Baltimore

by Jelena Lengold

  They waved to us from the terrace as we got into our car and left for the city where children kill cats.

  I wanted to tell my husband that it all came down to the same thing, but we were driving down a winding road and I refrained from talking about it. It was all the same and anywhere we go, sooner or later, there will be death and cruelty and destruction. The only difference is in the scenery.

  We would go down to the lake at night and swim in the dark, after everyone had already gone, leaving behind only the calm, warm water, the music from the nearby floats and the stars.

  I would lie on my back and float on the water, imagining I was floating through space. As my ears filled with water, I would hear only distant, undefined humming which, in my imagination, easily became the humming sound of outer space. I would leave only a small part of my face above water, just enough to watch the stars above me.

  The universe was rocking me. The stars moved closer and then withdrew again. I was alone, terrified, and happy. I felt like I was going to float like this forever because chances of someone finding me in such vast space were minimal. I wasn’t even sure I really wanted to be found. I could sense eternity all around me.

  Then I would swing my arms back a few times and the stars would start fluttering around me.

  I thought of Edgar. What is he doing right now? He probably just got back from work and is fixing dinner. He has turned on the TV and is waiting for his baseball game to start. Soon, he’ll sit on the sofa and eat his dinner while watching television. For a moment, he might think about how it’s not good that he’s spending another evening alone, but the thought will quickly pass because the game will start to get interesting, and he’ll surrender to forgetfulness. And fatigue. Edgar was very tired in the evening. I somehow knew that.

  Later, when darkness spreads over Baltimore as well, he will go up on the roof to watch the stars. He’ll open a can of beer and think about how the billboards are bothering him. They gleam and flicker and get in the way of him watching the night sky. He’ll remember the way he waved at the street camera the other day. He’ll start feeling sorry for himself, and think, “Loneliness can really drive a person to do pathetic things.” Was that the phone or was he just imagining it? He’ll realize he was just imagining it, as usual. No one ever calls him at this hour. He’ll start wishing he had a telescope so that he can see what the other people were doing in their apartments. Then he’ll tell himself that that would make him even sadder because he would get to see people sitting around with their friends and talking. Arguing. Making love. Eating dinner. Ironing. But not alone.

  I knew Edgar was well aware there were many other lonely people besides him, but he also knew this realization is of no comfort to them.

  “Hey!”

  I saw my thoughts glance off the stars and move towards Baltimore.

  “Hey, Edgar! I’m talking to you!”

  Edgar holds his breath. Turns the television down. Leaves the beer can on the table. Gets up and looks out the window.

  “I’m not outside, Edgar. But I could be, very soon, if you like. It’s only a few hours by plane.”

  By now he’s standing in the middle of the room, completely baffled, with an almost frightened expression on his face. He looks about and then in a low, very low voice, says:

  “Where are you?”

  “There, right above you. I’m floating among the stars.”

  “So, that’s it. I’ve gone crazy?”

  “If I’m crazy, then so are you.”

  “I have to tell you, I’ve never been a religious man. And I wouldn’t want to start now.”

  “This has nothing to do with God, Edgar. This is purely science. Stars, pheromones, the speed of light, planet curvature - things like that. I can’t really explain it to you, but I feel like we’re on the trail of something great.”

  “How can I be sure you’re really you?” asks Edgar, more relaxed now and back on the sofa again, with the can of beer in his hand.

  “Ask me something. Test me.”

  “All right,” says Edgar, trying to think of a question. “What is the greatest passion of all?”

  “Fear!”

  “You’re quick. Very good. Here’s something more difficult: what is the cruelest thing of all?”

  “That’s easy. Beauty.”

  “Hmm. Very, very good. I have just one more question for you. Name an art form in which there is no skepticism.”

  “Edgar, everyone knows that. It’s music.”

  The last thing I saw was how the very last trace of innocence disappeared from Edgar’s face. He seemed to have opened his mouth to say something else, but that was when my husband swam over to me, touched my leg in the water, and the line with Edgar was cut off. I looked up again, but I no longer knew which of the stars bounced my thoughts towards him. It all disappeared in a blink of an eye. I couldn’t get it back. At least not tonight.

