I’m standing outside my new building, waiting for Tati and Momo to pick me up. Luckily they are running late, so I don’t run the risk of them wanting to go upstairs and visit my new apartment. I don’t want them to see my empty room. The first night I slept on the floor, my head on a rolled-up sweater wrapped in a T-shirt. I used another T-shirt as a towel the next morning. When I got out of the shower, Rachelle was in the kitchen, making breakfast for Jurron.
She looked at me and shook her head.
“Now please tell me, honey child, that you do have some furniture somewhere that you’re planning on bringing into that room! Do you?”
I said yes, but it sounded unconvincing.
“I did not mean to look in there. That room is your own business. But you did leave the door wide open!”
Rachelle motioned for me to help myself to toast and coffee.
“Got any milk?” I asked happily.
“No child, I got creamer. And I know you don’t like it, Miss Priss. But guess what? If you want milk in this house, you gotta buy it yourself. And today is an exception, because I see you’ve got nothing, and no clue about anything either, but if you want coffee, you gotta brew it yourself. And you gotta brew it using your own darn coffee and something called a ‘filter’. And that, white child, you also have to buy. And if you want toast you buy bread… and butter, and jelly, or whatever the h-e-l-l you want on it! That’s just how things work in this house!”
Rachelle handed Jurron a plate of cereal he started eating with his hands.
“And if you want to not sleep on the floor, princess, well then you need to buy yourself a bed. And if you want to not sleep on a bare mattress, well then you buy yourself sheets. And those, child, you wash, and dry, at the laundry on the third floor, using laundry detergent, and quarters. Because, guess what, honey child, your mama’s not around to wash them for you! Oh, Lord, what have I done? What have I done asking this white child to move in! I bet her mama fed and diapered her until she was old enough to vote, don’t you think so, Jurron?”
I realized I’d never hear the end of the furniture and sheet rant. I could have kicked myself for not asking ahead of time, for not knowing that somehow, these things would not be provided. But later Rachelle asked me into her bedroom, where she dumped some flannel sheets, a blanket, a towel, and a pillow into my arms.
“I want to make it clear that this is the first and last time you use my stuff. And I want to make it clear I don’t have to lend it to you. I’m doing you any favors. As soon as you get your own stuff, and that better be soon, baby girl, you will return these to me. And they will be washed, folded, and smelling of fabric softener and dryer sheets, if you know what’s good for you!”
The sheets feel nicer than the bare carpet, but after almost a week of sleeping on the floor, my body is sore in all sorts of places. I tried to make the pain go away by running this morning, on the island, and stretching afterwards. It was to little effect, and when Momo jumps out of the car to hug me, I have to fight the urge to flinch from a sharp pain in the neck.
Momo smells light and flowery, and seems to be in a good mood. She volunteers to let me ride shotgun, and moves to the back holding the bottles of wine and the bouquet of flowers we’re bringing to the party.
It’s a nice day outside, still warm but not too hot. The barbecue is a small event, just two other couples, a little older than Tati. The hostess, Mrs. Ionescu, shows Momo and me her garden. Mr. Ionescu is grilling the traditional mici, some sausage links, and pork chops. His wife made roasted red pepper salad, and salata de boeuf. The other couple brought tomato salad. Big chunky tomato slices mixed with onions, and good olive oil, sprinkled with coarse salt and fresh ground pepper. It’s a simple pleasure, one of my favorite summer treats. Tomato salad. Salată de roşii.
“These organic tomatoes,” one of the women says, “they taste just as good as tomatoes back home.”
Funny how conversation always turns to food. Romanians can spend hours comparing a piece of cheese to other cheeses. A lively discussion starts, whose main purpose is to assess the tomatoes in terms of size, color, texture, aroma, and sweetness, and ultimately decide if they measure up to the golden standard of tomatoes in Romania.
I happily spoon a large heap of salata de boeuf onto my plate. I like the way Mrs. Ionescu makes it. Though it is not as good as Mami’s. Mami firmly believes that a good salata de boeuf starts with a small amount of homemade mayo mixed with tangy mustard. She’s also partial to using chicken, rather than beef, and roast chicken rather than boiled one. She uses baked potatoes, and she never ever adds peas, which to her are a filler. Of course, the other essential thing, are the pickles. Castraveţii. They have to be salty and crunchy, squeezed well, and cut just the right size.
