DUSK SWEEPS OVER THE WINDING STREETS of the University Quarter, as the high-rises bend in the light and cast great shadows on the ground. With the changing of the sky, there is an increased sense of awareness, as the men and women in the line know that they have become even more vulnerable and dependent on each other. The line is a confusion of heavy winter coats, mink fur hats, and raffia shopping bags, all wrapped around the building of the grocery store, and simmering with the imminent conflict of togetherness. With a quiver, each body turns into breath, which turns into vapor, and rises to join a collective cloud. The cloud vibrates soundlessly. It is made of the exhale of living beings, the spores of the mulberry trees, dry dust, and the rancid stench of the river.
At the entrance to the grocery store, bolted with a rusted chain and padlock, a faded advertisement looms over the frozen crowd: ‘No meal should be served without a nutritious plate of fish.’ The black and white photograph below the slogan displays a dull mackerel fish spread over a mess of vegetables, its lifeless mouth wide open. Adding insult to injury. As I assume the last spot in the line, I wonder whether it is worth risking hypothermia. Besides, if I were to feel sick, it is uncertain whether anyone would muster enough good will to take me to the hospital and leave their place in the line. Everything has become doubtful these days – the consistency of heating and electricity, the presence of fresh bread at the bakery, the kindness of strangers.
The man in front of me is sinking into his oversized sheepskin coat, with his face partially exposed to the cold, and only the top of his head visible. A bald patch as smooth as an ice rink. And his long, hooked nose, now a deep shade of purple, hangs uneasily over his brown cotton scarf. He strikes an awkward pose and I am overcome by a feeling of tenderness. I move tentatively towards him, touch his shoulder, and, finding nothing else to say, I ask the ordinary questions – What is handed out? What is awaited? What is being sold? Always in the passive voice, with a certain calculated avoidance of subjects, things, and reasons. The man turns towards me reluctantly and announces that he doesn’t know, but that he saw a line forming and decided to take up his spot just in case. Just in case is a way of being. Yes, he did hear some rumors. No, he doesn’t know when the store will open. A shipment truck passed earlier, others informed him. Besides, it doesn’t matter if it’s a crate of fruit, soda, toilet paper, or soap. He’ll take anything.
I steal a few glances at the new arrivals. A wiry little man gives a slight start when I turn, as if he is surprised by my sudden animation. Another man with silver-gray hair stares absently into the distance, picking his nose. Further ahead in the line, a middle-aged woman holds on to a bored little boy with one hand and to a large knitted bag with the other. The boy is whimpering slightly, pulling on his mother’s jacket. He has more important things to attend to at home, he mewls. This sends peals of laughter through the line. A bespectacled woman with long black braids announces that they must make way for the boy without delay. This is an emergency, she says. People are roaring now, bending over, clutching their bellies.
An older man seizes the opportunity of the commotion to boast about his expert tactics for standing in line in the early morning for milk. His secret used to be that he would leave his bag, bulging with empty milk bottles, in line the night before a shipment. His shopping bag did not budge till the next morning when the store routinely opened at 6am, while he got his well-deserved sleep. ‘But it didn’t take long,’ he says, ‘till others figured out the trick and began to neatly line up their bags behind my own, then ahead of my bag. And so I’m back to where we started.’ Some smile at the thought of the unaccompanied bags invested with sentience and willpower, but a well-built woman with crushed curls shakes her head in disapproval. This whole ritual of standing in line has become another job, she complains. And this comes on top of her two other jobs, housework in the morning and preparing meals for a household teeming with people, followed by her day job at the post office where she wears gloves behind her desk because of the cold.
I feel the sense of cumbersome collectivity weighing on my shoulders. I am drawn to these minor dramas, and record them like a dutiful journalist or, better, an anthropologist. But there is something terrifying too about this forced intimacy. The line is an organism in its own right, a fantastical creature, with its own fears, and superhuman capacities, and mood swings. The line enters your body and takes control of your mind. And you begin to think line thoughts and develop line habits – distrust directed towards your neighbors and an obstinate pursuit of your own interest.
The small window of the grocery store, fortified by iron bars, is now propped open by an invisible hand and a gasp of anticipation swells from the midst of the crowd. A cardboard sign emerges on which an unsteady hand has scribbled the word ORANGES. A few quick screeches of joy puncture the general tumult building up in waves. And the line tightens and spills over with a newfound sense of a mission. A disembodied voice makes a verbal announcement, this time from inside the grocery store: ‘Calm down. I repeat, calm down and take your place back in the line or we won’t serve you.’ Now there is apprehension in the faces of the men and women in the line. ‘We received five crates of oranges. We are selling only three oranges per individual. I repeat, three oranges per person. If you have a child with you, we’ll give you five.’ Mothers, fathers and grandparents squeeze their children’s hands and fold them back into their coats. The fragile sense of order is reestablished.
The last time I tasted an orange, it had been slightly sour and unripe, but the tangy flavor flooded my mouth and startled me. I remember an old colorful poster I saw in a magazine once. It claimed that oranges are packed with vitamins and that they keep you healthy throughout the winter season. My mind travels to more practical and selfish concerns. I could save the oranges for myself and have one slice every day. Ten slices times three. That is thirty days of oranges. I will make it through December. I anticipate the pleasure of the bittersweet fruit on the tip of my tongue.
