Baltimore

by Jelena Lengold

  Later, I returned down the same boring trail through the forest, across the beach and the sea, to the same cliff I started from.

  “When you feel that your arms are no longer wings and when everything returns to normal, you can slowly open your eyes,” she said.

  My arms never did become wings, and things are never going to be normal, so I opened my eyes right away.

  I told her about my double from the island.

  She led me to the middle of the room, shoved a pillow in my arms and said I was now the wooden figure without feet. The pillow was, of course, my wooden baby.

  “How do I feel in that house, on that deserted island?”

  “Peaceful. Good. I’m performing my duty.”

  “What is my duty?”

  “To raise this child and then let it go across the sea, then to the cliff, and from there, into the world.”

  “Am I lonely there?”

  “A little, but at the same time I know I’m fulfilling my sacred duty as a woman.”

  “What do you think about your visitor from the cliff?”

  “She looks a lot like me, but at the same time, she’s very different. She wouldn’t be able to spend her life here.”

  The tears were very close, on the very edge of my eyelids, but amazingly, this time I held them back. There’s no use crying over a wooden woman without feet, which only could have been me. I made a conscious decision not to be her, I kept repeating to myself.

  Later, back in my chair, I told her, trying to convince myself first, and then her as well, how I always felt disdain for this archetype, according to which women become saints the moment they fulfill their assigned womanly duties.

  “It’s important for you to understand that both these characters are a part of you. The one over there, and the one here. Maybe you don’t like the one over there, maybe it frightens you that her feet were changed into a pedestal, maybe that means she has a strong foundation, or that she can’t budge from where she’s standing, but whatever the reason, she represents some part of you. This is something you have to accept.”

  “She’s so ordinary,” I said. “She thinks she’s a saint. She has that serene look in her eyes full of silent reproach for any woman who ever wanted to be anything other than a woman.”

  “But she’s still a part of you.”

  “And what did she mean when she said I was cold? I don’t see myself as a cold person at all!”

  “What could that coldness be?”

  “She is under the illusion of being eternal. She thinks, only because she has procreated, that she has made herself eternal. Unlike her, I live every day with the knowledge that I’m disappearing. Maybe she sensed I was aware of my fleeting existence and interpreted this as coldness. Women like her think very highly of duration, of passing their boring, monotonous existence from one generation to another, with as little change as possible. There’s something narcissistic about this, if you ask me. Parenthood in general is a type of socially acceptable narcissism. Every parent dreams of bringing into this world his own clone, and then adding the finishing touches he himself is lacking.”

  At the end, as if reading me a bedtime story, she told me some story from her area of expertise about how damaging it is not to accept every last part of your inner self. About how, if you bury yourself in only one of these characters, sooner or later, you fall into the state I am in now.

  So now it looks like I have to make room for the Lady Saint. The fact that she never existed isn’t important, what’s important is that I acknowledge the fact that she could have existed. Something like that.

  Her wooden child opened its eyes and looked at me. I already told you I’m not good with children, even when they’re made of wood, even when they’re mine, from one of my other conceivable lives.

  Its wooden eyes rested on me and it slowly stretched out its little wooden hand towards my cheek. Lady Saint stood still, satisfied, peaceful, as if she wanted to say: “There, you see!” For a second, I thought she was going to thrust her wooden child into my arms, for me to hold it a little. But, I didn’t move my arms and the wooden child didn’t manage to touch me, because I didn’t budge an inch. I just stood there, looking at the two of them and thinking how this was only one of those cliffs one could take a leap from. Who knows who I would find waiting for me on some other island?

  All I did was accidentally bump into that stupid CD shelf, which was standing in the wrong place anyway, making it difficult to go out on the terrace without making at least some contact. My husband didn’t say anything special. He just yelled, “Be careful!” But his tone was offensive. You know what I mean? As if I were someone who always bumps into things, and intentionally turns over and breaks his CD’s.

  There are days when I don’t even notice such things.

  Then again, there are those other days when something like this is enough to make me start an argument, which then lasts for hours.

  You guessed it. This was one of those other days.

  That’s how it started, slowly but surely, leading to the moment when we’re both in bed, because it’s already late, and we’ve already argued in the living room and the kitchen; gone through our round of insults from the bathroom to the bedroom, as he turned down the bed and I removed my make-up; already managed to release the introductory poisonous arrows, which guarantee a night of quality sleeplessness, and now, here we were in a bed, wide enough for each of us to wrap ourselves up tightly in our own blankets and avoid touching the other with even the smallest part of our tense, angry skin.

  I thought about what normal people usually do in situations like this. They probably turn their backs to each other and try to sleep. The next morning, everything looks different. The next morning, everyone has work to do and they don’t feel like arguing anymore, at least not with the same passion. The next morning, the argument is magically buried in that mysterious place where we always put all our arguments. I’m not saying that they disappear, I’m not that naïve, but I know the lid can be closed relatively easily. Sometimes, you need to sit on it, like you do with luggage, but nevertheless, if you’ve supplied yourself with a half-decent suitcase for packing arguments, you’ll be able to close it.