Mami’s salata be boeuf is so good it deserves international awards. But that doesn’t prevent me from enjoying Mrs. Ionescu’s, in spite of the store bought mayo and the filler peas. At least, Mrs. Ionescu is extra generous with the pickles.
I have to agree with Mami, though, that some people’s salata de boeuf can be gross. Still, I always try at least a small scoop at each party. I’ve probably sampled a dozen varieties, produced by a dozen different Romanian women. I could establish my own Zagat rating for salata de boeuf, and just about all the dishes omnipresent at Romanian gatherings. The thought would probably make Mami have a heart attack, Mami who always tells me to be careful in my food choices at parties, because some people are bad cooks, and one can get sick. I wonder if the way she feels about the cooks shapes her opinion on their food. But since she’s never present at parties in ‘the community,’ I take license to enjoy whatever I want.
This feast is a welcome change from my daily bagels.
The conversation is now carried out exclusively in Romanian, an indication that the elderly couples are really getting into it.
“My mother, may God rest her,” Mrs. Ionescu sighs, “she always bought her produce from the same woman at the market. She used to get these tomatoes, they were fleshy and juicy all at the same time. They were so good, you could eat them like apples. And in the summer, that’s what we ate for dinner when it was very hot, just tomatoes plain and simple, with cheese.”
Maybe others would find this gathering boring, but to me it’s heaven to sit here, indulging in pure gluttony, and listening to old people reminisce about the produce of their youth in a faraway country I myself have such fond memories of. So what if they’re crazy to talk about tomatoes for so long? So what if I’ve heard them say the exact same things so many times before? It’s soothing, like an old familiar song. And they are all sweet and kind people. Especially the hosts!
They keep filling my plate, smiling affectionately. “My sweet little girl,” Mrs. Ionescu coos, offering me another pork loin. “So skinny! You need to put some meat on those bones!”
They tend to treat me like a child. I don’t mind. Though I’m not sure how I’ll manage to eat yet another pork loin after stuffing myself with salata de boeuf, eggplant spread, roasted peppers, and the much discussed tomatoes.
Hours later, I’m full to the point of bursting, and I’m starting to get bored. Romanian parties last forever. Mrs. Ionescu asks if we want coffee. And by the way, coffee is not an indication of the end, just a break in the feast, which could go on for hours. I’d love a cup, especially since Mrs. Ionescu offers Turkish coffee, cafea turcească, one of my favorite things in the whole wide world.
“And if you want, I tell your fortune,” the other old lady says, with a wink.
The women go inside to help prepare the coffee and bring out the cake. I offer to help too, but Mrs. Ionescu protests: “No, no, you stay with daddy.”
The two older men are still busy grilling.
Tati and I sit quietly for a moment. I’m playing with my napkin, wondering if maybe, after coffee and cake I can squeeze in another mic.
“Have you spoken to your mother recently?” Tati asks out of the blue.
“Yes, last week.”
I realize I should call Mami and tell her I moved.
“And?” Tati asks.
I shrug.
“She’s fine.”
“Nothing new?”
What new thing does he expect? Mami is always the same. And as far as I can tell, she’s fine, I mean, as fine as Mami can be.
“You sure?”
I give him a puzzled look. Is something going on with Mami, that I don’t know about?
“Do me a favor, Lili. I know you’re busy, but please take the time this week, and call your mother. Ask her how she’s doing. And then call me and let me know.”
He takes a few drags from his cigarette. He’s quiet now. I wonder what is going on.
“But please, don’t tell her I asked.”
The women come back with little cups of foaming, fragrant Turkish coffee. They also serve a chocolate and vanilla coffee cake, something people simply call chec. It’s good, but Mami’s is much better. Mami’s is fragrant with vanilla, and the upper crust has a moist crunchiness to it that only Mami can create. I suddenly miss her, and I feel sad and guilty. I forgot to call her. I haven’t visited since I left, and here I am, having a good time with Tati, his girlfriend, and a bunch of people who probably hate Mami, who have probably been mean to her at some point. Though, honestly, I can’t imagine Mrs. Ionescu ever being mean to anyone. I feel tears coming to my eyes. It’s probably time to stop drinking.
