By the time the phone rang, her brain was well into its proverbial run.
“Hey, Babe! Need to see you.” Mike wouldn't take any excuses.
A few feet away from Mike's dressing room, Julius and Steve were head-to-head in a deep conference when Sonia knocked on his door. Inside, he was pacing the room like a Bengal tiger, shoulders hunched, marking his steps with a slow, territorial gait. Seeing her he stopped.
“What's going on, Mike?”
“Pete. The shit's hit the fan since I called you.”
“What about Pete?”
“Seems like Julius made a mistake. Pete wasn't the one who took the money. He's been released and will be back with the band. As a matter of fact, he'll be here tonight.”
“Well, that's just what we wanted, isn't it?” She canvassed his face carefully.
His eyes avoided hers. “Sure, sure it is.” He started taking his guitar out of its case.
“What did you need to see me about?”
When he shrugged, she got up to go. “Stick around, Babe, please. I sure could use your support tonight,” he exclaimed, putting his guitar back and coming over to her. He pulled her to him, a man claiming His Woman, but when he kissed her, she flashed on Peter making an uninvited pass at Sadie.
“So what relative are you here for today, hum?” Sam's question was tinged with a sneer.
“The Andrei chronicles,” Lily answered as he waved them on to their task.
Upstairs Sonia kept thinking of the last time she was there with Lily and Harry. How different it seemed today, interesting, but not as warm and friendly. She started handing Adriana's childhood books over to her mother, marveling at the courage it took her great-great aunt to leave her family and follow such a different path from them.
Lily nodded. “You want different paths, just wait until you read Andrei's stuff.” She took out the boxes, lining them up on a neighboring side table. Then, opening up the box marked Andrei and Eugenia, handed over several journals, adding, “In Andrei's journals, you'll see the Bulgarian on top and underneath each line is Adriana's complete translation of his words. Thank God. Otherwise I would have had to spend a fortune on a translator!”
There was a medical release form from Ellis Island and a ticket to the Detroit Auto show, dated 1915. “Take a look,” she smiled.
“Wow! 1915. That's so early. And what's this?” Sonia held up a brochure.
“That's the Ford Model T brochure. Look how detailed it is. See all the different parts?”
“That was mentioned in Adriana's chapter, right?”
“Yes, it was, but here you can see it for yourself. Wild, isn't it? Can you imagine car manufacturers today giving the customer that much information?”
“What's this, Mom?” Sonia was holding up a note written in a floral European hand.
Lily leaned forward. “Oh, that was Andrei's attempt at remembering some English phrases.”
Sonia snickered. “In Detroit, Life is Worth Living? An odd choice, don't you think?”
Lily nodded absent-mindedly. She was viewing a crushed rose in an old English primer book with an English translation of the words, ‘in memory of better times… ’
The sadness in her face stilled any questions, and once the two women had loaded up the trunk again and moved back down to the den, their mood had turned somber, thoughtful, just in time to see a non-thoughtful Sam refilling his glass with rum and coke.
“You know, Dad. These discoveries are wonderful and they're quite helpful to me.”
He looked dubious. “How so?”
“Well, for one thing, I loved your letters, all about your experience in Vietnam.” The second she mentioned the last word she knew she had made a mistake. One of his cheek muscles began to flinch. “I mean, I know it was bad for you but since you never talk about it, it's the only way I can get an insight into what you had to go through over there. Can't you understand that?”
He sat suspended in his chair for several seconds. “Those letters mentioned events, but didn't dwell on the depth of my feelings.” He watched Lily coming to join them.
“What do you mean, Sam?” she almost whispered.
He took a big swallow. “I don't really want to talk about it.”
“Maybe it's time to do just that, Sam,” Lily half-squawked. “Just talk to us, Sam, please?”
He took a huge swig. “Well, that beautiful, delicate Vietnamese girl with her baby…turning out to be NVA…” He was already transporting.
