“I can’t believe I’m wearing a fuckin’ apron, and kneading dough for a whole hour!”
“Two hours, love,” Maria corrected. “You know, I think one can measure the level of oppression towards women within a culture by how labor intensive the dishes are!”
Mada laughed, nodding.
“You are unbelievable, you know, Mari? You’re such a living contradiction! Only you would insist we do all these insanely old-fashioned housewife things, after complaining for years that motherhood is awful and oppressive!”
Maria’s free hand smacked her, before she even stopped laughing.
“Shut up! I don’t want my son to hear you!”
“He doesn’t speak Romanian, Mari,” Madalina reminded her, rubbing her shoulder with her free hand. “You really hit me hard, you crazy bitch!”
“I’m sorry, love. It’s just… Did I really hit you that hard?”
Mada shrugged. They both returned to kneading, but Maria’s thoughts kept wandering.
“I used to hit Victor, you know… When we were still together, when we would fight. I would get so angry, and I would hit him. Not like I hit you, not like a joke, but really hit him, with a fist, and hard. I always felt bad about it afterwards.”
“I was never much of a hitter. But I used to yell at Doru. And one time I threw a vase at the wall.”
“I threw stuff too,” Maria admitted. “Lots of things, and sometimes I’d actually aim at Victor. He never did anything like that, you know? Always calm, always, you know… civilized. I used to feel like such a savage in comparison.”
Mada gave her an affectionate look. She always did that when Maria talked about the past, about her married life with Victor. And in a way, it made it harder for Maria to discuss these things with her.
“You were young, Mari. And you had a lot of shit to deal with… I mean coming here, and being poor, and two kids…” Madalina was the only other Romanian Maria knew, who seemed to understand that raising kids was not all it’s cracked up to be. “I cannot even imagine… I would have lost it too, and smacked the shit out of my husband and the children.”
“Oh, no,” Maria shook her head. “Not the children. They drove me crazy at times. Especially Alex. You know he never did anything I asked him to. Never. Even when he was little. Sometimes I just wanted to pick him up and shake him. But I never did. I never touched him. Sometimes it took all the strength I had not to hit him.”
“Maybe you should have.” Mada was perpetually outraged at Alex’ insolence towards his mother.
“I don’t know. Mrs. Stoica, my friend, the old one who died, she’d tell me I should beat him. She’d say I should do it after I calm down, never angry, but always point out that it was punishment for whatever he had done. She’d say that then he’d learn to respect me and fear me. But really, I never wanted my kids to fear me. And I promised myself before I even had them that I would never beat them. I don’t believe in beating children. I just don’t.”
“You must be the only Romanian mother who feels that way.”
Maria laughed.
“I guess. But you know, it’s just so… savage and cruel.”
“Yet most of us grew up that way. I mean, didn’t you get smacked when you were a child?”
“On and off,” Maria admitted. “My mother was not strict, and my father, well, you know, he left, so it was just her and me, and grandma. They spoiled me. Funny thing is, my mother beat me more after I grew up than she did all my childhood.”
“Really? How old were you?”
“Well, I was twenty when I got engaged to Victor. He took me to the Black Sea. For May Day. We had separate rooms, of course. But that’s where he proposed to me, and…” Maria felt herself blush. Madalina nudged her with her elbow, prompting her to continue.
“Well, never mind,” Maria said, concentrating on her kneading. What was she thinking, starting such a conversation?
“Oh come on, Mari!” Mada raised her hands, threatening to abandon the dough in protest. “You never share anything! What happened?”
Maria hesitated.
“Well…”
“You slept with him?”
“Only after he proposed!”
Mada laughed.
“Of course! And?”
Maria sighed.
