Beautiful Soul: An American Elegy Page 20

  Windows follow me, Elsa, when I walk the narrow streets at dusk, making me feel more invisible, not less. Sometimes my life seems like one long disappearing act. And now that I, from your point of view, have actually vanished, you will read these words with disbelief, if you read them at all. Because I write to you not as your mother but as a dying woman, trying to say goodbye to you and to my life.

  My time now is pared down to a few essentials, a limited catalog of moving images. When I lie in bed at night with my eyes closed I seem to watch them on a screen. Very early I see myself awaken, the whites of my eyes showing in a room where dawn is reddening the curtains. A kitchen, a kettle, coffee. Though I quit smoking long ago there’s a line of smoke unfurling from the cigarette in my hand or in the ashtray, doing its part to compose an atmosphere. A solitary woman of a certain age walking on a narrow street, sometimes into a shop then out again, like Mrs. Dalloway with no flowers to buy. Sometimes my steps return me to the vast truncated dancefloor of the Piazza della Unita, fronting emptily the empty sea. You will sometimes find me in a café or library with a folded newspaper by my side, fingers busily knitting. I make scarves hats and sweaters that I donate via the good offices of a pleasant pasty nun, Josephine, half my size and twice my weight, who administers a program for cancer patients at the hospital. Once and once only she put her large white hand on my own when I came in with a shopping bag of cloche hats in assorted colors, fixing her watery blue eyes on my own.

  La signora si sente bene?

  Si.

  E’stato chiesto di te ieri. Il dottor Maggio.

  That’s very kind, I said. Grazie.

  Signora. Ancora non prenere in considerazione il trattmento?

  Grazie, grazie. I fled.

  I did not return for three weeks, and when I did return, the incident was not repeated. She only turned her head on one side and smiled at me helplessly, But I do not know if I can bear the sympathy, the frank solicitude of those eyes, for much longer. I will go on knitting; I need to do something with my hands. But perhaps I’ll just leave my creations where I finish them, for whomever wants it, or doesn’t.

  There was a time when I would have found this absolute solitude delicious. Before I abandoned or was abandoned by America, your father, you. It seemed that there was never time for me, just myself to be myself, to meet myself, except fleetingly—meeting my own eyes in the mirror while dressing for dinner, or in the waiting rooms of dentists and doctors where I felt myself released from the charge of amusing myself and simply waited, not even knitting, hands in lap. You remember the books, the endless mysteries I consumed, and before that my morbid research into a past as incomprehensible as it was unchangeable. You thought that was time stolen from you, but it was time stolen from myself as well. Now I never read any more; I sometimes allow my eyes to pass over the print of a newspaper or novel, but I take nothing in except the rhythm of sentences, a sort of white noise on the page. It passes the time when the hours are too full of memories; yet when I look up in the late afternoon, the sun having passed on to more glamorous destinations, I remember nothing, scarcely my own name or how I’ve come to be here, washed up on the fringe of Europe, where my American life—yes, American, in spite of everything—can’t quite catch hold, even now that it’s ending. I remember nothing any more. Then a dinner, not always solitary, for there are one or two ladies, neighbors, a widow and a spinster, who sometimes ask me up out of curiosity for a plate of cuttlefish pasta, a glass or two of wine. The widow, who lives in the apartment just above me has me to dinner every Tuesday evening, always attended by her middle-aged bald bachelor of a son, a foreman at the Illy plant who speaks excellent English, though apparently in Italian he’s something of a stutterer. We sit, the three of us, a little lost at the large formal dining table that’s been shifted out from under the yellowing chandelier so the table’s tail abuts the window, open on a mild evening to the shouts and sounds of the street below. The widow is thin, nearly emaciated, and wears a thick pasty white make-up in a misguided attempt to smooth out her wrinkles; she’s eighty if she’s a day. Her son, not twenty years younger, sits next to her so that I feel fronted by a sort of tribunal: she gazing directly with a luxurious sort of charitable contempt, he with eyes lowered, lidded, only occasionally flashing upward to display a startling eagerness, even an ardor. It’s uncomfortable and amusing, especially after a third glass of the sharp Terrano wine with a finish like the karst cliffs that line the coast where the Balkans begin. There is a daughter as well, I am told, married with grown children of her own, living in Udine, to the north. She never liked it here, the widow said through her son. She didn’t like the wind, the noise it makes in the winters. Many of the young people go there. She never comes back, I have to go to her. But I’m getting too old.