  My husband is silent on his side of the bed, hoping, I guess, that I’ll stop there. Actually, it could be so simple: all he needs to do is turn towards me and give me a hug. Still, this is something he never does in situations like this. His only contribution is stubborn silence. Meanwhile, his silence has always been such an inspiration to me ever since the first time I wanted him to kiss me, instead of just sitting there, not saying a word.

  “I know how this will end,” I say. “Sooner or later we’ll make up and act as if we never said any of those things.”

  He’s lying silently in the darkness, but I know he’s listening to me.

  “That’s one of the biggest deceptions in a marriage,” I continue. “At some point, people get tired of arguing and say to themselves: ‘All right, it’s over now, we can make up, with or without sex, it doesn’t matter, I just want it to be over because I don’t have the will or the energy to continue with this.’ At some point, we realize all those stories in marriage manuals and the marriage advice in women’s magazines are pure nonsense, and that all these things are very different in real life. None of the arguments have ever turned into a constructive conversation. Nor will this one. At one point, the two of us will begin to act like we’ve made up.”

  It was strange. I was still there, in the argument, the pillow was still wet from my tears, I could still feel the left side of my body being pierced by a wire fence of hatred, which erupts out of nowhere and then very quickly vanishes who knows where; but at the same time, it was as if I was looking in from the outside. I’ve learned in all these years the way it usually begins, the paths it takes, and how it ends. We resembled two well-rehearsed actors modestly celebrating the 300th showing of a small chamber play. The set sometimes changes, the décor is falling apart, so new set pi
eces are dragged in, they broke a few tea sets during the years, and as time passed, they took the liberty of changing the original text. They even got it into their heads that they knew more about what the characters should say than the writer himself! They were able to start from the middle, the end, go backwards, if needed. They could have done the play in a large, luxurious theatre or on the stage of a small, provincial movie theatre. It was all the same to them. They’ve surpassed the required amount of applause a long time ago. Everything after that is a plus. Such were our arguments.

  I wanted to ask him where he thinks the hate goes after we fall asleep, or decide to end an argument, but I knew I wouldn’t get an answer. At least not one that would allow me to expand my theory. My husband doesn’t believe hate is an integral part of love.

  Nevertheless, I wanted to bring this out into the open, and so I said:

  “Since you’re so stubborn, both you and I know that at some point I’m going to turn around and hug you. In fact, that’s what you’re waiting for. So we can then finally go to sleep.”

  Instead of an answer, I got some sort of subdued, obscure groan, something like disapproval, like a sigh of a man pretending to be worn out.

  I could lay my hand on his chest now. I wouldn’t find it hard. Or unpleasant. I could pretend I’m upset because we fought. But I’m not. I’m completely indifferent, because, at this point, a fight doesn’t mean anything, nor does a kiss. That’s what I’m talking about. At a certain point, it all becomes equally unimportant and almost the same. The only thing that changes is the position of the hands on the clock.

  Maybe he was able to follow my train of thought, or not, besides, it wasn’t really that important. As I already said, none of it was important. That’s why he was given only bits and pieces, with the opportunity of putting them together as he sees fit.

  “It’s all love, I guess,” I said to him from my wet pillow.

  This is when he got the courage to slowly turn his head towards me, for the first time.

  “Do you know what love is?” I asked the pillow next to me.

  He didn’t say anything, of course. He had no intention of falling into the trap.

  “More than anything, love is the fear of loneliness. That’s love. People added all the other things simply to shield themselves from banality.”

  He had already turned towards me, and was looking at me in the dark. I could hear his breathing and feel the barbed wire fence become softer and silkier. Soon, I’ll be able to walk through it without any injuries.

  “I’m afraid of loneliness. You’re afraid of loneliness. We’re all afraid.”

  His breath was nearing mine, and hate sensed it was time to go back into its dwelling place. Without dinner, but still rewarded with a long walk.

  My hand moved towards his face and he was there. And that was plenty, much more than the possibility of him not being there at all.

  Extension cord, contact lens solution, deodorant, soap, doormat. This is a list of things I need to buy today.

  In this city, children like killing cats. I don’t think it was always like this, at least not when I was a child. Something changed. Either the children, the cats, or me. This is a city of angry children. If they could, they would smash all the car windshields, puncture all the car tires, scribble dirty words on all the walls, urinate in front of everyone’s door, and spit after everyone they pass on the street. Then, they would go and slowly choke some cat. Or sic two or three stray dogs on her that are just as pathetic and angry as they are.

