ticket to Baltimore, via Munich, and after neatly placing the change in his expensive crocodile leather wallet, he left.

  It was after this that Edgar looked into the camera and smiled at me. Coincidence? I think not.

  As I was getting out of bed that morning, as I waited for the water in the tea kettle to come to a boil, as I watched the shadows dance through the curtains in an attempt to touch the spice jars which irretrievably shy away from them each morning, I thought to myself: I could grow old soon and at some point, when it’s too late to do anything about it, discover that I did everything wrong.

  This would imply a few things. First of all, that there is a right and a wrong way. Then, that we are the ones who decide which one of these ways is going to take the shape of what we call our life. And furthermore, this implies the existence of exclusivism in the relation between the right and the wrong way. On the other hand, maybe these two ways are a mixture of both right and wrong?

  I tried to find comfort in this as I drank my tea, but the fear was still there. I couldn’t dispose of it like I did with the bag of Earl Grey. It just stood there, soaking and turning black. It wasn’t something you could sweeten. Dilute with milk. Or decide not to drink. Fear seized my morning in an all too familiar way: it appears unexpectedly, somewhere in the pit of my stomach, making my insides tremble, then it slowly rises up my diaphragm to my chest, causing my heart to stop for a second, only to demonstrate the extent of its power, and just when I begin to think it has finished me off, it races to my throat and starts choking me.

  “All right,” I said to my fear. “What do you want from me? Where are the two of us going this morning?”

  My fear stood silent, staring at me. It loved to establish a hierarchy for the day, first thing in the morning. It had to let me know what is most important. And who is in charge. After we settle this, it allows me to make decisions concerning the less important things. It is only interested in the strategic set up. For example: will I live through another day?

  What if I realize, on the last day of my life, that I stayed in the wrong place when I should have moved on? What if something was waiting for me in a place I didn’t feel like going? What if everything could have been different and infinitely better had I remembered the right sentence at the right moment, the only possible answer to the posed question? What if I didn’t turn around when I should have, and missed something that had been intended only for me?

  There are times when you know your life is really yours and you feel like you completely belong there. However, there are those times when you clearly know it’s just one of the numerous lives you could have had. And all these other lives suddenly begin to sting like newly acquired blisters.

  “Are you trying to tell me,” I asked my fear, “that I have a certain obligation to these other lives I basically know nothing about?”

  My fear was smiling at me slyly, tilting its head to one side, shrugging its shoulders, pretending to be someone who let’s me draw my own conclusions, make my own decisions, handle things the way I see fit… what a snake! An outsider might even get the notion that I actually had a choice!

  She told me to imagine a cliff - a sharp, isolated cliff looking over the sea. I wanted to tell her I actually stood on a cliff like that once, in Northern Ireland, and that it wasn’t a bit romantic. All I could think of, there on that cliff, was how easy it would be to throw myself down on the sharp rocks and into the icy cold, surly water.

  All right then, a cliff. Any cliff. And a view of the line where the sea meets the sky in the far distance. And my hands, slowly transforming into wings. Totally absurd, but I went along. I never had wings in my dreams about flying. I always flew using only my arms. So, I’m flying, flying, flying and I see an island. And what else could possibly appear in the middle of a sea? If you ask me, the island is covered with sharp rocks, rocks no one would ever wish to land on. But, she told me to land. First, I feel gravel under my feet, then stones, grass, and finally soil. This surprised me. I didn’t expect grass. At least that’s not what it looked like from above. And then a forest. A thick forest overflowing with shadows. Our lives are made up of mundane places, so much so that it makes me sick. Cliffs, wide-open spaces of the sea, forests full of shadows… nevertheless, I continue to walk in my mind through this forest of cheap symbolism, and I feel very uneasy. I don’t have much of an adventurous spirit. At least not when it comes to venturing alone through a forest full of shadows. On a deserted
island, no less. Although, no one said the island was deserted, but I guess it’s implied. Life observed from above, from a cliff and then across the sea, can’t help but resemble a deserted island. My thoughts are wandering, and that’s not good. I should focus on the trail in front of me, which of course winds through tall trees. What are these trees supposed to be? My life goals? My failures? My fears? Diseases I’m going to be stricken with? Orgasms? It’s not important. Anyway, I’m walking through this forest and – you guessed it – I come across a house. She doesn’t tell me what the house is like, but I see a pleasant, wooden house. It’s got a porch with two or three steps leading up to it. It looks like a house out of a Western movie. I approach the house and tune into my feelings. Curiosity, but not too much. Absence of fear. Almost like performing a duty. The house is there. You have to go into the house. That’s it. Nothing spectacular, nothing that would indicate a major revelation.

  I’m opening the door. At first, I don’t see anything. My eyes are getting used to the darkness. What do I see in the room? Indeed, what? Slowly, I start to make out shapes. A wooden table in the middle, chairs set up around it. A piano on the left. Closed, dusty. No one is playing it. A rifle is leaning against the wall in the corner. Am I going to tell her about the rifle? Who knows how she’s going to interpret that.

  Her voice is guiding me on, it says look to the other side, there’s a figure standing there and you’re amazed to discover it looks just like you! What’s it made of? What’s it like? Look carefully, stand in front of it, see if it has anything to say to you, face it….

  I wouldn’t mind seeing Barbie standing there. We were born the same year; she wouldn’t have anything against playing my double on a deserted island. But, it wasn’t Barbie. The figure was made of dark wood. It was uneven and warm. It had something like a veil over its head and face, it was holding a baby in its arms, which was also wooden and uneven and, all in all, it looked like a character from a mural. Like Virgin Mary. Instead of feet, the figure had a pedestal. I could clearly see it had no feet. I stood in front of it, and the figure looked at me and said, “Why are you so cold?” And that was it.