After our late breakfast, we left for the beach to look for Vera and Giovanni. We found them under an umbrella. Big shock - Vera didn’t seem happy to see Ema – oil and water, those two. I raised my shoulders in a helpless gesture and smiled at her. I motioned to the water with a silent question to Vera. She nodded, so we went splashing into the surf for some privacy. Vera was eager for information, and barely waited until we were alone before asking, “Did you give Jony my number? He is sooo hot.” Without a pause for breath she added “Giovanni likes you; he said you are cool. I told you he would like you.” When she finally stopped talking, I filled her in about Ema getting rid of George T. “I told you.” she replied, smirking.
We left the water and walked back up to where the group was lounging. There were new people gathered around; suddenly our gang was a lot more numerous. Someone had put up a tent and brought some chairs, and the guitars were out. As we approached, Alin grabbed a guitar and started to sing. I liked to watch him sing – it felt like he was singing to me alone; the crowd faded away, and I knew I would never get tired of listening to his voice. He was my rock star – my man. He was singing for the group, but he was looking at me. Today was a good day.
*** 5 August 1989
My mother worked for a couple of years in a factory located on the outskirts of the city. She was a simple worker, a midline working forty hours a week. My mother's foreman, a “stinky man,” made her life unbearable. My mother was determined to leave and stay home to “raise her three children”, so she finally quit to stay with us. Later, I heard rumors her ex-foreman had tried to make advances toward her. When she refused him, he didn’t leave her alone until she quit.
My mother was, for me, the most beautiful woman who ever lived. Not because she had Sofia Loren gorgeous eyes, nor because of her emphasized cheekbones. Not her pouty lips, perfect teeth or her long legs. In my childish mind, it was her always neatly painted nails. She always had an aura of taste and elegance, and I had no idea where it came from. How had she learned to be sophisticated and graceful?
But there was a dark side to my mother; she had to know everything about everyone else. She thrived on gossip and was judgmental to boot. Her favorite pastime was to sit on the beach and comment about the people walking there. She was disparaging of everyone else’s manner of dress – if someone had a tacky dress on, she would sigh and roll her eyes: “Look at that peasant woman. She looks like the whole rainbow fell on her dress.” If someone had unpainted or ungroomed toenails, that got a sharp retort from her, “Did you see her toenails? Too long. Disgusting – like horse hooves.”
But back then, I did not understand how cruel those statements were – the lack of compassion – I didn’t know any better. I admired my mom. I absorbed everything she said and soaked it up like the sponge I was. She was the height of fashion and sophistication – she could do no wrong. I learned at her knee that beautiful women could say and do anything and get away with it – no matter how stupid. So often the way she acted was either ignored or emulated. In her case, her direct way and her cruelty were often overlooked by many. Men would dream of her in ways that had nothing to do with gossip; most women were either her best friends or her enemies for life. The men were always disappointed – as far as I know. The women who gossiped with her also gossiped about her, and she about them, so it was a peculiar sort of bond.
Later, as I grew older, I became disdainful of her pettiness. I don’t know if it was normal teenage rebellion or something deeper, but I started to hate her malice – her way of interfering, ferreting out secrets, and spreading the worst about people all over town. She was very good in putting things together and finding embarrassing tidbits when she wasn’t able to get any gossip details. I began to see her as shallow – limited. She began to represent everything I hated about my town, and I started to actively criticize her. I asked her over and over to mind her own business and stop criticizing people. Gossip was like the cornerstone of my mother’s social life; sitting on the benches on the beach and commenting was her life. She was not perceptive enough to realize she was doing anything wrong.
My mother met with betrayal from her family when I was a child. I remember her pain. She was crying, confessing to my father:
“How could they do that to me? They were my family. You know what hurts the most? The thought of them gathering together and conspiring to betray me. Who would come up with something like that? I was their youngest and poorest sister. If you can’t trust your family, then who can you trust?” She would cry in front of us, without trying to hide it.
My father would comfort her in his own bizarre way. “Trust is the first condition for betrayal to occur.”
I found out later, that when my mother’s mother died, her brothers and sisters decided not to tell her. They gathered together, planned the funeral, sold her land and house and shared the money. My mother found out when it was too late. Her pain was horrendous. She didn’t get to say good-bye to her dead mother, and she didn’t get her cut. She was indeed the poorest one. Her brothers and sisters were well situated. She didn’t speak with all of them for years. Later, her older sister’s husband got cancer. They called her and invited us to his maybe-last birthday party. She accepted in tears, and she cried a lot, before and after we arrived there. Yet, after the call, I heard her confiding to my father, “You see, there is a God out there. They betrayed me. They stole from me. What’s the use of all their land and money when you have cancer? Cancer doesn’t need money. I needed the money.”