“…well, we were at the Black Sea for the weekend. And when he drove me home, I still remember that night. It was already dark when he pulled up in front of my mother’s house, and I got out. I remember the crisp air and the smell of lilacs, and the salt still tingling on my skin. It was a lovely night and I was in love and happy and floating on thin air, and when I got in the house I started telling my mother that Victor had asked me to marry him, but she stopped me. I guess she could tell by the look on my face what had happened, and she just lost it. She accused me of sleeping with him, and she started hitting me and pulling my hair, and yelling that I was an idiot, that all he wanted from me was sex and that now he would dump me. She would not stop and listen, she just yelled and hit me, until I managed to run into my room. I could not believe it. I mean, she had never done anything like that before. And then she locked me in my room. I escaped through the window, and ran to my grandma’s house, all the way to the outskirts of town. The next day I had a date with Victor, and he was supposed to pick me up at my mother’s. I couldn’t call him, because we had no phone where my grandmother lived. So I just showered and put on one of her dresses, which was big for me, I was so skinny then, a blue silk dress, I still remember it like it was yesterday, and I went back to town on the streetcar to meet him in front of my mother’s house. But the stupid streetcar was late, and when I got there Victor’s car was already parked in front of the house, and Victor was nowhere to be found. I waited, I worried, I paced back and forth. Then finally I rang the doorbell. And there was my mother, happy and cheerful as can be, acting as if she’d expected me back any minute, acting as if she’d sent me to my grandmother’s herself! She was having coffee with Victor! Her new adored son in law, who according to her could do no wrong! Funny how one day she almost killed me for sleeping with him, the next day she was bending over backwards to be the most charming hostess, and from then on she never stopped trying to please him. I mean, after I married him, most of my conflicts with her were over Victor. Whenever she thought I wasn’t doing enough, wasn’t as sweet, agreeable, and lovely a wife as she thought he deserved, she’d throw a fit. And one time she actually slapped me for eating some meatballs she’d fried for him. I could not believe it, my own mother, slapping me, for eating two meatballs, because she was afraid there would not be enough for my husband!”
Madalina shook her head.
“Romanian mothers!” she said with a sigh. “They always hate their daughter-in-laws, but they treat their son-in-laws better than their own flesh and blood! That’s so crazy, Mari!”
Maria gave her friend an affectionate look. She had listened patiently, and had kept on kneading the dough. She was good like that.
“So if she loved him so much, how did she react when you two broke up?”
“Oh, it was a disaster! Even before he left… Once I stopped getting along with him, she just… Well, I’d call her and complain about him. We were already here, and I’d feel so alone, and I didn’t talk to her much because it was expensive, but whenever I did, I sometimes told her Victor doesn’t understand me, or Victor expects me to do this and that… And she’d always side with him. All the way from across the ocean, my mother would chastise me, for not being a good wife! And when I asked him to leave, she told me I would regret it and that I should have tried to keep him, and… Well, it just got too aggravating to talk to her, and I sort of gave up. So now we talk maybe twice a year, if even that. And of course, she still asks about Victor. Have I seen him? Does he ever come over? Do I ask the children to tell him they miss him? All sorts of bullshit you would not even imagine!”
Maria pushed the dough more furiously.
“What is going on with you and Vict
or, Mari?”
The question came out of thin air. Only Madalina would have been able to guess that behind the whole tirade about her mother, she was actually hiding her need to talk about Victor. Mada knew her well. She had weathered her silences though so many manicures, had been there to hold her hand when she was depressed. Never asking, never prying. Until now. Yes, Mada was a good friend. For that, she deserved honesty.
“I went home with him at Thanksgiving and I slept with him.”
It felt good actually saying it out loud. Though as soon as she said it, she felt the sting of tears in her eyes. She tried to concentrate on the dough, its color, its scent, its texture, to distract herself. And to avoid Mada’s eyes, fixing her with a mix of concern and anticipation.
“And? What happened afterwards?”
Maria shrugged.
“Nothing. I went home.”
“Just like that?”
“Yes. Just like that.”
“Did you talk?”
“No. We just… you know. And then I left while he was sleeping.”
“While he was sleeping?”
Coming from Madalina’s lips, Maria’s early morning escape sounded dreadful. A wave of shame and hopelessness washed over her. She had no desire to discuss this any further. What use was it? Except to tear at her own wounds, and to embarrass herself further?
