Dogs With Bagels

by Maria Elena Sandovici

  I make a date with Greg, 25, law student at Columbia. I accept mostly because I know he will pay. Also, I enjoy the attention. And if we really do end up together, wouldn’t that make a cute story? We met in the park, I was wearing my jammies, and his dog was the one who picked me up? Then again, why on earth would we end up together? I’m not attracted to him. He’s cute, maybe. But not that cute. Then again, doesn’t Momo keep telling me to stop falling for hot guys who are assholes? Maybe I’ll grow to like him eventually. He seems nice. And what is he saying now? That it would be funny if we went to a movie right now, with me still in my jammies? Well, yeah, it would be funny. Besides, I dread going home to Gretchen. And it’s been ages since I’ve seen a movie. Or been on a date for that matter.

  At the end of the night I feel happy. It’s been an interesting day. We had pastries, went to a movie, ate a late Chinese dinner. He wanted to spend time with me, I wanted to delay going home.

  It’s almost midnight when Greg hails me a cab, which he generously pays for. I’m hoping Gretchen is asleep, or out, or at least unwilling to come out of her room and confront me. I take the stairs, although it’s quite a hike, and although Mami always warned me to stay away from stairwells. Women get raped on stairwells. But I am more afraid of Gretchen. The closer I get to our floor, the worse I feel. My greasy Chinese dinner is making me nauseous. All of the wonder of the day has worn off.

  The apartment is dark. I tiptoe to my room, close my door, and for the first time ever, I lock it, hoping Gretchen can’t hear the little click. I turn on the tap, and throw up. I lie in bed sweaty, exhausted, unable to sleep.

  8

  Phone Call

  Maria puts on some music, brews some chamomile tea, and proceeds to remove her makeup. It’s an evening like any other. She’s tired, and she feels trapped between her own walls, which paradoxically are her source of comfort. She hates this place so much, and yet, it is the only place where she can relax at the end of the day, where she can cast off her torturous shoes, get into her bed with a good book, and pretend that the outside world doesn’t exist. She closes her eyes, and gently massages Ponds cold cream into her eyelashes. It’s not a spa treatment, but it’s soothing.

  The phone startles her. Her heart jumps. Who would call her this late at night? What if something happened to Alex or Lili? She looks at the clock. 9pm. Not that late, after all. Still, the sound of the phone makes her panic. She quickly removes the cold cream from her face, and runs into her bedroom. Her eyes sting from whatever traces of lotion she left behind, and just for one second, she regrets not having one of those cordless phones.

  She’s gone through great lengths to acquire a stationary phone with a rotating device. When she finally found one, L proclaimed her cheap. Alex just rolled his eyes. But she really wanted this phone, because it was the type of phone she had in Bucharest, back in the 80s. L said she understood, but pointed out that they could still get a cordless in addition to it. It was, after all inconvenient, having only one phone, which Maria insisted on keeping in her bedroom. This kept her teenage children off the phone, and with their noses stuck in books instead. Until they both got cell phones from their father, of course.

  L also pointed out that the rotary phone was impractical because so many businesses require callers to press keys nowadays. Maria shrugged. “Tough then.” She liked that expression. She learned it from Alex, who used it every time she complained about his refusal to do any of the little favors she asked for, like filling out a form, or translating a phrase she couldn’t understand.

  Maria brings the receiver to her ear.

  “Hello?”

  She likes the familiar feel of the receiver in her hand, the roundness of the plastic pushing against her cheek.

  “Hi, Maria.” It’s Victor’s voice. Curt, dry, a tad impatient, the way he usually speaks to her. “I hope I didn’t disturb you.”

  Not in a million years would she confess to him that she was getting ready for bed. He needn’t know she leads a lonely life. He probably suspects it, anyway. Sometimes she forgets how badly she wanted to be alone back in the days when her husband and children were all still here, pulling at her, demanding things, bleeding her dry of energy. She forgets that she relishes loneliness, that she would pick a night in bed with tea and a good novel over a hot date any day. Damn, she thinks. I wish I had a hot date.

