“Hey, what’s going on? It’s not Halloween, what’re you two dressed up for?” Pete cleared his throat, trying to hide his laugh.
“Pete, just don’t say a word to Mom, OK?” I felt more wary than insulted.
“Don’t worry, but, geez, Irene, you look kind of sick with that white lipstick. You sure you’re OK?”
“Yeah, it’s not white, it’s nougat, Pete. I think it’s cool.”
Connie and I quietly brooded about Pete’s comments, worrying about how we looked as we headed for the elevated train to downtown. Something had happened to us lately—we had suddenly become makeup crazy, hair crazy, clothes crazy, and, most of all, boy crazy. All that craziness was exhausting and confusing. It seemed not long ago that we were all playing with dolls.
On the train, I sat studying the women, trying to determine who’d done it and who hadn’t. I was sure that once you had sex, it was stamped on your face forever. You were a changed woman. No one talked about sex, exactly, but everyone knew it was going on somewhere. Heck, kids were being born every day.
I took out a pack of my mother’s cigarettes. “Let’s smoke when we buy the tickets so we look older.”
“You know I don’t like to smoke,” said Connie, twisting her gum around her finger.
“Don’t be silly, everyone who lives downtown smokes. If you don’t smoke, they’ll know you’re from the South Side.”
When we got to the theater, Connie and I lit our cigarettes. “Blow the smoke up in the air like this,” I said, in imitation of Aurelia. “And for God’s sake look bored, like you do this every day.”
We walked up to the ticket booth, both putting our hands on our hips, blowing strings of smoke in the air. We handed the man a five-dollar bill and said, “Two please,” in our most bored voices.
No one noticed; no one asked our ages as we ducked into the movie house. I fell in love with Marcello and decided that Anouk Aimee, with her icy beauty and brains, was even cooler than Audrey Hepburn. Now this was what life was really supposed to be about: jumping into Roman fountains, staying up all night for parties, glamorous clothes, and handsome men.
“I hate doing so much reading,” said Connie, complaining about the subtitles. “They’re too fast. I keep looking at what’s going on and I forget to read. I don’t get this movie.”
“It’s about…ah, you know, real life, not our dull life. This is how you’re supposed to live.” I felt uplifted by the movie, as if I was finally being taught the secrets of life.
“There’s a guy over at the end of the row, and I think he’s playing with it,” whispered Connie. “Just don’t look.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m sure he’s only brushing popcorn from his lap,” I said.
“Come on, the movie’s finished, let’s get out of here.” Connie grabbed me, pulling me out into the lobby. The projectionist whistled at us as we were leaving.
Afterward, we walked down Michigan Avenue past the Art Institute and sat on a bench in Grant Park, looking at the windows in the high-rises. Who lived there? Were they happy? What did they do? I turned to Connie. “We may have grown up in one of the grittiest, most factory-choked neighborhoods in America, but we aren’t going to stay there and rot like the others.” I scanned the rows of buildings facing us. “And one of these days we’re going to have a drink over there at the Tip Top Tap at the top of the Allerton Hotel,” I said, pointing to the sign on the tall building.
In the next few months, Connie and I saw Last Year at Marienbad, L’Avventura, Breathless, and Hiroshima, Mon Amour. Coming out of the theater, Connie squinted in the bright light. “Don’t take me to no more movies where people’s skin is falling off. I’m not gonna sleep right for a week. That was horrible. I don’t know what that Hiroshima movie is gonna teach us about being sophisticated.”
I didn’t know either. The scenes of Hiroshima had so shaken me that I could barely speak. Why were humans so cruel to one another? “We’re going for a drink.” We were ready for the Tip Top Tap.
The maitre d’ paused too long before showing us to our table, making Connie nervous. When he handed us a menu, I told him that we were only having drinks. His eyes narrowed suspiciously as I lit a cigarette and blew the smoke up toward the ceiling.
