Good on Paper

by Rachel Cantor

  My heart was beating with excitement.

  Yes! I said to the doorman and, to his astonishment, walked away.

  28

  MIRACLES ARE POSSIBLE

  Andi called from Pammy’s the next morning to say she’d been asked to stay the day; I confirmed this with Pammy’s mother, who assured me that Pammy and Andi together were less trouble than Pammy alone, and could Andi stay the rest of Pammy’s natural life? Till four, I said.

  I took notes on true-blue false friends in my Door Number Two notebook, then, pleased with my labor, decided to check out Labor Day sales for advanced bra technology: miracles were possible, I now knew, and I needed a miracle. For the next rough beast who came slouching along.

  Where to go? I recalled a photo of my mother laughing and holding a Bergdorf bag, her conical breasts lifted and separated. She would have known where to buy a nice, if not a miraculous, bra.

  An assiduous woman with a Slavic accent appointed herself my minder, assuring me through the swinging doors of my dressing room that all I needed was a little “support.” She had a professional’s disdain for squandered femininity.

  This was when Romei called.

  You have receive these new pages, he said.

  Thursday, I said, dropping the bras and covering my breasts with a forearm.

  No, I think is Wednesday.

  I think is Thursday, I said, picking up my T-shirt and holding it to my chest. Four days ago.

  Ivana’s gold pumps were pacing tense little steps on the other side of the swinging doors, as I fingered one crimson, one black satin, one front-closing, one strapless.

  You are not working? You say you work on no other.

  I am working, I said, and sat down on the little blue bench, careful not to prick myself on a pin. Of course I’m working!

  What you are thinking? he asked.

  Again with my opinion?

  I was glad, I said, that in the character of Romei you brought Dante’s adulterous desires out of the closet. It’s always bothered me how Dante could call pure and honorable his love for a married woman.

  Hurrumph, Romei said, or something like it.

  You asked for it, I thought. Full disclosure.

  You’re honest now about your deception then, I said, or rather, your character’s deception. I admire that.

  You understand nothing, he said.

  I understand a few things, I thought. One thing is you’re nuts.

  You understand nothing of this story I telling, he continued. You think you know every thing, but you know nothing of what is happen next.

  I’m sure you’re right, I said, and thought, What’s to understand? The whole world knows how this story ends!

  How is your little daughter? he asked then. She is fine?

  Andi? She fractured her wrist.

  Fracture her wrist! You must be careful! I am not receive this photograph. You are sending?

  You only just asked for it! I said, realizing that somehow I’d agreed to his request.

  Outside the dressing cubicle, Ivana sighed, loudly.

  You will fax this thing to me.

  No can do, I replied.

  You have not a—how you say—scanning device? But you are American! You have every kind of machinery!

  He was trying to be charming.

  Listen, I said. I’d like to leave my daughter out of this if you don’t mind.

  She is intelligent, like her mother?

  Of course, I said, not catching the flattery till it was too late.

  Reading? Maybe writing little stories?

  We try not to pressure her.

  We? Who is we?

  I’d like to make an appointment to discuss some questions I have, maybe next week?

  Ivana, sensing my call would never end, clacked away from the dressing room.

  Don’t trouble me with this thing. Make a note and send the translation.

  Romei! You said the end of the year!

  This is good. I would like the end of this month. I send you more tomorrow.

  You must be reasonable, Romei!

  What am I—engineer? There is no time! I am busy. Goodbye, and he was gone.

  I felt unaccountably abandoned in my cubby—with its florescent lights and stray pins and mangled hangers, the faint sound of a machine somewhere registering something, the closed-circuit cameras, the ghosts of other women who’d prayed for miracles. Romei would never answer my questions! He had no respect for my profession, no respect for me.

  I put my cotton bra back on, and my T-shirt. There would be no miracles today.

  29

  ROSH HASHANAH, MY ASS

  The sky had turned the color of dishwater, so instead of walking off the chocolate croissants Jeanette had seen clinging to my thighs, I took the M7 up Amsterdam. When I got back to Slice of Park, I checked my messages:

  Jeanette was glad I’d stopped by.

