Good on Paper (29 page)

I sent the fax and stared at the hateful machine, which had only brought lies into my home when I had dared hope for something more, and realized: it
had
been Romei’s intention to break me. You think it’s not possible to create intimacy between author and reader? You think translation is shameful and shamful, the
traduttore
always
traditore
? Let’s put my money where your mouth is. I’ll write a great, groundbreaking book, which you’ll want more than anything to share with the world—only you won’t be able to, I’ll make sure you can’t: the book will be untranslatable, every word of it untranslatable! You’ll try, translator SuperTemp, you’ll do everything you can to prove yourself wrong, you’ll sweat and strain. You’ll lose sleep and develop all manner of theory—because you will have decided that you
want
that intimacy. Author-reader, translator-author, woman-man, mother-daughter—there is no difference, once you accept what they have in common, once you decide they’re possible, desirable, worth the effort and risk.

Horrible man!

But he wouldn’t give up, would he? Men like Romei don’t take no for an answer. He’d keep sending pages! They’d spill out onto the floor, an infinitude of A4, taking over the study, slipping under the curtained door, into the kitchen, out the window, onto the street, through bus doors, onto the laps of dockworkers, au pairs … One reads how Eleanor changed her name to Esther, to celebrate, or at least mark, her new life—or, more likely, took her Hebrew name when she realized that, like it or not, her new life had begun.

Another reads how we left Rome suddenly in snowy March, not at the end of the school year as I’d assumed.

A third reads how Eleanor experienced her first lupus episode after delivering her only child, leaving the child in the care of Emma, her sister-in-law.

A fourth reads how Eleanor named her child Shira, after
Shir haShirim
, hoping the girl would experience a love that she, Eleanor, had despaired of experiencing.

A fifth reads how it hadn’t been my mother who’d left us, no,
it had been my father who’d left her
—and he’d had a chance to confess and hadn’t.

I hated them all. I went to Andi’s room, lay down on her bed, smelled her Andi pillow, looked up at her metamorphosis mural, imagined a new constellation there, a mother turned into stars to spare her the pain of losing a child. I put the guilt quilt into my mouth and screamed.

After that, the world was an empty vessel. I waited, but nothing happened.

I tiptoed back to my room. Benny was still there, upright on my bed. He hadn’t moved.

Why did you do it? I whispered. He held out his arms to me, as if to say,
please
.

I couldn’t go to him. He put his face in his hands and wept. I left him there.

He hadn’t tried to defend himself. He’d absorbed my anger, he’d looked at me and listened. He hadn’t been ruined by my anger, then or before. He held out his hands, he told me he loved me.

Strange.

I circled the Den, went back to my room.

I want to show you something, I said. He followed, naked, wiping his eyes, into Ahmad’s studio, where the Flying Girl hung above the drawing table.

That’s me, I said.

I know, he said, taking my hand.

You recognize the drawing from that story I wrote?

From you, he said. I recognize you.

I took that in.

When I realized Ahmad had taken Andi, I wanted to come in here and destroy this. It’s his favorite thing in the world. I wanted to smash the glass and smear the picture with my blood.

But you didn’t, Benny said.

You know why?

Tell me.

Because it means something to me, the Flying Girl. Remembering myself as someone who once knew how to fly. Do you understand?

That’s how I see you every day.

You see me as the Flying Girl? I whispered.

He nodded.

You can hold me now, I said, shivering, and then the front door opened.

•

I ran to the living room, as Andi, bleary in ragged braids, trudged through the door, wearing pajamas and her Pretty Princess backpack. She was guiding her bike with her good hand, Tamika upside-down in the bike’s flowered basket, her long brown legs forming a V for victory. I ignored Ahmad and flung my arms around my girl. She let go of the bike as I grabbed her, and it crashed to the floor. Numb with fatigue, she didn’t notice. Ahmad picked up the bike, leaned it gently against the wall.

Put some clothes on, Mom! she mumbled. Ovidio doesn’t want to see you in the nude.

Ovidio? If Ovidio, or Ahmad for that matter, saw my backside under Benny’s shirt, I could hardly give a damn.

I’m sorry, Shira, Ahmad said softly. I don’t know what I was thinking.

His face was desolate with the knowledge of what he’d done. I said nothing, stared at him over Andi’s shoulder, held my daughter closer, if such a thing were possible. Exhaustion, not affection, caused her to lean into me; I felt complete with her, whole and ferocious.

Will you ever forgive me? he asked.

Never, I said. Get out of here. You will never see either of us ever again.

Ahmad’s hand floated to his heart, his mouth opened, he stared at me, tears maybe welled in his eyes, and with small, shocked steps he backed out the door.

•

Andi wanted Ahmad to tuck her in, but he was gone. In any case, I insisted.

I’m glad you’re home, I said, but she was sleeping.

Ovidio wants eggs Benedict for breakfast, she mumbled, turning onto Tinky Winky. Room service comes on a rolling table.

It was only after I’d watched her a while, the movement of her ribcage as she breathed, the way she curled in on herself bringing Tink to her cheek, that I remembered Benny, alone in Ahmad’s studio. I found him sleeping on the daybed, covered by a kilim he’d pulled from the floor. I could have let him sleep, but I didn’t want him there when Andi awoke. There would be no more surprises for my baby; from now on, she could rely on me absolutely.

Sorry, I said, pushing his bony shoulder gently with my palm.

His eyelids fluttered, he reached for me, as if by reflex. I fell gratefully into his arms.

•

You should have been able to do what I couldn’t, he whispered. A minute had passed, or maybe an hour. He was unbuttoning my shirt, kissing my collarbone, each of my ribs. You have a chance to make things right. You have the opportunity I never had. It would be good: I know her, I know them, I know you.

You don’t know me, I said, dropping back my head.

