Mama Leone (5 page)

Grandma's going to Russia. Why aren't I going? I'm not going because I'm still little. It's stupid to take little kids on such a long trip, it's not worth the effort. I'm not going because I'd just forget everything I saw. That's what Mom and Grandma say. I sit in the corner sulking, playing with my little model Volkswagen Bug and promising myself that I'm going to remember all this. One day I really will drive a gray Bug like this one, in the real world and on real streets, but I can't know this yet. I'm four years old and I don't know anything about my future because the future hasn't happened yet. One day when I'm on a real
road driving a real Bug it'll be hard to figure what has actually happened. Have I grown up or just shrunk so much that now I can fit into the little car I was playing with the day Grandma was going to Russia and I was blue thinking
I have to remember, I have to remember, I have to remember
. . . Because if I don't remember, then she'll never take me anywhere with her, I'll never go to Russia and I'll never see myself in fancy photos from overseas.

Let's go to sleep
, said Mom. I open my mouth, wanting to say something. I want to yell
no schlafen
but I can't because she didn't say it right, she didn't say
time for schlafen
, and that's the deal, they're the magic words that make me yell. Now I just button up, my mouth half open, a look of horror on my face, no longer registering a thing. She puts me to bed, kisses my cheek, says
good night
, and leaves. I can't close my eyes because I know that if I close them I'll stay this way forever, and I'll never again fight against sleep, I'll get weak and helpless and believe there are battles lost in advance and wars unworthy of tears.

When Grandma was in Russia my dreams weren't scary. They were just sad. Little wooden boats sailed through them, all the fishermen wearing straw hats like my grandpa. The tiny boats sailed and sank, and as they sank, the old men on board didn't lift a finger, they vanished from the surface as if there were no difference between the world above and the world below, as if nothing really mattered in the vast salty ocean of my dream, the water salty like the salt of my tears when I lick them from my hand, keeping an eye out that no one sees because if they see me licking my tears they'll know I'm done with my sulking.

When Grandma was away I woke up without a smile. Mom noticed and was downhearted. For her it was proof enough that I loved Grandma more than her because, you know, I smiled to Grandma in the morning. God, my mom was so immature and silly. One day she'll say to me
if only I were twenty-eight and knew what I know now
, but I won't say anything to her because I don't want to hurt her, but I could tell her what I'm now telling you:
Mom, you're stupid – stupid, stupid, stupid – you just needed to say c'mon, time for schlafen, time for schlafen, and I would've smiled to you in the morning too, and it would've never crossed your mind that I loved you any less
.

Grandma came back from Russia with a dead fox around her neck. The fox had glass eyes and a plastic snout. Poor little fox. The next time Grandma told me I wasn't allowed to kill ants because they're someone's children I asked her
is the fox someone's child too
, but she never replied. She was cooking lunch and couldn't answer absolutely every question, but the questions she didn't answer because she was cooking lunch were always the most interesting ones.
Russia is gigantic
, she said,
gigantic and cold
, and from her bag took a wooden doll inside which there was a smaller wooden doll, inside which there was a smaller doll, inside which there was a smaller doll, until a sixth wooden doll you couldn't open came out. But I was sure there must have been a wooden doll inside her too because I couldn't see any reason why there wouldn't be. Then one by one I had to put the dolls back inside each other, and when I was done Grandma put them on a bedside cabinet as an ornament so we could forget about them and one day put them in
a cardboard box and store them in the attic. When people die, they're put in graves; when things die, they're put in the attic. One day things go from the attic to the city garbage dump, but that usually only happens after the people who put them in the attic are put in their graves. At four I only know about the start of this long journey. I know about people in graves and things in attics.

Grandma put me to bed again. She said
c'mon, time for schlafen, let's go
, and I yelled
no schlafen
, and she said
you haven't changed at all, I thought you'd be big boy when I came back from Russia
. She wanted to sound mad, my grandma, but she was actually just sad. I'll never be as big as she wants me to be and I'll never tell her what was going on back then, and I won't tell her everything I remember either, that I haven't forgotten a thing and that she should have taken me to Russia with her, I'll never get to any of that because Grandma will die and go in the grave, and when she goes we'll clean up the apartment, and the attic too.

