Dogs With Bagels

by Maria Elena Sandovici

  Francesca gives me a critical once-over:

  “Stai, bellissima, cara! Sempre bellissima!”

  I’m surprised she likes my simple outfit. She tends to prefer clothes that are expensive and with an edge.

  “It’s a lovely dress for after work,” she says. “But I would appreciate it if you tried to dress more consistently with the look of Bella, yes, carina? This week you look a bit, no se, like girl next door, sai? Like you work in the Gap, not an exclusive Italian boutique. You need to pay more attention. I have seen you in better clothes.”

  I swallow. I’ve been hesitant to wear Gretchen’s stuff lately, though it’s still hanging in my closet. I’m terrified of running into Joan or G, and having them point out that, in addition to being a squatter, I’m a wardrobe parasite, a shameless little free rider. Like a moth. Motte. Molie.

  Francesca has a point. My own clothes are a bit shabby, and quite limited. I look neither polished nor sophisticated these days. I look like myself: a poor girl from the boroughs, with little flair for faking high-end style on a low-end budget, the way Mami does. Mami, of course, has more artistic sense, and many years of practice. Plus, when you’re beautiful, it’s easier to look well put together.

  Greg brings me a bouquet of daisies. Margarete. How old fashioned and sweet! People don’t buy each other flowers anymore, but it’s such a nice thing to do! My mood brightens instantly, and I cheer up even more when he agrees to dinner at a steakhouse nearby. It’s wrong of me to pick such an expensive place, but temptation is an atrocious animal.

  The steakhouse is elegant in a dark and austere way - wood paneling, dim lights, crisp white tablecloths. I find it fitting. Eating steak is a serious business. A hungry girl should know.

  “Would you care for some bread?” Greg asks, extending the basket.

  “No, thanks.”

  I’ve eaten enough dough to last me a lifetime.

  “So tell me more about yourself. Will you finally tell me where your family’s from?”

  I take a sip of wine. I move my glass in a slow circular motion, observing the dark liquid inside.

  Greg’s gaze lingers on me. I wish I found him attractive.

  “Well,” I say. “Maybe you can guess?”

  I try not to be annoyed. I hate people’s fixation with my origin.

  “Ok.” Greg says, smiling. “I’ll take you up on that challenge.”

  “Ok.” I smile back. “It is in Europe, and…”

  “I know that much. I think Eastern Europe.”

  I cringe. People tend to lump all of Eastern Europe together, as if it were one big entity. They mostly think I’m Russian, and many times, as I correct them, I realize that to them it’s all the same. Not that there’s anything wrong with Russia. But if you know anything at all about Romania, you’d know that you’re comparing apples and oranges. It’s never ceased to bother me that people find the particularities of a rich and fascinating culture of so little consequence as to not even try to distinguish them from another entirely different one.

  “Yes,” I say. “But let’s see if you get this. It’s not a Slavic country. We speak a romance language, you know, a language based on…”

  “Latin. So you are Romanian?”

  I did not expect this. Nobody ever knows anything about Romania. And when they do, it’s about gymnasts, vampires, or communism, topics I find irrelevant - or at best passé - and irritating. It’s just as ignorant as saying that the quintessence of American culture is McDonald’s. What frustrates me is that nobody knows what a beautiful country Romania is, how lovely the mountains, the sea, the wildlife, the virgin forests, the architecture. Nobody brings up Ionesco’s plays, Cioran’s philosophy, or Brancusi’s sculptures. Why would people rather remember the most brutal communist dictatorship of Eastern Europe, rather than the most notable artist of the twentieth century, or the inventor of absurd theatre? I guess humans thrive on horrors: vampires and violence. No wonder I hate discussing my origin! Even with Greg, who guessed correctly.

  Luckily the steaks arrive. I ordered a filet mignon with a side of asparagus. Sparanghel.

  Greg watches me enjoy the first bites of my steak. I notice him staring and I feel embarrassed. Does he know how hungry I am? Does he have any idea how good this steak tastes after all those bagels?