The line is now moving with the energy of a well-rested animal just woken from its sleep. They push me forward, so I bump into the man in the sheepskin coat. All eyes are fastened to the barred window. I can now discern the ghostly presence inside the grocery store. A woman with stray blonde hair selects the prized oranges and finalizes the transaction by taking down the details of the payment after each purchase and marking the customers’ cards. The space inside the store is bathed in a warm light and the semblance of plenty. The woman emanates disinterested benevolence. She moves languidly like an empress presiding over her crates of oranges. Her features are smooth, her hair impeccably dressed, and her shoulders unhindered by the weight of the day. She must be keenly aware of her important role and this fills her with the smugness of the powerful.
It is my turn at the counter. Three large Jaffa oranges tumble into my hands. I grab them and bury my nose in their frosty rind. The fragrance is reassuring and, for a moment, the surroundings melt around me like the wax of a burning candle and I forget about the cold and the noise of the day. I’ve been craving oranges.
‘That’s 9 lei, young lady. First you pay and then you can smell them and do whatever you want with them,’ the orange empress observes. I scrape together all the change I carry in my pockets which amounts to exactly 5 lei and 20 bani. I count the coins again. Panic begins to grow inside me as I rummage through my bag for more cash. I can hear a man behind me grumbling with displeasure. The weight of the line presses against me in mounting outrage. ‘What is that girl doing?’ someone asks. ‘Come on. Hurry up, lady. We all have families to get back to,’ someone else prods. ‘The cold has crawled into our souls. Let the girl be, don’t you see she is trying to find enough money?’ a more sympathetic voice answers.
I want all the three oranges. One would not do. I am surprised by my own rapacity, sprouting out of nowhere. I stall as I go over my options. Perhaps I could leave my place in line and go upstairs and borrow some money. But I would run the risk of finding an empty store in ten minutes. Instead, I plead with the woman behind the counter to save me the oranges for later. I tell her I will bring the money as soon as I can. I make my voice small, deferential. But the orange empress refuses to make eye contact as she articulates with equal amounts of irritation and satisfaction: ‘No money, no oranges. Move on.’
I hold on to the counter as I feel another bout of nausea rising once again from deep within my entrails. The third time today. In the midst of the billowing sickness, a timid hand on my shoulder brings me back and anchors me once again in the world. I turn to find myself looking at the heavy-lidded eyes of an elderly woman, her eyelashes as delicate as tiny snowflakes. Perhaps in order to appease the crowd or maybe out of pity, the woman hands me 5 lei. I had been on the verge of tears. And now, as I take the money, I grasp the woman’s wrinkled hands and kiss them. They are small like a little girl’s, cold and fragile, with protruding bones.
The man in front of me is sinking into his oversized sheepskin coat, with his face partially exposed to the cold, and only the top of his head visible. A bald patch as smooth as an ice rink. And his long, hooked nose, now a deep shade of purple, hangs uneasily over his brown cotton scarf. He strikes an awkward pose and I am overcome by a feeling of tenderness. I move tentatively towards him, touch his shoulder, and, finding nothing else to say, I ask the ordinary questions – What is handed out? What is awaited? What is being sold? Always in the passive voice, with a certain calculated avoidance of subjects, things, and reasons. The man turns towards me reluctantly and announces that he doesn’t know, but that he saw a line forming and decided to take up his spot just in case. Just in case is a way of being. Yes, he did hear some rumors. No, he doesn’t know when the store will open. A shipment truck passed earlier, others informed him. Besides, it doesn’t matter if it’s a crate of fruit, soda, toilet paper, or soap. He’ll take anything.
I steal a few glances at the new arrivals. A wiry little man gives a slight start when I turn, as if he is surprised by my sudden animation. Another man with silver-gray hair stares absently into the distance, picking his nose. Further ahead in the line, a middle-aged woman holds on to a bored little boy with one hand and to a large knitted bag with the other. The boy is whimpering slightly, pulling on his mother’s jacket. He has more important things to attend to at home, he mewls. This sends peals of laughter through the line. A bespectacled woman with long black braids announces that they must make way for the boy without delay. This is an emergency, she says. People are roaring now, bending over, clutching their bellies.
An older man seizes the opportunity of the commotion to boast about his expert tactics for standing in line in the early morning for milk. His secret used to be that he would leave his bag, bulging with empty milk bottles, in line the night before a shipment. His shopping bag did not budge till the next morning when the store routinely opened at 6am, while he got his well-deserved sleep. ‘But it didn’t take long,’ he says, ‘till others figured out the trick and began to neatly line up their bags behind my own, then ahead of my bag. And so I’m back to where we started.’ Some smile at the thought of the unaccompanied bags invested with sentience and willpower, but a well-built woman with crushed curls shakes her head in disapproval. This whole ritual of standing in line has become another job, she complains. And this comes on top of her two other jobs, housework in the morning and preparing meals for a household teeming with people, followed by her day job at the post office where she wears gloves behind her desk because of the cold.
I feel the sense of cumbersome collectivity weighing on my shoulders. I am drawn to these minor dramas, and record them like a dutiful journalist or, better, an anthropologist. But there is something terrifying too about this forced intimacy. The line is an organism in its own right, a fantastical creature, with its own fears, and superhuman capacities, and mood swings. The line enters your body and takes control of your mind. And you begin to think line thoughts and develop line habits – distrust directed towards your neighbors and an obstinate pursuit of your own interest.
