She’s arranging the appetizers in matching china bowls when the doorbell rings again. Her heart stops, and she feels like her throat is closing in. It’s Victor.
She lets L get the door, and stays in the kitchen, under the guise of decorating the marinated pork loin with fresh sprigs of parsley. She tries to concentrate on this simple task, but her hands are shaking. She can think of nothing else. He’s there, in the next room. She can hear his voice, and it sends chills up her spine. She’s not sure she can stand this, not sure she’ll be able to face him, spend a whole evening sitting next to him. In vain, she tries to concentrate on the pattern of parsley on the platter. It’s useless. She’s making a mess. The whole arrangement looks ridiculous, but she doesn’t care. She’s just hoping and praying she won’t drop the roast while carrying it to the table.
She hears Victor’s footsteps through the doorway, coming into her kitchen. Her stomach tightens. She has her back to him, but she can feel his presence.
“Hello, Maria,” he says. Cold but polite. His usual style. If he feels nervous, he doesn’t betray it.
“Hello, Victor,” she says, without turning around. She concentrates on grinding fresh black pepper on the meat. She doesn’t even like pepper.
“Lili tells me you’ve been cooking up quite the feast,” he says. “I can’t believe you actually made sarmale!”
He sounds artificially friendly. She hates it when he does that! He’s talking to her like she’s an acquaintance he doesn’t know well, but wants to be nice to. It negates everything that ever happened between them, their whole story.
“Is just food,” she says coldly. She finally turns around, and shoves the platter of pork into his hands. “Take this to table, please. And open more wine.”
Sitting down with her family she feels flustered and nervous. She can barely eat the little heaps of carrots, green beans, and beets on her plate, though they taste even better now than they did at the deli. Everybody is complimenting her pork loin and especially her salata de boeuf.
She smiles at her guests, but she can hardly hear them. It’s too much, having to sit here, next to Victor. As usual, he looks so handsome it hurts. And he seems completely unconcerned with her. He’s having an animated conversation with Greg, pouring wine generously into everybody’s glasses, and appears to be thoroughly enjoying the food.
Looking for an excuse to leave the table, Maria announces that she has to get started on the polenta.
“Mamaliga!” L exclaims, and Maria smiles. She loves how her daughter knows the words for everything. She’s truly amazing, her little girl.
Stirring the hot mixture of cornmeal and water with a wooden spoon, a task that requires full concentration, she’s finally able to get a moment’s peace. She likes to watch the bubbles dance around the heavy pot. There’s a peculiar combination of simplicity and danger to this task. She throws in a stick of butter, stirs once more, and in one swift motion empties the mixture into a large china bowl. She’s proud of her ability to do this with grace, and more importantly, without burning herself.
Her sarmale enjoy the success she’s been hoping for. While she herself is still too nervous to eat, everybody else devours several, and with each additional helping, the compliments keep pouring. Even Alex, her harshest critic, states repeatedly that she has outdone herself. She smiles at her son, happy to see him content for once. But even this is little consolation.
In the end, what she mostly cares about is Victor’s praise. She’s trying not to stare, but she is watching his every bite. As he’s helping himself to his third portion, he looks at her, and says:
“I think this is the best meal you’ve ever made!”
It’s the superlative of compliments. Still, she can’t answer kindly.
“And how you would know?”
It comes out too acidic. She sounds so mean and petty she’s ashamed of herself.
“God, mom!” Alex sighs. “Can’t you be nice for once?”
But Victor laughs.
“What I meant is that it’s the best Christmas meal I’ve ever had.”
He tries to make eye contact, but she deliberately looks away.
“Thank you,” she says. It’s not the superlative of compliments. It’s beyond that. It almost makes her cry. She has to stand up, and go into the kitchen. When she comes back, she’s carrying a breadbasket, her lame excuse for having left the room. It’s utterly stupid, because nobody eats sarmale and mamaliga with bread, but luckily they’re too engaged in conversation to notice.
