Good on Paper (23 page)

I think this is all. Goodbye!

Infuriating man!

•

Ahmad was in his studio; Andi was back early from Pammy’s. Pammy, it turned out, needed “alone time.”

You guys fight? I asked.

No. They’d disagreed about how to punish Tink. Andi said he should sit quietly and think about what he’d done; Pammy thought he needed a spanking. Andi said spanking was
uncivilized
. Which was when Pammy slammed the door and said she needed alone time.

Does Pammy’s mother know you left? I asked.

She gave me an apple.

You upset?

About what? she asked.

39

GOOD ON PAPER

I was awakened the next morning by the telephone.
Someone get that
, I thought, then realized it was my cell, Brahms’s “Lullaby.” Andi had been at my ringer again.

Veronica! Benny said.

Veronica?

Betty? he asked.

Benny?

You don’t read comic books, do you?

I was supposed to call you, wasn’t I? What day is it?

Dear me, I woke you, didn’t I?

We made a plan: Benny would cook, I’d bring wine. I went back to sleep, half aware that dinner sounded rather like a date.

•

That afternoon, I lay on Andi’s bed and wrote a quick running translation of “Muse.” I shouldn’t have been surprised to see paronomasia sprinkled all over the couple’s tragic victory, like shots on a Cohn’s cone, but I was. Paranomasia: words that are unrelated but sound alike, placed in proximity for the fun or pleasing sound of it. Kissing cousins-in-law, couples that look good in public (or on paper) but aren’t, in fact, compatible. Not
croce
/crochet (false friends), but
a
place for the plaice
or
traditore-traduttore
. The
heart’s hurt
, if you stretch it.

It made a certain sense. Esther’s loss is Romei’s gain: she deteriorates as he, inspired by his anti-muse, finds his Nobel/ignoble voice. By reminding us of the lack of “true” correspondence between words that appear connected, Romei underscores the lack of affinity between his lord and lady.

Or so I wrote in my Door Number Two notebook. Then I read over my notes—about the
Song
, the false friends, Romei’s poems—and found that it was good.

I was, and would for a short while remain, the world’s leading interpreter of Romei’s
Vita Quasi-Nuova
(or whatever he was going to call it). Should I expand my Translator’s Note into a definitive monograph? I should! I could see it now: Talks at sexy Italian conferences! A dissertation-cum-bestseller! Graduate students shouting me half-caffs at the Hungarian Pastry Shop!

Spirit aloft, I called Jeanette to finagle an invitation to watch the three Eves:
The Lady Eve, All About Eve, Three Faces of Eve
. I even put on lipstick and a low-cut blouse, so she’d think I’d made progress.

Where’re you going? Ahmad wanted to know, looking me up and down.

I winked—it was my scheduled night out: let him wonder! But he wasn’t playing.

It’s been days since you put Andi to bed, he stage-whispered. She’ll be so disappointed!

I looked at Andi sitting on the floor, absorbed in her crayons.

You’re nuts, I said.

Maybe I said it loudly. Her head jerked up; she looked anxiously at me, then Ahmad.

You look pretty, Mommy. Don’t you think she looks pretty?

It seemed very important to Andi that Ahmad think I look pretty. I raised my eyebrows, dared him to agree. When he didn’t, I walked over to my daughter and kissed her on the head.

Thank you for thinking I look pretty. I take after you.

•

Jeanette greeted me at the door, a cosmopolitan at the ready. She confided during intermission that she was going through The Change.

Fasten your seat belts, she said, it’s going to be a bumpy night!

PART FIVE

DEATH

40

YOU DON’T THINK THE APOCALYPSE CAN HAPPEN

Every so often we indulged Ahmad’s craving for things Russian. Sometimes this meant Brighton Beach,
solyanka
in the shadow of the Cyclone. More often it meant midtown and the Balalaika. Fish eggs didn’t agree with Andi, or so she said, so when Ahmad and I went out, Jeanette’s daughter Dotty babysat. Dotty was eighteen and postponing Harvard to volunteer for U2K, a Y2K-preparedness group; she’d go to college in January, she said, if there were any colleges left.

Andi had organized her school stuff to show Dotty, her Pretty Princess backpack leaning against a tower of textbooks, Tink, newly rehabilitated, standing guard on top.

Guess what! she said, taking Dotty’s hand as soon as she walked in the door. Ahmad’s going to buy me a bike! A pink one, with a basket for Tink!

Ahmad! I said.

Every kid should have a bike, he said. He was trying to do jovial, but Ahmad didn’t do jovial.

Every kid in Connecticut has a bike, Andi said. I’m going to be every kid in Connecticut!

Honey, I said, trying to control my voice, we’re not going to Connecticut.

Aw, Mom!

You’ll thank me later.

I doubt it. Is there apple picking in Manhattan?

I stared at her.

I didn’t think so, she said.

I shook my head and turned to Dotty.

How’s the Y2K business?

I brought a list of everything you’ll need, she said, digging in her backpack. Then she saw my expression. Poor dears! she said. You don’t think the apocalypse can happen! Even if our government cared for us, which it doesn’t, it could never untangle our dependence on computers. She read to us from a list: Canned food, and don’t forget a manual can opener. Twenty pounds of wheat per person, per month; a grain mill; ten pounds of soybeans. Food-grade plastic containers. We’re vulnerable, she said, but we don’t have to despair! There’s a great safe-house site on the Internet …, and she was digging again in her backpack.