  I wanted to ask how she managed living in a fourth-floor walk-up at her age. But the answer was there in front of me. Her son was a constant presence, though he did not actually live there. Every day he brought up her groceries, newspaper, mail; every other day some flowers, a box of chocolates, or one of the paperbacks stacked haphazardly against the wall of the living room—for the bookshelves were all crammed with knickknacks, including one shelf devoted entirely to a set of glass and ceramic pigs. It was hard not to notice a resemblance between one of the larger and more whimsical pigs, dressed in a frock coat and monocle, and the heavy, jowled, delicate figure of her son, whose manicured hands moved carefully and precisely as he served the dinner he had, in all likelihood, cooked himself. It fascinated me, their attachment, the long tail of motherhood that had come so tightly to enfurl a grown man, even a boss of men. He had never married, though—this was said in Italian while her son was in the kitchen—there had been a girl once, many years ago, whom he had been engaged to for a year and a day (that was her phrase, un anno e un giorno) but she (or perhaps he, my Italian is very imperfect and I often miss genders) had gotten cold feet at the altar. In any case, she was no good, non abbastanza per lui, and he loves his mama who looks after him, lui ama la sua mamma che si prende cura di lui.

  The son returned to the room at this point with his eyes lowered, oven mitts on his hands, bringing in a steaming bowl of mussels in white wine broth. His lips were pursed slightly—ironically? He was an excellent cook and took pride in being so.

  The last time we ate together the widow made her excuses before the coffee was served, complaining of headache. I rose to go but she told me to sit, sit, enjoy—Bernardo had brought a strudel and I must taste it at least or hurt his pride. Knowing as I did that pastry was not among Bernardo’s accomplishments, I realized with mingled alarm and amusement that the widow was trying either to set me up with her superannuated son or—less alarming, more amusing—I was being presented to the son as a sort of cautionary tale, an example of what to avoid, a feckless American. Either way, it meant my secret was safe, in the building at least. She could not know of my illness.

  With no one to translate for, Bernardo was silent at first. He poured coffee from a French press without bothering to ask whether I wanted it or feared the sleepless hours it might bring, which I took as a tribute to my having been adopted as at least half-Triestino. My appetite had waned in recent weeks and it had increasingly become a chore to do even the minimal duty toward Bernardo’s cooking that politeness dictates. I would soon have to stop accepting his mother’s invitations, and my world would contract even further, the clock advance toward midnight, toward the moment I vowed would be of my choosing. Bernardo ate his strudel quickly, methodically, his eyes fixed on the window to the darkening street; it was easy somehow to imagine myself married to him, a solid man who had mastered the art of taking up little space. Yet I could not, would not play mother again, to any man. That’s all they want, Elsa; you have no doubt discovered this. Even your handsome lawyer with the squared-off jaw, does he not in the still of the night tuck his face into your bosom with the rapacious helplessness of an infant rooting for the breast? They are incapable of seeing what’s i
n front of them, what’s before their faces. Bernardo at least still had his own, actual mother, which made him a bit more attractive: he had no need to serve me, was in fact in serving me really serving the only woman, I was convinced, he had ever loved. When she died he would sit here, in her apartment, in that very same chair, hands limp in his lap, waiting and listening as the city goes quiet around him, night after night. Should someone have the misfortune to marry him she would find him as I found him now, courteous and even affectionate but remote, attuned elsewhere, like a dog whose master has left him with a friend for months and years but whose ears nevertheless prick up at every scrape of a key in the lock, whose tail starts beating until the accepted but unbeloved form enters the room, at which point all movement ceases and the animal returns gravely to his accustomed bed. Oh, Elsa, these thoughts do one no good. I hope you will not indulge them. I hope your silence means what it says, that these letters go unread, straight into the fire or into a shoebox where they will remain until long after I am dead, past the possibility of a pitying reply. If I have been a poor mother to you, it would be past my dignity to ask that you, at the end, be a mother to me. I write these letters to you, but for myself. Never forget that simple truth of my selfishness, Elsa, which I hope you can learn some part of for yourself, for your own sake. They will try and take everything you have—they will take it, unless you don’t let them.