I know you, he said, kissing the nape of my neck, under my ear, smoothing his hands from my waist to my shoulders.

You don’t know me, I said, arching my back. You know nothing about me.

I know you, he said. You’re my flying girl.

•

Andi woke me with a poke on the shoulder. The sun hadn’t yet risen.

Ovidio wants waffles, she said, her braids even more of a wildness. Who’s that?

I looked over, adjusted the kilim.

That’s Benny. You know Benny.

Of course I know Benny. Why is he here?

He kept Mommy company last night. I missed you.

He was keeping you company in the nude?

Come on, sweetie, I whispered, grabbing Benny’s shirt from the floor, astonished that he hadn’t awakened. Let me make you some breakfast.

Ovidio, too, she said, twisting to get a last look as I led her out of the studio.

Of course. How many waffles does he want?

He’ll share with me, she said, hitching up her pajama bottoms. He wants to know when we’re going back to the Plaza.

Hmm, I said. Someday.

Today?

Not today.

He might run away, you know.

I looked down at my daughter. Did she know what she was saying?

Why would he do that? I asked, as gently as I could.

If Ahmad stays at the hotel, he might go there to live with him.

You think Ovidio might do that? and lifted her up onto the kitchen counter, my heart pounding.

He’s a silly boy, he might do anything.

Try to convince him to stay, will you?

I’ll try, Andi said, nodding her head solemnly.

I reached for eggs, flour, sugar.

But Ahmad isn’t staying at the hotel, right? she said, almost as if it weren’t a question.

At that moment, Benny tiptoed past the kitchen doorway toward my bedroom, hunched into his kilim.

Why doesn’t anyone wear any clothes in this house! my daughter sighed, and I was off the hook. For the moment.

51

THE HERO DEFEATED

Ahmad moved out—temporarily, as a “gesture of friendship,” or so he said in an email I read before blocking his address. He’d give me till Y2K to decide, three and a half months: reconcile or find other accommodation. No, he wasn’t trying to extort forgiveness by threatening to throw us onto the street, Benny said. No one was going to be out on the street.

Ahmad had cornered Benny in People of the Book, he wanted
someone
to understand: Mirabella’s plan had failed. It was Hassan, Ahmad’s eldest: he wasn’t interested in Ahmad, he wouldn’t leave Karachi for the demon West. Faced with what Ahmad perceived to be my, uh, fast-developing relationship with Benny, he convinced himself that Andi would also fall from his life. He wouldn’t lose another child. He’d been talking with lawyers about custody when we’d fought.

This is supposed to make me feel sympathetic? I asked.

He’s trying to apologize, Benny said.

Confession, contrition, reparation, change
—it didn’t seem enough anymore.

You tell him he comes anywhere near Andi, I’ll have him thrown in jail.

I don’t want to be your intermediary, Shira. You need to talk to him.

Never, I said.

When I explained to Andi that Ahmad wouldn’t be living with us any more, she pounded me with her good fist.

You shouldn’t have hit him! she wailed. He’d be here still if you hadn’t hit him!

I tried to hold her, but she kicked my shins.

It’s not fair! she cried. You can see him anytime you want!

When I told Andi that Ahmad wasn’t her real father, that her real father lived in India, she screamed at me: Liar! Ahmad’s my real father!

At her birthday party, she picked at the cake. At night, she cried. When I asked what was wrong, she said, Nothing, her face smothered in tears. You’re waking me up, you know that?

I thought I heard … something, I’d say, helplessly. Right, I’d say then to her silence. If you need me, I’m just down the hall.

I know that, she’d mutter. I’m not stupid.

I crept into her room when she was at school, to smell her Andi pillow, and stare at her Observations Notebook (
Do Not Tuch!!
), which she kept, though its edges were frayed, the koala on the front smudged. I picked it up once, opened the front cover, went no farther. Did she know I’d done this? I was sure she did, I was sure my guilt followed me, left tracks wherever I went.

She came home with a note: Her school was doing Career Days. Could one of Andi’s parents attend?

I want Ahmad, she said. Everyone’s doing a dad. Except Martina. Martina’s dad’s in jail. She doesn’t have anyone else to ask.

What about her mom? I asked.

She doesn’t
do
anything. Not like Ahmad. Ahmad knows the forty-first president! He was nominated for a Noble Prize.

Nobel
.

Pammy’s
dad’s got a bald spot, Andi said. And he was a Good Humor Man.

Almost as good as knowing a thief conman president, I said. And not quite winning a prize. I’ll go. I’ll be happy to.

Forget it, Andi said. Forget I said anything.

I tried to seduce her with stories, metamorphoses plucked from her wall. To convince her change was good. (
No change, thanks. I’m fine the way I am
.) Never mind that for Ovid, metamorphosis is at best a consolation prize, meager compensation for what’s been lost.

Go away, she’d say, I’m trying to sleep.

Not till I tell you a story.

I’m too tired for stories. I hate your stories. Your stories are stupid!

I absorbed her anger, breathed in her rage, allowed it to settle inside me, accepting it as her gift to me, and holding it there, as my gift to her; I’d learned this from Benny. Someday, I hoped, her anger would spend itself. If not, I’d still be there—I hoped.

I skipped the story of Niobe, her fourteen children sacrificed, and Phaethon, who flew his father’s flaming chariot into the ground; I talked instead about Perseus, his flying sandals, the hero Heracles, whose bravery earned him a spot in the gods’ Greek heaven.

With Aunt Emma? my baby asked.

What?

In heaven with Emma. Emma’s in heaven, right?

Who said Emma’s in heaven? Emma’s not dead.

You told my Enrichment Facilitator she was.

Shit
.

She told you that?

We sat in a Healing Circle. I had to Share Memories. Only I didn’t have any.

What did you do? I asked.