by Istros Books
Catechism
Not long after the first time I attended Sunday School, they gave me a lovely colourful book. All the men in it had beards, and the women had tablecloths over their heads. In it was written:
“Respect your father and mother so that you may live a long and good life on earth.”
I did not understand this. “Do not steal” was also written there, so that it no longer occurred to me any more to take money from the cash-box for the poor with Mum’s tweezers. There is a dark and ugly place where people who do this end up. I kept the book under my pillow at night. I didn’t know whether that was right. Nothing was written in the book about keeping secrets.
The Neighbourhood in the Neighbourhood
Every spring, in the gutter above the window of my balcony a big family of little sparrows nests. All sorts of things are up there: small twigs, dogs’ hairs, feathers, pieces of paper, the remains of felt-tipped pens. Some of these building materials end up on the balcony floor. The baby birds empty their little bowels in the nest; and their parents do the same over my drying clothes and the sun-basking dog. It can be fun up there, for shit’s sake! Up there, and nowhere else.
A Short Conversation About Our God
Once I came home and told Dad and Mum that I was unclean. That I could not die unbaptized and that this needed to be changed, urgently. Grandma said that if it were up to her, she would have had me baptized long ago. Then we all dressed nicely and went to church. Mum put a white blouse on me, Dad kept silent through Our Father and it was all finished in fifteen minutes. Many times after that, immortal, safe, I played the organ, gave sermons to the benches, cleaned the altar, read the colourful book, and rang the bell at midday. In my thin trainers, engaged to God, I asked the priest:
‘How can God send my father to hell if He loves me?’
He was silent. After some time they transferred him to another church, me to another school, and God onto the telephone.
Dreams
They say when you dream about a snake, it is not a good sign. It means you have a friend who is not a friend. That his true face is hideous. And when you wake up from such a dream, you should take a good look around! Look out for the one who eats from your hands. The demon in human form that you caress. Whether you find him or not, beware. He is someone you know.
As well as snakes, Mum and Grandma especially dislike dreaming about teeth. When one of them dreams that her teeth are falling out, she always says:
‘Someone will die soon.’
Then, usually, an acquaintance of ours – or somebody else’s – dies.
The Capital City
In the capital city, in the first ward, they tell us they cannot read the X-rays of Mum’s head on the computer. In the second ward, the computers are better, so we wait. My brother has a temperature. The door is constantly opening. We look at the floor, the chairs, our shoes. We get up to smoke a cigarette. We walk around. We rest our elbows on the reception desk. We look at the door through which people in white coats go out and hurry somewhere up or down the stairs.
‘Excuse me, we gave the doctor Mum’s X-rays to look at, but he’s been gone a long time.’
‘Which one?’
‘The short one with glasses.’
‘He’s no longer on duty,’ says his younger colleague, and hurries away towards the stairs.
We sigh so loudly they hear us behind the door. We walk around. We look at the floor, the chairs, our shoes. My brother is sweating. He smokes.
‘Excuse me, we gave the doctor Mum’s X-rays to look at, but he’s been gone a long time.’
‘Which one?’
‘The short one with glasses.’
‘He’s no longer on duty,’ says the older nurse, then she too hurries away towards the stairs.
We look at one another. We open their door. The short one with the glasses gives us back the X-rays of Mum’s head. He says he cannot read it. He says there are too many different computer programs for looking at X-rays. We tell him my brother will sort it out. He understands things like that. They allow him to access the computer. He goes in and shuts the door. I smoke a cigarette. I count the tiles on the floor. I stare at the coffee machine. My brother is gone a long time. A long time. At last he comes out and I say to him:
‘You were gone a long time!’
We run to the first ward. We have the X-rays! We have X-rays that can be seen!
There, they say the X-rays are bad, they say: ‘Such a shame!’ and that we will have to come back with new X-rays and that this is not an operation for migraine. ‘Go home,’ they say.
