Baltimore (13 page)
Authors: Jelena Lengold
“I’ve almost finished my novel,” I said.
Summer was nearing its end and I was once again sitting in my chair, after taking a break for several weeks.
There was nothing new, really, except that now she had short hair. But, I felt like I needed to give her some encouragement.
“That’s good. I remember the first time you were here you mentioned some sort of writer’s block. Are you happy with what you’ve written?”
Writer’s block!? What an expression! It reminded me of the phrases used in bad literary reviews.
“Well, that’s a hard question. I don’t really know how I feel about what I’ve written until the novel is completed. And even then, I’m not sure it’s any good. Sometimes I think it’s good and other times, it seems completely mundane. I don’t think it’s spectacular, but it’s readable. For people who like this kind of psychological babble. I like it, and I always hope there’s someone else out there who isn’t squeamish about reading such things.”
She laughed:
“And what would make it, as you say, spectacular?”
“Oh, if I knew that, I’d do it. This is something you know only after you read a spectacular novel. You simply recognize the real thing. I’m afraid there’s no real recipe.”
We could have gone on like that and used up my entire hour talking about literature, but somehow I didn’t feel like she was the right person to talk to about this. I entrusted her with my stories before going on vacation and I asked her if she had read them over the summer. She told me she did and that she was a bit bothered by the fact that she knew the author. In any case, this was all I got out of her. I said:
“I, of course, gave you those stories because I wanted you to learn more about me through them.”
“Or less,” she added.
I liked this. Maybe she really did read them, I thought to myself.
I then told her about my most recent fight with my mother. About one more in a million fights.
“What is the recurring pattern in these arguments?” she asked.
“We already talked about that.”
“It doesn’t matter. There are so many things that need to be retold in order to put them in their right place.”
“I guess the common denominator of all those arguments is the fact that I always take the bait. I always get angry. I always react like a hurt child.”
“And what would be the mature reaction?”
“I don’t know. If I did, I wouldn’t be here. For a while, I thought the wisest thing to do was to keep from even participating in these conflicts. But that would only be a learned behavior. It wouldn’t reflect my true need, if you know what I mean. Is it mature to adapt our behavior to the outside world, even though our genuine need for crying or getting angry or childish despair still remains the same? Is it mature to act like you’re not afraid when you actually are? It can’t be that the essence of maturity is simply well simulated calmness?”
“Of course that’s not the point. It would be good if the calmness were genuine. How would you define, in one sentence, your constant clashes with your mother?”
“Guilt. I always feel guilty.”
“For what?”
“For not being loyal enough. At least that’s what she thinks. I’m not the kind of daughter she would want. A daughter who would talk to her every day about every detail of her life, and then give her a chance to offer her advice. A daughter who would then follow this advice, even if she doesn’t agree with it.”
“What is the opposite of this kind of loyalty?”
“Freedom, I guess.”
“Do you feel free now?”
“No, not as long as she’s alive.”
“And what would constitute this freedom?”
“The first thing that comes to mind is the freedom to die. I can’t die while she’s alive. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t wish to die, but let’s say I contract a deadly disease. You know what I’d be thinking about on my deathbed? I wouldn’t get a chance to grieve over my own life because of the guilt I would be feeling for doing this to my mother. That’s exactly what it would be like. Me dying would be like doing something unforgivable to my mother! But, when it comes to, let’s say, my husband, I wouldn’t feel that way. In relation to him, I would just feel sad for leaving him. But, no guilt.”
“What trait does your husband possess, which makes him different and unlike your mother?”
“I think he genuinely loves himself, in a healthy and normal way, whatever that means. If I were to die, he would without a doubt be sad and grieve for a while, but he would manage to get back on his feet and continue with his life. And that’s good to know. It’s not at all pleasant to know that you’re dragging someone else with you to your grave. When I drown, everyone else should stay safely on the surface, until their time comes. That would be real freedom!”
“Who do you think gives us permission to love or not love ourselves?”
“Why, our parents, right?”
“And what if we don’t get this from our parents? What then?”
“Well, I don’t know. If we don’t get this from our parents, then we simply don’t have it.”
“Do you know that only a person who genuinely loves himself can truly love someone else, or really belong to someone else?”
“Are you saying that I can’t genuinely love another person?”
“I want to remind you of a conversation we had some time ago about abandonment, which results from fear of being abandoned.”
If she had thought of those coloring pencils and drawings at that moment, if she had asked me to draw love, the way I saw it, then and there, I would have probably drawn a knife entering a deep and aching wound. It would have been a cheap, symbolically very primitive drawing, but still, damn it, a very precise presentation of what I was feeling. Somehow, I knew this couldn’t possibly be good. This was not what love was supposed to look like, I guess. My father’s lips pressed tightly together came to mind. And that I wasn’t really familiar with his eyes because he wore tinted glasses all his life. I remembered the displeased look on my mother’s face, greeting me as I approach her on the street. She doesn’t talk about it anymore, but I know there are many things she would like to change about me. Does being mature mean you should simply overlook their angry, dissatisfied, critical faces? I remembered the way my husband always came home with a pure, cheerful smile on his face, and I thought of my fear of being taken to some unfamiliar regions of boredom due to the sameness and certainty of this smile. Why would I be bored only when I’m in a place where that knife isn’t turned every day in a wound inflicted long ago? Maybe I really can’t feel genuine love for anyone. What a devastating thought. All I wanted to do was write a novel; meanwhile I’ve come to the realization that I don’t know how to love. I thought maybe I got more than I bargained for. But, there was no going back.