  It was summer already and we were helplessly sitting on the terrace watching children, barely three feet tall, run around the building, with wild looks on their faces, as they let out terrifying screams. Some were carrying sharp sticks. Others were grabbing rocks along the way. Still others were relying on their ability to kick hard. I could see them turning into people who beat their children, right before my eyes, and then these children beating other children and the anger building to a point I don’t dare think about. It was unbearable, no matter where we sat. Inside, it was humid. On the terrace, we had to watch them. There was no point in trying to read, because every few minutes, we would hear a beastly cry coming from the mouth of a child whose arrival into this world was once greeted with joy by everyone.

  This is how we happened to escape into the mountains, to a house that belonged to our friends.

  Everything seemed different there. The air was fresh, the grass was truly green, the birds and flies were considerate and discreet, the nights were quiet and the days were long.

  “Remember how the summers never seemed to end when we were kids?” said my husband, with his feet up on the fence, wrapping a sweater around his shoulders.

  I knew exactly what he was talking about. Time had begun to flow outrageously fast. Birthdays ran one right into the other, seasons changed before you got a chance to finish a book, weekends came around at the blink of an eye, and then another and another… and everything in-between was the same.

  Here, the days were suddenly long again. Our mornings began by slowly opening the wooden shutters, looking into the hills, observing the sky and the occasional clouds, followed by making casual, interesting plans for breakfast, going for a walk, and dicing vegetables for lunch. Then, we might take a nap, and there was no reason why we couldn’t go for another walk. By late afternoon, we would feel like the day started at least three days ago because we had already done so many things.

  In the evenings, we played cards and drank beer. This was how we spent our days and then, on the last evening of our stay, we saw this forty-year-old woman with a pleasant singing voice on TV, when our friend, our considerably drunk friend suddenly said:

  “What is she doing on TV at her age?”

  I could have let this go, of course. This was only one of those things he says when he’s drunk. But for some reason, I felt the need to confront him.

  “And why wouldn’t she be on TV?”

  “Because she’s old.”

  His wife sat up on the sofa and grabbed her cigarettes. You could feel an argument coming on.

  “What are you trying to say,” I asked, “that only young and very attractive people should be on TV?”

  He was pouring himself another beer and you could tell he had no intention of backing down. Besides, he was quickly approaching his fortieth birthday and we were supposed to interpret all this as fear, but for some reason, we didn’t want to.

  “It’s unbecoming,” he said, as if he wanted to stir things up even more. “They’re taping her music video from a helicopter so that we won’t see her wrinkles.”

  “What about Pavarotti?” my husband stepped in.

  “It’s different with Pavarotti,” said our friend. “He’s a man.”

  It was obvious he was trying to provoke us. I made one final attempt:

  “Come on, you don’t really think that, you just want to annoy us.”

  “Oh yes, he definitely does!” suddenly his wife jumped in. “In his opinion, all women who are not anorexic, or are over eighteen, should be subjected to senicide.”

  “Don’t take it personally. I’m only talking about the singers.”

  “Listen,” I said. “You know very well that’s ridiculous.”

  “It’s not ridiculous. Flip through the channels and tell me what you see. Young, fresh meat. That’s what the viewers want!”

  His wife’s lips curved slightly downward. It was obvious her disappointment wasn’t anything new, but at the same time, there was something in her eyes that frightened me. There were already too many disappointed people in the world. I didn’t want to add to someone’s pile of crushed illusions. But, he wouldn’t stop:

  “Here, take a good look and tell me if I’m wrong! The place is dominated by young, firm, slim, new, desirable… old women in their forties have no business being there. Like it or not, it’s true!”

  Great. We’ve finally come to the hard facts, I thought to myself. I could have told him he should never ta
lk that way in front of his wife, but he already knew that. I could have told him the people in that room were no longer truly young, or really firm, or as desirable as they once were, but he already knew that too. I could have engaged in a long and boring analysis on desirability as an altogether personal and not always rational feeling, but I wouldn’t be telling him anything he didn’t already know. Something else was making him say these things, something impossible to defeat. Or, at least difficult to defeat. And on that night, none of us had the strength for hard, grueling verbal battles. I could have told him that he probably feels the same way we all do, but that perhaps he wants to deal with the inevitable as soon as possible.

  My mother came to mind. And how, as the years passed, she became increasingly angry with the whole world. Angry with time. Angry with pharmacies, store prices, mendacious plumbers, small dress sizes in store windows; angry with the tiny print on the labels of her favorite cosmetics, angry with the dark spots on her hands and face, the blood pressure monitor, the television program that offered nothing, absolutely nothing, to amuse her; angry with her own anger, which she then tried to pass off as great concern for the world around her, which was recklessly and stubbornly falling apart.

  A few destroyed civilizations came to mind. I wanted to say that maybe they were ruined for this exact reason, because some angry, powerful old man tried to prove that the problem lies in the depravity of the world and not him.

  The next morning, we all acted as if nothing happened. Except that she came to breakfast in her nightgown. I guess being neat and pretty wasn’t that important to her anymore.