I had terrifying dreams again that night, and I wanted to yell but couldn't, because as always the little creature of darkness popped up from somewhere and took my dreams away before I woke up, but this time he left something behind. It was a dream of a scary black man who in the distance, from the top of our street, was coming toward me with a big black dog. In my dream I thought
look, it's the boogeyman, he's going to hurt me or make me disappear, but look, a big black dog's coming and he's going to gobble up the big black man, but then an even bigger black man's going to show up with another big black dog and the dog's going
to gobble up the bigger black man after he has hurt me or made me disappear
. I woke up smiling.

That day we went to Drvenik, where Grandpa was waiting for us. He gave Grandma a kiss. He didn't usually do that. He kissed her because she'd just got back from Russia. I learned that people kiss each other when they come back from a big trip or if they haven't seen each other in ages. While I was in Sarajevo and Grandma in Russia, Grandpa had made a new friend. He told us about him on the way home. The story went that Grandpa was walking to Zaostrog and wanted to sit down on a bench because he was tired, but his friend-to-be was already sitting on the bench. Grandpa asked politely if he could sit down, but his friend-to-be didn't understand. So Grandpa asked him the same thing in German, and his friend-to-be answered and that's how they met. His name is Ralph, an American who has a big German shepherd. Grandpa thinks Ralph is a spy, but Grandpa doesn't care.
We all have to work, all that matters is that we do our work well
. Ralph's in Makarska at the moment, but he's coming to visit this afternoon.

Around four o'clock a big black man arrives, leading a big black dog. He offers me his hand, shaking my hand seriously as if I were an adult and as if he knew I like it when people shake my hand like I'm an adult. Then I make for the dog, but Grandpa says
wait!
so I stop. Ralph goes up to the dog, whispers something in the dog's ear, and waves me over. The dog's name is Donna. I sit down in front of Donna, put my hand on her forehead, and say
Donna, you're an American boy . . . Donna's a
girl
. Grandpa corrects me . . .
Donna, you're the first American girl I've ever met and I love you
. Everybody laughs. Grandma translates what I said into German for Ralph. Ralph laughs like a giant out of a fairy tale
ahahahaha . . . ahahahaha . . . ahahahaha
. Donna looks at me, her snout resting on the kitchen tiles, her eyes blinking, and I know she knows and understands why I love her. She remembers my dream because I remember it too. She was in my dream, but she hadn't been sleeping, so the little creature of darkness couldn't steal me from her memory. Donna gobbles up scary black men, that I know. But why would she gobble up Ralph, he's Grandpa's friend. He's black, but he's not scary. Then I was sure that Grandpa was right. Ralph isn't a scary black man. Ralph is a spy.

The next day we went with Ralph and Donna to Dubrovnik. We drove in his Cadillac, which if you saw it from a distance looked like it was made out of silver, but it wasn't, it was metal like all the other cars.
The Cadillac glides like a ship
, Grandma told Auntie Lola when we got to Dubrovnik. I was sitting under the dining table and Donna was lying in front of me. We kept quiet. She because dogs don't talk, and me because at that moment I was the prince from the beginning of the story, the master of an endless kingdom and there wasn't anything that wasn't mine. I sat and waited for Donna to do something, to creep into my dreams and make me their master. For a long time I thought Donna had cheated me that day, because she didn't do anything.

Ralph and Donna came the next year too, and then Ralph started
sending postcards from all over the world, from distant cities and islands none of us had ever heard of. He sent his greetings to Grandpa and Grandma and never forgot to mention that Miljenko's American girlfriend says hi too.