And we go home, to our secondary town. We watch the white line on the road and we curse. This is a cold day. Very, very cold.
Grandma (No One Goes to Church Anymore)
‘No one goes to church anymore! Neither you nor your sister! And your mother is ill.’
I look at her. She brings me a book. On the title page, a brownish sunset. I stare at the book silently.
‘It says here that we must pray more than ever. Can you see what’s happening here? I’ve buried them all, and now…’
‘Don’t say it!’
‘You know how long they’ve kept her there already!’
I look at her. She goes to her room. She carries with her a plastic rosary. I look, and say nothing.
Pain in Other Circumstances
I can’t go for a cup of coffee with my friends and acquaintances every single day. Those who know could start asking questions. Those who know could fall silent and be serious. Those who know say:
‘Call whenever you want!’ That’s what they say, and then they are surprised when you call them “whenever”.
And I’d like to drink that coffee and talk about the new president.
I cross the city and I see familiar faces – I prefer to look at pencil cases in shop windows. I don’t want to tell lies about how my head is aching because of the south wind. That wind is reserved for old people.
Doctors (Know)
‘We can’t operate.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s everywhere now.’
He says this and leaves, because they are looking for him all over the hospital. There are too many sick people here. Everywhere.
Austrian Pharmacy
I call that doctor in Austria. He is one of us, but works abroad. On the Internet, it says he cures everything. He has remedies made from plants growing at unbelievable heights. In clean air. People are satisfied with him. They write to tell him how well they walk, how they pee, sleep, eat. All from drinking those clean plants. It is a family pharmacy, which has been going many years. It’s certified! I call him. He speaks some sort of Italian. I tell him Mum is in great pain. I tell him that doctors have no faith. That we are in a hurry. I ask him how much his plants cost. He says, three thousand. I ask him if it really works. He gets angry. Very, very angry. He says I am being rude and he will hang up on me.
‘Don’t do that, please! What have I done to you?’
‘You’re insulting me, Miss.’
I beg him to let me order his medicine.
‘You’ll receive it in two days’ time.’
I put down the receiver, ashamed of my tears.
Ghosts
The ghosts keep Grandma awake at night. They blunder around her bed; patter over the parquet floor; overturn non-existent things. I go to her room and put away the framed photos of our deceased relatives. I ask her where she got the plastic flowers in the vase.
‘I bought it at the market, I promise you!’ She cries from the armchair.
‘OK; but remember, you’re the one giving them no peace, not the other way around.’
I go out and leave her to pray the rosary. The plastic rosary. It’s been a long time since I saw the pearl one.
Nudity
Once upon a time, Mum and I could fit in the same bath. We would bathe together. I would put soap bubbles on my nose, and she would laugh. We sat facing one another. I remember our bony k
nees, like little cliffs. Then Mum put my brother into the bath. Once his finger got stuck in the drain. He screamed until he was blue in the face. My brother and I bathed together until one day Mum said it was time for us to bath separately.
At the beach, Mum swam half naked. I said to her:
‘Why can’t you be like the other Mums and swim with your tits covered?’
‘And why do you have to be like all the other girls and wear patent leather shoes?’
In my first year in primary school, she cut my hair short like a hedgehog and said:
‘You’re my little punk.’
Dad says we’ll collect all the hair that falls from Mum’s head, and make her a wig out of it. And maybe we’ll shave our cat for the wig too. Cats know nothing about nudity.
Hair Washing
I want her to let me help her wash her hair. She’s given me everything. The last banknote from her purse. A massage during those days. A training bra. Sweet potatoes with drumsticks. Cigarettes. An excuse note for school when I had a temperature of thirty-seven. Apricots with cream. A black eyeliner pencil. A trip to the Netherlands. Chamomile tea. A hairdresser. A Mickey Mouse dress. She’s given me everything. Instead of that, I ask her:
‘Why are you so edgy?’