The small window of the grocery store, fortified by iron bars, is now propped open by an invisible hand and a gasp of anticipation swells from the midst of the crowd. A cardboard sign emerges on which an unsteady hand has scribbled the word ORANGES. A few quick screeches of joy puncture the general tumult building up in waves. And the line tightens and spills over with a newfound sense of a mission. A disembodied voice makes a verbal announcement, this time from inside the grocery store: ‘Calm down. I repeat, calm down and take your place back in the line or we won’t serve you.’ Now there is apprehension in the faces of the men and women in the line. ‘We received five crates of oranges. We are selling only three oranges per individual. I repeat, three oranges per person. If you have a child with you, we’ll give you five.’ Mothers, fathers and grandparents squeeze their children’s hands and fold them back into their coats. The fragile sense of order is reestablished.
The last time I tasted an orange, it had been slightly sour and unripe, but the tangy flavor flooded my mouth and startled me. I remember an old colorful poster I saw in a magazine once. It claimed that oranges are packed with vitamins and that they keep you healthy throughout the winter season. My mind travels to more practical and selfish concerns. I could save the oranges for myself and have one slice every day. Ten slices times three. That is thirty days of oranges. I will make it through December. I anticipate the pleasure of the bittersweet fruit on the tip of my tongue.
The line is now moving with the energy of a well-rested animal just woken from its sleep. They push me forward, so I bump into the man in the sheepskin coat. All eyes are fastened to the barred window. I can now discern the ghostly presence inside the grocery store. A woman with stray blonde hair selects the prized oranges and finalizes the transaction by taking down the details of the payment after each purchase and marking the customers’ cards. The space inside the store is bathed in a warm light and the semblance of plenty. The woman emanates disinterested benevolence. She moves languidly like an empress presiding over her crates of oranges. Her features are smooth, her hair impeccably dressed, and her shoulders unhindered by the weight of the day. She must be keenly aware of her important role and this fills her with the smugness of the powerful.
It is my turn at the counter. Three large Jaffa oranges tumble into my hands. I grab them and bury my nose in their frosty rind. The fragrance is reassuring and, for a moment, the surroundings melt around me like the wax of a burning candle and I forget about the cold and the noise of the day. I’ve been craving oranges.
‘That’s 9 lei, young lady. First you pay and then you can smell them and do whatever you want with them,’ the orange empress observes. I scrape together all the change I carry in my pockets which amounts to exactly 5 lei and 20 bani. I count the coins again. Panic begins to grow inside me as I rummage through my bag for more cash. I can hear a man behind me grumbling with displeasure. The weight of the line presses against me in mounting outrage. ‘What is that girl doing?’ someone asks. ‘Come on. Hurry up, lady. We all have families to get back to,’ someone else prods. ‘The cold has crawled into our souls. Let the girl be, don’t you see she is trying to find enough money?’ a more sympathetic voice answers.
I want all the three oranges. One would not do. I am surprised by my own rapacity, sprouting out of nowhere. I stall as I go over my options. Perhaps I could leave my place in line and go upstairs and borrow some money. But I would run the risk of finding an empty store in ten minutes. Instead, I plead with the woman behind the counter to save me the oranges for later. I tell her I will bring the money as soon as I can. I make my voice small, deferential. But the orange empress refuses to make eye contact as she articulates with equal amounts of irritation and satisfaction: ‘No money, no oranges. Move on.’
I hold on to the counter as I feel another bout of nausea rising once again from deep within my entrails. The third time today. In the midst of the billowing sickness, a timid hand on my shoulder brings me back and anchors me once again in the world. I turn to find myself looking at the heavy-lidded eyes of an elderly woman, her eyelashes as delicate as tiny snowflakes. Perhaps in order to appease the crowd or maybe out of pity, the woman hands me 5 lei. I had been on the verge of tears. And now, as I take the money, I grasp the woman’s wrinkled hands and kiss them. They are small like a little girl’s, cold and fragile, with protruding bones.
*
THE POWER HAS BEEN DOWN all afternoon. On the pitch-black hallway to the dorm, I fumble for the candle and the matches in the inside pocket of my coat. The pale light of the candle is like an unfinished thought. I am taken over again by the feeling that I am cutting through an unfamiliar haze. It is almost as if I am watching myself from outside my body and I do not recognize my own face. In the morning, the mirror returned a ghostly shape, with dark circles around the eyes and angular cheekbones. The woman’s dark hair was streaming onto her shoulders in wispy, tousled bunches, too heavy and tangled to carry around.
The light comes back on just as I walk through the door. The room is in an advanced state of disarray as if it had been startled awake by the restoration of electricity. There are stockings flung everywhere, a mound of dirty clothes in the corner interspersed with papers, used plates and cups on the floor, textbooks scattered everywhere, and the remains of an old make-up powder now sinking into the stained carpet. Liliana is curled up on top of the second bunk bed, looking shipwrecked. She is buried in two heavy blankets, wearing gloves and a wooly coat over her green tracksuit, and balancing a voluminous biology book on her knees under the blue light of her flashlight. Her fuzzy earflap hat contrasts absurdly with the rest of her appearance.
We stare at each other in confusion. The boxy universe of the dorm with its four single beds, scattered belongings and remnants of life seems to be spinning at a different rhythm than our motionless bodies. Then, as if having come up with the same plan, we dart towards the table without a word. I pull out an improvised hot plate from the drawer and plug it in. We wait for it to warm up, waving our fingers above it and touching ever so slightly. The heating source is made of a large white construction brick, carved with a screwdriver, in which a rudimentary electric system is coiled up like a snail. It is a wonder it warms up at all. Once blood starts flowing through our fingers again, our expressions soften, our shoulders loosen, our eyes make contact.
