Willing

by Scott Spencer

  Our room was at the end of a long corridor, and then a sharp turn to the left, and down a couple of stairs. We opened the heavy wooden door and stepped into a suite of sorts, a blend of a small hunting lodge and an attic. Rough-hewn posts, exposed beams, not a right angle to be found. Twin beds with brown and gold spreads, and one of those Eastern bloc television sets that manage to look simultaneously futuristic and antique. French windows covered by lace curtains opened up to the quiet lane below. I’m so hungry, my mother said, I noticed some nice cafés on our way over here. What did you want to tell me when we were in the airport? I asked. She looked puzzled. You said you had some good news, I prompted. She patted me on the arm and smiled; my curiosity was pleasing to her. I’ll tell you over lunch, she said.

  Out on the cool, quiet, pastel street she said We have to be careful. I don’t want to end up at the same restaurant all the men are going to. We’re not having anything more to do with them. Is that so? I said. Yes, it is, she said. You’re a nice man, too nice for this kind of meshugas. You’ve gotten sort of Jewish down there in Costa Rica, haven’t you?—and the next I remember, we were standing side by side in the Jewish Museum of Riga, a sad, threadbare place, with nothing much on display: old newspapers under glass, photocopied pages from old newspapers, flimsy little booklets set out on a folded-up Ping-Pong table like take-out menus from a Chinese restaurant. We were the only visitors in the place. What are we doing here? I asked my mother, but she was transfixed in front of a little glass cube, inside of which were two silver spoons, keep-sakes from the circumcisions of two Latvian children named Solomon and Isaac Etelson. This is who we are, she said in a whisper. She moved a few steps and gazed at the next display cabinet, which showed a handful of walnuts, painted gold. I followed her. Another held nothing but an old wooden top, striped red and blue. Next was a picture of Theodor Herzl, with his fierce black beard meant to lend gravitas to a face that would have appeared juvenile without it. He had expectant, dark eyes, and he stood with his arms folded over his chest, like a man patiently hearing you out before he launches into his passionate rebuttal.

  Before the Nazis, my mother said, eighty thousand Latvian Jews, after the Nazis less than two hundred. Think about that. And when I failed to appear sufficiently horrified by this statistic—though I don’t know what, short of suicide, would have given evidence that I had fully absorbed its significance—she looked at me as if I didn’t have feelings and said You’re part Latvian, you know that, don’t you? On which side? I asked. On my side. She thumped her hand against her chest, and her voice rang out in the room, with its high ceiling and bare wooden floors. Startled by her own vehemence, my mother looked around. An elderly woman with a mist of pale orange hair was seated in a folding chair near the pamphlets, her hands resting in her lap, her jaw set. Oops, my mother said, maybe we better get out of here.

  We walked down a flight of scuffed, uncared-for marble stairs that led to the street. Our footsteps echoed. I gripped the banister, afraid I might pitch forward. The world floated insubstantially before me, no more convincing than the Shroud of Turin. I never felt all that Jewish, I said to my mother. She frowned sympathetically. But do you believe in anything? I don’t know, I said. I guess I just would like to go back to New York. Maybe see Deirdre. Glad to hear it, but that’s not believing, she said. That’s just more wanting. I nodded; she was right, of course she was. I was silent for a moment. I listened to my heart—not for it to speak, and to somehow impart its vast, vascular knowledge, because that’s simply nonsense, that’s a dream; I listened to it just to hear it thump, doing its thankless grunt work. I’m an animal, I said to my mother. I believe in my body. I believe in my hair and my hands and my eyes and my belly. I believe in my desire. We stood in front of the old gray building, with its tall ponderous doors, the indecipherable plaques screwed onto the facade. All the men on your trip believe in their desire, she said. I think the whole point of God is to give us something else, something just as compelling as our desires and our appetites. People think God is there because people are so afraid to die, but that’s only half of what it’s about. We also need something big and powerful and all-seeing and all-knowing, just to free us from being slaves to our own bodies.

