Good on Paper (17 page)

Okay, the rabbi’s out, she eventually agreed. Anyone else?

I shook my head.

Shira! You gotta get out there!

I’ve suffered from a lack of female guidance, I admitted.

You want female guidance? I’ll give you female guidance!

She stubbed out her cigarette and inspected me.

Stand, she said. I complied. She looked pointedly at my midsection and said, You’re spending too much time at Cuppa Joe’s. Only a true friend would tell you.

I looked down, pressed my hands against my belly, acknowledged there was more give and take there than there used to be.

More? she asked. I nodded meekly. What kind of bra are you wearing? From the looks of it, it’s one of those athletic bras that smush you down.

I looked down again.

No, I really am this small.

Jeanette
tsk-tsked
me. No one’s ever that small, she said, and gave me a short course on miracles. Push yourself up by your bra straps!

Isn’t that deceptive?

Poor dear, she said, shaking her head. Men are beasts. They’re wonderful, adorable beasts, and we love them, but they need to think they’re getting titties,
big
titties.

Even if they’re not?

Especially if they’re not.

I didn’t understand, but promised to think about it. Then we made more daiquiris.

You know my ex has prostate cancer, Jeanette said, as she dumped frozen blueberries into the blender. Did Dotty tell you?

Dotty doesn’t talk about her father. Is he okay?

I don’t think so, she said, reaching for the rum, which was still on the counter. I bear him no ill will, you know. I should. I should want to pull his fucking prostate out with my teeth.

Ghoulish, Jen! I like it!

She cracked up as she reached back inside the freezer for ice. But I say, live and let live. Ever tempted to rake your exes over the coals? she asked, tearing open a packet of daiquiri mix.

I knew what she meant: Would I defame one in a story?

You know what they say? I asked.

Tell! she said, and poured what must have been a quart of Nutrasweet into the blender.

If you put an ex in a story, give him a small you-know-what and make him impotent. He’ll never say it was him! No one gets sued!

From that elevated point, we ascended farther, discussing size in general—one of us claiming it made no difference, the other claiming it made all the difference in the world—then size in particular, as in our exes, the hypothetical endowment of movie stars, politicians. All in all, an edifying afternoon. When I left, we promised to have lunch, watch weepies over what Dotty once called “white” ice cream, and never fall out of touch again. (Yes, that’s how we referred to our falling out, as a
falling out of touch
.) Because we were true friends, true-blue friends! Drinking true-blue drinks and eating true-blue food!

These were hysterical concepts, so we clung to each other at the front door, shouting and laughing. I was still laughing as I descended in the elevator.
True friends, blue friends, true-blue false friends!
And was struck sober on Third Avenue.

Maybe there were no false friends in Romei’s work. Maybe the false friends were true friends. Was this possible?

Taxi, Miss?

I stared at the doorman.

Casino
, yes: in Italian,
casino
means mess, and Romei’s home is a mess, but bedding Esther is also a gamble. Yes, Esther’s body is
caldo
, or warm, but maybe in another sense it’s cold. Romei felt
fame
, but perhaps his greatest hunger was not for Esther, but for fame. Why mention the
libreria
, the bookstore-that-isn’t-a-library, if not to suggest that the couple didn’t know if their story was borrowed or bought,
a one-night stand or something that would last? When Esther decides that Romei is simpatico, does she in fact mean
nice
or does she think he feels sympathy? Does he? He does!

It was as if Romei were writing in two languages at once, as if two stories were playing themselves out together, one reflected in the mirror of the other. Words that appeared related, words that usually confused readers with their non-correspondence, were miraculously made cognate, reconciled by the all-powerful poet—but why? To suggest that as ill-advised as this coupling appeared, it was also good and right?

But why the sleight of hand? Only the translator, if she were lucky, or maybe (maybe!) the rare bilingual reader, could rescue significance from this mirror. And what did the translator care?

This translator cared. This sort of thing had not been done before. It was marvelous! Everyone would have to know! I would let them know! I’d write an introduction! A Translator’s Note! A wise and learnéd piece, delicate in its approach, tensile in its construction. An introduction to be photocopied and cited by graduate students everywhere!

My heart was beating with excitement.

Yes! I said to the doorman and, to his astonishment, walked away.

28

MIRACLES ARE POSSIBLE

Andi called from Pammy’s the next morning to say she’d been asked to stay the day; I confirmed this with Pammy’s mother, who assured me that Pammy and Andi together were less trouble than Pammy alone, and could Andi stay the rest of Pammy’s natural life? Till four, I said.

I took notes on true-blue false friends in my Door Number Two notebook, then, pleased with my labor, decided to check out Labor Day sales for advanced bra technology: miracles were possible, I now knew, and I needed a miracle. For the next rough beast who came slouching along.

Where to go? I recalled a photo of my mother laughing and holding a Bergdorf bag, her conical breasts lifted and separated. She would have known where to buy a nice, if not a miraculous, bra.

An assiduous woman with a Slavic accent appointed herself my minder, assuring me through the swinging doors of my dressing room that all I needed was a little “support.” She had a professional’s disdain for squandered femininity.