‘You won’t believe this! They brought oranges today. Let me show you.’ I open my bag and take the precious possessions out. I display them with the satisfaction of an artisan exhibiting her finest oeuvre, then shrink back as a feeling of shame mixed with guilt takes over my body. Liliana registers my discomfort and tries to ease the tension with a smile. ‘You’re saving them for Christmas aren’t you? That’s okay, you should. Besides, they’re probably not ripe yet anyway.’ I let out a sigh of relief. Liliana says she heard someone talk about the best way to ripen oranges: you wrap them in newspaper and place them next to the radiator for a few days. But these days, since the radiator is colder than ice, ripening oranges is a lost battle. ‘Don’t leave them out,’ Liliana adds, ‘ or they’ll disappear the minute you turn around. You can’t trust anyone here. All of them are a bunch of snitches and orange thieves.’ She takes off her comical earflap hat and places it on my head like an offering, watching with delight as my hair unravels under the pressure and spreads onto my shoulders.
And then, as if seized by some kind of demon, Liliana flings herself on the table, grabs the tablecloth, drapes herself in it, and balances her biology book on her head, as she begins to recite in a solemn voice: ‘You eat too much and you are getting fat. The health of our nation is of utmost importance and we need to implement a program of scientific alimentation. This will satisfy the consumption needs of the population and introduce a balanced diet in every household. Instead of coffee, you shall drink nechezol! Cut back on your intake of meat, by reducing it drastically to one meal of chicken legs every month! You can have plenty of fish, though, canned, frozen, dead, or alive! We’ll give you oranges once a year if you’re a well-behaved little girl, if you don’t complain about the cold, and if you follow the party line.’
‘Shut up, Liliana, someone will hear us,’ I chuckle. I stretch my hand and support her as she steps down from the table. Liliana is thoroughly pleased by her own performance. Her sparkling humor, her lack of decorum, and her tendency to flirt with danger have a paradoxically soothing effect. She is always the one who manages to get hold of yet another improvised hot plate when the informers on the landing confiscate the one we secretly share in our dorm. We’re on hot plate number seven. Liliana also produces out of thin air blue jeans, Western rock records, fashion magazines, coffee, and lipstick for special occasions. She stands in line without complaining, silences patronizing professors with a glance, runs a small black market network from under her bed, and bears the reputation of a fighter. When you are with her, you feel safe.
‘Listen, will you help me pass this exam? I haven’t been able to focus lately and I’m running on very little sleep,’ I say. ‘Of course, my dear. Would you like to accompany me to my fortified blanket igloo?’ Liliana replies. I place the three oranges on the windowsill and remove my winter coat, then two sets of sweaters, a shirt, a pair of brown corduroy pants, a slip and my cotton stockings. Then, before turning into an icicle, I quickly reverse the process by adding another shirt, a pair of animal-patterned pajamas, a washed-out tracksuit, two pairs of socks and my winter coat. Somehow, I am still wearing Liliana’s earflap hat, which is itching slightly. ‘What happened with Ana and Laura? Did they already leave?’ Liliana tells me they packed their suitcases, bought a one-way ticket, and fled the cold, and they refuse to come back unless the weather changes. I burst out laughing. ‘There is no place to hide from the cold,’ I say.
The light comes back on just as I walk through the door. The room is in an advanced state of disarray as if it had been startled awake by the restoration of electricity. There are stockings flung everywhere, a mound of dirty clothes in the corner interspersed with papers, used plates and cups on the floor, textbooks scattered everywhere, and the remains of an old make-up powder now sinking into the stained carpet. Liliana is curled up on top of the second bunk bed, looking shipwrecked. She is buried in two heavy blankets, wearing gloves and a wooly coat over her green tracksuit, and balancing a voluminous biology book on her knees under the blue light of her flashlight. Her fuzzy earflap hat contrasts absurdly with the rest of her appearance.
We stare at each other in confusion. The boxy universe of the dorm with its four single beds, scattered belongings and remnants of life seems to be spinning at a different rhythm than our motionless bodies. Then, as if having come up with the same plan, we dart towards the table without a word. I pull out an improvised hot plate from the drawer and plug it in. We wait for it to warm up, waving our fingers above it and touching ever so slightly. The heating source is made of a large white construction brick, carved with a screwdriver, in which a rudimentary electric system is coiled up like a snail. It is a wonder it warms up at all. Once blood starts flowing through our fingers again, our expressions soften, our shoulders loosen, our eyes make contact.
‘You won’t believe this! They brought oranges today. Let me show you.’ I open my bag and take the precious possessions out. I display them with the satisfaction of an artisan exhibiting her finest oeuvre, then shrink back as a feeling of shame mixed with guilt takes over my body. Liliana registers my discomfort and tries to ease the tension with a smile. ‘You’re saving them for Christmas aren’t you? That’s okay, you should. Besides, they’re probably not ripe yet anyway.’ I let out a sigh of relief. Liliana says she heard someone talk about the best way to ripen oranges: you wrap them in newspaper and place them next to the radiator for a few days. But these days, since the radiator is colder than ice, ripening oranges is a lost battle. ‘Don’t leave them out,’ Liliana adds, ‘ or they’ll disappear the minute you turn around. You can’t trust anyone here. All of them are a bunch of snitches and orange thieves.’ She takes off her comical earflap hat and places it on my head like an offering, watching with delight as my hair unravels under the pressure and spreads onto my shoulders.