  It is kind of you to come to these dinners, Bernardo said at last in his overly correct English that reminded me strongly of a man I had never met. I know Mother appreciates it. We cannot be terribly interesting company for you.

  I will always compliment your cooking, Bernardo, but not your subtlety. At this time in my life my appetite for interesting is much smaller than my need for simple kindness, and I thank you for it.

  Your appetite is not so good, I have noticed. You did not like the mussels?

  They were delicious, of course. It’s true, I’m not hungry these days.

  Our eyes met, and I was surprised by the directness of his gaze. Suddenly he seemed less comical, less the humble servant, more like—a man. But my gaze did not waver; I’ve been fooled before. His eyes dropped again to his empty espresso cup.

  Do you ever think that you’ll return to America?

  I do not think that.

  You’ve made a home here, then.

  Is anyone really at home in Trieste?

  You are being romantic, he said, or you are having fun with me. You are not romantic, I think.

  I’ve given it up, I said.

  You should find yourself some occupation. Mother watches you—watches over you, I should say. She says you’re lonely. You have no husband?

  I have a husband. But he does not have me.

  Very unfortunate for him. Did you know, he added, without segue, that I am part Jewish?

  You amaze me.

  It’s true. Papa was half-Jewish which makes me one-quarter so. He was lucky to escape when the Germans were here.

  Haven’t the Germans always been here? Look at the buildings. Look at what you brought for dessert.

  Ah! he said, the Austrians. That’s not the same thing.

  Hitler was Austrian.

  I was a little surprised at the energy of his response, as I was by the entire direction that the conversation was hurtling. I began to feel less confidence in his English, or in my own powers of understanding.

  Hitler was Hitler. An accident of history, an abortion. It was not our fault, it was the Anschluss. My father was an Irredentist. Do you know what that means?

  He was an Italian.

  He was an Italian Jew who wanted Trieste to stay Italian. He felt safer with Mussolini than he did with Hitler. And he wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t until Il Duce was gone that they began to kill Jews here.

  Why are you telling me this?

  Because you are a Jew and you will understand.

  My husband, I said, would call that an error in logic.

  I would like to meet your husband, he said simply. I have not met many Jews. I would like to see what they are like.

  There were many Jews here once.

  In Trieste?

  In Europe. But you must find me disappointing.

  Why?

  I am not very Jewish.

  Ah, but you are an American, and that also is interesting. An American is so many different things.

  I am not very American either. I don’t feel American or Jewish. I can’t help being those things, but I don’t feel them. I don’t know what it would be like to feel them.

  Then we are not so different.

  It felt, in spite of the clumsiness of his mother, in spite of his too-round, too smooth egg-like head, and the little mustache undoubtedly dyed black, like an offer of friendship. We smiled shyly at each other.

  In this posthumous life I lead a friendship seems like something to risk. Do I want, I ask myself that night in bed with my eyes closed, waiting for the images to come, to restart the film? I am tired of being looked at, as Bernardo is probably tired of being ignored. He seems to offer some small, good ground of neutrality, in which I might wait out these last days before the disease makes itself visible and the film loses its poetry, turns into something maudlin, a weepie. Before that time comes I’ll throw the switch, darken the screen. It is strange how I have never managed to fascinate an American man. My hope is that Bernardo is not fascinated. I would like to sit in a room with someone unfascinated for a change. Even to write these letters to you, Elsa, letters you don’t read, I feel that pressure of eyes. Your eyes from when you were very young, locked on me like the eyes of Fate herself. I am as tired of the future as I am of the past. Bernardo has never started his life. Perhaps he can help me to finish mine.

  I had another life, Nadia tells Ruth, as real as this one. More real, because it is complete, finished. Like a circle, like a snake with its tail in its mouth.