  I’ve been trying to find a parking space for an hour now. I tried all the usual methods: discreetly waiting for someone to leave their spot, circling around the block, picturing in my mind, with all my might, a nice empty parking space waiting for me just around the corner. Casually driving around as if I had no intention of stopping, looking at the buildings instead of the sidewalk in an attempt to throw off my bad luck that morning; in other words, I tried everything. But, there wasn’t a single parking space within a radius of a few kilometers. It was just one of those days.

  I stopped and lit a cigarette, and then turned on the radio. Joe Cocker was singing. This is good, I thought to myself. Why am I even in a hurry to leave this spot? It’s late summer, there are people all around me, I’m shielded by the very pleasant shade of a tall linden tree, and I’m not in the way of the other drivers, who are free to continue on their way. Who needs a parking space?

  And then the phone rang.

  “What are you doing?” my mother asked in a solemn voice.

  There’s been friction between us for the last few days, since our last Sunday dinner together. Sunday dinners with our parents remind us that we’re failures and that we didn’t meet their expectations.

  I made my voice sound cold, which I will undoubtedly feel guilty about later on:

  “I’m trying to find a parking space. Nothing special.”

  “I wanted to see if you were all right,” my mother continued in that same voice, as if she were on her deathbed.

  I guess I was supposed to ask why her voice sounded like that, but I didn’t feel like it. I’ve asked that question too many times already.

  “I’m fine, of course.”

  “Last night I had horrible nightmares,” said my mother. “And I became terribly worried about you.”

  I could have replied to this in several different ways.

  I could have asked my mother what the nightmares were about. But, then I would probably have to listen to how I was faced with another deadly situation.

  I could have told my mother that every dream, in which I’m devoured by something or killed or run over on a crosswalk, actually represents her aggression towards me. But, then she would probably start crying.

  I could have gently said I was fine and avoided asking about her dream out of consideration for her feelings, which we don’t want to stir up again.

  I could have uttered one of those sentences that solve every problem by putting the blame on the weather. Mentioned the storm that roared all through the previous night and told my mother we were all a little groggy due to the sudden change in weather. I could have backed this up by mentioning some newspaper article and saying that such heat waves had never hit London, and that the North Pole is going to melt quickly if this continues. And that the continental climate of our city is slowly becoming tropical. All this has to affect our dreams in some way, right?

  I could have snapped at her and told her it was silly of her to call me on my cell and tell me that she once again had a bad dream about me.

  I could have asked her: “Are you saying
that something bad or tragic is going to happen to me soon? Is that your message?” And then she would probably start shouting: “Oh, no, no, no…. I just wanted to see if everything was all right, I woke up and my heart was pounding so hard I just had to call you….” But, then I would be faced with the heart palpitations, which I couldn’t or shouldn’t ignore, if I wanted to call myself a daughter. I would have to ask why her heart was pounding, and then she would say it had been like that for days. No, she wouldn’t mention the argument, but you could read between the lines that she had been in really bad health ever since the day we had the argument, during the damn Sunday dinner, and that she didn’t want to worry me, but since I already asked, she just didn’t know how to hide it. Even though she really wanted to keep this from me because the last thing she wanted was to worry me.

  I’m putting my make-up on in the rear-view mirror and imagining one of the possible replies:

  I’m sorry, Mother, that today I didn’t meet with anything that could match your supreme talent for the tragic, your flair for the melodramatics. The world might never see the superior manner in which you would wrap your pale and righteous face in black, in keeping with deep mourning. Mourning attire before which everyone in the room would have no other choice but to fall silent at, and perhaps let out an uncontrollable sob or two. This would be one of those performances that leave the audience nailed to their seats, even after the curtain goes down. They would feel it inappropriate to stand up and applaud. They wouldn’t know whether to throw flowers at your feet or go home in deep and solemn silence. Sometimes I feel guilty for robbing you of the role of a lifetime. Because I want to live a few more meaningless years or decades, you can’t fulfill your potential. That’s really sad. If only I were doing something worthwhile with my life, it would be understandable that I should be alive. But this way… here I am, sitting in my car in the middle of the street, incapable of even finding a parking space. And, what’s worse, I don’t care. I care so little that I might not even go to work today, and simply go back home and watch cartoons. And for this, you’re missing out on your career.