When we hadn't received a postcard for more than six months Grandma asked
what's Ralph up to? He hasn't been in touch for ages
. Grandpa just shrugged and sighed. Another six months went by and again Grandma asked the same question. After four stretches of six months went by Grandpa said
who knows, maybe Ralph died. He was all alone in the world, he probably died in some hotel somewhere
. Then I wondered what had happened to Donna and for a long time I hoped she'd show up again somewhere, my American girlfriend, at least in my dreams. I think I'll always think that. When one day I see people losing their heads in the middle of the street, then I'll know that only Donna had saved me from these kinds of dreams.

It's June already, my birthday was seven days ago, and yesterday I discovered the world of split shadows. It was like this. We arrived in Drvenik, Grandma and me, and as soon as we got there she said
go on, go and play
, and I knew why she so was quick to get rid of me. She wanted to pick up the phone, ring Dad in Sarajevo or my uncle, Mom's brother, or someone else she could have a serious talk with, someone as worried as we were, because the day after my birthday Mom had gone to Ljubljana for an operation. Dad said
it's nothing serious
, but two sharp lines creased Mom's face, two crevices between her eyes. She said
you never know, it could get bigger
. Dad said
and that's why you're going to Ljubljana, to be on the safe side and so that it doesn't get bigger
. Grandma asked
well, what is it exactly
, and Dad said
nothing, just a tiny bump on the cervix
. I sat under
the table pretending I was building a Lego castle for Queen Forgetful, but I actually wasn't building anything, I was eavesdropping and trying to understand what was going on. But I didn't understand anything. Instead, a vast freezing emptiness swelled in my chest, right there under the bones where we breathe, where the heart beats. I didn't know what it was. It wasn't a space holding old fears or guilt at something I'd done, but something strange and new, something I couldn't figure out because there just wasn't anything there. But I felt it swell, pressing against my bones, this vast freezing emptiness, dissolving into dead air, into a shadow hovering over my heart and the grown-up hearts of Grandma, Mom, and Dad, my heart that now shares terrifying and serious things with others. Bump is a nice little word, like tummy and mommy, but it means something terrible. Words like this didn't exist before. Before this bump everything little was harmless and sweet, tiny to the eye and pretty to look at, but this had all changed. It changed the day after my birthday when I was eavesdropping on Grandma, Mom, and Dad. The time of little things and their goodness had come to an end. From now on the world would no longer hide in diminutives, no longer reside in their little lost paradises, in Lego cottages or on tiny ottomans upon which the dreams of secret princesses lay scattered.

Grandma's on the phone now. I thought it over as I traipsed past the stone Dalmatian houses. I wasn't just walking, I was stamping, really getting into it. I wanted to stamp right over the top of whatever was
lodged in my head. Mom had gone far away, all the way to Ljubljana, and she was in the hospital, having an operation.
You go to the hospital to get well, not to get sick
, Dad said when they were going to take my tonsils out. But why do they take your tonsils out in Sarajevo and you have to go to Ljubljana because of a bump? Because a bump is so terrible that you have to go far away, like in a fairy tale where they cross seven mountains and seven seas to get well. But not all long journeys have fairy-tale endings. A fairy tale is a fairy tale because it's a story with a happy ending, it's just that happy endings don't happen very often and people don't usually live in them. There isn't enough room for everyone. In fairy tales there's only enough room for a couple of old kings, for their good, bad, and clever daughters, and for the queen and a few witches, but not for people, the millions of millions of people. There isn't enough room for my mom either, who isn't a queen or a princess but just a regular mom who works in accounts, suffers from migraines, and sings on Saturdays, enveloped in steam and water until her hands have finished doing the washing that isn't allowed to go in the machine. If Mom has gone far away, all the way to Ljubljana, she must be totally lost. She'll never come back because her life isn't a fairy tale, she gets two creases between her eyes and thinks bumps can get bigger. My mom isn't Snow White, Cinderella, or Queen Forgetful. She isn't coming back from Ljubljana, she's going to stay there forever and come back to us dead, just like the people who don't get well at the hospital come back dead, because you can easily lose good health in
white corridors and green boiler rooms, in the smells of chloroform, ether, and medicinal alcohol, in places where the air reeks of worry.