  We took a taxi, a little gray Mercedes, back toward the center of town, past old wooden houses, broad and gray, with ancient clapboard siding and bleached shutters hanging crookedly. They looked derelict and damp, like places where Bill Sykes would hide from the police. At that moment I knew Isabelle was no longer holding on to that apartment on Perry Street for me. The funds had failed to transfer. A new buyer had appeared who trumped my offer, and Isabelle and the owners had found a way to negate my offer and my earnest money and were now moving on without me. How had I ever so misconstrued her friendliness for anything more than a way to do business? Oh yes, and there was that other thing: the e-mail about her vagina.

  I covered my eyes with my hand. I felt the loss of that apartment as a kind of extinguishing of hope. Are you all right? my mother asked. I shook my head no. I was doing this whole thing for money, and the money was going for this apartment I found. But I’m never going to be able to write the book. The pitch I made for it was complete fantasy, and I’m never going to be able to fulfill my contract. And on top of that I said something really crazy to the real estate agent and even if I had the money she wouldn’t want to do business with me.

  All right, my mother said, first of all, your money situation isn’t what you think it is. What are you talking about? I asked her, but she waved off the question. And secondly, what could you have said to a real estate agent that would make her so angry? It doesn’t matter, I said. Of course it matters, my mother said. It’s important to remember everything matters and it all makes a difference. Our lives are so short, and everything that happens in our life span is really important; there is nothing wasted, there’s nothing that doesn’t count. You can’t say I’m going to do this, but it doesn’t really count. It all counts, and everything is connected to everything else. I’ll put it in your terms, Avery. Think of everything that has ever been said and everything that has ever been written, every book, every poem, every conversation, every scrap of paper, every encyclopedia, in English, in Chinese, in French and Spanish and Italian and Russian and Korean and Arabic, in Swahili, in Farsi, and then think of your life. What are you next to all that? You’re like one half of a letter in one word; that’s your life, that is you front to back, up and down, over and out. But that doesn’t make what we say and do less important. It makes it more important.

  My mother had a Riga This Week booklet she’d picked up at the hotel, and she was looking at the restaurant ads in it. Look at this, she said, turning the pages in the booklet and showing them to me. Ad after ad promoting strip clubs, gentlemen’s bars, and escort services, along with hotels, tour buses, and beauty shops. Everything’s for sale, I said. You can say that again, she said.

  Why do you say I don’t have to worry so much about money? I asked her, and when she said I’ll tell you once I get a little food into me I felt such exasperation I closed my eyes and the next thing I knew we were sitting in a restaurant called Peterburga. The walls were mint green with gold leaf trim, ornate sconces, a somber mahogany floor, upholstered chairs, heavy curtains, a collection of old samovars in a locked display case. My mother looked very happy over her bowl of dark red soup with sprigs of dill floating in it. Oh, I’ll have to hand it to them, Naomi said, this is the best borscht I ever had. We were the only customers; it was late for lunch, but the owners clearly needed the money and weren’t going to close if there were a couple of tourists to be fed. We sat at the window, facing the street. The waitress came to refill our water glasses. She wore a festive green vest with braiding, and flowing pants. She had long platinum hair with bangs, an angular face, glossy pink lipstick the color of a little girl’s toy hot rod. Is good? she asked in a weary voice. Serving us hadn’t been her idea; she would have rather gone home. This is the best borscht I ever
had, my mother said. She dipped her heavy spoon in, held it out toward the waitress. It’s the fresh dill, isn’t it? The waitress smiled uncertainly and then said I shall bring other food. I want to go home, I said to my mother, and she started to touch my hand but then stopped. I know you do, she said. Do you want me to go with you? I was a little taken aback by the question. Do you want to stay here? I asked. She shrugged. I wouldn’t mind getting to know that adorable knife salesman a little better. She saw the look of what I suppose was horror on my face, and she laughed. I’m kidding, she said. Of course I’ll go back with you. If there are no planes, we’ll take a balloon. And here’s part of what I wanted to tell you. You can forget about all those financial pressures and writing your cockamamie book. The Jankowsky Cross is more successful than ever. Much, much more. Is this for real? I asked. It’s as real as it gets, my mother said. People are scared, people are lost, mothers are sending crosses to their kids in the army—I don’t know what the hell’s going on, but I heard from this man named Bud Burdette who is head of Calvary Products, and he told me that sales of the Cross are up over six hundred percent in the past year. So what were you getting? Something like twenty thousand dollars a year? I nodded yes. Well, the next check will be for at least a hundred twenty thousand dollars. How do you like that, Avery? That’s a lot of money just for being somebody’s stepson, and you don’t have to chase after a bunch of prostitutes to get it, either. She narrowed her eyes. Or was needing the money just an excuse to do what you wanted to do anyhow? Maybe I should go home, I said.

