Baltimore Page 4

  “In time, the baby will become a rather haughty girl, pretty, self-confident, narcissistic; she’ll be tall and she’ll have long, black hair. In fact, I’m afraid she’s even going to be a little shallow. She won’t be described as being overly sophisticated. People will like her and she will consider this to be completely normal. She will think she is entitled to all these things.”

  She is still looking down at the pillow and then, in a voice that clearly indicates that, for her, this is a major moment in our session today, she says:

  “Can you still set her free? Can you make the decision to pierce the membrane even though the baby will become all those things: shallow, haughty, narcissistic…? Will you let her live or will you leave her to die in this parchment-like bubble?”

  All of a sudden, all this seems silly to me. I start thinking about how things aren’t quite as simple as she would like them to be. I hesitate and she’s aware of that. Finally, I say:

  “From a rational point of view, there’s no way in the world I’d leave any baby to die, if I had any say in it. But, if you regard this baby as a part of me, the part I’m not setting free, and I believe this is your theory, right? Then I’m afraid things aren’t quite that simple. If it were that simple, people wouldn’t be spending years going to therapy. Besides, I strongly feel that it’s not my job at all to free this baby from its membrane. Someone else is supposed to do it, and don’t ask me who because I don’t know. All I know is that it can’t be me! And I know it’s not that simple!”

  “I think it is all up to you,” she said, going back to sit in her chair. “It’s your decision and yours only.”

  I didn’t say anything. I felt like I might have gone a bit too far. As if I had said something against her therapeutic magic. As if I had displayed unseemly doubt. But, damn it, I can’t feign a breakthrough just to make her feel better! It would be asking too much, right?

  I looked at the clock. I had another ten minutes left. A whole eternity! She seemed tired all of a sudden, sitting there in her sofa chair. It was late and I was probably her last patient for the day. I said:

  “I believe you’re tired.”

  Even if she were, she would never admit to it. And she didn’t. She said:

  “No, I’m not at all tired, I’m completely focused and you have my full attention.”

  “I don’t think so. I think you’d rather be someplace else, perhaps with your children. Do you have any children?”

  She nodded quickly, too quickly, as if to say that who she is outside this room should under no circumstances be the subject of our conversation.

  “Where did that come from, that concern for the way I feel? The other day you asked me if I wanted to take a break between sessions. Why are you being so considerate?”

  “I don’t know. I think you find me tiresome. You’re probably listening to me only because it’s your job, because I’m paying you to listen, while you’d much rather be someplace else and with other people.”

  I was on the verge of tears. I knew exactly what was happening to me, but I wasn’t able to stop it. What did I really want from her? To tell me that she was listening to me because she liked me and not because she was being paid? There was no end to the self-pity. It was obvious I was going to use every last minute of my session. I leaned a little towards her. I think she likes it when I pose a question as if I believe she possesses all the wisdom of the world. Hell, who doesn’t?

  “What do you think, do I really need therapy? Could it be that I’m just indulging a whim, some sort of eccentricity, snobbery, the same as if I had, let’s say, enrolled myself in a horseback riding school….”

  “Something that narcissistic baby would do?” she asked with a smile.

  “Seriously, do you think I need this?”

  I knew the answer in advance. She, of course, thinks all people need therapy, that it’s something that would benefit everyone.

  “…but, if you’re asking me whether you’re a serious case….”

  I interrupted her in the middle of this sentence. And I should have let her continue. I’ll never find out if I’m a serious case. Or at least not until next week, which is when I’ll see her again.

  “No, that’s not what I was asking you. I was referring to whether or not I was entitled to this. And why I feel guilty now for taking up your time, and why I feel guilty for doing something I enjoy.”

  “This baby,” she looked at the pillow on the floor again, “she wouldn’t feel guilty for receiving something?”

  “Not a bit. This baby has no problems with taking.”

  It was time for me to get up and leave. I knew that and so did she.

  As we take out our notepads to write down the date and time of our next session, I tell her that now I make notes of everything that happens during our talks.

  “You may find yourself in a novel.”

  But, we are no longer in that room and she is no longer my therapist. Or at least that’s what I think. She is showing me out and at the door she says:

  “I hope I’m going to be a positive figure.”

  “Don’t worry,” I say, “all the characters are positive, except me. That’s something that never changes.”

  Dare you to guess: Who, out of all the people riding in this streetcar this morning, is going to die of lung cancer?

  I know two will die. It’s not for certain when, but two definitely. That’s what the statistics say.

  Three will die of a heart attack. At least.

  This is an interesting game you can play while using public transportation. Study their faces, fingers. Are their fingers yellow from nicotine, or are their noses abnormally red, or are they gasping for air as they climb into the bus, or do they have that empty suicidal stare?

  I sometimes close my eyes when I drive my car and count. My record is nine. And I do this at night, crossing a bridge, when I know the road is empty and straight. Which really isn’t much of an achievement.