“NVA?” Sonia broke in.
“North Vietnamese Army.” Sam and Lily were in sync.
“Anyway, that Captain Carbini was a bastard, you know?”
Both Sonia and Lily nodded.
“And when he made me pull the trigger…it just…it just destroyed me…maybe permanently…” His last two words spun out in sobs.
“But honey, that wasn't your fault,” Lily exclaimed.
He jerked away from her. “What would you know about killing someone!”
“Is—is this what it's all about? Me not being there with you?” Lily uttered.
Husband and wife locked onto each other for a couple of seconds. Lily tried again. “Is that why you told me your life was over, with no one to help you, particularly not me?” Crying softly, she began wiping her eyes with the edge of her index finger.
Off to one side, Sonia stayed out of it, watching old wounds playing out.
“Well, I've never forgotten how you called me a coward for trying to get out of the army!”
Sonia suddenly thought of that night so long ago, when her mother had begged her to come over; how Sam had said something so harsh to her. Was this was it was all about?
Tiptoeing out of the room to give them some privacy, she went to the bathroom to reflect. Wow! All these years of non-communication, of unsettled issues. As she started to wash her hands, she pictured all her family members going through the same thing. Rose and Peter leading separate lives, Tony and Daria living on different planets, Adriana, choking on her father's wrath. And now her own parents, too afraid of opening up Pandora's Box. But by the time she had returned, she couldn't help grinning. There they both were, Lily on Sam's lap, leaning into each other, paying her no mind.
She woke up excited. No tapping. No treadmill thoughts. Just excited. Harry was due for breakfast at around ninish, and although pictures of Daria being overly faithful sifted through her brain, by seven thirty she was already glancing at the clock every fifteen minutes.
Petra picked up on her energy, following her around like a toy on a string, into the bathroom, into the kitchen, onto the couch, over to the desk and at eight forty-two, when the doorbell suddenly rang, both pet and owner flinched. So early?
She flung open the door to find Mike, his hands touching the outside door molding.
“What—what are you doing here?” she blurted out.
“Now, that's a nice greeting,” he chuckled, noticing no hug was forthcoming. “Well, um, look, Babe, I know you were upset at me. I just wanted you to know I am really glad Pete's back.” He by-passed her into the apartment.
“You came all the way over here to tell me that?” she asked, glancing at the time.
“Well, no, I also wanted to say I probably did take Ned a little bit for granted, I mean, maybe I shouldn't have gone to Steve so soon. But when all is said and done, look how much we got from him in return. We're well on our way to becoming famous!”
“We?”
“Whatever happens to me, happens to you, Babe.” He pulled off his shirt.
“What are you doing?” she cried.
“Wow! Now, that's a first,” he laughed, trying gather her in his arms.
“No, not now. No!” she practically screamed as the doorbell rang.
She frantically shoved his shirt back into his hands. “Put it back on! Put it back on,” she hissed as the bell rang a second time, in a Shave-and-a-Haircut rhythm.
He started to put it back on, but as soon as she ran for the door, pulled it
off defiantly.
She opened the door a crack to an eager Harry.
“Hey, you! Are you ready for croissants, crème fraiche, and strawberry jam?”
“Oh, Harry, I…”
Widening the angle of the door, Mike stood behind her, bare-chested, scowling. “What the hell…” he began.
“What the hell is right,” Harry snapped and charged down the stairs.
“Wait! Wait,” she yelled, chasing him halfway down, but he was too fast, too angry. Trudging back up to her apartment, she faced an equally irate Mike.
“You wanna explain this?” he snarled, yanking his shirt back on.
“No, not now…” she said.
“When I think of all the girls I could have been with, all the tail I could be having right this minute…”
It was as if he had disappeared from the universe, No more psych class, no answering his messages, and according to Martha, no appearance at her house. In fact, it wasn't until two weeks later he even bothered to pick up his phone.