  Someone named Asante was looking for Ralph. A matter of some emergency.

  Benny wanted to talk:

  I know this isn’t something you understand or believe, he said, but we’re supposed to atone during the High Holy Days. The rest of my life’s a mess, but I’m hoping you and I can make things right. Please? Call, or stop by the store.

  When I was writing “Rose No One,” the Paul Celan story, Benny told me Rosh Hashanah was the birthday of the world—a perfect time, Rose thought, to begin again. Benny had helped—providing biographical details, offering variant translations of key Celan lines, challenging me to do better, and publishing the story eventually, though he’d said he wouldn’t. No one had ever taken such an interest in my work. Remembering this made me sad. We’d gotten along so well then. And now?

  I looked over my shoulder at People of the Book. I’d made mistakes; if there was a moral bean-counter in the sky I hoped he’d be generous with me. Jeanette had been generous—more than generous; shouldn’t I be generous as well? So Benny was a friend of Romei’s and didn’t tell me, big deal! Maybe he didn’t want to get involved in our professional relationship. Weird, but okay.

  Unless he already was involved.

  Could it be? Had Benny referred Romei to me?

  It made sense. They knew each other; Benny had given Romei my number. Benny was a literary guy—he knew lots of folks. Maybe Romei asked if he knew a translator. Maybe Benny hadn’t wanted to admit such a large favor. His involvement would explain why Romei had taken a chance on an unknown—he’d trusted Benny’s judgment!

  All Benny had wanted was to do something nice for me!

  I stood up again, ready to apologize. We could begin again, I thought, but then:

  No. He couldn’t have given Romei my name! He didn’t know about my Dante translation, he’d never heard of Vita Nuova.

  Might he still have recommended me? And I just happened to be an expert on an obscure work of Dante no one but me has ever read? Too large a coincidence.

  A drop of rain landed on my nose.

  I had it all wrong. It wasn’t up to me to reach out to Benny. It was up to him to come to me, to come clean. He hadn’t, he’d had his chances and he hadn’t.

  Rosh Hashanah, my ass.

  30

  INTO THE ITALIAN SUNSET

  The next morning, we sent Andi off for her first day of school. Ahmad knelt beside her, straightened her jumper, and handed her a notebook and pen—a foot-long pen with a red-knit pom-pom dangling from its end. He insisted it was his family’s tradition to give third graders notebooks so they could record their observations. Because they were “old enough” now, whatever that meant. Andi nodded solemnly, her eyes wide. I glared at Ahmad as Andi walked out the door clutching her notebook—looking, no doubt, for something to observe.

  How like Ahmad, to show me up with school supplies!

  •

  More pages had arrived overnight, as promised: more “Screen,” a whole page and a half.

  I didn’t want to read a scene in which a radiant Esther proclaims she must be free, free, fr
ee! Her husband begs her to stay, her child weeps in a corner, but proud Esther will not be moved! She walks with Romei into an Italian sunset. Or so I imagined, as I settled onto the loveseat.

  Romei surprised me.

  Esther and her narrator have not spoken of the future. Like all literary lovers, they live in an eternal present. In a poem called “Au(to) bade,” they curse the arrival not of the dawn but of the child’s school bus. So it’s a shock—to them and to us—when they return to Esther’s one day to find the apartment empty, the husband not in Palermo as planned, the child not in school, but both of them gone, their clothes gone, the jewelry given to Esther by her husband gone, her passport gone. All that remains, besides Esther’s clothes: her translation, a canceled bankbook, a manila envelope she doesn’t recognize.

  Inside the envelope, photographs of the happy couple dating back to the fall; also, a letter from a family friend, a lawyer, assuring Esther that she’d forfeited her maternal rights and her rights to spousal support, begging her for the sake of all concerned not to press the issue—not that she has the money with which to return to the U.S., much less hire an attorney: her husband has left her penniless.