  “I love watching you eat,” he says. “You gotta love a girl who orders her steak rare.”

  “I sure am a big fan of the raw dead cow!” I say jokingly.

  The conversation drifts on. At times it feels like an interview, and I have to remind myself to be polite. It’s only fair that I sing for my supper, and some of his jokes are not bad. At least he’s a distraction. Gretchen, the rent, Francesca, my bank account, and all the bagels in the world seem far away.

  Later he walks me home. An uncomfortable thought enters my mind. Will he kiss me? We stop in front of my building. I hold my breath as his face draws closer. He goes for my cheek, and I feel relieved.

  Upstairs in the apartment, I venture into the kitchen to get a vase. I arrange the daisies in it, and place them on my nightstand. Margarete. For the first time since Gretchen mentioned the money, I’m able to appreciate the beauty that surrounds me. I open the window, letting in the sounds of the city. Lying in bed, next to my bouquet of daisies - margarete, I feel that everything will be all right. I will pay Gretchen back, I’ll come up with a plan. Funny how those little white flowers restored my faith in life, how they helped me feel comfortable again, in a room where only yesterday I felt hopeless, and threatened.

  11

  A Different Dinner

  Wednesday night. Her nerves are tense, dread coursing through her veins like poison. It was hard focusing at work. Her brain is in a fog. She’s afraid she might faint, or perhaps evaporate. She wouldn’t be entirely surprised if she disappeared into thin air. The thought of seeing him and discussing their divorce makes her want to vomit. Dinner never seemed like a stupider idea.

  She changes into a pair of high heel sandals. Walking in them is hell, but her ego is worth suffering for. She has to look her best. She cannot stand the thought of him no longer finding her desirable. She wants him to feel the occasional pang of regret, the way she does when she sees him. It’s like a shock, each time, setting eyes on Victor and finding, over and over, that her body is still drawn to his. Just like a stupid animal. Not that she’d ever want him back, but it still hurts like a broken limb that will never fully recover.

  Her only consolation is that maybe, just maybe, when he looks at her he feels the same. She knows it isn’t true. She’s not blind, after all. As much as it hurts her pride, she has to accept what she is: his aging, no longer attractive wife, once beautiful beyond words, now used up, wrinkled and jaded, with circles under her eyes, and lots of cellulite. A bitter, boring woman, impossible, and hopelessly alone, whom he’s going to divorce in order to marry his young, fun-loving mistress. Who probably has not an ounce of cellulite on her slim body. Not that Maria’s ever seen her, and for that she thanks her lucky stars. She couldn’t stand it, to be face to face with the woman sharing Victor’s bed.

  But it is what it is. She’ll sign the papers and move on with her life. She only wishes she could do all this without obsessing about her appearance, without clinging uselessly to whatever shreds of pride and vanity she’s still got left. Didn’t she already waste enough time choosing her stupid outfit? She dressed more carefully for dinner with Victor than for her interview at the bank! Her final selection was a flattering yet casual top, white, a color she always looked stunning in, with enough cleavage to make her appear voluptuous, without looking like she put any effort into her appearance. It’s a plain cotton top, something a woman would throw on for a stroll to the market on a summer day. Under no circumstances is Victor to know she dressed up for him!

  To be honest, she knows why she’s so worked up about her looks, while she wasted her time dressing and undressing, hating all her clothes, why she tossed and turned in her bed all nigh
t causing the dark circles under her eyes to deepen to a dangerous shade of purple. It’s not just unpleasant, seeing him, dealing with the papers, being discarded, and traded in for a newer model. No, it’s not just humiliating and plain horrible. It’s also bloody unfair! After all, it was she who no longer wanted Victor, she who rejected him, who kicked him out of her bed, and then out of her house! He didn’t leave her. She left him. She packed her bags and left. She abandoned her marriage, her kids even, and although she came back, wasn’t she the one who asked him to leave in no uncertain terms? Wasn’t she the one who refused to sleep with him? How sick and wrong for him to turn the tables on her now! How sick and wrong for him to want to discard her, when all along it was she who wanted out! How dare he not want her anymore? It was always the other way around. He wanted her, and she said no. He stayed with her, but she asked him to leave. Not that she ever wanted a divorce. As much as she needed her freedom, as much as she wanted to escape the daily pain their marriage had become, she could think no further than him moving out. She never wanted to imagine a next step.