Luckily, the caffeine gives my morale a little boost. And the fortune reading is delightful. The old woman examines my cup, then smiles, and declares with enthusiasm that she sees a ring. Un inel. Mrs. Ionescu grabs the cup, to look at it herself.
“Yes, yes. I see it too. There’s clearly ring in here! Watch out Victor, there’s ring in her cup! Your little girl is getting married!”
Everybody laughs, and Tati pretends to be upset. He finally looks into the cup himself.
“It’s just a bubble,” he says.
The women laugh, and ask if I have a boyfriend. To old Romanian women there’s nothing more important in life than marriage. Except, possibly babies. I feel sorry for Momo. After all, for her, both marriage and children are out of the question. But Momo smiles, just like the others.
“Oh, come on! Tell us!” Mrs. Ionescu urges.
“You must have boyfriend, Liliana!” the other old woman says. “How can pretty girl like you not have boyfriend?”
“Leave her alone!” Mr. Ionescu protests, but it’s all in vain. The women keep asking and prodding, their eyes full of expectation. They look so well-intentioned, and so eager. I hate to let them down.
“What about this nice young man you’ve been going out with, L?” Momo asks. “He seems promising, doesn’t he?”
I’m relieved that Tati has followed Mr. Ionescu into the house for an after dinner brandy. I don’t want to discuss my love life in front of him. Mrs. Ionescu seems to read my thoughts:
“Come on, your daddy can’t hear you! Tell us all about him! Who is this guy? Where you meet?”
I can feel myself blushing. How could I have forgotten Greg? He’s not someone I like, but at least he’s worth mentioning, isn’t he? After all, he did bring me flowers.
The ladies’ eyes light up with hope and joy, as I start telling the story of Greg, with a few embellishments. Mostly, I exaggerate how much I like him. I do it to please the old ladies. What’s the harm in that?
14
Social Call
After Labor Day, I feel compelled to call Mami. Or rather, I am shamed into calling her. Especially after Tati asks me to lunch so he can give me a present of sorts: a new cellphone. He is gracious enough not to mention the money he gave me to buy a new one, the money I spent on a purse. I swallow my guilt, and give in to a blissful feeling of relief. The phone situation has been unbearable lately, what with Rachelle not having a house phone, and Francesca frowning each time I make a call from Bella.
Tati programmed his own numbers, as well as Mami’s, into the phone. “You really should call your mother,” he says.
He seems concerned, and I begin to worry. Is there something wrong with Mami, that I am not aware of? I cannot bare the thought of her being sick, or of something bad happening to her.
But when I finally make the call, waiting with trembling hands and a lump in my stomach to hear some dreadful news, Mami sounds just as usual: over the top excited to hear me. She doesn’t have any news to share, and wants mostly to know about me. It takes considerable effort to get her to talk about herself, and when she does, it’s nothing out of the ordinary. Work is tiring, but overall ok. She’s reading a new book she really likes, and which she highly recommends. That’s about it.
I stall, making her talk about the book. When it becomes unavoidable, I give her my news. I’m afraid she’ll be worried, or that she’ll even disapprove. But my announcement is greeted with enthusiasm.
“I really want to see new place, my sweetie. I want to meet new roommate!” There’s no way to talk her out of it. I should have seen this coming! After all, Mami also insisted on visiting Gretchen’s before I moved in. Of course, back then I posed no resistance because I knew she’d love it, and Mami did. Actually, if anything, Mami liked it too much, and was too exuberant in showing her excitement, like a child in a candy store, clapping her hands and marveling over all the wonderful features of Gretchen’s apartment. It was embarrassing and sad.
