Good on Paper (27 page)

Finally, I understood.

Romei wasn’t interested in publication—given what he’d written about his wife, and himself, he’d probably never intended it. He was writing for himself, to help him “cope” with his wife’s illness, so he wouldn’t have to look at her ravaged face. He wasn’t
talking
to her as she lay sick in bed, he wasn’t holding her hand—he was writing! Given the rush he was in, and the look of her, she was likely dying. Maybe he wanted to give her this testament, this “gift,” before it was too late, translated into her native tongue. She didn’t speak Italian, we knew that already.

With this thought came more understanding, an answer to the question, why me? If Romei didn’t care about publication, if he only wanted a translation he could give his wife, he wouldn’t need a pro. He’d need a competent friend-of-a-friend, someone who’d keep his story in the family, as it were.

Why not be straight with me? Did he think I wouldn’t be interested if fame and fortune were not attached? He didn’t know me—maybe I wouldn’t. Also, from what I could tell, she didn’t have a lot of time. Pros by their nature have places to go, people to see—I was probably the only semi-qualified translator available at a moment’s
notice—a translation SuperTemp! Happy coincidence that Benny knew how to find me.

Why all the funny business, then—the images from my stories, the mind-fucks, the bubbles of real life? He must have been trying to keep my interest. Flattering me after a rocky start. He didn’t want to waste time finding a replacement.

Pretty simple, really.

46

THE FLAME OF LOVE

Romei might hope for new life through this unlikely love letter, but for me, there could be no new life without publication. No authors lining up, no Translator’s Note praising the poet. Come Y2K, I’d be back at the prosthetics charity, or its Connecticut equivalent.

I needed to get out of the house. Ahmad had left a message saying he’d pick up Andi after school, so I brought the three new pages to the Eight Bar.

I sat in back where it was quiet and ordered a Hot Fudge Brownie McGee. I might not become famous because of Romei’s gift to Esther but, in Benny’s words, I still wanted to know what happened next.

We are still with Esther in New York. She is sitting with Benny in People of the Book, leaning forward on her folding chair, discussing Midrash. She quotes Rabbi this and Rabbi that, using her imagination to fill in the blanks left by the Author of the Text, who demands that we be partners in creation.

Midrash, we’re told: Story written between the lines of biblical narrative.

Together, Esther and Benny translate verses 8:6–7 of the
Song
, discarding traditional versions.

First, Esther reads aloud from King James: “For love [is] strong as death; jealousy [is] cruel as the grave: the coals thereof [are] coals of fire, [which hath] a most vehement flame. Many waters cannot quench love, neither can the floods drown it …”

No, they agree, that’s not it! That’s not it at all!

Not strong, but
ferocious
! “Love is ferocious like death.”

They do not translate
Sheol
, leaving the word as is to preserve its sense of the underworld, with its implication of suffering
beyond
death, an implication lost in the dead-end translation of Sheol as
grave
: “Love is ferocious like death, its jealousy cruel as Sheol.”

Love and death conflate here: love finds its identity in the underworld, love is our harrowing, “its sparks, sparks of fire.” Sparks, not coals, Benny insists. To recall Isaac Luria, he says, mysteriously.

They debate whether
shalhevetyah
, the
most vehement flame
of King James, includes in its fiery body
Yah
, the psalmists’ Name for God.

Esther laughs: Of course it does—look, there it is!

“A great God-flame,” they decide then, God’s name not absent from the
Song
at all, but inscribed in love’s fire, where it belongs. “Love is ferocious like death, its jealousy cruel as Sheol, its sparks, sparks of fire: a great God-flame!”

“Great waters cannot extinguish this flame,” one of them suggests, the great waters being nothing less than the
mayim rabbim
of creation, the primordial waters which, according to some, predate creation, the waters God separates to allow for distinction—between two subjects, a subject and object—the waters that separate Romei and Esther. Or, better, “not even the great waters of creation can extinguish the great God-flame which is love.”

Romei was writing his own Midrash, opening the sealed story of his wife, imagining what he couldn’t know about her, her secrets and illusions, her beliefs and silent moments, writing between the lines of her life. And writing about the
mayim rabbim
when from across the great waters he receives a call that changes his life.

Esther’s in the hospital, Benny says. Kidney disease, brought on by a condition called lupus. Romei must come at once.

47

THE ENEMY WITHIN

Lupus: when the body can’t distinguish self from enemy, when it attacks its own cells and tissues, thinking them foreign bodies. From the Latin for
wolf
, because of the characteristic butterfly rash, which gives a “wolflike” appearance. Only ten percent of “lupies” have a parent or sibling with lupus, and only five percent of their offspring get the disease, usually between the ages of eighteen and forty-five, the first symptoms often appearing in pregnancy. Esther’s lupus is systemic, the most serious kind, as it affects the internal organs. The result: flares that can last for years, followed by periods of remission. Esther’s symptoms included hair loss, joint pain, extreme fatigue, facial rashes, and now renal disorder. Her ANA test came up positive, but a syndromic diagnosis would have been possible years before, had Esther seen a competent doctor.

Her condition is serious, but she’ll be okay, this time. She wants to go home.

