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.