“Harry, Harry,” she said as soon as she heard his voice. “I swear I didn't ask Mike over. He just showed up…”
“With his shirt off? Look, Sonia…”
“Harry, I just want you to know, that night together was so important to me.”
“But not important enough, right? Look, Sonia, I've gotta go take Martha out. See ya around. Take care.” Click.
Maybe he didn't care all that much after all. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe, maybe, she ruminated as Petra settled onto her lap. She looked at the phone, and picking it up, dialed her mother who remained curiously noncommittal.
The next night she climbed into bed, determined to start Andrei's journals. She patted the spot next to her and instantly felt the light shake of Petra's jump up as she opened to his first page. It was in the middle of the second page she recalled the quaver in Harry's voice when he had said, ‘See you around.’
Chapter 18: Andrei—Излизанe икони
(Escaping Icons)
“All is disgust when a man leaves his own nature and does what is unfit.” - Sophicles
Throughout my childhood, my father would lecture me on the history of our eminent Bulgaria; how, after the cruel Ottomans had turned much of our population into slaves under the devshirme system, the sultan's agents scavenged our villages, snatching young, attractive Christian boys away from their homes and turning them into Muslims. My father also admitted that although he did miss his mother at the time, he believed with all his heart that it was indeed this fortuitous venture that had shaped him into the person he would become, a highly respected history professor at the Sofia University St. Kliment Ohridski.
“Look at what the Ottomans gave us,” he exclaimed on my fifth birthday, his index finger pointing towards the magnificient Aleksandur Nevski Memorial Church with the Byzantine gilded dome and belfry flickering in the midday sun.
It was my first real introduction to the icons and frescoes evident everywhere, from the God the Creator fresco rendered onto the ceiling of the belfry to all the passageways blanketed with such vivid-colored paintings, my head spun for hours afterwards. Every few minutes my father would loom over me, explaining each of the icon's and fresco's historical significance, and soon I couldn't differentiate between what was real and what was only my father's omnipresence locked into my brain forever.
I learned from my mother, forever wearing her embroidered blouses, all about Bulgarian rituals, how each season brought its own, significant festivals. She also introduced me to the Dancing Brown Bears, and I think it was perhaps one of the only times I remember seeing my father howl with laughter as these big mammals twirled around and around in their tailor-made folk outfits for the crowd's amusement.
He took us to places like the Stone Wedding rock formation and the beautiful Valley of Roses, but it was the icons and frescoes that flamed his passion, along with his history lessons. Some days I listened to him lecturing on how I was probably descended from Spartacus through our Thracian lineage, and just like this wild, warlike fighter, I must embrace life as if I owned it. Other days he would corner me and begin a rant of how I probably wasn't from the Spartacus line, but the Hercules one. Either way, I was destined to be successful and strong.
More than once he interfered with my school grades when he felt they weren't good enough for someone of my intellect. It couldn't possibly be my fault; my teachers had to be the culprits. To my dismay and total humiliation on those occasions, I would watch him storm across campus at my secondary school, demanding to see my current professor as the Provost nodded his head and the students tittered.
Later, he made sure I was accepted at the best university because we deserved the best, didn't we? I shrugged in agreement and promised to become a doctor like he wanted, yet at what cost? Neither his icons nor his frescoes could answer me that.
She sat down at the table next to me with her two friends, chatting happily, ignoring me and my hungry gaze, until she dropped a napkin and our heads collided as I leaned down to pick it up for her.
“I do apologize,” I muttered, returning her napkin and rubbing my brow.
“Whatever for? You were simply being a gentleman,” she smiled. Soon, all three of us were past exchanging simple pleasantries and I began to find out more about this lovely creature.
Her name was Eugenia, and she and her companions were three of the only sixteen female students attending the Sofia University. Philosophy majors, the other two girls mostly listened while Eugenia expressed herself on a variety of topics. For instance, being Jewish, she didn't understand the obsession with all these icons. To her, they were simply glorious paintings with no hidden meaning other than the same kind of symbolism Passover or Yom Kippur held for her, and as for the Dancing Bears, the fact that they were forced to wear folk costumes wasn't charming at all to her. Didn't people realize how little respect these great sloths were being shown as living entities?