“A couple of Pink Ladies, please,” I said, full of bluff, in my best I-do-this-every-day voice. Connie looked out the window, trying hard not to giggle from nervousness. I had already coached her to say our wallets were stolen if we were asked for identification. Connie was sure that we would be thrown out and humiliated at any moment. She bit her lower lip and concentrated on taking off the opera-length gloves I had taken from my mother’s drawer.
The maitre d’ nodded wearily. “I’ll tell your waiter.”
I looked out the window at the expensive stores along Michigan Avenue. I could see the Wrigley Building and the Chicago River winding around toward State Street. Lake Michigan was the huge blue blur in the other direction. Someday I would live in one of those high-rise apartments along Lake Shore Drive and shop at Saks Fifth Avenue, have a boyfriend like Marcello, and swim with him in Roman fountains. Someday I would live a glamorous downtown life, not that sad little South Side life that seemed to make all the women I knew so unhappy.
That is, if the atom bomb didn’t get us first, like in Hiroshima. I remembered crouching under desks during atomic alerts in grammar school. Like that was going to save us.
The waiter brought two pink, frothy drinks in champagne glasses. I drank it down like it was a strawberry shake and ordered another.
“I like this stuff,” said Connie, licking the pink froth from her upper lip.
We had another round and were wondering what to do next when I spotted Aurelia Norkus in a corner of the room, sitting by herself.
“Oh my God, it’s her. Should we say hello?” I couldn’t believe my good fortune as I stood to walk across the room, my head slightly dizzy, filled with an unexpected confidence even though it seemed as if my high heels had grown an inch or two while I was sitting. Connie followed with exaggerated care.
“Why, hello, Miss Norkus, so nice to see you again.”
Aurelia said nothing.
“I’m Irene Matas. We met at my mother’s party after the opera,” I continued uneasily.
“Of course,” said Aurelia unconvincingly.
“You were raving about La Dolce Vita, so my friend and I decided to see it after your recommendation.”
“Really? How did you like it?” asked Aurelia, blinking at us with an amused smile.
“It was just like you said, life with a capital L. This is Connie O’Connor,” I said, presenting Connie. “May we join you?”
“Actually I’m expecting someone. Perhaps another time.” Aurelia looked around.
“Oh! Well, naturally. Next time.” Embarrassed, I turned to leave and to my horror I saw Vida’s father entering the restaurant. I moved back and stepped on Connie’s foot with my high heel. “Ouch, what are you doing?” Connie let out a squeal of pain.
“I’m sorry. Let’s get out of here before Vida’s father sees us and tells my parents.” I skittered to the side of the restaurant, waiting by the busboy station until he sat down at Aurelia’s table. Then I paid the bill and left quickly, with Connie limping behind me. “I think I’m going to be sick,” I said.
“Yeah, me too,” added Connie. “That pink stuff was too sweet.” We found the bathroom, and I threw up while Connie splashed cold water on her face. Black eyeliner ran into beige pancake makeup and smeared her pink lipstick.
“Why would Aurelia be having drinks with Vida’s father?” I stopped to look in the mirror. My face looked blurred. “It just doesn’t make sense. She could have anyone she wanted.”
“Oh, shut up and let’s go home.” Connie looked pale and tired.
The next week, as I was on my way out the door to my usual Sunday jaunt, my mot
her stopped me at the door. “Irene, I found these matches from the Tip Top Tap on your desk. Are you smoking?”
My eyebrows shot up, and I stopped breathing momentarily. “No, Mama, maybe they’re Dad’s.”
“Your father went to the Tip Top Tap?” My mother stared at the matches, suspicion rising like heartburn. I couldn’t wait to get away from her questioning eyes.
“Do you know what happened to my opera gloves?”
I hesitated. Should I plead ignorance or should I confess? I already felt guilty about the matches, so I decided to confess.
“I forgot to tell you, Mama. I borrowed them.”
“Taking my things without asking isn’t borrowing, Irena. Please give them back to me.”
“OK, but…” I bit my lip and looked around. “They’re not here. They’re at Connie’s house.”
I was grounded for a week. A fine rain splattered my windows as I sat in my gingham bedroom, staring at a woman walking in the rain, thinking about foreign movies and wondering why Aurelia would be with Vida’s father.