  She wishes it were all her idea. She even wishes perversely that today, over lunch, she can sit there and nonchalantly say that she’s relieved, because in the end, she’s wanted the divorce for years now, but didn’t want to bring it up because of the kids. She was never much of an actress, but if she can deliver that line convincingly, well, she’ll just have to treat herself to a good bottle of Laurent Perrier to drown her sorrows in.

  She arrives at Victor’s store in a cab. It’s a splurge, but there is no way she could walk all those blocks in heels. And she can certainly not go to dinner with her soon-to-be ex husband carrying beat up sneakers in a tote. It would be like admitting she’s a loser. It’s already hard enough to see his store, each time more polished, more sophisticated, the furniture on display more modern, and more expensive. Her reflection in the window looks shabby, and as she pushes the glass door open she feels like she’s entering a place where she doesn’t belong. It’s one of those lovely stores where she wishes she could shop but will never afford to.

  The young woman sitting behind the desk is new. Maria doesn’t know her, yet she is seized by instant hostility. As they greet, she recognizes a Romanian accent. But she continues the conversation in English.

  “I’m here to meet Victor,” she says.

  “He went for a smoke. He’ll be right back.” The young woman is paging through a furniture catalog. She doesn’t seem to pay attention to Maria, who realizes with irritation that, after all, there is no reason why she would be given any deference. She’s not a customer. She’s just a soon-to-be-ex-wife whom the young woman has never even met. In fact, she’s nobody.

  She walks around looking at the furniture. She recognizes Victor’s style. Clean lines, quality materials, simple colors, no bells and whistles, no excess. She knows him well enough to understand why he selected each and every piece. This hurts. It always hurts to be reminded of good traits in people you lost. It hurts to think that you’ll never forget. If twenty years from now she’ll walk into a room he decorated, she would recognize his style. And even worse, she would like it. It’s a relief to know she’ll never enter such a room, that she doesn’t socialize with the wealthy people whose apartments he furnishes. That she will never ever visit his apartment. And that in fact, after today, she’ll never ever come back here. She looks around almost fondly. She never knew how to say good-bye to places, never knew how to act when she was looking at something for the very last time. Is there a mental snapshot people take? Is there a way to recall colors and textures and scents? She has no clue how to keep memories alive. She only knows how to lose them.

  She lets herself sink into a lovely armchair. She might never afford to buy it, but at least for now, she can enjoy its comfort. Her sore feet need a rest.

  “You cannot sit on the furniture, ma’am!” The receptionist rushes over, as if trying to avert a real crisis. “These pieces are for display! You cannot sit there!”

  Maria crosses her legs and leans further back. It is so bloody comfortable. And it smells like a brand new luxury car.

  “I can sit where I want,” she says. “I’m Victor’s wife!”

  She loves to see the shock on the young woman’s face, loves to hear her little gasp of surprise. She wonders if the woman knew Victor was married. She probably met Lili and Alex, and must have imagined that these children have a mother. She wonders if she also met the lover. She must have.

  Maria smiles. She enjoys this twisted situation, and she might as well milk it while she can. Soon she’ll be divorced, and she will no longer have the satisfaction of shocking Victor’s acquaintances with the fact that, while he and his girlfriend are such a public item, he does, indeed still have a wife.

  She hears the chime of the door and sits up straight. The sight of Victor makes a chill run through her spine.

  “Maria,” he says, coming towards her, trying to act cordial. “You look lovely, as usual.” Even as a formality, she still likes to hear him say it.

  “Hi, Victor.”