  Did you know that people sometimes wake up in the middle of an operation? The most terrifying part of all is that you have no way of letting anyone know you’re awake. They’re cutting you and digging around your insides and you can feel everything, but you can’t let out a scream. This has happened to people, only no one talks about it. This is the dark secret of operating rooms.

  Let’s say you’re lying on a beach somewhere. Everything around you is idyllic. You even look rather good in your bathing suit. And you also managed to find some shade. You’re reading a newspaper while resting comfortably on your beach mattress. You feel like nothing bad could happen to you here. And then, a tiny, little, black ant just happens to walk into your ear. It wanders around and you try to get it out with you finger, but you’re only pushing it farther and deeper into your head. The ant is moving straight to your brain. This has happened to people. After a while, you think you imagined it all and that there was no ant after all. You continue to calmly read your newspaper and lie in the sun. But, the ant begins to make a nest in your head, to lay eggs, and multiply. By the time you eat two ice-cream cones, there will be an ant colony inside your head, which is going to kill you slowly and painfully. There’s no cure. Now try enjoying yourself on the beach. Or anywhere for that matter.

  I know a man who cut his eye on a newspaper, while he was reading the latest news and resting comfortably on his couch one afternoon.

  I leave my house in the morning and I think: if the first car I run into is white, that means I’ll die within five years at the most. If the car isn’t white but some other color, then I get another chance, which, however, also comes with a catch. I have to add all the numbers on the license plate and if the sum is an odd number, then I’m saved. At least for the day. At least for the morning.

  If a new move opens up in a game of solitaire, I won’t get a brain tumor.

  If it doesn’t, then I’ll tell myself this is just a sick game I play on my own to make myself feel bad. Why would anyone intentionally do something that makes him or h
er (or them) feel bad, is that what you’re asking? What an absurd question. And you, I suppose, don’t do such things? Haven’t you ever imagined your own miserable end in some old-age home? When I really think about it, an old age home is the deluxe version. It would be more correct to say: your own miserable end in some dreadfully dirty apartment, which hasn’t been aired for months and which no one comes to visit anymore. Don’t tell me you’ve never read an article like: Elderly man found dead in his apartment. Estimated time of death: approximately six months prior to discovery. Neighbors have been complaining about an unpleasant odor in the hallway for some time. And you never think this could one day be you? I always do.

  I don’t know exactly when I made the decision not to have children. Or if it even was a decision or just one of those things you keep putting off indefinitely, knowing full well the time that you have is limited. Maybe only fifteen, twenty years at the most. And then, you suddenly realize that the decision is no longer up to you. You definitely can’t have them, even if you wanted to. Stories like: A woman in India gave birth at the age of sixty! Both mother and infant are healthy and doing fine…. You somehow know this doesn’t apply to you and that this is just a newspaper article.

  Was this another one of those decisions I tend to make for the sole purpose of making myself feel bad?

  Either way, that’s how it turned out.

  It’s not that bad for now. We have our time. And time is one of the rare things a person can actually have. We have our afternoons and our weekends. We have order in our kitchen and neatly stacked shelves. We never had to use the washing machine twice a day because of dirty diapers. Nor did we have to get out of bed ten times during the night. You don’t think that’s really a plus? Okay. Maybe you’re right. I’m just presenting my arguments.

  Your family and friends resign themselves to the idea when you reach your late thirties. This is when they definitely lose all hope.

  But, there are always those times when you need to get your hair done.

  In hair salons, most of the talk is about children. Photographs are taken out. Pregnant women get their hair done out of turn. There’s mention of C-sections, pelvic births, measles, baby-teeth are shown around, and sometimes even the children are brought in to get their hair cut with their mothers, at which time we all have to sigh and cry oh, he’s so cute and swear the child is the spitting image of its mother.

  I’ve yet to see a woman who comes into a salon and talks about her ill mannered, full-grown child. I’ve never heard a woman talk about how her son had to repeat a grade, as she was getting a perm. Or how he robbed a corner store. Or how he started taking drugs. Or how he beat up a neighbor. Or how he can’t get into college. Or how he moved to another continent and calls only once a year, just to ask for money.

  In a hair salon, children exist solely in their angelic form. A form that only gives rise to plain, unadulterated envy. A form which makes you want to get out of there, with the curlers still in your hair, but not before you apologize to everyone for being there, even though you’re not worthy of their company. Because they, these women, know something that you don’t. And they have felt something you never will.

  They are a family. You are a couple, at the most.

  A girl, roughly seventeen years old, is combing my hair. She’s looking at me in the mirror; I’m looking at her in the mirror. The women around us are showing photographs. I’m silent. I’m always silent in these situations, hoping no one will ask me anything. Hoping I’ll be able to misrepresent myself for an hour to an hour and a half, until my hair is done, and then run out of there. But no! At some point, the girl can no longer stand the silence and she starts up a conversation with a question that, to her, seemed the least unpleasant. She also undoubtedly saw the wedding band on my finger.

  “Are you married?” she asks.