She spanked the dough a few more times, noticing with satisfaction that the kneading was done. The yellow mass no longer stuck to her fingers. She sighed a sigh of relief.
But just as she was about to announce they were done, and suggest they now wash their hands and place the giant pot somewhere warm so that the dough could rise, Mada asked the most dreadful question of all:
“How was the sex?”
Maria exhaled sharply.
“Excuse me?”
Madalina rolled her eyes, and smacked the dough twice, harder than Maria had thought her capable of.
“Fucking hell, Mari!” This was her favorite curse. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I’m your friend, your best friend, probably your only friend. And you stiffen up like a stick if I ask you one lousy intimate question! You’re in love with that fucking husband of yours, but you leave in the morning before he wakes up! Why the fuck can’t you fucking open up to anyone ever?”
Madalina struck the dough once more. Maria’s head jerked back. She removed her own hand from the batter and started wiping the yellow dough off her fingers. She felt too weak to fight back the tears that were building up inside her, too weak to even stand up straight. So she sat down in the chair Madalina had brought over before they’d started kneading, in the feeble hope that maybe she’d get to use it. Maria had mocked her, saying that kneading dough required standing, that it was a full body workout, and that cooking in general was not something one should do sitting down. It was one of the things she had learned from her mother.
Now Maria herself was sitting down, her elbows resting on the table, her face hidden in her dough-smeared palms, unable to stop herself from crying.
“Mada, you really are a true friend. But I cannot talk about this,” she said between sobs, once again feeling acutely her general loneliness in this world, the intense feeling of missing Victor, the giant hole left in her life by his departure, by his indifference toward her.
Madalina inched closer and placed a hand on Maria’s back. Maria straightened her stance abruptly, as if wanting to shake off Mada’s kindness.
“This is done,” she declared, pointing to the dough. “I need to cover it, then you can help me put it up on the cupboard.”
Mada sighed.
“Back to the pound cakes, I guess.”
It takes all of Maria’s strength to lift the pot of sarmale and stick it in the oven. There are over a hundred tiny rolls of pickled cabbage in there. There will be more than ten sarmale for each person. Of course, nobody can eat ten sarmale, but excess is tradition. If there isn’t too much, there isn’t enough.
Of course, for a Christmas dinner, just sarmale and mamaliga are not enough. In Romania, Maria’s mother would first serve various pork specialties, as well as salata de boeuf and other appetizers. Then she would follow that with ciorba, a delicious sour soup, a roast, then finally sarmale. It’s much more food than anyone can eat, but Romanians like to feast.
Maria made Lili’s favorite, salata de boeuf. She also marinated and roasted a pork loin, knowing it ranks pretty high among Victor’s favorites. She’ll serve it cold, cut into thin slices. For the rest, she had to rely on store bought appetizers. She chose various salads: smoked fish, grated carrots, green beans, and beets with black walnuts. Her purchases have nothing in common with traditional Romanian fare, but she tasted each item at the deli, and decided they were good. Of course, she also bought several kinds of cheese. She cannot imagine a Romanian gathering without cheese.
She’s still thinking of the appetizers and how best to display them, when she finally jumps in the shower. Running hot water over her face, she tries to relax, and to briefly forget about the food, and even about Victor. How typical of her, to spend hours and hours fixing a meal, and leave so little time for pampering herself. She needs to beautify and rejuvenate before her encounter with Victor, or at least to remove the smell of pickled cabbage from her fingers.
By the time she gets out of the shower, slathers lotion all over her body, places Velcro curlers in her hair, and touches up her manicure, it’s gotten dangerously late. L and her boyfriend will be here any minute. They’re coming early to decorate the tree.
She quickly goes through her clothes looking for her favorite dress, a black wrap that flatters her figure. But then she realizes that it’s the same dress she wore on Thanksgiving. She had it dry cleaned, and it now hangs neatly inside a plastic wrap, as if it were new. But it still makes her shiver to think that the last time her husband saw her in it, he untied it and peeled it off her body. There’s no way in hell she can wear this tonight!
