Spell of Blindness

by Lori Tiron-Pandit

  I enter through the open gate with a large group of people who have arrived at the same time. They are loud and colorful, and I feel lonely and out of place. A girl with bright-pink lips welcomes everyone at the door, but she doesn’t let me go in. She asks me to wait next to her, until everyone is inside, then she turns to face me.

  “I haven’t seen you here before. What’s your name?”

  “Ana Dor. Chandan invited me.”

  “Oh, really, you got a personal invitation? Well, that’s very interesting. However, I need you to sign this agreement.” She hands me a two-page document. “Read it first. I am afraid we need to ask all the participants in our groups for confidentiality because we have had some bad press and we don’t want any misinformation to be spread anymore. I’m sure you’re not here to do any harm, but we actually don’t know you.”

  I take the papers, feeling my blood boiling. I didn’t want to sign anything. Legal documents are impossible to decipher, and they intimidate me. Zina has also warned to be very careful.

  “But I am here only to participate in the meditation. Why do I need to sign anything for that? I was not aware that I needed to enter any contract with you.”

  “It’s not a contract. I’ve already explained. You sign it, or you can’t get in.”

  “All right then,” I say. “Sorry to have taken your time. I don’t think this is for me after all.”

  “Probably not,” she sneers. “It’s not for everyone.”

  I turn to leave, but not before I take a good look inside. In the semidark room, people are starting to position themselves in what looks like many concentric circles: a circle of women in the middle, followed by a slightly larger circle of men, and another circle of women.

  I walk out and sit on the steps in front of the gate. It is a sunny day with a cooling breeze that smells like fried dough. I suddenly become aware of how disappointed I feel and how very hungry. The gate opens behind me, and a girl in a bright yellow sweater sits next to me. She lights a cigarette.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “You probably don’t need this.”

  I am startled to hear her talking to me.

  “Listen,” she continues. “This is not a game. It feels like a game initially for many of us, but we all soon learn that we can either give everything to our practice or forget about it entirely. Once you are in, though, it is hard to forget. It’s hard to see that you have a choice. I wish I were in your position, because from where you’re standing right now, the door is wide open toward the outside world. One step in that room, and this whole thing out here is gone for good. Enjoy it.”

  I don’t know what to say because I don’t understand what she means.

  She finishes her cigarette and goes back in. “Enjoy the beautiful day. Goodbye.”

  “Thank you,” I manage to say before the gate shuts behind her, then I get up and go directly to the fried dough stand at the street corner. Hunger is all I am feeling.

  .

  Ella called the principal’s office today to ask for extended sick leave. She hasn’t come to school for a week, and she hasn’t been picking up the phone or returning my messages, either. I have been worried until now, but today I felt dread. I had to go over there and see for myself how she is.

  I was afraid I would find her bedridden or in a wheelchair. I didn’t even think she could have been in the hospital. At school, they have no idea: she is sick. That’s all they know. They think she gets the flu very often.

  I found her at home, looking helpless and annoyed in the middle of a pile of clothes on the living room floor.

  “I have too many rags. And I love them all, you know? With passion. How am I supposed to choose?” she asked, the twinkle in her eyes present.

  “What are you packing for?” I sat on the floor next to her, reaching for a leather, frame clutch that seemed to have had a glamorous former life.

  “Oh, just a little vacation in the mountains. The air and the quiet will do me good. I am fine, don’t worry. I need peace. Just a few weeks. Come and visit us. We are renting a beautiful Tudor-style cabin in Saina. It belongs to one of Calin’s friends. He’s letting us use it for a while.”

  “You’re going together? How did this happen?”

  “He is joining me there on Saturday. He’s a good man, you know? You shouldn’t hate him. Not too much. You can hate him a little for me, because I am really unable hold the grudge. I love him. Without him, there is only doom, and it takes too much strength to wake up and live. But when he’s there, I feel light and strong. You understand, right? Anyway, we can talk about this later. Promise you’ll come. I’ll miss you.”

  She had been avoiding my calls for a week, and even today she didn’t seem particularly happy to see me.

  “What about school? How long are you going to be staying there?”

  “I need this, Ana. I hope I’ll be able to return to work next month, but to be honest with you, I doubt it. We’ll see. Cheer up, now! Nobody has died. Yet.” She laughed and leaned toward me to touch my cheek with hers. “Oh no. I really need to hurry. In a half hour, my taxi should be here.”

  She was in pajamas and looked like she had just rolled out from her bed directly into the middle of the closet.

  “Just tell me what things you absolutely have to have, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  I started picking sweaters, shirts, long skirts, and dresses from the floor. Ella added a shimmering silk housecoat and two hats to the pile. For the next fifteen minutes, I turned around like a mouse on a wheel inside her bathroom, trying to figure out what toiletries to throw in the cosmetic bag she had given me. Her bathroom is much larger than you would expect in a one-bedroom apartment. Three tall cabinets line one of the walls, all spilling out with makeup, perfumes, and other potions for skin and hair. I noticed that she uses argan oil for hair—many bottles of that in her cabinets—and I made a point to remember so that I can buy some, and dream that I am going to wake up one day with Ella’s long, thick, and perfectly straight hair.