  “No. What you want?” she spits out.

  “I need to talk to you about something. Can I take you out for lunch tomorrow?”

  He almost sounds cordial. She suddenly dreads lunch, dreads what he wants to tell her in a nice, amicable, only slightly condescending way.

  “Tomorrow not good. You invite Lili?”

  “No, just you and me. Wednesday then?”

  She swallows hard. Just you and me, he said.

  She has not been alone with Victor in years. The two of them don’t get together for meals, unless it’s a family event, for the benefit of the children. Sometimes Victor stops by to drop something off. The check for Alex’ tuition. Or L’s purse she inadvertently left behind in Victor’s apartment, then been too busy to retrieve herself. Things like that. Maria asks him to drive to Queens. She meets him downstairs. Goods exchange hands with little conversation. The difficulty of finding parking makes it obsolete for her to explain her choice not to invite him upstairs.

  There’s only one reason she can think of, why he would want to see her alone.

  “Lunch is bad for me. No time.”

  “How about dinner? My treat. Anywhere you like.”

  Dinner would be even more pathetic. She feels like shouting an insult and hanging up. But that would be childish. She’s known for a while now that this was coming. She realizes that now, with the children out of the house, their little charade is over. Maybe that woman is pushing him to get married. The younger, more attractive woman he’s sleeping with. His girlfriend.

  It’s a perfect time for Victor to ask for a divorce. She would do nothing but humiliate herself by fighting it. He might even think she’s jealous, and he would certainly be smug about it. He’d know it’s out of spite, the spite of a bitter, frustrated, lonely woman. How unfair that at his age, for Victor, the world is his oyster, yet she’ll end up alone. Not that she wants a man. She’s had enough of love. She doesn’t mind the solitude. What she resents is not having a choice. What she resents is him having a life. A better one. As if she never was. But then again, this too is what it is.

  She’ll agree to the divorce. But not on his terms. It will be civilized, but she’ll never allow it to be friendly. She doesn’t want to pretend, doesn’t want any of this day-time television reconciliation bullshit. She’s not going to break bread with him and smile and wish him well. She’s going to sign a piece of paper, and that’s it. No smiles, no handshakes. She doesn’t see why they should meet in person. Don’t people get divorced by mail these days?

  “Is this necessary, Victor?”

  She can hear him lighting a cigarette.

  “For God’s sake, Maria, do you have to be so difficult? It’s only dinner!”

  It’s as close as he ever comes to losing his temper.

  She sighs.

  “We can talk on phone.”

  “Maria, there is something I would rather discuss with you in person. Can’t we have dinner like civilized people?”

  Her heart sinks. What’s the use?

  “Fine,” she says. “Next week?”

  “How about this week, Maria? Really, what are you doing that is so important?”

  “A lot. I have the life too, you know.”

  “I never said… Never mind.”

  “Fine.” She concedes. “We go Wednesday. But I can’t stay late. I don’t like to be on subway late at night.”

  “I’ll drive you home.”

  He sounds amiable, as if he really cared about her getting home safely. As if, now that the kids are grown, if she dropped dead one day, it wouldn’t make his life a little easier.

 
“Where would you like to go? On me.”

  She rolls her eyes. He does do well for himself, but does he have to rub it in? She makes up her mind to insist they go Dutch.

  “Wednesday I come to your store after closing,” she says. “Indian buffet around corner is fine.”

  That place smells like curry from miles away. She happens to love the food. And the meals are so cheap, that even if Victor ends up paying, it can hardly be considered a meaningful treat. Besides, you have to pay up front, so separate checks are pretty much the norm.

  “We could go somewhere nice, you know. There is a new Spanish place two blocks from my store. They make some excellent…”

  “I don’t care what they make! I don’t care what you want. Indian is good. And buffet is fastest.”