I stand above her and look at her posthumous back. She won’t even let me shampoo her. She continues to do everything herself. She only needs a witness.
Let me help you wash your hair. Let me wash your cup up. Don’t smoke. You’re my child, now.
Little Turtles
When I was at primary school, I was allowed to keep little freshwater turtles as pets. I fed them with dried shrimps. I put a green plastic palm in the aquarium for them, to make them feel more at home. They never grew to be big because they fell ill – their shells became soft. I massaged the shells with butter, but it didn’t help. I buried all six of them in a big park, in matchboxes. After the last burial I said to my parents:
‘Don’t ever give me those dying animals again!’
Plan
When I get home, I’ll take the dog for a walk. After that, cook something healthy and nuanced. Wash the dishes. My hair. Body. I’ll remove my make-up. Visualize a snake coming out of my navel; three stories below, in the dirt where it can’t bother anyone. Then I’ll change into my pyjamas. Make some tea. I’ll put three spoonful’s of brown sugar in it. When I sit down in front of the television, and the cup is half empty, I’ll watch the advertisements. I’ll hide one eye in the zebra-striped pillow.
Exactly like that.
Infectious Little Girl
‘Fuck your mother!’ said the gypsy girl. She was just a fraction smaller than me, and so I pulled her shiny black hair. She screamed, grabbed my sleeve and scratched my arm. I ran home and put four thin red lines under a jet of water. Dark and snotty as she was, who knows what she could infect me with, I thought. Mum said:
‘You’re not going to the doctor, don’t be silly.’
‘That’s all the thanks I get for sticking up for you?’ I covered my salty face with scented palms.
Grandma (Cries)
‘You’re crying again?’
‘I’m not crying.’
‘Didn’t I tell you not to cry? That tears won’t help anyone?’
‘I’m not crying, I’ve got a cold.’
‘You’re crying, and you’ll make Mum depressed too.’
‘I keep telling you, I am not crying! I’ve got a stomach ache.’
‘Always something wrong with you. That’s the reason your life is the way it is! If you keep on that way, how is she going to get better? I told you we mustn’t cry.’
My Cabbage Neighbour
My neighbour lived alone, drank too much schnapps and made cabbage rolls. In my third year of primary school I was taller than she was. She used to bring the cabbage rolls to our door. Grandma always said they were too fatty, Mum said they were too salty, and Dad thought they were okay. One day my neighbour suffered a heart attack, moved to a different apartment in a different area, stopped drinking and continued making less fatty cabbage rolls. Of course it can be done!
Mum (Wants to Come Home)
‘I bought you some medicine. It came from Austria. It’s made from an amazing plant! See, it’s all written on the paper. You have to drink it three times a day. Everything can be cured. Of course it can be done!’
Mum tries it. ‘It’s bitter.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Drink it.’
‘What does it cure?’
‘Tumours.’
‘I want to go home for the weekend! Why can’t you persuade the doctor? I should have sent your brother to her. I want to have a bath, to see Grandma and stroke the cat.’
She gets up and turns towards her room-mate in the other bed: ‘You don’t need to water these orchids. I’ll leave you the radio too, because I’m going home for the weekend.’
She takes a cigarette and takes all forty kilos of herself to the toilet.
Mum cries when there are no visitors.
Energy Healing
When Mum wanted to stop smoking, we went to see a person who practices energy healing in a tall skyscraper. This person was short, with glasses. His apartment smelt of carpet. While she was in one room with him, I was in another room reading small, thin books about God, chakras, karma, water, stones, and cards.
After an hour Mum came out. In the parking lot in front of the skyscraper I asked her:
‘And?’
‘I want to smoke,’ she said.
The session had cost a month’s wages.
Stomach
Dad started getting fat around his middle.
‘Does that belly hurt you?’ I ask him.
‘No.’
‘Maybe you should see a doctor?’
‘That’s not necessary.’