And then, as if seized by some kind of demon, Liliana flings herself on the table, grabs the tablecloth, drapes herself in it, and balances her biology book on her head, as she begins to recite in a solemn voice: ‘You eat too much and you are getting fat. The health of our nation is of utmost importance and we need to implement a program of scientific alimentation. This will satisfy the consumption needs of the population and introduce a balanced diet in every household. Instead of coffee, you shall drink nechezol! Cut back on your intake of meat, by reducing it drastically to one meal of chicken legs every month! You can have plenty of fish, though, canned, frozen, dead, or alive! We’ll give you oranges once a year if you’re a well-behaved little girl, if you don’t complain about the cold, and if you follow the party line.’
‘Shut up, Liliana, someone will hear us,’ I chuckle. I stretch my hand and support her as she steps down from the table. Liliana is thoroughly pleased by her own performance. Her sparkling humor, her lack of decorum, and her tendency to flirt with danger have a paradoxically soothing effect. She is always the one who manages to get hold of yet another improvised hot plate when the informers on the landing confiscate the one we secretly share in our dorm. We’re on hot plate number seven. Liliana also produces out of thin air blue jeans, Western rock records, fashion magazines, coffee, and lipstick for special occasions. She stands in line without complaining, silences patronizing professors with a glance, runs a small black market network from under her bed, and bears the reputation of a fighter. When you are with her, you feel safe.
‘Listen, will you help me pass this exam? I haven’t been able to focus lately and I’m running on very little sleep,’ I say. ‘Of course, my dear. Would you like to accompany me to my fortified blanket igloo?’ Liliana replies. I place the three oranges on the windowsill and remove my winter coat, then two sets of sweaters, a shirt, a pair of brown corduroy pants, a slip and my cotton stockings. Then, before turning into an icicle, I quickly reverse the process by adding another shirt, a pair of animal-patterned pajamas, a washed-out tracksuit, two pairs of socks and my winter coat. Somehow, I am still wearing Liliana’s earflap hat, which is itching slightly. ‘What happened with Ana and Laura? Did they already leave?’ Liliana tells me they packed their suitcases, bought a one-way ticket, and fled the cold, and they refuse to come back unless the weather changes. I burst out laughing. ‘There is no place to hide from the cold,’ I say.
*
WHEN THE KNOCK ON THE DOOR comes, we are almost dozing away, leaning against each other in search of warmth and comfort. A scrap of paper slides under the door. I rush towards it. Liliana follows sleepily. We are both hunched over now, deciphering the mysterious message. ‘Strada Domnitorilor, nr. 34. Go there tonight. She is waiting for you,’ I read while a shiver passes down my spine. This is it. No turning back. There will be a flash of pain and then nothing. And the small darkness inside me will flow into the darkness of the streets, which will flow, in its turn, into the darkness of the city. And there will be nothing left, except the cold and the three Jaffa oranges on the windowsill.
‘Irina, are you going? Should I come with you?’ Liliana says.
I let my hair fall back, and I fold my arms across my stomach protectively, then unfold them as I catch up with my own fear. ‘No. I am going alone,’ I say. Liliana will not accept it. No. Under no circumstances will she agree to this plan. It is naïve. It is reckless. It is selfish, she says, trying out different words and looking for a change in my countenance. I could fall in the middle of the street. I could bleed to death if no one finds me till the next day. Or more likely freeze to death. Or worse yet, I will be taken to the hospital and then…then they will know. Now Liliana is almost shouting, begging me to take Andrei too. He is just as responsible. And after a while, ‘I don’t understand how you work, Irina. Why are you refusing to ask for help?’ I remain quiet, my eyes fastened on an invisible mark on the carpet. I cannot ask for help. I will not compromise anyone’s future. The unrelenting voice in the back of my head reminds me that I brought this upon myself. And I will be the one who will undo it. I return Liliana’s inquisitive glances with a different sense of determination tinged with something morbid. She releases a sigh, stifles her distress, and concedes that it is time to let go.
‘What are we going to do with it when you come back?’ Liliana now asks with contrived indifference.
‘I think I’ll bury it in the park,’ I answer after a long pause. ‘If everything goes well…’
‘It will be okay. Listen. We should bury it under an electricity pole. They won’t look there,’ Liliana adds in a whisper, her agitation bouncing back and forth behind the glaze in her eyes. She kneels and looks for something under the bed. ‘And please take this with you. Just in case.’
I hesitate, but eventually accept the gift: a carton of Kent cigarettes and a bag of German coffee. I pack them in my purse, then wrap a thick scarf around my head, fold it twice, and I plant a kiss on Liliana’s forehead.
‘Irina, are you going? Should I come with you?’ Liliana says.
I let my hair fall back, and I fold my arms across my stomach protectively, then unfold them as I catch up with my own fear. ‘No. I am going alone,’ I say. Liliana will not accept it. No. Under no circumstances will she agree to this plan. It is naïve. It is reckless. It is selfish, she says, trying out different words and looking for a change in my countenance. I could fall in the middle of the street. I could bleed to death if no one finds me till the next day. Or more likely freeze to death. Or worse yet, I will be taken to the hospital and then…then they will know. Now Liliana is almost shouting, begging me to take Andrei too. He is just as responsible. And after a while, ‘I don’t understand how you work, Irina. Why are you refusing to ask for help?’ I remain quiet, my eyes fastened on an invisible mark on the carpet. I cannot ask for help. I will not compromise anyone’s future. The unrelenting voice in the back of my head reminds me that I brought this upon myself. And I will be the one who will undo it. I return Liliana’s inquisitive glances with a different sense of determination tinged with something morbid. She releases a sigh, stifles her distress, and concedes that it is time to let go.