  Her harsh tone makes her mispronunciation stand out even more. I don’t care vat you vant. “See you Wednesday,” she says and hangs up.

  She goes to bed and tries to immerse herself in her book, but it’s impossible. She reads entire pages without paying attention to the plot. As much as she tries, she cannot get the divorce off her mind.

  9

  Coming to America

  The decline of their marriage began the day they arrived in the new country. Perhaps it even began the day they left home, or even when they first decided to leave. Or maybe it was written in the stars for them all along, and it all began the very day they met. Maybe their courtship and the good years of their marriage were all just preparation for the hatred and bitterness that followed.

  But to Maria the day of their arrival in New York would forever be marked as the beginning of the end. There was just too much irony in their moving here. They came to America in the summer of 1989. They had given up everything to come here, and they had done so for two reasons: to escape communism, and to salvage Victor’s career as an architect. Ironically, a few months after their arrival, communism collapsed. As for Victor, he never worked as an architect again.

  He replaced his love for architecture with his fascination with the United States, his love for New York, which, feeling stifled in their unattractive neighborhood in Queens, Maria could not understand.

  They also felt differently about the collapse of communism. One of their first fights came in January 1990. For weeks they had been watching the news of the Romanian Revolution, perplexed, hypnotized by the images on TV. The coverage started in mid December, and, even as the fighting in the streets simmered down, images of the violence and bloodshed that ensued were still being broadcast. They had limited access to news on their small second-hand TV, hooked up to an antenna. It was funny, she thought. In Romania they had no access to news because of communist censorship. Here they couldn’t afford cable.

  They would walk across the street to the neighbors’, who had a satellite dish. Victor could not get enough of the news, but Maria found it depressing. At some point she even had to cover her daughter’s eyes, as images of tortured dead bodies appeared on the screen. The other parents didn’t seem to mind their children watching.

  The political discussions bothered her even more than the images. While people were waiting for the same news segment to be played over and over by CNN, as if they had not absorbed it completely, they sat around talking, mindlessly eating the dishes Vica, the host’s wife, prepared. The other women, with the exception of Maria, would help Vica serve food and beverages. Maria just sat around braiding her daughter’s hair. Lili was fascinated by the African braids of some girl at school. Maria was shocked when Vica told her how expensive such a hairdo was. Some of the other women chimed in to explain that there was no way Maria herself could achieve such a hairstyle, and besides, why would she want to? Still, braiding kept Maria’s hands and mind occupied.

  It was not just the news coverage, but also the political discussions that were making her sick. In spite of all the bloodshed, in spite of the war-like images, in spite of the young people machine-gunned to death, and the chilling discovery of underground torture-chambers, in spite of having cried for days, frazzled, until she finally managed to reach her mother on the telephone, Maria saw the revolution as a positive event. Some images haunted her at night, but others were uplifting, glorious, the victory of a people who had won back its freedom. Her biggest regret was not being there to actually enjoy it. If only they had delayed their departure, if only they had waited a few more months, they could be there right now, continuing their old lives in a free country. She would have loved to be there to take in the scent of freedom. Even from a distance, she thought it was the most exciting thing she’d ever witness.

  Vica’s guests, however, kept smoking, frowning, and bickering. The room stank of stale smoke and pessimism. Some said civil war would follow. Others mentioned anarchy. Others placed bets on how long it would take for another communist regime to seize power. There were some who mentioned fascism, or military rule. Some expected Soviet tanks to march in.

  Maria kept her eyes on Lili’s hair, and her thoughts to herself. She was too shy to talk in a room full of people, all louder and more opinionated than herself. Besides, she disliked them so intensely by now, that she didn’t find them worth talking to.

  Instead, she told Victor that she thought the images were bad for the children, and that maybe she should take the kids to a park or something, instead of keeping them in a smoky room, where people talked about politics, and dead bodies were shown on TV. Victor agreed. She insisted that he continue attending these gatherings. She knew he liked them. He was a central figure in the political debates. And she really wanted Victor to have a good time. She was worried that his new job as a night watchman in a parking garage would depress him, or that their new state of poverty would bring him down.