  What I would really like to say is be quiet and keep combing because I know what will follow, but I’ve never said that before, and I probably never will. Do you also sometimes find yourself in a situation when you have a thousand prepared answers, but you never say them out loud because you’re deterred by sheer cowardice? Of course, you’re deluding yourself with the idea that your good manners are preventing you from doing this, but, if you really think about it, you’ll realize this has nothing to do with manners. It’s simply cowardice. Fear of confrontation. And so you agree to their unmasking game instead of protecting your territory.

  “Yes,” I say with a casual smile.

  And before I even finish uttering the word, here she goes again:

  “And do you have any children?”

  “No,” I say.

  And I sit silently. For a moment, she feels uneasy. Only for a moment. And this is my only, small satisfaction.

  When I was younger, I used to get the following variety of replies:

  “There’s still time, there’ll be children, God willing!”

  “Oh, you’re still young, all you need to do is drink catkins tea. I have a girlfriend who couldn’t have children for ten years and she drank catkins tea, and after only a month she was pregnant. Her son is already in school now!”

  “You know, it’s better not to have children right away. A person should experience other things first. Mature parents are the best parents.”

  Now it’s different. I say no, and they only make that compassionate face. Like: I’m so sorry. What can you do? It’s not your fault. Not everyone can show pictures and baby teeth. Someone has to stay outside this circle.

  The girl combing my hair is convinced that she will be in this circle. She hasn’t the slightest inkling that there may not be a place reserved for her fairy-tale story over there. At seventeen, she thinks that by the time she reaches forty she will have had plenty of time to do all the things she ever wanted. She doesn’t even want to consider the possibility of waking up one day as a middle-aged woman, alone and with varicose veins.

  “Close your eyes and try to imagine the following scene: On your right there are only women, and on your left, men. There is an empty space between them… do you see them? Do you have an idea what they’re like, what they look like, what they do?”

  I saw them. Quite clearly. It was the first picture that came to me, as stupid as all the other first pictures that come to me while talking here with her, but I had no alternative but to admit:

  “The women. They’re like those ancient statues, wearing togas, or whatever those dresses are called, the ones worn over one shoulder. Their hair is gathered up in a bun. They’re beautiful, tall, they seem proud, some are holding jugs and, all in all, they don’t move around very much. They look like they’re posing. They’re smiling. They’re timeless. Their beauty is everlasting. I know they spent a long time making themselves pretty for this scene, spreading scented oils on their bodies, bathing in special spas and fussing for a long, long time over their perfect hairdos. Their dresses are in gentle pastel colors, pale pink, peach, these dresses almost blend in with the color of their skin, something like that… they have long, perfect arms….”

  “And the men?”

  “They have their backs to me, almost all of them. They’re terribly obsessed with their work and worries. They’re wearing dark suits. They look, I guess, like people from the present. But I don’t see any of their faces. Only the backs, collars, ties, glasses, a lot of hand motion, folders and papers being moved from one hand to the other, a kind of undefined murmur among them, some sort of haste, but not cheerful… they’re not aware of the women standing across from them. They don’t even know they exist. But even if they did know, it wouldn’t matter because they’re doing something that is much more important.”

  She had this sad look on her face. And it’s no wonder. I too would have that same sad expression on my face if anyone were to tell me this.

  “What would you say to these women? Is there something you would like to let them know?”

  “Hmmm… I would tell them… you’re very beautiful. I’m in total awe of you
r beauty. And I envy you. I would like to be like you.”

  “Really?” she asked, “why would you want to be like them?”

  “No, actually, I would like to look like them, but on the other hand, I would still want my life to have some meaning. They’re only there to look pretty. I need something more.”

  I knew this was bullshit. At first I blurted out, in haste, something I truly believe. Or something I thought I was supposed to believe. Or something someone once told me I had to believe. Damn it! I know what she’s trying to say. She’s trying to say that this is an ideal image of a woman I picked up as a child from my mother. I’m familiar with the babble.

  “All right. Is there anything you’d like to say to those men?”

  I’d prefer not to. Really. Not to them, or anyone else for that matter. That’s what I wanted to say to her. But this was not an option. This hour had to be endured regardless of the amount of humiliation it entailed.

  “I don’t know…. I’d tell them they were boring in those suits of theirs. And that they should take a look around, look up from those piles of paper.”

  But this was also bogus. Everything was bogus. And I no longer knew how to get out of it. I’m not lying to her. I’m not even lying to myself. It’s more complicated than that. Someone else is lying to me and forcing me to lie. It’s not true that I think men are only interested in work. Why then did I arrange this scene in such a way? Why?

  “Look at me,” she said, and I realized I had lowered my head practically between my knees and that I was holding my face with my fists. “At what point did you switch roles with your mother? When did you start worrying about her?”

  “Why do you think we switched roles?”

  “Remember the small and the big elephant….”

  “I remember the elephants.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “Who knows, probably a long time ago. I worried about her health. I worried about whether she would find a job. We would go together to look for a job for her. She was sick a lot. I would visit her at the hospital. But these things happen to everyone. It’s not something she could have avoided.”