  Her greeting is frosty. There will be no pretense on her side. Being polite takes a superhuman effort. Being pleasant is absolutely impossible.

  “I see you met Gina. She’s from Braşov, you know?”

  “I don’t care,” she snaps. “Let’s go.”

  He holds the door for her, and on their way out, his hand lightly touches her waist. It’s one of those useless, outdated gestures, protective and polite, yet, she knows, meaningless. He probably didn’t even think of it, it’s just a habit. But for a second, the warmth of his hand lingers, and just for a second, she is fool enough to enjoy it. She inhales sharply. Underneath the cigarette smoke, she recognizes his old familiar scent. She straightens her shoulders and hastens her pace. Why on earth need he stand so close to her?

  They walk side by side silently. Victor lights another cigarette, and she realizes she’ll have to slow down for him to be able to keep up with her.

  He shifts around so he can walk on the outside of the sidewalk, shielding her from traffic, something Romanian men were taught to do, part of their code of manners. She has mixed feelings about it. Is it chivalrous, or is it patronizing? But even as she questions it, she’s touched. So touched, in fact that it hurts to remember, once more, that her husband is now another woman’s man. Whatever tenderness he still feels for her is probably mixed with contempt and pity. What type of shabby consolation prize are such small gestures anyway, in the face of the unavoidable?

  She can’t believe she’s getting so melodramatic. After all, she hates his guts. She wouldn’t take him back if he was the only man on earth. His stupid mistress is welcome to him, if she’s willing to put up with him being cold and condescending.

  “How have you been?” he asks.

  “Fine,” she says, and raises her eyebrows, indicating that she’d rather skip the pleasantries. But he ignores her cue.

  “Anything new and exciting?”

  The question annoys her. Is he mocking her dull life?

  They get to the restaurant and she grabs the door before he can hold it open for her. She marches to the cashier and orders:

  “Two buffet dinner. Pay separately.”

  She already has her money out.

  Still, there is a brief argument before Victor gives in and lets her pay her share.

  As they sit at the small table, their plates full of fragrant Indian food, Maria finds herself unable to eat. The presence of her husband, and the conversation ahead, kill her appetite. The scent of spices, cream, tomatoes, and basmati rice, tease her taste buds, but all she can do is sip her water and wait. She forgot to tell the waiter that she wanted no ice. She never got used to drinking cold beverages, the way Americans do.

  She feels uncomfortable sitting across from Victor. Is it her imagination, or is there sexual tension between them? She doesn’t know which is worse, the thought that her lonely life and empty bed are making her delusional, or the idea tha
t he too feels the charged mix of desire and resistance floating in the air.

  How silly, she is! Victor is enjoying his food, unaware of the drama in her head. Through all of life’s crises he never lost his appetite, or his ability to sleep. As if he’s not a human being. As if his heart is made of stone.

  “This place is really good!” he says between bites. She watches him load his fork with saffron rice and juicy pieces of meat. She takes another sip of water. It’s so cold it actually makes her shiver.

  “I can’t believe I haven’t been here before. Good call.” He’s obviously relaxed. As if he’s having dinner with a friend, not his estranged wife. He seems totally unaffected by the significance of their bloody meeting. She’s so hurt she’s fighting back tears. This is beyond humiliating. If he wanted to be cruel he wouldn’t do a better job of it.

  “There is a reason I wanted to see you.” Victor finally says. She feels nauseous. Her legs start shaking under the table. But it’s almost over, she tells herself, almost done. She inhales deeply, takes another sip of water and braces herself to hear his words.

  “I heard you applied for a loan at the bank,” Victor says.

  That’s not what he was meant to say.

  “How you hear that?” she asks.

  “From the bank. You went to my branch for a loan, and since we are still married, they forwarded me some of the correspondence.”

  What is he talking about? Why even bring this up? She takes another sip of water. For the life of her, she can’t understand what he’s getting at. And she’d better stop drinking the water, because she doesn’t trust her shaking legs to carry her to the ladies’ room.