She folds her dinner napkin on her lap, and tries to listen to the conversation. They’re talking about Romanian wines. Of course, the young man, Greg, is showing a lot of interest in everything Victor has to say. Smart man. Trying to get on the good side of L’s daddy. If she were him, Maria would do exactly the same. But seeing him do it, she resents him.
Victor brought a whole case of Romanian wine. It’s from a select winery, something only a few stores in the city carry, because it’s imported in moderation. Maria has to admit it’s one of the best wines she’s ever had. Still, the conversation bores her, and after a while, she stops paying attention. While they’re all talking about wines, she’s carefully studying L’s young man. He’s reasonably attractive, though not extremely so, and he seems to know it. He displays none of the arrogance typical of handsome men. He actually seems nice enough, and it’s obvious that he’s head over heels in love with her daughter. Their small gestures as a couple betray it. She wonders if they’re sleeping together. After all, young women are freer nowadays, and that’s not a bad thing. She searches her daughter’s face. Is she happy? Is she in love? She seems to be enjoying Greg’s attention. But whether there is love on her side of the equation, Maria cannot tell.
After everybody has had more than their fill of sarmale, she stands up and starts collecting the dishes. Greg offers to help, but she demands he sit back down. Kids don’t do chores in her household. Of course, her own children know that, and laugh at Greg’s initiative. Spoiled brats!
She brings out one of the fragrant cakes, and distributes desert plates around the table. Victor opens another bottle of wine.
Lili offers Greg a brief explanation of the cake. Maybe Victor has been too enthusiastic in pouring out the wine, because the young man seems buzzed. He raises his glass to make a toast:
“To L’s wonderful parents, Maria and Victor. An amazing couple!”
Uncomfortable silence fills the room. Did L not explain their situation?
“I mean, amazing people!” Greg corrects himself, blushing. “I just want to say I think it is awesome that the two of you get together like this, like a family, even though you are not…”
L stares at him and frowns. Her irritation is obvious, and Maria wonders once again, if she’s in love with him. Greg’s voice falters, but he boldly goes on.
“What I mean is, it is wonderful that you are friendly with each other, and able to get together like this, and keep up with tradition.”
Yes, Maria thinks. We sure have lovely traditions, Victor and I. We actually just came up with a new one: Every ten years or so, we get together, fuck each other’s brains out, and then completely ignore each other afterwards.
She feels sorry for Greg. He’s young, tipsy, in love with L, and nervous to meet her weird foreign parents. And then, on top of that, he has committed a blunder. Poor fellow!
“Thank you, Greg,” she says. “I really appreciate that. And I’m glad you here with us tonight.”
“Yes, thank you, Greg,” Victor adds. “It is lovely to see one’s daughter in the company of such a nice young man.”
L smiles. Victor’s approval means a lot to her.
“Actually,” Greg says, blushing, “I have something to ask you, Mr. Pop.”
Formal, out of a sudden. Maria has a dark premonition.
“I want to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”
Once more, the room goes quiet. L looks down at the piece of cake on her pla
te. Victor’s face is impenetrable. Greg is watching him like a dog hoping for a treat.
Maria is the first to speak:
“L is grown woman, Greg. If you want marry her, you need ask her, not her father.”
Alex rolls his eyes in exasperation.
“God, mom! Give the guy a break!”
“Actually, I could not agree more,” Victor says. “My opinion in this matter is the last thing that should concern you, Greg.”
He looks at Maria, but she avoids his eyes.
The young man kneels in front of L’s chair. He is holding out a small velvet box with a ring in it. Maria thinks she’s going to be sick.
“L, will you marry me? Will you be my wife?”
L blushes. Then, to Maria’s horror, she nods. The next thing she knows, that ring is on her daughter’s finger, and L, in tears by now, holds it out for her to see. Maria casts an absent glance. She cannot care less about a stupid diamond. What she really wants is to read L’s eyes. Her daughter looks like someone who has just impulsively purchased something extravagant and expensive, and is overcome by the delight of such momentous occasion. But what will she be feeling later, after the thrill and novelty subsides?