  How do her fears unfold? Are they complete stories, overflowing with details, infusions, deep wounds, death-rattles, coffins, telegrams of condolence, gladiola arrangements, and tears, or just terrifying flashing images that freeze her body, somewhere between horror and the thing she calls love? What does she feel when I come back from a trip, when the plane lands, when I leave the hospital, when, for the hundredth time, I challenge the prophetic power of her dreams? Is there at least a tiny bit of awakened disappointment or is all this called relief and joy?

  My mother told me, on numerous occasions, that she has been terribly afraid for my life since the day I was born. Once long ago, she asked her father if this was normal and, according to her, he said that fear was a normal phenomenon, which always accompanies parenthood. And so my mother was also given formal permission to continue with her fears, because, of course, she didn’t tell her father that she was going to do so to the very end, mine or hers, with a force which, in my opinion, surpasses rational parental concern. Still, I know nothing about parenthood, so I’m not the one to judge. However, since this concerns my life, I am so bold as to make judgments about her fear.

  Of course, I could always turn to the cruelest option: I could ask her if she maybe wanted us to quickly and simply confirm her ability to predict horrific events. For example, I could drive my car into the first wall. Or even better: I could take my hands off the steering wheel and run off a bridge into a swollen river.

  My mother would sit, surrounded by her friends, and between sobs, tell them about the horrible nightmare she had the night before, and how she knew, just knew, something terrible would happen. And no one would be able to dispute this. So, if she was right about something that serious and fatal, this could only mean that she was right about all those other things, which were far below this event in the hierarchy of fate.

  I finished putting on my make-up. It was time to finish the conversation as well.

  “I’m fine,” I said to my mother, like someone who was in the middle of heavy city traffic and couldn’t talk a minute longer.

  “Well then,” she said, disappointed, “good-bye.”

  The light on my phone was blaring for another full six seconds, as if asking me if I wanted to call her back.

  I do, I thought to myself. Of course I do. But that wasn’t what was really expected of me.

  “I’ve almost finished my novel,” I said.

  Summer was nearing its end and I was once again sitting in my chair, after taking a break for several weeks.

  There was nothing new, really, except that now she had short hair. But, I felt like I needed to give her some encouragement.

  “That’s good. I remember the first time you were here you mentioned some sort of writer’s block. Are you happy with what you’ve written?”

  Writer’s block!? What an expression! It reminded me of the phrases used in bad literary reviews.

  “Well, that’s a hard question. I don’t really know how I feel about what I’ve written until the novel is completed. And even then, I’m not sure it’s any good. Sometimes I think it’s good and other times, it seems completely mundane. I don’t think it’s spectacular, but it’s readable. For people who like this kind of psychological babble. I like it, and I always hope there’s someone else out there who isn’t squeamish about reading such things.”

  She laughed:

  “And what would make it, as you say, spectacular?”

  “Oh, if I knew that, I’d do it. This is something you know only after you read a spectacular novel. You simply recognize the real thing. I’m afraid there’s no real recipe.”

  We could have gone on like that and used up my entire hour talking about literature, but somehow I didn’t feel like she was the right person to talk to about this. I entrusted her with my stories before going on vacation and I asked her if she had read them over the summer. She told me she did and that she was a bit bothered by the fact that she knew the author. In any case, this was all I got out of her. I said:

  “I, of course, gave you those stories because I wanted you to learn more about me through them.”

  “Or less,” she added.

  I liked this. Maybe she really did read them, I thought to myself.

  I then told her about my most recent fight with my mother. About one more in a million fights.

  “What is the recurring pattern in these arguments?” she asked.