Although I was not pampered, my mother took care we weren’t deprived of anything. We were sheltered by her, and she made sure we were no more deprived than the conditions forced us to be. Nothing was in abundance; scarcity was present in every aspect from not enough food, not enough electricity and warm water, and no travels abroad at all. I remember my mother always had to stand in line for milk, meat, flour, and oil. Or for the famous Tismana cacao cooies and the ice cream chocolate parfait. During the summertime, the weather made the city hot, sticky, and unbearable. In the wintertime, the cold was tough. People stood for hours and hours in line to make sure they reserved a seat. Standing in line consumed hours of time – tedious, boring, and always ending in frustration. From morning to evening, women crocheted or braided and would talk and gossip, make friends for life. Men talked about football and tell anti-communist jokes, and children would try to kill time playing, talking; anything to pass the endless tedium while waiting for the freight train to bring supplies to the town.
My mother sheltered us by never asking us to stand in those endless lines. “You must learn. That’s all you have to do,” she would say to us. We were always grateful for that.
It’s almost impossible to explain what it means to live deprived of basic consumer items, such as butter or margarine, soap that smells nice, or simply an ice cream. It’s hard to understand how unbearable were those queues, how time would stand still. Standing in the line was unbearable, but paradoxically, it was also the easiest part. Because when the freight train finally restocked the shelves, and the line finally started to move, people would Lose. Their. Minds. The whole place would become a human circus. While waiting, people were courteous to each other - they would keep your place when you would need to leave for one or two hours. But when the saleswomen would announce there was not enough merchandise for everyone, things would change. People will turn into animals - shoving, pushing, and trying to reach the front.
That was the moment when my mother would turn into a beast, knowing it was her only chance to buy the food she needed. She would scream, scratch, claw and fight for her space. She would come out of that huge mess disheveled, with broken nails and scratches on her hands. Sometimes she would cry from frustration and anger after someone insulted her. But mostly she was victorious and happy she’d managed to buy what she needed.
I loved her for sparing us the waiting in the line. I adored her for that. And I felt ashamed I never helped her. We were all aware of her sacrifices
. I loved that she allowed us the freedom to do what we wanted. That’s why we were good kids; she never had to raise her voice at us.
Next to the lines in our minds was the boredom and tedium of church. Ceausescu couldn’t ban the churches and the religion. He did something else. Over the years he simply demolished a lot of churches- under different pretexts. Either he needed to build something else in there, either the church was too old, all kind of reasons will give him the authority to destroy them, without making his people angry. People still kept their faith, but only during important events like Eastern, a wedding or a funeral, they will remember they are religious and go to the church. Thankfully, my mother never forced us to go to church either. All our friends had to attend church – if they didn’t have to go weekly they at least were expected to attend ceremonies like weddings or funerals, but we were spared. No church, no lines, and no visits to the country to see our grandparents, because to go meant to do without electricity and TV.
I loved my mother during the winter holidays. We would be able to buy oranges and bananas, the only time of the year you could buy them. During those times, she would suddenly remember she didn’t like oranges, only to make sure we will get enough. That was my mother. I was constantly conflicted about her – not much different than most teens, I guess – but I never knew whether I hated her or loved her. When I didn’t love her, shame would crush my soul. Not being able to bear those feelings, I preferred to not love myself. That was the only way I could hide from that purgatory.
CHAPTER 19
GOING FOR A KILL
One night,I was restless and couldn’t sleep. The bedroom was stuffy – too hot to be comfortable. I got up, opened a window and tried to go back to sleep. It was no use – now it was too noisy. Up again, I closed the window and stood beside it, gazing outside at the clouds. I started thinking about Jony, wondering if he was asleep.
Still restless, I went out into the living room. I was hoping I would “accidentally” run into Jony. Sure enough, he was in the living room watching a video. I sat on the couch beside him and finally decided to tell him about Vera – that she wanted to meet him. He didn’t seem surprised.
“Will you call her?” I asked him.
“Do you want me to?” He looked at me straight in the eyes.
I didn’t expect that. “What? It doesn’t matter what I want. It’s your life.” I trailed off, nervously looking away.
“Then why do you ask?” he asked, visibly annoyed.
“I thought we were friends. I care because we are friends. Vera is my friend too. I care. ” stumbling to a stop, I looked at him.
He looked amused, like he didn’t believe me. I took a deep breath and blurted out the truth. “Ok, I am curious if you’re attracted to her.”
“I’m a guy. We’re all attracted to everything we can stick our thing in.” He said with a straight face.
“Jony, please, will you call her?” I pleaded.
“Yes, I will.” He defied me by giving the answer I didn’t wanted to hear.
Instinctively, I looked down with disappointment. Uncomfortable with my conflicted thoughts, I looked down at my hands, twisting them nervously. I wanted to stand up and leave. He grabbed my hand. Startled, I looked from him to the door – what if Alin woke up? I shivered; I was still uncomfortably warm but now for an entirely different reason. I tried – weakly - to pull back my hand. He was taller than me. I felt small and uncertain. I bit my lower lip, and my breath became heavy. I slowly combed my hair away from my eyes with my other hand, finally meeting his eyes. He dropped my hand. I hated he did that. I swallowed hard.
“Mona, babe, you don’t care because we are friends. You care because you’re attracted to me.” His tone was angry and tired at the same time. “You like me, and you are torn apart because you like Alin. You think it’s a bad thing. But it’s not. It’s natural. Trying to repress it is not natural.”
He was right. Meanwhile, his hands were stroking my hair. My whole body was on fire. I leaned closer.