‘What are we going to do with it when you come back?’ Liliana now asks with contrived indifference.
‘I think I’ll bury it in the park,’ I answer after a long pause. ‘If everything goes well…’
‘It will be okay. Listen. We should bury it under an electricity pole. They won’t look there,’ Liliana adds in a whisper, her agitation bouncing back and forth behind the glaze in her eyes. She kneels and looks for something under the bed. ‘And please take this with you. Just in case.’
I hesitate, but eventually accept the gift: a carton of Kent cigarettes and a bag of German coffee. I pack them in my purse, then wrap a thick scarf around my head, fold it twice, and I plant a kiss on Liliana’s forehead.
*
STREETLIGHTS SHOUT OUT from the heavy dormant streets and flash by with the incandescent pulse of stars on the broad glacial windows of the speeding bus. I am a detached spectator in a movie theater, considering the difference between darkness and light, space and the absence of space, silence and noise, so as to make sense of the picture as a whole and put it together as one might assemble a puzzle. The lights are dispersed here and there, leaving unlit whole patches of pavement, rugged fences, linden trees, and crumbling brick houses, and enveloping other, more stately buildings, in a diffuse yellow light. Here, in the old side of town, resonant with thousands of suppressed personal histories, there are invisible hierarchies drawn in the ground through the effortless use of electric light. And a will from above illuminates the carefully selected; a hard-earned prize bestowed upon the meek and the cunning. I wonder what takes place in those other homes, deprived as they are of the necessities of life, with their minor struggles with anonymity and their unwritten stories of loss.
I pull my scarf over my face, seeking some sort of separation from the air inside the bus, pungent with gasoline and urine. I have made my body very small, compressing my restlessness in a corner, taking up as little space as possible on the seat, fashioned from some unseemly polyester fabric with darker purple stains. My knees, raised on the back of the seat in front of me, almost touch my chin. I have withdrawn into a temporary shell, but my exterior layers are as thin as gossamer and exposed to the elements. The possibility that the procedure will be lethal gnaws at me. My pulse rises with the intensity of an approaching storm, the low-frequency hum inside my chest unraveling in concentric circles until I grab onto the edge of the seat to still myself.
An image of Andrei lying on top of me, breathing heavily, occupies my mind with unwelcome momentum. I feel his curly hair spilling over my face, until I lose my sight and let go of my senses. His obliviousness. His habit of lecturing me on everyday matters. His aloofness. It’s been one month and ten days exactly since I informed him that I had skipped my period. And one month and nine days since he last spoke to me. Since we really talked. Since he looked at me whole-heartedly. Andrei has perfected the art of keeping me at a distance, giving me a little bit of attention every now and then, but no sustained space in his life. He is completely engrossed in his studies, he says. His father will be disappointed if he does not graduate with a summa cum laude. His place at the palace of justice is already secured. All he has to do is to continue to be the exemplary young man he’s always been, cautious and calculated, ready to please, and well versed in the social codes and unwritten rules of our small claustrophobic world. So he can have his perfect little house by the linden trees, covered in thick layers of ivy by day, nicely lit and gleaming in the night.
The bus looks abandoned with uncollected bits of variegated paper floating back and forth on the floor at every turn. For the last twenty minutes, I’ve had only one other travelling companion, a young man with thin blonde hair who seems to have fallen asleep in his seat, his body contorted at a bizarre angle, his left cheek sunken and smashed into the window. But on the very last stretch of the journey, a chunky weathered man stumbles in at the stop, clutching everything he can hold on to as the bus, now set in motion, shudders over unpaved hurdles. He avoids the fall by clinging onto a handgrip, his body swinging back and forth like a pendulum.
My stop is coming up next. I rise from my seat cautiously, keeping my stares all bottled up lest they stray towards the man. But the liquor on his breath washes over me and stirs my nausea. He has planted himself firmly in front of the folding doors, arching his back as he looks for my eyes, concealed by two uneven locks of hair falling across my face. I push forward, my legs almost giving way under my weight, my arms wrapped around my chest, the edges of my fingers pressing and releasing, pressing and releasing.
‘What’s a pretty girl like you doing here so late at night?’ the man bawls, not entirely attuned to the thud of his own voice. And, after a patch of silence stretching between us like a wasteland, ‘Hey babe, d’you hear? Why so down in the dumps?’ I stare at his navy blue overalls covered in oil stains and signs of soot, my shoulders shaking with a mixture of irritation and apprehension. I consider the gap between his outstretched legs and picture myself darting through it at the next stop. I cannot miss it. Not now. ‘I’ll show you a good time. Just come home with me, baby. I’ll put a smile on that pouting face of yours.’ Only a few more moments. I catch the bus driver’s brief glance in the rear view mirror, but he does not stir, his hands firmly clenched on the wheel. There is nothing to see here, he must be thinking. Just some casual fun. And besides, what is a young girl like me doing alone at night on an empty bus. I am probably looking for company.
I am out of breath as I step back and move to the side, disoriented. The man in the blue overalls is now trying to claw at me, delighted by the cat and mouse game he has created and for which only he knows the rules. It all happens in a heartbeat. The brakes are engaged abruptly and the folding doors open with a muted mechanical screech. The man, content enough to have let go of the handgrip, now goes thump and there he lies, splattered on the floor, his arms waving frantically, grasping for his fleeting prey. I have already skipped over his legs and find myself in the street, under the sticky flare of a solitary streetlight.