Though our hearts were no longer in it, the next week we decided to see one last movie, Jules and Jim. We went to the park and, as usual, changed into straight skirts, sweaters, and heels, teasing our hair into a fine pouf and slathering on makeup. On the way to the bus, Connie and I ran into Felius the Poet and Valentinas Gediminas, who showered us with admiration.
“Hey,” said Felius, poking Valentinas. “We’ve got some good-looking rookies here. We’re going to a party. You gorgeous ladies wanna join us?”
“No, thanks,” said Connie politely. “We’re going to the movies to see Jules and Jim.”
“Great movie,” said Felius. “But see it next week and come with us to Aurelia’s house instead.”
My head snapped to attention. “Aurelia Norkus?”
“Yeah, right there on 71st, across from the park,” said Felius, jutting his goateed chin toward the end of the street.
“OK, sure,” I said, giving Connie a little shove.
Connie protested, but I started following the men. “I need to go,” I whispered.
The apartment was dimly lit with brick-and-board bookcases and strange black-and-white woodcuts. The Danish couch and chairs were filled with older men and women, so we didn’t know where to sit. Harry Belafonte was playing on the record player, and three couples were dancing the cha-cha. Across the room, Aurelia stood near the small mirrored bar wearing a Chinese red silk sheath, her dark hair in one long braid down her back. She was discussing Sartre with a handsome man who looked familiar. I looked around carefully to make sure Vida’s father was nowhere around.
“What’ll you rookies have to drink?” Valentinas Gediminas asked us.
“We’ll have two pink ladies,” said Connie.
“This isn’t a bar. How about a highball?”
I nodded as Connie poked me in the ribs with her elbow. “What’re we doing here?”
“I gotta figure this Aurelia out, Connie. She’s got half the Amber Tavern in here. I see these guys at the soccer games. I thought she’d have better taste.” After we got our drinks, Felius the Poet got up to declaim sad poems about the Iron Curtain.
“Why are they all speaking Lithuanian?” asked Connie. “I feel like I’m back at the foreign movies but without any subtitles.”
Someone started playing the accordion, and everyone sang the old folk songs until Aurelia went over to put a record on the turntable. I watched as couples joined to dance. When the music changed to a cha-cha, I saw Connie dance by with Felius the Poet, smiling and waving with the tips of her fingers. Where had Connie learned to dance with such style and confidence?
I sat down on the empty couch, and a familiar-looking man sat down next to me. “Smoke?” He offered a pack of Kents, and I took a cigarette and held his hand as he lit it. “I’ve never seen you before at Aurelia’s parties,” he said.
I blew smoke up in the air. “This is my first,” I said, trying to sound blasé. I couldn’t place his face.
Aurelia slowly walked toward us. “Well, well,” she said, taking in the situation. “Hello, Apolinaras, I’ve been looking for you.”
“I’ve been talking to this young lady.”
“I see.” Aurelia frowned, standing in front of us, her arms crossed. I couldn’t tell if Aurelia was annoyed or amused, but when I heard the man’s name, I suddenly knew him.
“I remember you,” I said. “You’re Vida’s uncle from South America. I’m her friend, Irene Matas, remember me?” I smiled, happy to see him again. “She told me you had moved to New York.”
“Yes, I just got transferred back here. So you’re my niece’s friend, eh? You girls have sure grown up quickly.” Apolinaras smiled stiffly as he shot a look at Aurelia, who was relishing this turn of events. He squirmed a little longer before politely excusing himself. “I think I’ll get a drink.”
“Moon River” started playing on the record player and I went to look for Connie, knowing it was her favorite song, but she was nowhere to be seen. Some couples were necking in discreet corners. Opening the door to the bedroom, I whispered Connie’s name. When my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw Aurelia kissing Apolinaras. Embarrassed, I closed the door quickly. Standing in the hallway, I heard Connie’s voice in the bathroom. “Let me out, you creep,” Connie demanded. I knocked on the bathroom door. “Connie, are you all right?”