  When I finished packing, Ella had changed into a pair of palazzo pants and an oversized sweater. She grabbed her purse and produced a piece of paper with a phone number.

  “Call me,” she said seriously, then smiled and kissed my cheek. Her eyes gleamed like a deep lake. She ran down the stairs and I followed, carrying her large duffel bag. The door locked behind us. In front of the building, I gave the bag to the taxi driver, who was waiting with the trunk open. Ella was already inside the car, behind dark windows.

  All the way home, I wondered if she had arranged for someone to go and water her plants.

  .

  Even in my happiest moments, the darkness is waiting for me around the corner, waiting for a small thought left wandering unsupervised. Whenever my thoughts go astray, I need to be aware and stop the ugly dialogue.

  “And who cares about me, anyway? Nobody cares.”

  “And why would they care about you? People have their own lives; they don’t have time for you. You’re so pathetic.”

  “Yeah, I know I am. I cannot help it.”

  “Okay, shut up now. Shut up and go do something instead of just complaining. Self-pity is the thing that you know how to do well. You are not worthy of love. If you don’t do anything to deserve love, how can you expect it? What have you done today to make you deserving? What have you done this week?”

  “I hate myself. I just hate myself. He will never love me. I will meet him, and he won’t be able to love me.”

  “Okay. Snap out of it now.”

  “My entire life is a waste! I don’t deserve to make shade on earth.”

  “But I love Amon. Love is all I live for. I am doing this right.”

  “What’s right? I can’t tell what’s right anymore. I make myself sick. I cannot stand myself. Who else in the world would want to put up with me when I cannot even do that myself?”

  It goes on in the same vein, sometimes for days. Rather boring, I’m afraid. My mind goes in th
is direction when it isn’t otherwise occupied. For a moment, I actually feel that I empty my mind of thoughts, and then I realize that I am again in the middle of that venomous exchange.

  .

  I cannot live alone in this house anymore. I have been deeply wounded in this place. I was subjected to so many tortures, so new and innovative, so debilitating, that in order to survive, I had to change my body and my soul. Now I don’t know who I am anymore. You can ask my torturers.

  Sometimes I think that Marta left me the house because she knew that this place would keep controlling me and sucking out my soul, even in her absence. Every time I tried to escape, it dragged me back. By the hair.

  I wish I could leave this place and leave you here too, Amon. My beloved. The cruelest of my tormentors. None of the others could ever compare to you. You have the finest, sharpest cutting instruments in the business and the most diabolic mind. You are the most loved and the most feared.

  When I moved to the Basswood Park apartment with Traian, I thought I was changing my luck. I thought that I could infiltrate that new place with happiness and light, that I could make it my home, and that I would finally find my peace. I thought I would never let you come inside there, my love. I was done with you.

  I wanted that place to be the exact opposite of this house. I decorated it all in white and brown. It was supposed to be my space of light. I imagined it a home of well-being and restored health. It never was more than a hospital room, smelling of bleached death.

  I didn’t even notice when you sneaked in there, without invitation. One day, you just stood by my bed, holding my hand in yours. And you ruined it all for me again.

  . .

  The notebook is thin and bound in red leather, half of the pages left blank. There is one short entry on each page, like a half-ruminated thought. There are not dates on this one, and the first page is not signed either—the sparse thoughts float atemporal and anonymous, as if meant to be forgotten.

  I’M ALL MOVED INTO TRAIAN’S apartment. Taking a break from unpacking. An empty, new, white, shining place. A new life.

  I have big decorating plans. I am going to fill this house with good energy and fun. No more dusty books. No more bleak paintings. We’ll get a big, white sectional, big pots of tropical plants, white curtains, accents of turquoise. Light, simple, and spacious.

  This project is giving me wings. It’s the only thing I dream of. I’ll make this my home. I’m happy I didn’t have to move into Marta’s house, even though she’s not there anymore. That place scares me, and I don’t understand why she signed it off to me. In her present mental state, she probably wouldn’t have an answer to that question, either.

  I am still in shock after everything that happened with her. She clearly had a lot to drink that day before she went into the church, which only exacerbated the manic episode, the doctors tell us. So when she locked herself inside the church and started the fire, she was entirely delusional. People heard her shouting something about the fall of the demons and exorcism of the air. When the fire brigade managed to break in and take her out, she had lost consciousness from inhaling the heavy smoke. They saved Marta, but the church burned to the ground behind her.

  She has many delusional episodes now, and very few lucid moments. We had to admit her into the group home that the doctor recommended. I haven’t visited her there yet, but Mama goes often. I talked to her twice. She seemed bitter as usual, like nothing had changed. It made me feel good in a way.

  I already found tenants for the place: three girls, students at the Conservatory. It all worked out.

  .

  I have finally made a decision about the wedding dress. I am going to order it from the catalog. Next month, maybe. It is a very beautiful dress, although I am not so sure how great it would look on me. It has a creamy color, with a small field of roses embroidered around the hem. I don’t want to order it yet because I am going to lose more weight in a month.