When I reach the house, it seems to be tilting over in the shadows, faded and ancient, its three stories unevenly floating on top of each other, the scorched paint peeling off in large chunks. On the corner of the building, a stray dog, all fur and scars, is chasing its own tail. As I approach, the dog is startled, its beaming eyes fixing me with wild intensity, its ears, now perked up, scanning for familiar sounds, its small button nose scrunching in the wind. Then the tail comes down, the ears droop, I reach for the crest of the warm animal head, and there is comfort to the touch and a murmur of delight.
I pull my scarf over my face, seeking some sort of separation from the air inside the bus, pungent with gasoline and urine. I have made my body very small, compressing my restlessness in a corner, taking up as little space as possible on the seat, fashioned from some unseemly polyester fabric with darker purple stains. My knees, raised on the back of the seat in front of me, almost touch my chin. I have withdrawn into a temporary shell, but my exterior layers are as thin as gossamer and exposed to the elements. The possibility that the procedure will be lethal gnaws at me. My pulse rises with the intensity of an approaching storm, the low-frequency hum inside my chest unraveling in concentric circles until I grab onto the edge of the seat to still myself.
An image of Andrei lying on top of me, breathing heavily, occupies my mind with unwelcome momentum. I feel his curly hair spilling over my face, until I lose my sight and let go of my senses. His obliviousness. His habit of lecturing me on everyday matters. His aloofness. It’s been one month and ten days exactly since I informed him that I had skipped my period. And one month and nine days since he last spoke to me. Since we really talked. Since he looked at me whole-heartedly. Andrei has perfected the art of keeping me at a distance, giving me a little bit of attention every now and then, but no sustained space in his life. He is completely engrossed in his studies, he says. His father will be disappointed if he does not graduate with a summa cum laude. His place at the palace of justice is already secured. All he has to do is to continue to be the exemplary young man he’s always been, cautious and calculated, ready to please, and well versed in the social codes and unwritten rules of our small claustrophobic world. So he can have his perfect little house by the linden trees, covered in thick layers of ivy by day, nicely lit and gleaming in the night.
The bus looks abandoned with uncollected bits of variegated paper floating back and forth on the floor at every turn. For the last twenty minutes, I’ve had only one other travelling companion, a young man with thin blonde hair who seems to have fallen asleep in his seat, his body contorted at a bizarre angle, his left cheek sunken and smashed into the window. But on the very last stretch of the journey, a chunky weathered man stumbles in at the stop, clutching everything he can hold on to as the bus, now set in motion, shudders over unpaved hurdles. He avoids the fall by clinging onto a handgrip, his body swinging back and forth like a pendulum.
My stop is coming up next. I rise from my seat cautiously, keeping my stares all bottled up lest they stray towards the man. But the liquor on his breath washes over me and stirs my nausea. He has planted himself firmly in front of the folding doors, arching his back as he looks for my eyes, concealed by two uneven locks of hair falling across my face. I push forward, my legs almost giving way under my weight, my arms wrapped around my chest, the edges of my fingers pressing and releasing, pressing and releasing.
‘What’s a pretty girl like you doing here so late at night?’ the man bawls, not entirely attuned to the thud of his own voice. And, after a patch of silence stretching between us like a wasteland, ‘Hey babe, d’you hear? Why so down in the dumps?’ I stare at his navy blue overalls covered in oil stains and signs of soot, my shoulders shaking with a mixture of irritation and apprehension. I consider the gap between his outstretched legs and picture myself darting through it at the next stop. I cannot miss it. Not now. ‘I’ll show you a good time. Just come home with me, baby. I’ll put a smile on that pouting face of yours.’ Only a few more moments. I catch the bus driver’s brief glance in the rear view mirror, but he does not stir, his hands firmly clenched on the wheel. There is nothing to see here, he must be thinking. Just some casual fun. And besides, what is a young girl like me doing alone at night on an empty bus. I am probably looking for company.
I am out of breath as I step back and move to the side, disoriented. The man in the blue overalls is now trying to claw at me, delighted by the cat and mouse game he has created and for which only he knows the rules. It all happens in a heartbeat. The brakes are engaged abruptly and the folding doors open with a muted mechanical screech. The man, content enough to have let go of the handgrip, now goes thump and there he lies, splattered on the floor, his arms waving frantically, grasping for his fleeting prey. I have already skipped over his legs and find myself in the street, under the sticky flare of a solitary streetlight.
When I reach the house, it seems to be tilting over in the shadows, faded and ancient, its three stories unevenly floating on top of each other, the scorched paint peeling off in large chunks. On the corner of the building, a stray dog, all fur and scars, is chasing its own tail. As I approach, the dog is startled, its beaming eyes fixing me with wild intensity, its ears, now perked up, scanning for familiar sounds, its small button nose scrunching in the wind. Then the tail comes down, the ears droop, I reach for the crest of the warm animal head, and there is comfort to the touch and a murmur of delight.
*
THE CEILING IS PRESSING lower and lower, crushing me under an expanse of white and pulling me in. I make a weak motion as if to lift myself back to the surface and the ceiling retreats, leaving room for breath, and remains suspended, floating unsteadily above my head. So I take a deep breath, close my eyes, open them again, looking for stability. Shapes begin to emerge from the indistinct milky white. Squashed bugs fill the cracks and the holes in the paint, creating elaborate patterns. They look like crooked letters fallen out of a dusty dictionary. Perhaps they are trying to communicate with me from another world.