Romei packs his bags, the page ending mid-sentence, also mid-page.

Was the break intended to make clear the gravity of the disruption, or had the work itself been interrupted? What could interrupt Romei as he wrote by his wife’s sickbed? Only his wife’s sickness, I supposed.

•

As I walked home down Broadway, I thought of Esther, how small she looked in that photo, like a child, her face barely visible among her crumpled bedclothes, and felt tenderness for her. It was hard to believe I’d despised her before—what had
that
been about? I’d send Romei a fax when I got home, ask him how she was—I should have done it ages ago.

I was surprised to find no one in the Den. Ahmad said he’d pick Andi up after school, so where were they? Was something wrong? Another conference with Mrs. Chao? Something worse? It wasn’t like Ahmad not to call if he were late. My fingers felt prickly and light. Two hours? I tried calling but he didn’t pick up his phone.

Before I could call again, I heard the sound of keys turning in our several locks.

Where have you been? I asked as Andi burst into the room holding bags from Gap Kids and Saks, tugging a bike with training wheels. I pulled her to me, causing the bike to crash against the wall. I was so worried! I said as she wiggled from my grasp.

Mom! You’re being weird again.

What’s all this? I asked Ahmad. He also was carrying bags: his were from FAO Schwarz.

A bike and some clothes, Andi said. What’s it look like, a toaster?

Don’t get smart with me! I said. I am
not
in the mood.

No need for that, Ahmad said.

No need for any of this, I said, gesturing at the excess tumbling out of the bags.

Andrea needs it for school. You didn’t do enough shopping.

Andi’s got plenty for school. I just went through her clothes!

Look, Mom, Andi said, holding up a pink satin dress that must have cost a fortune.

Why don’t we agree to disagree, Ahmad said.

I’m sorry, I said, trembling, that’s not good enough. I am Andi’s mother and, like it or not, I am capable of giving her what she needs.

So you say, he said.

Don’t you start! I said, raising my voice.

Well, you’re not, really, are you?

I froze. Something was coming—I could feel it.

Andi, leave the room, please, I said.

I don’t want to leave the room. I’m always leaving the room!

Go! I said, and when she didn’t move, I gave her shoulder a little shove.
Go!

It’s not right! she shouted, and slammed her door.

Lovely, Ahmad said. Just lovely!

What is it? I insisted. You said
I’m not
. What am I not, exactly?

Not capable of giving our daughter what she needs.

What is it you think I haven’t given her? Frilly dresses? Expensive toys? Are you trying to buy her? Do you think this is some kind of competition?

Ahmad was moving in for the kill, I could feel it, and I hated him for it. I hated his smugness, his will-to-damage, I hated him with trembling hands and pounding heart for whatever he was about to say.

You think I’m talking about
things
? he said, feigning disbelief. You can’t support her, this is true. You’ve never earned enough to care for her. We can agree on that.

I’m sick of your insinuations! Tell me! What haven’t I given her?!

You’re selfish, Shira! I’ve said it before. You like to claim you’re the opposite of your mother, but you are as selfish as she ever was.

How can you say that! What have I not given my daughter?
Tell me!!

Love, for a start. You have no idea how to love her! You’ve never loved anyone but yourself. I don’t suppose Benny knows this yet. He will.

Rage coursed through my body, pure as the purest drug, it rushed through my veins and gathered behind my shoulders like an explosive. It took everything I had to control myself, to not say, You know something about love? Roger, the only boyfriend you ever had, left you because
you’re not capable!
You haven’t seen your children in a decade! It’s not like you’ve
tried
to see them! Tell me what you know about love!

I didn’t say these things, of course. There were places one didn’t go, places I wouldn’t go.

Benny is not my boyfriend, I said. I don’t know how many times I have to say it. Or why I have to say it.

What about understanding? he said. Andi’s unhappy—do you have any idea why?

Unhappy?
Andi? Uncertainty surfaced on my face before I could stop it.

You didn’t know, did you? Well, she is, and I have proof, all the proof I need. He looked meaningfully at Andi’s Observations Notebook, in the basket of her new bike.

You didn’t!

How could he? Read her private thoughts? Had he given her the notebook just so he could spy on her, on us?

It’s all there, he said, still affecting detachment. How unhappy she is, what she thinks of you, everything.

You’re sick! I shouted. I’m going to tell her exactly what you did!

You
would
, wouldn’t you? he said, shaking his head. It doesn’t matter. She knows there’s no room for her in your life. We talked about it this afternoon.

What are you talking about! I screamed. You talked about what?

Connecticut. My lawyer’s working on it. Custody, if you decide not to come with us.

You’re crazy! I shouted. Anger pressed against my chest, a terrible white-heat. She is not going to Connecticut. You can’t have custody! You don’t have any rights!

I asked her this afternoon—she’s made up her mind: she’s coming with me to Connecticut. That’ll be enough for any judge. That and your staying out all night, your inability to support her. You can’t even make it to her parent-teacher conferences! Besides, why would you force her to stay with you if she wants to be with me?

She doesn’t have a say! It’s not up to her.
I’m her mother!

Have you got money for lawyers? I didn’t think so.

I rushed at him and pummeled him. Fists high, I attacked him.