This was when Romei called.

You have receive these new pages, he said.

Thursday, I said, dropping the bras and covering my breasts with a forearm.

No, I think is Wednesday.

I think is Thursday, I said, picking up my T-shirt and holding it to my chest. Four days ago.

Ivana’s gold pumps were pacing tense little steps on the other side of the swinging doors, as I fingered one crimson, one black satin, one front-closing, one strapless.

You are not working? You say you work on no other.

I
am
working, I said, and sat down on the little blue bench, careful not to prick myself on a pin. Of course I’m working!

What you are thinking? he asked.

Again with my opinion?

I was glad, I said, that in the character of Romei you brought Dante’s adulterous desires out of the closet. It’s always bothered me how Dante could call pure and honorable his love for a married woman.

Hurrumph
, Romei said, or something like it.

You asked for it, I thought. Full disclosure.

You’re honest now about your deception then, I said, or rather, your character’s deception. I admire that.

You understand nothing, he said.

I understand a few things, I thought. One thing is you’re nuts.

You understand nothing of this story I telling, he continued. You think you know every thing, but you know nothing of what is happen next.

I’m sure you’re right, I said, and thought,
What’s to understand? The whole world knows how this story ends!

How is your little daughter? he asked then. She is fine?

Andi? She fractured her wrist.

Fracture her wrist! You must be careful! I am not receive this photograph. You are sending?

You only just asked for it! I said, realizing that somehow I’d agreed to his request.

Outside the dressing cubicle, Ivana sighed, loudly.

You will fax this thing to me.

No can do, I replied.

You have not a—how you say—scanning device? But you are American! You have every kind of machinery!

He was trying to be charming.

Listen, I said. I’d like to leave my daughter out of this if you don’t mind.

She is intelligent, like her mother?

Of course, I said, not catching the flattery till it was too late.

Reading? Maybe writing little stories?

We try not to pressure her.

We? Who is we?

I’d like to make an appointment to discuss some questions I have, maybe next week?

Ivana, sensing my call would never end, clacked away from the dressing room.

Don’t trouble me with this thing. Make a note and send the translation.

Romei! You said the end of the year!

This is good. I would like the end of this month. I send you more tomorrow.

You must be reasonable, Romei!

What am I—engineer? There is no time! I am busy. Goodbye, and he was gone.

I felt unaccountably abandoned in my cubby—with its florescent lights and stray pins and mangled hangers, the faint sound of a machine somewhere registering something, the closed-circuit cameras, the ghosts of other women who’d prayed for miracles. Romei would never answer my questions! He had no respect for my profession, no respect for
me
.

I put my cotton bra back on, and my T-shirt. There would be no miracles today.

29

ROSH HASHANAH, MY ASS

The sky had turned the color of dishwater, so instead of walking off the chocolate croissants Jeanette had seen clinging to my thighs, I took the M7 up Amsterdam. When I got back to Slice of Park, I checked my messages:

Jeanette was glad I’d stopped by.

Someone named Asante was looking for Ralph. A matter of some
emergency
.

Benny wanted to talk:

I know this isn’t something you understand or believe, he said, but we’re supposed to atone during the High Holy Days. The rest of my life’s a mess, but I’m hoping you and I can make things right. Please? Call, or stop by the store.

When I was writing “Rose No One,” the Paul Celan story, Benny told me Rosh Hashanah was the birthday of the world—a perfect time, Rose thought, to begin again. Benny had helped—providing biographical details, offering variant translations of key Celan lines, challenging me to do better, and publishing the story eventually, though he’d said he wouldn’t. No one had ever taken such an interest in my work. Remembering this made me sad. We’d gotten along so well then. And now?

I looked over my shoulder at People of the Book. I’d made mistakes;
if there was a moral bean-counter in the sky I hoped he’d be generous with me. Jeanette had been generous—more than generous; shouldn’t I be generous as well? So Benny was a friend of Romei’s and didn’t tell me, big deal! Maybe he didn’t want to get involved in our professional relationship. Weird, but okay.

Unless he already was involved
.

Could it be? Had
Benny
referred Romei to me?

It made sense. They knew each other; Benny had given Romei my number. Benny was a literary guy—he knew lots of folks. Maybe Romei asked if he knew a translator. Maybe Benny hadn’t wanted to admit such a large favor. His involvement would explain why Romei had taken a chance on an unknown—he’d trusted Benny’s judgment!

All Benny had wanted was to do something nice for me!

I stood up again, ready to apologize. We could begin again, I thought, but then:

No. He couldn’t have given Romei my name! He didn’t know about my Dante translation, he’d never heard of
Vita Nuova
.

Might he still have recommended me? And I just happened to be an expert on an obscure work of Dante no one but me has ever read? Too large a coincidence.

A drop of rain landed on my nose.

I had it all wrong. It wasn’t up to me to reach out to Benny. It was up to him to come to me, to come clean. He hadn’t, he’d had his chances and he hadn’t.

Rosh Hashanah, my ass.

30