I leaned back in my chair and watched her through smitten eyes. Beauty and a brain. A free-thinker, as they were called in America. Someone with a mind of her own and several months later, in the middle of the Valley of Roses, lying in between the sequential rows of Damasks and drinking from a shared gourd of wine, I asked her to be my wife.
Having no family of her own, she let my mother plan a traditional wedding. The Thursday before, my mother implemented the ritual kneading of the pitka bread. As the bread rose, she told us, so too would a new family unit. The best man's job was to make the wedding banner that would be attached to a six-foot pole, felled from a fruit-bearing tree. Then, as was custom, he strung an apple wrapped in his mother's colorful scarf on the top of the pole, along with ribbons, ivy, and strings of puffed up corn kernels.
The morning of our festivities, I was sprinkled with barley for good luck, and two of my cousins fired their rifles up towards the clouds to ward off evil spirits. Next, I was supposed to ask for my parents' blessing and even my father admitted it was fine with him, the Jews were hard workers like the rest of the Bulgarians. Then, marching over to the boarding house where Eugenia was living, the maid-of-honor tried to place a veil on Eugenia's head. Two times my bride-to-be rejected the veil, but upon the third try, she accepted it. Then the two of us were led outside, where Eugenia tossed a plate topped with wheat, coins, and a raw egg up over her head. There was a hushed silence as we all listened for the breakage; the more pieces the smashed dish created, the greater the luck we would have.
Ten months later Adriana was born, eight years after that, Anatolie, and finally medical school for me, which surprisingly became my opium. I treasured the long, long hours of study and examinations for my diploma, and couldn't get enough of the grueling internship schedule that other doctors-in-training complained about. I was finally on the path of becoming the master of my own destiny, just like my father had told me, just like Spartacus and Hercules.
For the first time in my life, I made a good friend, a young intern named Borislav Grubo. He vis
ited our apartment at least twice a month, bringing respectable wine and a way with the children. They adored him. He would also occasionally meet up with Eugenia and me at our favorite restaurant next to the Hotel Slobrinka, as we shared life experiences, politics, and extolled the virtues of being a doctor.
In fact, it was one Saturday night that Borislav, Eugenia, and I were at that very restaurant, sitting together at a table towards the back when two men entered. One of them was tall, dark, foreboding, with a handle bar mustache, shoulder length hair, and a long, snakelike scar running down his left cheek. His companion was the opposite—young, chubby, unkempt, as if he hadn't bathed for at least three days, with much shorter hair and a blonde fuzz glazing his pubescent face.
The tall one pulled the Maitre'd aside and whispered something to him as Eugenia leaned towards me and clutched my arm. “That man looks like a criminal,” she muttered.
Instantly, the Maitre'd started clapping his hands loudly. “Attention, attention, ladies and gentlemen. I have a question. Please be quiet for one moment.”
We all paused mid-speech.
“These two gentlemen are looking for a doctor. Are there any doctors here tonight?”
This was my Herculean moment. I spoke up, “We are doctors.”
Borislav was cackling as Eugenia tugged hard on my sleeve. “What are you doing?” she rasped. As they approached our table, she was practically moaning. “Don't do this, Andrei. You're not quite a doctor yet. Please, please, don't do this!”
I was fascinated with the tall man's scar as he towered over us. “You two are doctors?”
“Yes,” we replied.
“There is a, well, a young lady who is very sick next door. Please come with us.”
Eugenia whispered into my ear. “Andrei, I have a terrible feeling about them.”
I whispered back. “You are being foolish. We'll just take a look and if it's bad, simply send her to the hospital. What's the harm? Borislav and I are almost doctors. Just a month away, really.”
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