Throwing caution to the wind, I started to flirt with him “What I am doing here, Jony?” I asked playfully.
“You know what you’re doing, and you like it,” he declared.
I looked at the door again. The fear of being caught made the moment even more exciting. He saw my scared look, and he smiled again. He leaned closer to me. His lips were almost touching mine. I closed my eyes, inhaling sharply. I knew he was about to kiss me.
I was wrong: he didn’t.
After an all too long and awkward pause, I opened my eyes to him standing up and walking away, heading to the kitchen. I shook my head embarrassed.
He went to the fridge and looked inside. “Damn, no beer left?” He opened a cabinet door and found a bottle of Bailey’s. He poured two drinks, set the bottle on the kitchen table, and walked back to the couch to hand me one.
He clinked his glass with mine and smirked. “You may think you’re weak, but you’re not, Mona.”
The magic moment was gone. I walked to the kitchen table to get some distance between us, trying to dispel my lingering feelings of disappointment and confusion. He joined me at the table.
“Cheers,” he said. “To… friends.” He winked at me and continued. “You know, when I was small, I once saw my mother when she was putting on lipstick in the mirror.I remember the lipstick was bright red. I was surprised by how carefully she was applying it, paying attention to every detail. She opened her mouth, focused on getting the shape of her lips just right. It felt like time stood still. I was watching her and I was simply fascinated. When she finished, she looked in the mirror one last time, and I remember her look.” He paused.
I took another sip and finished my drink. He poured another one.
“Her look was cold. Knowing and premeditated. I looked at her, and for a moment I didn’t recognize her. Not because of the lipstick. Something changed in her, from one second to another. In that moment, when I saw her putting lipstick on her lips, another image flickered into my head. It was the image of a warrior sharpening his sword. I must have seen a movie with a ninja or something. Somehow, in my subconscious, I connected those two images. Today, it makes sense to me. A woman, when she puts makeup on her face, is like a warrior sharpening his sword.”
“Or like a soldier painting his face before a battle?” I tried to make sense of his words.
“Exactly. Imagine a soldier cleaning his weapon. He is on a mission. The gun is his weapon. Lipstick is a woman’s weapon. A woman is an incredibly strong and a dangerous creature. If a woman knows her power, she will destroy a man, like that,” he said, snapping his fingers. “And when a woman is weak, she is weak because she needs to be. For her to reach her balance, or for her to deceive, to imply weakness – either way, she is still in control.”
He finished his glass and poured another drink. He saw my look and started to laugh.
“Jony, I was weak once. Still paying for that. Sometimes, you are weak. Man or woman. Defeated.”
“Victims. Blah.” He made a distorted face.
“So you say I am weak?” I asked defensively.
“You pretend you’re the weak one. ‘Oh, I am in love with Alin, but I like another guy. Oh no, do I have to choose? Please God, tell me what to do.’ Ha.” He was talking with a falsetto voice, pretending he was me. We laughed.
Suddenly, his tone changed. “You have all the power, Mona. You are powerful. You can handle two guys. And you don’t have to play the victim. You only have to take what you want,” he concluded.
“Are you trying to manipulate me? What about decency, what about principles?” I demanded.
“Blah, blah, blah, principles, values. I am not manipulating you. I know you will sleep with me. Only a matter of time. I had you a moment ago, remember?”
I knew he was right. I was embarrassed again. I looked down, and he touched my chin with his finger, forcing me to meet his eyes.
“Suppose your girlfriend has sex with another guy — let’s s
ay, Alin — you won’t care?” I asked, puzzled.
“I will care, but I will try to follow my own advice and not expect anything in return from her. The fact I love her is my concern; she should not be made responsible for that. If she wants to be with another guy, she can be. And I will be with her — even if she killed someone, I won’t be hurt. She will be the one dealing with that, not me. Love shouldn’t entitle you to anything. Love is unconditional, they say. Then, what gives me the right to expect something from you? It’s like having a cat. My cat leaves during the night; sometimes she disappears for days. I love my cat. But I’m not hurt if she doesn’t come home. Or if she hangs out with other cats or even other people. I guess that’s why I love her. Because she fucking does what she wants. Sometimes she needs my attention, and I love it. She comes purring at my feet, and I give her my attention. But sometimes, when I try to touch her, she will scratch me without any reason.” He smiled.
“Jony, do you have a girlfriend?” I asked, looking to make a point.
“No, I don’t.”
“Would you be hurt if your friends hang out with some other guys and exclude you?”
“I guess, but again, that will be my problem. If they spend time with others but not me, that means they don’t like me. So why bother anyway? It means they are not worth my concern. Yes, we may be friends, but we didn’t make a friendship pact. We didn’t cut our hands, mingle our blood, and swear loyalty and exclusivity.”
I smiled.
He asked me if I was tired.
“No, I can’t sleep.” I didn’t want to leave. I would have stayed even if I’d had to listen a dissertation regarding chemical analysis of a new study in developing a better quality of toilet paper. I just needed to be closer. “Jony, you said I am strong. I feel weak. Defeated.” I forced a smile.
Just a Monumental Summer: Girl on the train Page 14