  Ilinca asked me if I was really happy about the wedding, and I told her I was. I have been seeing very little of her in the past few months. We used to have so many things in common. Now I find it hard to connect and tell her my thoughts without holding a lot back. Somehow, she continues to be able to look deep into me and see what nobody else can.

  Lately, she has been trying to be more supportive and accept Traian. But it is obvious that he will never be one of her favorite people. I am afraid to tell her things because I know she would start blaming everything on him. It’s a burden to pretend in front of her, too.

  .

  I went to the teachers’ annual dinner party last night. Our principal is very fond of these events. I needed to go somewhere while Traian was spending the weekend fishing with his friends. Of course, he asked me to go along, knowing that I wouldn’t. I’ve tried it and found it terminally boring. He knows it well.

  I danced a lot at the party with a new colleague, a philosophy teacher. He’s cute and very nice, too. We discovered that we have many things in common. We both like cantaloupe and the theatre. He is a lot darker than I am, though. I found myself giving him advice about positive thinking and seeing the beauty in small things.

  I have to say that I enjoyed myself more than I probably should have. There was something strange happening. I was like a teenager who found herself without adult supervision at last and had to take advantage of it because she didn’t know when it would happen again. I rarely have the chance to be a bad girl. I flirted seriously with the philosopher. He is so different from Traian. He is deep, hurt, childish, and strong at the same time. He’s easy to dream about.

  My life is too ordered, maybe. But I need it to be slow and perfect. I don’t need any more surprises, stress, or hurt, do I? I have exactly the life that I want. Maybe once in a while I need a night to give the crazy a short chance to come out, and then I can go happily back to my routines.

  Now I am drinking my Chinese tea, which I hope will burn some of the calories from dinner.

  .

  Today in the afternoon, I started to feel suffocated in the house, and I went out to air out my head. Traian was late again. It was chilly and very windy in the evening, and all the people on the street seemed small, ruffled, and at the mercy of nature. I didn’t allow the cold to bother me. I tried to enjoy it. It was a beautiful little cold that made me feel alive.

  I just went to the street-corner store to buy ice cream and soda. Now I am having a soda float and writing in my kitchen. Life is bearable.

  Yesterday, I went out for a coffee with the philosopher. I see in him all the things that I need and that Traian doesn’t give me. This man understands me. He speaks my language. He has a fascinating mind, and we resonate at frequencies where I usually don’t meet anybody else.

  I am going to be a married woman soon though, right? I should refrain from resonating with strange people, I guess.

  .

  I need to remember why I want to get married. It is because this is what I think I need to be happy: a nice man who doesn’t ask too much of me? Most importantly, I want to be sure that I cannot get hurt again. Enough pain in my life already. Traian can never hurt me. He doesn’t have so much power. I never gave it to him.

  My life with him, though, is not only unsatisfying, but it’s crushing all that’s left of me. I spend most of my time with him, his family, and his friends, people I can’t really connect with. I only play by their rules and live my life the way they live theirs. I go fishing and enjoy backyard barbeques. And I can never say no to a party.

  Traian doesn’t have any big dreams. He doesn’t want anything other than buy a bigger apartment, raise a big family there, and start a business. I still dream of traveling to Egypt and publishing my poetry. I’m looking to find the true spirituality, to know who I am and where I’m going. Worst of all, I still dream of finding love.

  This weekend, we went for a barbeque with all his friends. It was a sunny, beautiful day, and I enjoyed being outside, in the green spring. But all I wanted to d
o was take a chair and sit in the garden under a tree to read while they wanted to eat, play cards, and then eat again. I felt embarrassed to take out my book.

  I have been trying to look like I belong, hoping that this way of life would suit me also, because it is not that bad. It is fun being among friends, laughing, drinking, eating, and playing games. It is warm and fuzzy. But it’s not enough.

  I always want more. I always want something else. Why can’t I settle in happiness?

  .

  Traian bought me a book that I have been trying to find for months. He is not a reader, yet he remembered that I wanted this particular book, and he convinced a lady who sells books on the street at the University Square to save one copy for him.

  He did all this for something he does not understand, but he can recognize and accept in me. He does not comprehend, he does not relate, and yet he has been more supportive and helpful than I could have imagined. In moments like this, I remember.

  .

  All weekend at home, with Traian. Just the two of us. He is sleeping in the living room now, in front of the TV. I am taking a bath and writing. How much I would rather be alone.

  I feel like I am returning into myself after a long trip abroad, and I don’t like the changes I see in here. I can’t remember how these years passed. I can’t even read my diary because it is so full of such petty and limited thoughts about food that I didn’t really enjoy, clothes that didn’t really fill any emptiness, and money matters that never really mattered.

  I find myself trapped near this man in the living room, and I am shocked. Who is he? What is he doing in here? Where are we?

  .

  “I’m not happy,” I finally said. “I’m sorry. I don’t think happiness was meant for us,” I said.

  “Let’s work it out. I’ll do anything. Just tell me,” he tried.