Baltimore (12 page)

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 talk 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.

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.