I asked her:
“So, what do I do now? What comes after we reveal the people who are to blame for our defects, and the list of complaints against our parents and everyone else who did us wrong? Is there anything after that? Or are we left only with our awareness of the devastating revelation, banished from the world of those who know how to love?”
“You have the capacity to make up for this. You can call it your inner nurturing parent or, simply, a gradual awakening of love towards yourself.”
I was sad and tired, and I didn’t believe this could be corrected, ever. I asked her:
“Do you really believe it is possible?”
“Yes, I do. It’s a process. It takes time. In some cases, it’s a never-ending process, a job that is never completely done, but it can bring results. This is something we need to work on from now on.”
There’s nothing riskier than drawing a big conclusion - both in novels and psychotherapy. This is why I didn’t say anything significant to her at the end of that session. Nor did she. We made an appointment for the following Wednesday, at 6:00 p.m., which will probably be another beautiful September day, just like this one. Somehow, autumn always fits in better with my idea of beauty than spring. Maybe it’s because my mother preferred orange and brown tones, or simply because I think I look better in a raincoat than a tight top.
It was raining in Baltimore, of course. The morning was grey and foggy, the air was sticky from the humidity and everyone was in a big rush to get somewhere, with their heads down, carefully carrying their umbrellas. In a few minutes, Edgar would show up at the bus stop, where I was standing, waiting for him.
A woman was adjusting her hood as she walked by.
Another woman was about to step in a puddle of water, but when she suddenly swerved to avoid it, she ran into a curly-haired man who was walking his dog, and got tangled up in the leash. They smiled at each other and continued on their way.
A man wearing a grey raincoat inserted a coin into a vending box, raised the lid, and took out the morning paper.
Two streetlights were still on, even though it was already daylight.
Everything looked familiar and ordinary from this side, as if I’d already stood at this bus stop, with a pretzel in my hand, numerous times.
I’m going to tell Edgar that, ultimately, loneliness is a matter of choice.
I’ll admit to Edgar that I had to pay for everything I’m now bringing to him.
I’ll submit to Edgar this little report on me.
I’ll share my pretzel with him.
I’ll turn my computer off, get up, and go home to make tomato soup.
I’ll tell Edgar this was always possible in the past, but that this morning, it no longer is.
I won’t even wait for him to show up. I’ll turn my computer off before he comes. That’s easy enough.
I’ll admit to him that, in some way, I’d like to be there now, in front of my computer, and that I was just imagining all this, like many times before.
I’ll drive really fast over the bridge with my eyes closed and count to ten. Maybe even fifteen.
I’ll tell Edgar I decided to visit him the day I finally drove my car across the entire bridge without opening my eyes once. I’ll tell him the fear I felt on that day was now behind me.
I’ll turn the stove on and open the refrigerator, while I think about the last sentence.
I’ll run the car off the bridge.
I’ll throw myself into Edgar’s arms.
When my husband comes in, I’ll shout for him to close the door because of the draft.
The next day, there will be a small article in all the newspapers about the bizarre accident.
No one will ever find out why I left, where I went, or what happened to me.
Some will try to find clues in my first and last novel, and they will search for me in Baltimore, in vain.
I’ll observe the soaring air bubbles and think about Virginia Woolf.
I’ll tell my husband how I hate books with morbid endings.
I’ll get up from the table and give him a kiss.
A huge neon sign will light up with the words HAPPY ENDING.
Before going to bed, I’ll have a cup of cocoa with plenty of sugar.
I’ll flip through the channels a little.
I’ll go to sleep.
Jelena Lengold was born in 1959 Kruševac, Yugoslavia (now Serbia). She is an accomplished storyteller who has published eleven books since 1982, including six poetry collections, four short story collections, and a novel, Baltimore. Her work has been translated into several languages, published in multiple anthologies, and is critically acclaimed across Europe.
Lengold has received multiple awards for her books. Her short story collection The Fairground Magician has won the Biljana Jovanović, Žensko pero, and Zlatni Hit liber awards, as well as the European Union Prize for Literature. Her poetry books Images from the Life of a Kapellmeister and A Well of Heavy Words have received the Đura Jakšić Award and the Jefimijin vez Award, respectively.
Lengold worked as a journalist and editor for the culture desk of Radio Belgrade for ten years before becoming a project coordinator in the Conflict Theory program of the Nansenskolen Humanistic Academy in Lillehammer, Norway. Since 2011, she has worked and lived in Belgrade, Serbia, as a freelance journalist and writer.