I heard muffled talk. Suddenly, Connie bolted out of there with her lipstick smeared, rolling her eyes, while Felius the Poet sauntered out, smiling as he combed his hair over his bald spot.
“Let’s get out of this zoo,” Connie whined. “That guy followed me into the bathroom, and he was on me like syrup on pancakes.”
“You’re kidding.” I winced.
Connie and I came out of the dark apartment, squinting, shading our eyes from the sunlight. We walked across the street to the park and sat on the empty swings, watching as a blond boy of about five climbed the red slide, while his mother stood at the bottom ready to catch him.
Connie wiped her lipstick off with a tissue. “You and your big ideas. I wish we hadn’t gone to that party.”
I squinted in the bright sunlight. Life, I saw, was full of messy situations and mystery. There were questions I wouldn’t be able to answer no matter how many transformations I went through. And it seemed the business of sex was the messiest and the most mysterious one of all. I looked up at the blond boy, laughing as he went down the slide. He was so innocent and wonderful. “This reminds me of the part in La Dolce Vita where Marcello goes out on the beach after the party and sees that young girl, and he feels so decadent compared to her innocence.”
“Yeah, I didn’t get that part,” said Connie. “Did you? What was with that monster fish on the beach?”
I almost laughed. “I didn’t get it either.”
When we got up to walk home, we spotted our school friends, Al Vitkus and Joey Cicero, driving by in an old green Dodge. We waved, and they stopped and beeped. “Hey, you girls look great,” Al yelled out the window.
I smiled shyly, my heart always thumping a little harder whenever I saw Al. “Hi, guys, where are you going?” Al and Joey looked like a breath of fresh air after our experience at Aurelia’s party.
“I don’t know. Nowhere really.” Al shrugged. “We’re just driving around. Wanna come?” His smile lit up his whole face.
I tried to hide my smile as I looked over at Connie. “Sure,” she said, nodding eagerly.
We happily climbed into the back seat of the car as Al shifted into drive, and we all glided down the grimy streets of South Side Chicago, looking out the windows, wondering what to do next.
Those Chicago Blues
Irene Matas, 1968
We were sitting in a bar on Wells Street in Old Town, listening to Muddy Waters and laughing for no reason, when suddenly I touched my face and fel
t tears. Was I crying because Muddy Waters was on stage wailing the blues, or was it because I had taken LSD? “There’s only the thinnest thread,” I said in my purple haze, “between laughter and tears. The thinnest thread,” I repeated, as my voice bounced back from the four corners of the room. My whole being flowed into the bar stools, the pipes overhead, the music, and the people.
“Yeah, Irene, keep taking that stuff and there’s going be the thinnest thread between you and a lunatic,” said Connie, her thin mouth stretched into a sneer.
I could see she was in no mood for pharmacological enlightenment, but I couldn’t help myself. “Lunatic. Luna. Someone deeply affected by the moon.” I smiled beatifically, and the blue-and-rose stage lights pulsated wildly, extending like haloes around each person in the room. The speakers throbbed. Everything was divinely aglow. A gathering of saints. A redemptive rally of former sinners. A vision from the Old Testament. All God’s children were saved, and Muddy Waters would lead them beside the river, the beautiful, beautiful river. My eyelashes fluttered in religious ecstasy.
Connie leaned in closer. “Irene, your miniskirt is sliding up halfway to China. You’re putting on more of a show than Muddy Waters.” I scooted off my torn plastic barstool and tugged my skirt back down to mid-thigh. Connie rummaged through her crocheted purse. “I’ve got some Valium in my purse if you need it.” Her red Irish Afro was backlit by a blue halo, and her jeans were so tight that a roll of fat was pushing out of her waistband.
The smoke-filled air pulsed with the rhythms of “I’ve Got Those Walking Blues,” as four couples danced lethargically in the corner.
“The blues remind me of death,” I said, feeling profound.
“Everything reminds you of death.” Connie looked irritated. It was probably her lousy-paying job at Piper’s Alley in Old Town selling scented candles and lava lamps. A job like that would irritate a saint.
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