Victor expresses more enthusiasm about the ring than the mother of the bride. Even Alex is complimentary.
“Who want coffee?” Maria asks while they are still gushing over that stupid stone. She sets out for the kitchen to look for her Turkish coffee pot. To her surprise, Victor follows her.
“Do you have any hard liquor?” he asks.
“There’s whisky, rum, and vodka.”
“Vodka, please.”
“In freezer,” she says, looking at the water in her pot, waiting for it to boil.
Victor pours himself a big glass of vodka. He starts opening the door to the fire escape.
“Is freezing out,” she says. “Just smoke here.” It’s something she would not allow under normal circumstances. But these are hardly normal circumstances, are they? “And give me one too.”
He hands her a cigarette and offers to light it, but she ignores his gesture and lights it from the stove instead.
“Do you approve of this, Victor?” Her voice is sharp, yet she is keeping it low enough so they can’t hear her in the other room.
“Whether I approve or not, they will still do whatever they want.”
“She’s ruining her life. I think we should tell her.”
Victor sighs.
“If there’s one thing I know, it’s that telling young people whom not to marry only makes them stubborn.”
Maria looks away. She spoons ground coffee into the boiling water, and turns off the flame. She takes a long drag of her cigarette. It makes her dizzy. It feels good.
Victor’s mother never approved of her. Too young, too poor, the result of a broken marriage, a literature student, probably a Gypsy. Not what her mother-in-law had been hoping for. But Victor married her anyway. And he did not marry her out of spite. Back then, he loved her. It hurts to think of it now, but he loved her.
“Is not about who to marry. Is about marrying at all. She’s too young, Victor.”
“I know,” he says. “But she might still change her mind.”
“God help us!” Maria crosses herself, something she rarely does. She hates public displays of religion.
She pours the coffee into little cups. She brings it to the table on a tray. On her way out she realizes that Victor has already emptied his glass of vodka.
She keeps searching her daughter’s face. L seems a little too hyper. Coffee is probably the last thing she needs, but when Maria offers her a cup, she eagerly accepts.
“You know, Tati,” she says to Victor, “remember the Labor Day party when that woman read my fortune in the coffee grounds? Remember she saw a ring?”
She beams happily, holding out her sparkly little diamond.
“Ring does not always mean marriage,” Maria says. “It really mean fulfillment. Things coming full circle. Completion. Harmony.”
Greg laughs nervously.
“Isn’t that what marriage is all about?” he asks.
“You be surprised,” Maria replies, taking a sip of her coffee.
“On that happy note,” Alex announces, “I need to bounce. Thanks for a great dinner, Mom. Bye, Dad! Nice meeting you, Greg, my man! Congratulations to you!”
Alex distributes a set of high fives and handshakes around the room, then off he goes.
Lili and Greg follow shortly after, leaving Maria in the nerve-racking predicament of being alone with Victor. She starts collecting the dishes. When she gets to the kitchen, she sees that he’s poured himself yet another glass of vodka. He’s smoking again. She regrets having allowed him to do so in her house. Whatever fleeting solidarity with Victor she experienced at the thought of their daughter’s marriage, it is gone now. Now the smoke bothers her, his presence makes her nervous, and she wishes that he’d go home.
She places the dishes in the sink, and runs the water. If she starts cleaning up, he might leave. But he just continues to sit there, smoking and drinking, staring into space. When he’s finally done with his cigarette, he stubs it out on the small plate he’s been using as an ashtray.
He stands up, and comes towards her. Her heart racing, she continues washing the dishes, keeping her back towards him. But it’s no use. He comes up from behind, putting his hand around her waist, pulling her close. She can smell the smoke on him, stronger and more bothersome than usual, almost nauseating. His hand is riding up her thigh, lifting her pencil skirt.