  It was a warm spring day. A group of office workers in dark slacks and leather jackets walked past the window, puffing on cigarettes, a smear of lilac smoke drifting in their wake. Then a tall, broad-shouldered young woman with henna in her hair, talking excitedly into her turquoise cell phone. A man was approaching us on a Vespa. He had a large shaved head, a Roman nose, an angry face; he wore a leather jacket, a red-and-yellow scarf around his neck. (Where had I seen that scarf before? On the edge of understanding, I saw a flickering image on the Town Car bearing down on me on Fifty-sixth Street.) The Vespa sped past. A gasoline can was in the carryall on the back of it.

  And then, as if being marched to the Bastille, the Fleming men and their Latvian escorts filed past on the sidewalk. If they had stopped and looked through the window, we’d have been face-to-face. I had an impulse to hide, but where could I go? The waitress came with our meals, fried lamb with sour cabbage for my mother, poached perch with trout caviar for me. Do you see what I see? I said to my mother.

  Jordan led the way, his empty sleeve flapping like a wind sock at an airport. He was with a rather pessimistic-looking woman with a Joan of Arc haircut, who walked with her hands clasped and her head down. Dr. Gordon was behind, walking with Gabrielle, who kept a steadying hand on his elbow. Then came Tony and his girl, Len with his, and then, one after the other, the Metal Men, with three fair-haired, tall, rather formally dressed women, none of them touching, just simply marching along. Piedmont and Romulus were next. These men, in whose company I had been so false, and so often irritated—it astonished me to feel my heart go out to them. Piedmont was walking on his own, no cane, no walker, and doing a very credible job of it. He carried a little paper bag of nuts in one hand and a family-size bottle of ginger ale in the other. Romulus was tapping his watch and then bringing it up to his ear. Behind them were the companions they had chosen for the rest of the day: an athletic young woman with teased hair and stonewashed jeans, with something of the rural lesbian about her; and a dreamy-looking woman with an oval face and sloping eyes, a wide mouth, long fingers, a slender and studious-looking woman in her early twenties, who, under other circumstances, would have reminded me that life is full of beauty, and would have awakened in me a quick flash of urgency, a ripple of desire, but right now was just another layer of darkness.

  My interest must have somehow caught her attention because she turned and looked directly at me. Shit, I said, not moving my lips, this could be awkward. She wore a bright red-and-yellow-striped silk scarf, knotted casually around her neck. Just relax, my mother said, not moving her lips. You’re just another man. And she was right; the woman might not have been looking at me; she might have just been checking her own reflection in the window. Next was Lincoln. I turned slowly away from him in my chair, but I glanced at him over my shoulder. He was walking alone, his face drained of all joviality, his hands behind his back, his eyes on the ground. I held my breath, against him suddenly looking up and seeing me. The waitress was seated at a table near the back, typing on her computer. The click of the keys was like chopsticks against the side of a bowl.

  We ate our food. I was so worried, my mother said. I thought I’d find you had slipped into a coma. I cried for the whole flight from San Jose to New York. And then when you found out what I was doing, I said, maybe you wished I was in a coma. Will you stop? she said. Don’t your grudges have a statute of limitations? Remember why I’m here. She raised her eyebrows. I’m here because I love you and if I hurt you then I want to make up for that, and I want you to live your life, every single day of your life, secure in at least that one thing, that your mother loves you, and always has. Thank you, Mom. I took her hand. I love you, too. She put her hand on top of mine, stopped me from letting go. Will you promise me never to disrespect women? she said.