Really, that belly! It hangs over the little pot, it smells of coffee.
‘No one can make coffee like you. But that paunch!’ Mum says, in the hospital.
Dad breathes through his nose and puts his jacket on. He takes Mum outside to share a cigarette in the fresh air; to where other people’s jittery and paunchy wives are sweeping up still-burning cigarette butts.
The Mouse
Once Dad threw a live mouse into the toilet. It was a little, brown, thin mouse.
‘What gives you the right to do that?’ I sobbed.
‘It’s a pest.’
‘YOU’RE A PEST!’
That evening, I didn’t watch the cartoons and the advertisements before I went to bed. That night I prayed to God not to send my father to Hell.
Wanna Oh Ohm
‘Wanna oh ohm.’
‘Pardon?’
‘WANNA OH OHM!’
‘You want to go home?’
‘Eh!’
‘You can’t. They won’t let you.’
‘Ake me ohm!’
‘Mum….’
‘Onna os urtin! Ook unch! Faat ou! Ake me!!!’
With a stiff and unmoving tongue she can no longer talk normally. A place has been made for her in another ward. She does not want to go there. She wants to wash her curtains. The rest, I don’t understand.
Room Number 135
Room Number 135 can be found after five bends of the corridor whose walls are enlivened by pictures: shoes; fried eggs in a pan; Mary, Mother of God. As well as the pictures in tempera, there are framed advertisements for drugs that help with nausea during chemotherapy. The five bends until Room Number 135 are not well lit. Every time I enter that building I pass across a bridge enclosed in glass. As though I am going into an aeroplane, which will take me perhaps, to Moscow. The building is called the New Ward. The walls are yellow, and the floor is covered in blue linoleum. All the doors are big, wooden and brown.
Today they brought a girl with no hair into Room Number 135. She lay down on the bed, turned her face to the wall and fell asleep. Mum wrote on a piece of paper:
I ate biscuits with milk
In Room Number 135, Mu
m is nurturing a hybrid orchid and a hybrid cyclamen.
She keeps them on the window sill.
The Purple Brush
I bought a purple brush for my hair. Every time I bring it close to my head, my aura and some important chakras will become a deeper shade of purple. It will be the colour of my Mum’s tracksuit and of wisdom. Not the colour of the curtains in the old Italian theatre. Those who died of the plague were wrapped in those ones.
Horror Movies
When Dad bought us a video recorder, my brother and I watched horror films every afternoon. At night I used to cover my neck with the sheet. Kept the wardrobe shut. Took care of the monsters under the bed. Howled at the full moon. Drank water with garlic. That was because of the worms in my intestines. But there was that one film: a woman with no skin and a man with hundreds of needles stuck into his head. They came directly from Hell. To get people. To get a fair-haired girl who, just like me, knew how to put blocks together and work out puzzles.
‘Well, damn it all… I won’t go to Hell!’ ISHOULDLIVEFOROTHERDAYSIPRAYTHELORDTOGUIDEMYWAYS! – I prayed, sent a kiss towards the ceiling and fell asleep.
The video recorder soon broke down.
Grandma (Wants to Go Out)
‘If only I could go out!’ says Grandma.
‘That’s all you need, to drive aimlessly around on the buses,’ I tell her.
The priest came today to see Grandma. He gave her Communion, heard her confession and blessed her with an olive branch he soaked in Holy Water. She had put a white tablecloth on the table and a vase with plastic flowers. She says she bought it at the market place. Blessed and calm, she has all the medicines she needs, except for one against the nausea caused by the others.
I never ask Grandma whether she’s in pain because she tells me herself. I ask Mum instead. I don’t like her answer.
Chana Masala
A young, bald, nicely-dressed man jumped out in front of me in the street with the question: ‘Do you read?’ And offered me a little book by one of those authors whose name sounds like an Indian dish. I told him I do read, but that I had no money. So he gave me the book as a gift.