  You have what you want, a note from him says. Now live with it.

  Reminiscent of Dante’s karmic economy, the punishment horribly fitting the crime, this note suggests that our lovers are now in Hell. Be careful what you wish for!

  And with this, Romei shifts from the present to the past tense: the narrator and Esther plunge into time, out of their lyric self-absorption, into something far more dynamic.

  I imagined that at this point they turn to each other, knowing they are stuck with each other, their dream become nightmare. Game won and lost, they had their cake, now they had to eat it. I imagined they return to Romei’s silently, having lost their ability to speak. I imagined this but didn’t know: the section ended with the envelope and the note.

  For the first time, I found myself feeling something for Esther and Romei—I wanted to read on. Yes, the husband was the injured party, yes, he had a right to be angry. But his revenge was complete and irrevocable. It didn’t allow for the possibility of change! Esther couldn’t explain herself, or consider what she might lose. The coldness of it curled my toenails.

  When my telephone rang, I answered it, unguarded.

  They say we’re obligated to ask three times for forgiveness, Benny said. Then the sin is on the head of the obdurate one.

  Come over, I said. I’ll make us some tea.

  PART FOUR

  MUSE

  31

  WATCH THE DING DONG, DEAR

  Benny and Andi arrived at the front door together.

  You’re Andrea, right? I could hear him asking from the hallway.

  I’m not saying, Andi said. I looked out the peephole. She was squatting in her Paddington raincoat and rain boots, rooting through her backpack with her good hand, I assumed for her keys. Raindrops hung from the tips of Benny’s beard.

  Good girl, Benny said. Your mama must be proud of you.

  She is, Andi said, pulling out a mashed Ding Dong. Do you know her?

  I do if you’re Andrea.

  You’re trying to trick me, she said. I’m not stupid.

  Benny was still laughing when I opened the door.

  •

  I introduced him as Uncle Benny, which Andi didn’t appreciate. She’d put her Ding Dong on a piece of Ahmad’s china, and was eating it on the couch with a knife and fork.

  I know him already from the store. Why does everyone want to be my uncle?

  Because you’re such a great kid, I said.

  If you say so.

  Then we heard about her new teacher, Mrs. Chao, who was very nice. Look! she added, and extended her cast so I could see additional names written in grape and apricot.

  Are you going to have Ovidio sign?

  Mo-omm! she protested, making at least three syllables of the word.

  Watch the Ding Dong, dear—we don’t want it on the sofa.

  For some reason, this cracked Benny up.

  Is he okay? Andi asked when Benny couldn’t stop laughing. His beard jiggled, his long legs stretched out around the legs of the coffee table. Whaaat? she asked, smiling. What’s the joke, Mom, tell me!

  I was giggling too.

  Mo-omm, tell me! Then Andi was laughing, Benny was howling and holding his stomach.

  Watch the Ding Dong, dear! was all he could say.

  •

  That was great, he said, when Andi went to wash her plate. Laughing is better than sex, had you noticed?

  Well, it’s less complicated, I said, thinking that was the strangest thing I’d ever heard.

  Then from the kitchen, a shattering: china smashing on an Italian tile floor.

  Oops, I heard my daughter say. Oh, no.

  Shit, I said.

  Ahmad’s antique Russian porcelain. Andi shouldn’t have been using it. I should have stopped her. I was so happy to see Benny, I hadn’t registered what she was doing.

  You okay? I said as I went to her.

  She looked up, unable to move. Her feet were bare—on her toes, sparkly blue nail polish. She looked scared, crouching, as if ready to leap. Her lower lip trembled.

  Don’t move, I said. I’ll get something to sweep that up, but before I could turn, Benny had swooped Andi into his arms. She began to wail: Put me down! Put me down from here! pounding him with her good fist till he placed her a safe distance from the broken plate.

  Put me down, she continued screaming, even though she was down. I ran to her, china crunching under my Birkenstocks, and wrapped my arms around her.