  “We already talked about that.”

  “It doesn’t matter. There are so many things that need to be retold in order to put them in their right place.”

  “I guess the common denominator of all those arguments is the fact that I always take the bait. I always get angry. I always react like a hurt child.”

  “And what would be the mature reaction?”

  “I don’t know. If I did, I wouldn’t be here. For a while, I thought the wisest thing to do was to keep from even participating in these conflicts. But that would only be a learned behavior. It wouldn’t reflect my true need, if you know what I mean. Is it mature to adapt our behavior to the outside world, even though our genuine need for crying or getting angry or childish despair still remains the same? Is it mature to act like you’re not afraid when you actually are? It can’t be that the essence of maturity is simply well simulated calmness?”

  “Of course that’s not the point. It would be good if the calmness were genuine. How would you define, in one sentence, your constant clashes with your mother?”

  “Guilt. I always feel guilty.”

  “For what?”

  “For not being loyal enough. At least that’s what she thinks. I’m not the kind of daughter she would want. A daughter who would talk to her every day about every detail of her life, and then give her a chance to offer her advice. A daughter who would then follow this advice, even if she doesn’t agree with it.”

  “What is the opposite of this
kind of loyalty?”

  “Freedom, I guess.”

  “Do you feel free now?”

  “No, not as long as she’s alive.”

  “And what would constitute this freedom?”

  “The first thing that comes to mind is the freedom to die. I can’t die while she’s alive. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t wish to die, but let’s say I contract a deadly disease. You know what I’d be thinking about on my deathbed? I wouldn’t get a chance to grieve over my own life because of the guilt I would be feeling for doing this to my mother. That’s exactly what it would be like. Me dying would be like doing something unforgivable to my mother! But, when it comes to, let’s say, my husband, I wouldn’t feel that way. In relation to him, I would just feel sad for leaving him. But, no guilt.”

  “What trait does your husband possess, which makes him different and unlike your mother?”

  “I think he genuinely loves himself, in a healthy and normal way, whatever that means. If I were to die, he would without a doubt be sad and grieve for a while, but he would manage to get back on his feet and continue with his life. And that’s good to know. It’s not at all pleasant to know that you’re dragging someone else with you to your grave. When I drown, everyone else should stay safely on the surface, until their time comes. That would be real freedom!”

  “Who do you think gives us permission to love or not love ourselves?”

  “Why, our parents, right?”

  “And what if we don’t get this from our parents? What then?”

  “Well, I don’t know. If we don’t get this from our parents, then we simply don’t have it.”

  “Do you know that only a person who genuinely loves himself can truly love someone else, or really belong to someone else?”

  “Are you saying that I can’t genuinely love another person?”

  “I want to remind you of a conversation we had some time ago about abandonment, which results from fear of being abandoned.”

  If she had thought of those coloring pencils and drawings at that moment, if she had asked me to draw love, the way I saw it, then and there, I would have probably drawn a knife entering a deep and aching wound. It would have been a cheap, symbolically very primitive drawing, but still, damn it, a very precise presentation of what I was feeling. Somehow, I knew this couldn’t possibly be good. This was not what love was supposed to look like, I guess. My father’s lips pressed tightly together came to mind. And that I wasn’t really familiar with his eyes because he wore tinted glasses all his life. I remembered the displeased look on my mother’s face, greeting me as I approach her on the street. She doesn’t talk about it anymore, but I know there are many things she would like to change about me. Does being mature mean you should simply overlook their angry, dissatisfied, critical faces? I remembered the way my husband always came home with a pure, cheerful smile on his face, and I thought of my fear of being taken to some unfamiliar regions of boredom due to the sameness and certainty of this smile. Why would I be bored only when I’m in a place where that knife isn’t turned every day in a wound inflicted long ago? Maybe I really can’t feel genuine love for anyone. What a devastating thought. All I wanted to do was write a novel; meanwhile I’ve come to the realization that I don’t know how to love. I thought maybe I got more than I bargained for. But, there was no going back.