  So Victor attended news-fueled political discussions, while Maria pushed a sulking Alex on a swing in the park, or wandered through the supermarket aisles under the guidance of Lili, who knew enough English to read the labels on the mesmerizing variety of products available in America. They walked through stores the way people walk through museums. They couldn’t afford anything. But wasn’t it interesting to see that there were so many different kinds of shampoo out there? She tried to find diversions for her children. But mostly she wanted a diversion for herself. She needed something to take her mind off the Romanian Revolution. Nothing worked. She couldn’t help thinking of it while she strolled trough the pharmacy aisles, and she couldn’t help discussing it with her husband in the few hours they spent together.

  “Victor, why do these people all think it will be bad? Why can’t they see that something good is happening?”

  He smiled at her. She hoped she still looked beautiful to him, in her cheap cotton gown, and torn grey sweatshirt, hand-me-downs from Vica, who had wanted to ‘help them settle in.’

  “Don’t you know how pessimistic our people are? It’s in their genes.” He laughed. “No matter what happens, good or bad, Romanians will embrace it with hard-core cynicism.”

  “But you don’t think it’s bad, do you?” She was stating the obvious. Victor was always arguing that democracy would succeed in their country. Eventually.

  “No, I don’t. I’m glad the communists are gone. But I’m not going to be naïve and think this will be an easy transition. Still, yes, it does make me happy. I knew it was coming. For years, I knew.”

  Maria was shocked.

  “You knew? How could you know? Nobody knew!”

  “Look at what was happening all around us. Things were stirring in other places for a while. Glasnost and perestroika were just the first steps. Besides, a tyranny that harsh was bound to collapse eventually. The worse things got, the more I thought the end was near.”

  Maria looked at him in disbelief. She snapped shut the book she was reading, and placed it on the cardboard box she used as nightstand.

  “Well, if you knew, then why did we leave? Why did we come all the way here?”

  Victor sat on the bed, and tried to take her hand.

  “Because, my love,” he
said in a tender, patient voice, “I didn’t know when it would happen, how it would be, and also, I knew things would be tough afterwards. Do you think the transition will be easy? There will be poverty, there might be violence, there will be all kinds of hardships. We have the chance for a better life here. People back home have some hard years ahead.”

  “And our lives here are easy, Victor?”

  She looked around the room. They slept on a futon mattress on the floor, though they had bought decent twin-size beds for the children, who were sharing the other bedroom. She had no idea who Victor had borrowed the money from, or how he would pay it back. Cardboard boxes were the only other furnishings in their room. She had been pleased to discover that in America, apartments came with closets already built in, though theirs was made of a flimsy material, not much better than cardboard, just like the walls themselves, through which she could hear the neighbors. The nice dresses she brought from Romania were hanging in the closet on wire hangers she got from the dry cleaners upon Vica’s advice. Next to them was all the ugly crap people had given her. She soon came to be grateful for those rags, as she realized that in America people did not dress up much, but rather wore what was known as ‘casual’ clothing. Her two-piece tailored suits and raw silk dresses drew strange looks in the supermarket. She was trying to get used to wearing the jeans and T-shirts that had been shoved down her throat by those busy-bodies in the ‘community.’ Next to her clothes, Victor’s stuff was lined up in neat little piles in a construction he had assembled out of card-board boxes. His night watchman uniform stood out, like an ugly dark spot.

  The room was too cold for her. They were keeping the thermostat low, to save money. She slept in a thick sweatshirt, and she wore socks to bed. She secretly considered thermal underwear, but it was too unsexy. Not that socks were exactly attractive either. It’s true that being cold was not new to her. In the last years of communism, there had been shortages of heat, electricity, or water, all utilities having been controlled by the government. Their apartment here was not much colder than their house had been last winter in Bucharest. Still, she found it ironic that having moved to America, she still had to suffer being cold.