But her seeing Rachelle’s place, and my unfurnished room, is unthinkable. She’ll probably faint if she sees I sleep on the floor. I’ve no choice but to buy a cheap futon mattress and have it delivered. This drives me to the full exhaustion of my credit line, a tragedy with ramifications I try not to think of. I regret every useless purchase I ever made, every single penny I have lost access to. I even regret buying mon parfum secret.
Some of my last cash goes towards sheets in a pleasant shade of lavender, a cheap lamp, towel, pillow, and some hangers. I arrange my clothes and shoes inside the closet, and make my makeshift bed as neatly as I can. I air out the room, and drag around Rachelle’s oversized vacuum cleaner (aspirator). I wish I had enough money to buy flowers. But I can hardly afford to eat, let alone beautify my space.
Rachelle laughs when I ask if it’s ok to have a guest.
“Did you actually read those rules I wrote out for you, child? Of course you can have guests, as long as they stay in your room and are quiet. And as long as you don’t smoke anything, and that includes cigarettes.”
Then her curiosity takes over:
“So who is this guest, anyway? Is it that guy Greg you’ve been seeing?”
I frown. The thought of Greg visiting is not an attractive prospect. And what’s up with all these otherwise sensible women getting so dreamy eyed when asking about him?
“It’s my mother,” I say, embarrassed.
Rachelle cracks up.
“The white child’s mama! Now that’s a woman I’d like to meet! I better make sure I’m home when she’s coming!”
Much to my dread, she makes good on her promise. She is indeed home the day of Mami’s visit. It’s Sunday, my least favorite day of the week. Though I miss Mami, I’m dreading her arrival. On top of everything else, I have to worry about how she and Rachelle will react to each other. Rachelle will probably think Mami is weird. And I’ve no clue what Mami will think when she enters the living room to find a woman holding a baby. Un bebeluş.
Still, I’m more worried about Rachelle’s impression of Mami. Rachelle can be difficult and harsh. And Mami, in spite of her beauty, has never won a popularity contest. I should be used to it by now, but it still hurts. As lovely as my mother is, as beautiful and sweet, people tend to be hostile towards her. For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to protect her, but never knew how.
I worry all morning. Then Mami finally arrives, and her smile fills the room. She looks older and tired, but she’s still beautiful, and extremely happy to see me. I’m embarrassed that Rachelle gets to witness her display of affection. I’m also embarrassed
that Mami came laden with packages. Why on earth did she have to drag the whole house with her? Why do Romanians always have to carry around so much stuff? My irritation melts slightly when I notice the baby blue fluffiness of one of her favorite towels peeking from one of the bags. She brought me good towels! How did she know? I cannot help myself, I jump for joy and hug her.
But my excitement wanes at the sight of Mami’s worn sneakers peaking out of her tote. What’s the point of her dressing nice and wearing one of her best pairs of shoes, if she comes in here looking like a bag lady with all those packages, and if she carries her stupid sneakers in plain sight for Rachelle to see? Then it occurs to me that my roommate too, carries her shoes in a bag on her daily commute. So hopefully she’ll understand!
I hold my breath as Mami looks around the room, taking in the clean but modest furnishings. Her eyes rest on the living room window, and light up when they see the East River.
“Nice view.”
“So you are roommate?” Mami smiles, extending her hand to Rachelle a little too enthusiastically.
“Yes. I’m Rachelle.”
“I’m Maria,” Mami says in her heavily accented English. “I brought you cake.” She hands Rachelle the flowers and a little brown bag. Graciously, Rachelle offers to relieve her of her packages (pachete). She opens the brown bag, and much to my delight, takes out a tiny rectangular cake, carefully wrapped in plastic.
“I made myself.” Mami says still smiling a little too widely. That smile works miracles in retail, but in the real world it seems a bit forced. Forţat.
I take the cake and flowers, and go off in search of a vase. The cake smells of vanilla and cocoa. It’s exactly the type of cake I’ve been craving since the Labor Day party. As if Mami somehow read my mind.
“And who you are?” I hear Mami ask. I hear the baby laugh. I start to relax. Maybe I worried too much. This doesn’t seem to be going that bad. I take pleasure arranging the flowers in an empty pasta jar (borcan). Little yellow mums. Zambile?
Dogs With Bagels Page 13