  Sweetie! What is it? She was sobbing, great huge sobs, and pounding me. Sweetie! I said, holding her tight, making a confused face to Benny over her shoulder.

  Maybe I should go, Benny mouthed to me. I shook my head. Andi was still sobbing.

  Sweetie, it’s okay. Benny was just moving you so you wouldn’t hurt yourself.

  I don’t need another father! she wailed. Tell him to take his hands off of me!

  Benny’s over there, I said, mystified. You’re okay. Benny’s my friend. He’d never hurt you.

  I’m going, Benny mouthed again. I nodded.

  Ahmad’s going to hate me! Please don’t tell him I did this! Please don’t tell him!

  •

  That evening, a tear-streaked Andi, coached by her mother, apologized. Tell him what you did, tell him you’re sorry, you’ll find another plate, you’ll never play with his porcelain again. Confession, contrition, reparation, change. It worked for Dante, it can work for you.

  Ahmad loves you, I told her. If you say these things and mean it, he’ll forgive you.

  Can’t I just write him a note?

  No, my love, you can’t.

  What about a poem?

  I blinked.

  You can write him a poem, but you still have to say these things.

  Are you sure this works? she asked, her good hand on her hip. Have you ever done it?

  Have I ever apologized? Of course.

  No! she said, exasperated. Has anyone ever apologized to you? Has it worked?

  Of course, I said, though I wasn’t sure that was true. But it did work. Ahmad sat Andi down on his knee, and together they sang “Tomorrow” in crooked harmony.

  My family.

  Ahmad tucked Andi in. I thought maybe it would be a good time to talk about Connecticut, but I had unfinished business with Benny.

  Sorry, I said to him over the phone. I don’t know what came over her.

  No, I’m sorry.

  You did the right thing. You did what I should have done, instead of going off to find a broom. I don’t know what I was thinking.

  She doesn’t know me—I shouldn’t have touched her.

  We’ve been under some stress.

  You handled her well.

  I did? I asked. It was crazy how grateful I felt. You think so?

  Sure. You let her know she was safe and loved. A
nd forgiven.

  Ah, I said, remembering.

  Listen, can you come over?

  To the store? I asked. I could see it out my window, its lighted display, Benny’s apartment above.

  No, my place. We’ll drink, we’ll talk, we’ll drink.

  It had been a long day, the pans from my tagine were still in the sink. It was raining cats and dogs—only a fool would go out.

  I’ll be there in five, I said.

  32

  SECRETS OF THE CONFESSIONAL

  It was my first time in Benny’s six-room, third-floor walk-up. Cheap metal bookshelves lined the walls, holding poetry, Judaica, how-to manuals (how to fix a VW Bug, how to build a yurt). In the kitchen, shelves of vegan cookbooks, jars of grains, lentils, pastas in various shapes, a three-tiered spice rack containing ingredients I’d never heard of—asafetida, galangal. A mezuzah in every doorway. His furniture had been purchased from the Salvation Army or found on the street, but it all had a certain interest: a chipped, gold-brocade loveseat; a table fashioned out of a butter churn. Between bookshelves, artwork from early issues of Gilgul—artists I didn’t know then but certainly knew now; also, totemic pictures of patterned Hebrew letters. On the floor, a Chinese carpet of inestimable value. The effect was one of both rootedness and chaos.

  I felt immediately at home, plopped down on a royal blue couch. Benny put on Meredith Monk, got us some Maker’s Mark. In mismatched shot glasses, cut crystal.

  Must be a busy time for you, I said, with the holidays and all.

  Hmm, Benny said, enjoying his bourbon. He was sitting on a loveseat, wearing gym shorts, tzitzit, and a shirt that read, I climbed Mount Parnassus; he’d stretched his long, bare legs out on top of the coffee table. He was waiting.

  The bourbon warmed the back of my throat, my stomach.

  You knew Romei and you kept it from me, I said.

  Benny said nothing. He was still waiting.

  I wasn’t going through your stuff. There was a kitten in your annex.