“No,” she says, loud and clear. “No, Victor, let go of me!”
“Why not?” he asks, his hand already between her legs.
“Mona and I broke up, you know.”
He’s slurring his speech. He’s drunk.
She tries to push his hand away, but it stays in place, pressing harder, until she can feel it with every fiber of her body.
He laughs.
“Stop pretending to be such a prude!”
She hates the vulgarity of it all, hates that she’s not strong enough to push him away, hates that he feels entitled to just reach under her skirt and touch her, with no permission, and no preliminaries.
“Victor, I said no!”
He lets go, and she steps away, straightening her clothes. When she turns to face him, he looks confused, hurt even.
“So you seriously don’t want this?”
“No.”
The look on his face is one of sheer bewilderment.
“Did you hear what I said? Mona and I are over.”
She failed to process it the first time. Now that she thinks of it, she’s not surprised. And she’s not satisfied either. She’s just angry.
“So? What do you expect from me? To immediately fill her place? This is not musical chairs, Victor. You can’t just swap one for the other.”
“You are my wife,” he points out.
“What else is new? I was your wife when you were with Mona, too. And before that. That does not mean I have to sleep with you.”
“Nobody’s holding a gun to your head, woman. But from what I could tell, you really liked it last time. You’d be a hypocrite to deny it. That was fucking awesome, and you loved it.”
She blushes and looks away, but decides to be honest.
“Yes. I did. It was really good.”
It feels liberating to say it out loud.
A smug smile spreads on Victor’s face, and she feels just a little bit like punching him.
“So you liked it. It was good. And now I’m free. And you’re my wife.”
She has to fight the urge to slap his drunken face.
“I am your estranged wife. And until a few days ago you were fucking another woman. Actually, that’s not even fair. You were in a full-blown relationship with another woman. A six-year relationship, if I am not mistaken. And now you just expect me take you back? Just like that? You don’t think it actually requires some work to win me back, Victor?”
He laughs. It’s more a snort than a laugh, really.
“What the fuck do you expect? Flowers and a serenade? Don’t hold your fucking breath! I’m not going to court my own wife!”
“Your estranged wife. And whether you like it or not, you and I both have done some horrible things to hurt each other. It would take a lot of work to patch things up. It’s like…”
She’s surprised by her calm and patience. She’s not sure how long she’ll be able to go on without losing her temper, without hitting him. But it’s important to tell him where she stands.
“Like an omelet,” she says. “You make a bad omelet, you can’t fix it. You have to make a new one.”
She feels absurd having just said that. It’s silly, and even in his drunken state, Victor seems amused by her lack of eloquence.
“Suit yourself, princess. I’m going home.”
He starts walking away. She follows him.
“You drank too much, Victor. You can’t drive. Stay here tonight.”
He looks at her with disgust.
“I don’t need your fuckin’ sympathy,” he says. “And I no longer want to sleep with you.”
“I mean in Alex’ room.”
Although she knows it’s an unnecessary precaution, Maria locks her bedroom door. The thought of Victor in the other room unnerves her. When she finally goes to bed, in spite of being absolutely exhausted, her mind refuses to switch off. Maybe she’s had too much coffee, or maybe she’s had too much wine, but she can’t fall asleep. She keeps thinking of that damn boy proposing to her daughter, and of her conversation with Victor. She keeps replaying it in her head, over and over. She keeps thinking of what she said, and how she could have better phrased it. Was it even worth it, explaining herself to him? Can it ever be worth explaining anything to a drunk man who feels like he owns you?
She tosses and turns all night. She keeps thinking of L and her young man. Will they really go through with it? Is there any way for her to stop it? Why does she even want to stop it? Is she maybe wrong, can there be any chance that this is actually a good thing for her daughter, and that she, her mother, is only doubting it because she’s a bitter old woman who has messed up her own life?
Dogs With Bagels Page 23