  Sitting at the coffeehouse, the children sleeping in their strollers. Looking down at the perfect leaf of her latte. I had another husband. Another child.

  For a moment Ruth can see them, like shadows, feel that vanishing presence of the afterlife. Are they dead? Please don’t say they’re dead.

  I was born in 1989 and I was very young when I met him. Sixteen. He was eighteen and thought he was a man. I did too. He had a motorcycle and he’d take me on long rides through the hills above our town. Then I got pregnant and said to him, You must marry me. So he did. We were married twice, in fact, first in a courthouse, and then, to please his mother, in the Orthodox Church.

  Vladimir couldn’t find a job so one day he said to me, Let’s go to Petersburg, my cousin works there. We went. His cousin was named Nikolai, he was fair where Vladimir was dark, he had pale feathery eyebrows and a blond beard and strong muscles from the work he did in construction, he had a job on a work site and he got Vladimir a job too, although Vladimir was smaller and much more delicate, he would have preferred to work at a desk but he had no education, he left school to be with me. We lived together in Nikolai’s flat in a big building in a series of big buildings far from the city center, you only knew it was St. Petersburg because of the river rolling by heading north to Finland. I wanted to work but Vladimir was proud, like Boris is now, he said it wasn’t good for the baby and I should stay home. I was bored, I watched TV, the doctor told me not to smoke but he was smoking a cigarette when he said it so I still smoked occasionally. I didn’t drink though, I never liked it, I left that to Vladimir and Nikolai, in the evenings they’d empty a bottle of vodka and sing together on the little balcony overlooking the river while I was inside with the TV. Then it happened that they began to work different shifts, Vladimir wasn’t good at his job but Nikolai intervened for him and they made Vladimir a night watchman, his only job was to walk around the site all night pressing buttons so his bosses knew he wasn’t asleep. He’d come home just before dawn and crawl into bed next to me stinking of some chemical like formaldehyde they must have used on the site, though Nikolai neve
r smelled like that. I’d have to get up then and to amuse myself I’d cook breakfast for Nikolai, who was just waking up. I made elaborate breakfasts for him, traditional Russian dishes like blini with sour cream and cold meats and hardboiled eggs and Turkish coffee brewed very strong. Then he’d sit there eating and smoking and talking to me like Vladimir never talked, he wasn’t full of resentful dreams of the life he’d forsaken to be with me, he was living the life he’d chosen and was happy. Of course it was inevitable what would happen, with me bored all day, Vladimir snoring away in one room and me watching TV in the other, or wandering the halls of the building avoiding the old ladies and their gossip, or sometimes taking the little money Vladimir gave me and going out to buy something, anything, a cheap music player or a handbag, taking the subway or the bus to the Nevsky Prospekt where I could see a bit of life, the women in their expensive shoes and makeup and the men very sharp in their business suits, and the tourists speaking other languages, German and French and English, taking pictures of each other. Coming home to Vladimir, who’d yell at me for spending money, heating up something frozen for supper and then letting him paw me a little before he pulled on his boots and headed out to the construction site. He always left an hour or two before his shift, who knows what he was up to after all? Then Nikolai would come home, tired but exuberant, and pull off his own workboots and tell me about the day while I made for him his own special supper. No thank you, I’d say to him, I’ve already eaten, I’ll just watch you, I don’t want to sit down, I sit all day waiting for you. It was natural, it was human, what happened between us. I only had to remember in the middle of the night to be sure and get up and move from Nikolai’s little bed to the larger one that Vladimir and I shared. I didn’t have to worry about getting pregnant of course, I didn’t have to worry about anything, that’s what I thought. My belly was getting bigger, Vladimir didn’t want to touch me anymore, that was fine with me, Nikolai liked it, he caressed my belly and spoke to it, he said the child might as well be his. You can leave him, he told me, we’ll go away together, we’ll go to America, I will raise your son as my own, or your daughter, it doesn’t matter, I love you I love you. I looked into his eyes and saw truth there, he was no older than Vladimir but he was a man and he loved me and I loved him I suppose. I remember how his beard and mustache felt, kissing me.