With no time to spare, and no inspiration, she picks the next best thing. A white silk blouse with a black pencil skirt. Too professional. But still, the blouse is elegant, the white silk flatters her complexion, and the skirt makes her look slender. And after all, it’s a timeless classic. The doorbell rings. She quickly steps into her shoes, pulls the rollers out of her hair, and runs to greet her guests.
L is standing there, wearing a cute winter pea coat, and a new red scarf. She looks pretty, but shockingly young. As if since Maria last saw her, she’s not been maturing, but turning back into a child. Next to her stands a young man, slightly taller, with a pleasant face, and kind eyes. He’s holding a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine.
“Hello,” Maria says. As usual, when meeting someone new, she feels shy. What is the appropriate thing to do here? Hold out her hand? For him to do what? Shake it, or kiss it? She’s not sure what young American men do when meeting their girlfriends’ mothers. And he’s holding all that stuff, anyway.
“Mami, this is Greg. Greg, this is my mother.” L takes over in a voice that sounds unnaturally cheerful. She seems overly excited, almost fake. Giggling like a schoolgirl, she retrieves the wine from her boyfriend, so he and Maria can shake hands. So that’s the protocol, apparently. Maria thinks the gesture too familiar, too chummy. His touch is too light, and his palm is sweaty, something she always detested. He must be nervous. Good. He should be nervous. He’s meeting his girlfriend’s overprotective Romanian mother, after all.
“I’m Mrs. Pop. Nice meet you.” She flashes him a customer service smile and thanks for the flowers, little white mums, wrapped in too much plastic.
They step inside. L’s face lights up with delight at the explosion of scents.
“Mami, what did you make?” She heads to the kitchen, the boy trailing behind, like a puppy.
“Greg, you’ve gotta see this! These are the best cakes ever. Cozonaci. And look at this,” she says, opening the oven door, where the stuffed cabbage is roasting at low heat. “Sarmale! Mami, you are
amazing!”
Maria smiles. She feels deceitful. L assumes her Mami cooked for her and her young man. When in fact, Mami is selfish, vain, and has a completely different agenda.
“Why you don’t put on music, my sweetie, open the wine, and you two decorate tree? I go put on makeup, and then I set table and arrange appetizers, ok?”
“Is there salata de boeuf?” L asks, clapping her hands like a child.
“Of course, my sweetie.”
“Oh, Greg, I told you! There will be a lot of amazing food!”
In her bedroom, while applying her makeup, and looking for some jewelry to go with her outfit, Maria can hear the music L selected. Christmas carols sung by an Austrian choir. She smiles, hearing her daughter sing along. She’s really something, her little girl! She actually knows the German lyrics.
There’s not much to choose from in terms of jewelry. She settles for a simple gold chain that accents her collarbone, and simple gold loop earrings. It’s jewelry Victor bought for her, more than twenty years ago, when they were still in love and living happily together in Romania. She would like to wear something that’s not from him, but these are the only decent pieces she has. These, and her wedding ring, which she, of course, will not be wearing. Reaching into her jewelry box, she tries to avoid touching it, as if it might burn her.
By the time Alex comes home, she’s already setting the table, using her best linens, a present from Mrs. Stoica. They are hand embroidered, heavy white linens. Unfolding them, Maria still feels the scent of her old friend’s cupboards, and it brings tears to her eyes. The old woman brought them with her from Romania, as one of her most treasured possessions, but refused to give them to her daughters. “Their tastes are too modern; they won’t appreciate them.”
Maria doesn’t use them often. They are too precious to her. But she’s happy to use them for this special meal, proud that she has real linens, and real cloth napkins, for just such an occasion. She sets candles on the table, and places Greg’s flowers in the center, in her favorite vase. She just hopes he won’t spill anything on her good linens, or she’ll stab him with a fork. There’s only so much a woman can take from her daughter’s boyfriend!
Dogs With Bagels Page 22