  We were outside now. Someone had closed the curtains to the restaurant, dark gray curtains with silver threads in them. The sky was pale violet, cloudless. A jet, distant and translucent, raced by, followed, a moment later, by its roar. There goes our plane, I said. Don’t worry about planes, my mother said. If you want to get home, there’s always a way. We passed an old woman sweeping the street. She wore a gray smock with an orange safety vest; her broom looked as if it had been made in the fifteenth century.

  Oh! Look at this! Naomi pointed to a little café on a corner, one of those three-steps-down places. A plain red sign over the door announced its name—KAFEJNICA—and under that sign was a smaller sign that said ELVIS. Let’s go in for a coffee or something, Naomi said. I still love Elvis. Then she added Do you think it’s the same Elvis, our Elvis? Of course, I said. There’s only one Elvis, even Elvis Costello would agree with that. We sat at a Formica table in the dark bar. The table was orange; the chairs were brown and white. Posters of Elvis’s sad, terrible movies were on the wall: Harem Scarum; Girls, Girls, Girls; as well as framed publicity photos, mostly Late Elvis, when he was living and singing as if he just wanted to get it over with. One of his gospel songs was coming through the speakers. His voice was deep, earnest, with that renegade edge of teasing. I believe that someplace in the great somewhere, a candle glows.

  A young woman wearing jeans cut off at the knee, sheer black hose, and dark orange high heels brought our coffees, with a shot glass full of sugar and another shot glass of milk. Elvis fell apart when his mother died, my mother said. He was never the same after that. That’s when all the self-destructive behavior took over, after Gladys died. Is that why you love him? I asked. Do you enjoy being a wise-ass? she asked me. Because I hope not, it’s very limiting. I’m sorry, I said, the thing is I don’t feel very well. She frowned sympathetically. I’m not here because I love Elvis. I’m here because I love you. And I have to tell you, I don’t like the looks of that thing on the side of your head. It doesn’t matter, I said. I’m fine. Really? Do you really feel all right? she said, hopefully. Well, that’s an interesting question, I said. It’s hard to assess because the mind trying to make a judgment about its own function is the same mind that is being evaluated. There you go with words, she said. Well, it’s not just words. I’m really trying to figure it out. I walked out between two parked cars. Oh, Avery. Don’t even remind me. What a terrible thing. I always told you to look both ways. It might have begun before that, though, in the little supermarket when Deirdre told me about Osip. Who’s Osip? my mother asked. Or maybe it was when I started calling myself Osip, or when I made an appointment with the woman who called hers
elf Chelsea. Maybe I should never have walked out of Roosevelt Hospital. There are so many possibilities. All I know is this: I am lost, I am so lost, and I don’t know if I can find my way back.

  I looked into my coffee cup. We should get back to the hotel, I said. You probably need to rest. I know I do, anyhow. My mother finished her coffee and, seeing I hadn’t touched mine, she drank half of that, as well.

  Outside, a blackened piece of lace floated by, carried by the wind.

  There’s nothing like European coffee, my mother said. I feel like jumping out of my skin, in a good way. We were on a cobblestone street, walking past little art galleries, wine shops, a strip club, a gambling casino. In front of us was our hotel, with its pink facade, the top-floor windows bright with sun, the lower floors dark. A minivan was parked in front, and four hotel employees were ferrying luggage on board.

  I guess there’s a woman waiting in there for you, my mother said. Will you promise me you won’t take advantage of the situation? Remember, Avery, just because you can do something is no reason to do it. Don’t forget, the universe knows when you do something wrong. The little white blanket of time we are given isn’t large enough to pull over our heads; there is no darkness possible, no hiding place; we are always in the light. But what if that isn’t true? I said. What if it really doesn’t matter, one thing happens, another thing happens, you screw someone, you don’t screw someone, you just keep moving, and none of it adds up, there’s no final tally. You have to act as if it matters, Avery, or else you go mad. Okay, but what if I’ve already gone mad? Then you just have to find your way back, honey, that’s all you can do.