We managed to slip out, eventually. Reservations, I said, though the Balalaika always had room for Ahmad.

Of course, Dotty said. We can talk about this later.

No dessert for Andi, Ahmad said from the door, unless she finishes her corn. And make sure she doesn’t get her cast wet when she brushes her teeth. She splashes.

I couldn’t visualize this, but let it go.

And we were off! Just three stops to the best borscht in all Manhattan.

I loved the Balalaika, the Dr. Zhivago soundtrack notwithstanding. Ahmad would flirt with gawky Anton, who’d mumble to hide his buck teeth: he’d ask about girlfriends, make Anton blush and smile and cover his mouth with his hand. After dinner, Ahmad would join Gorky in wild Russian dancing: he’d squat and thrust to the vast amusement of the Balalaika regulars, rough-looking chaps who drank their vodka neat at the bar. Breathless, Ahmad would laugh with the waiters, exchange jokes in Russian. Soviet humor, he’d say, wiping his eyes. Untranslatable.

We’d left Indian summer behind us and were back in steaming July; evening, if anything, had only made it worse. Ahmad was walking briskly; I could keep up only with an occasional hop, skip, and jump. Early years in Pakistan had taught Ahmad to love the heat; Manhattan hadn’t quite done the same for me. We descended into the subway and it became clear we should have cabbed it. The humidity was rainforest grade. Before we reached the platform, I was wiping sweat from my forehead and neck. Around us, everyone concentrated on not moving, their hair pasted onto their foreheads, or they fanned themselves without commitment.

I followed Ahmad to the end of the platform. Near us, a Columbia student huddled over a copy of
War and Peace
, marking the margins with a mechanical pencil. A mother with a double stroller hummed abstractedly with her Walkman while the younger of her children pointed excitedly at something on the tracks. I hoped it wasn’t a rat.

Moisture, moisture everywhere, and not a drop to drink. Ahmad wouldn’t look at me—not a good sign. He pulled a bottle of Evian out of his bag, took a swig, replaced it without sharing. Perspiration had accumulated inside my bra, on the small of my back. I wiped my face again and wondered why I never thought to bring water of my own. And watched Ahmad, as if I might find some clue to his coldness in the wrinkle of his shirt, the angle of his tie.

What’s wrong? I finally asked. I was tired, my blouse was sticking to my chest. I didn’t want to battle.

What makes you think something’s wrong? he said, still not looking at me, as our express roared into the station.

There’s obviously something wrong, I said, following Ahmad onto the train. The cool inside should have been a relief, but it wasn’t. Is it Mirabella? Something at work?

Not now, Shira, Ahmad said, sitting neatly in the one available seat, hands folded on his pressed-together knees. I clutched a steel pole as we started hurtling south.

What do you mean, not now? We need to talk about it, whatever it is!

Shira, he said, looking at me finally, you need to get
off my back!

I won’t! I said.

He made as if he hadn’t heard, but the vein at his temple was pulsing.

Was that your final answer, by the way? he asked.

Was what my final answer?

You told Andi you weren’t going to Connecticut. I’m asking if that’s your final answer.

I told you already we weren’t going!

You were going to think about it, is what you said, for Andrea’s sake.

I’d never said that, but the car was screeching to a halt. Seventy-second Street. People pushed past me, squeezing right and left, some making a sudden rush for the exit when a local pulled in across the platform.

I waited till we’d pulled away. Ahmad was studying graffiti etched into the Plexiglas windows behind me.

Listen, I said, I know you’re in a tough spot …

Save the fake empathy, Shira. You want to be in New York so you can be with your boyfriend, even though being in Connecticut, being together, is better for our daughter.

My boyfriend? What boyfriend? What are you talking about?

You’d give up everything for him, wouldn’t you? You’d give up our family, you’d give up Andrea’s happiness. That’s the one thing we said we’d never do, or had you forgotten?

I don’t have a boyfriend! You’re out of your mind!

Ahmad shook his head—sadly, as if disappointed with me.

If you’re not willing to do what’s best for your daughter, Shira, then you don’t deserve her.

I wrapped both hands tight now around my pole, so Ahmad wouldn’t see them shake.

You don’t think I can raise Andi on my own? I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

Keep your voice down, he said, though I hadn’t been shouting. What I said was, if you’re not willing to put your daughter first, then you
don’t deserve her
.

What are you saying? I said. Say what you mean!

Ahmad said something I couldn’t hear over the crackling
loudspeaker—then we were at Times Square. More pushing, more squeezing and shoving. When the train pulled away, I could see a seat some distance away, but I didn’t move.

What did you say? I asked.

I
said
, I had to go to Andrea’s school today.

You what? I maneuvered a few inches closer to his seat. You had to go to Andi’s school?

Mrs. Chao asked to see us.

See us? About what?

Ahmad drank some water, put his bottle back in his bag.

She sent a note home with Andrea.

Andi came home with a note?

You were on your hot date. She gave it to me this morning.

My hot date?
Was he talking about Jeanette? I’d been tired and tipsy after the third Eve, it was Ahmad’s turn with Andi this morning, so I’d stayed over. Too late for me to call, but I’d had my phone with me had anyone tried to reach me, which they hadn’t.

I didn’t have a hot date! What’s going on here? I said. I sensed betrayal, smelled it, like old blood.

Someone has to be there for our daughter, someone has to be responsible. It has to be me, doesn’t it? It always has to be me.