The crushing pain moves to my head, then slides down to my chest, and finally settles in my abdomen. I take an inventory of my limbs. I can muster a vague sensation of wholeness, in spite of the overwhelming impression that I have been broken down into small pieces and put back together with glue. I remember my mother’s porcelain ballet dancer, dropped in a moment of distraction, her elegant body turned into shards spread out on the floor of the living room.
‘The patient is awake,’ a shrill voice announces with urgency. I can feel the weight of several bodies approaching the bed, shifting the air in the room, their heat emanating suspicion. I keep my eyes closed, limiting myself to sensing with the surface of my skin. And then a cold hand grabs my arm violently. I open my eyes and look at the nurse in disbelief. She is the reflection of sterile perfection, her impeccably white uniform, starched, and glowing in the night. I realize I am surrounded by strangers. Next to the glacial unnerving nurses, heavy-set, hairy men with eyes ablaze close upon me. They are bending over my bed, their faces distorted by disgust. Their pupils are dilated, their mouths open and panting, their chins covered with moles and razor scars. I can see up their noses, the stubble long like a forest, and the dried mucus clinging onto it. ‘Who did this to you, bitch?’ the man with bushy eyebrows barks at me. His eye sockets are sunken deep and hollow. He is looming uncomfortably close to my face and I can feel the stench of second-rate cigarettes discharging from his throat. I have long lost my voice and I do not even try to speak. A second nurse, the spitting image of the first, joins in the shouting, ‘Stupid city girls. Nothing but old rags. You can wipe the floor with them.’ And then the slap comes, hard and heavy, as if the man who is in charge of it, compressed his entire bodily weight into this one swift motion. It sinks into my face and I have the unsettling feeling that it has left a cavity where my right cheek used to be. He grunts, ‘This is nothing. You’ll see what you’ll get for this. You’ll rot in jail.’ My head is spinning with the blow. ‘We won’t treat you unless you confess,’ the second nurse echoes the man. There is a flash of color, then the noise goes off, and a blinding throb takes over, as I drift out of consciousness.
When I awake again, Andrei is seated by my bedside, handling my hand as if it were a foreign object. He looks slightly startled, draws closer, and leaves an uneasy kiss on my cheek like an anonymous gift on a random doorstep. The oddness of the gesture gives me enough energy to lift my head from the pillow. I try to stand up, but fall back on the bed, surprised at how little strength I have left in my veins. Andrei rushes to rearrange the pillow under my head, then makes a gesture as if to say that I should remain motionless. ‘Irina, I was terrified when I saw you in this state,’ he says, carefully selecting his phrases. ‘Irina, did you have an abortion?’ He waits, examining my expression. Silence. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I would have taken you there. Where did you go?’ My lips part, as if preparing for a confession, but nothing comes out. I inhale and try again. I whisper his name, then stop midsentence, and fall back upon my guarded silence.
The night before comes back to me in flashes. The frozen humidity of the basement. My teeth chattering. The cold bleeding into my fear until the two become indistinguishable. Stretched on a shabby couch, still half dressed in the pathetic animal-patterned pajama blouse, my legs spread wide open, feet tucked in woolen socks, nails buried inside the skin of my palms. The midwife is heating up the catheter in a boiling pan. Her warped old woman body, bent over the makeshift stove, is swimming in clouds and clouds of vapor. She looks like a creature descended from the pages of a fairy tale. She might turn around and cook me instead. Rich spider webs cover the bedraggled furniture, heavy pine bookshelves crowded against one another as if they are reverting to their place in the forest; in a corner, iron hospital bed frames, and old upholstered chairs piled all the way to the ceiling. A broken hobbyhorse, with red and black marks painted by an amateur hand, has long stopped rocking under the weight of children. There are crates of books everywhere, bent by the dampness, their pages twisted into a sickly yellow shade. I am a discarded wooden doll, blending into the background. My joints swarming with woodworms. The crawling sensation all over my body makes my heart thud inside my chest. I sink into the couch, focusing on the texture of the fabric pressing onto my naked back. When the catheter is inserted inside of me, I feel my body splitting in half as my entrails seem to twitch and shift and quiver under the pressure. I listen to the woman’s instructions, but all I can hear is a distant buzz in my ears.
‘You can tell me, Irina,’ Andrei’s voice echoes from beyond the fog. ‘Where did you go for the abortion?’ he insists.
‘Who are you?’ I ask as I tilt my head back on the pillow in disgust and close my eyes once again. I’d like him to vanish like a shooting star, and then I will take a brush and erase the footsteps he left in my life, sweeping over the good and the bad with the same resolution.
‘What do you mean who am I? Is this a joke?’ I can feel his frustration boiling in between words and I can picture him behind my eyelids, as his cheeks turn crimson, his forehead twists into multiple folds, his mouth splits open and remains hanging in a warped shape. I know the lines of his face by heart, under the tips of my fingers, and on the nerve ends of my tongue. I could draw him with my eyes closed. He breathes heavily when he is upset and I can hear the soles of his shoes tapping the floor restlessly, click clack, click clack. The rapping is rhythmical and gives texture to all the past silences between us, now drained into one big silence the size of a hospital room. ‘Irina, you are being unreasonable. I am here to help you. You have to trust me.’ His voice is faltering now, as if his own words are turned upside down to reveal the rotten layers at the bottom.
‘I think you should go,’ I whisper half-heartedly. I know that I am both drawn to him and repulsed by him at the same time and I don’t trust my own restraint for too long. Alert to the hesitation in my voice, he tries again, now curling over the bed and looking for my lips, but I clasp my hands over my face and lock them in a permanent answer.
Andrei loses his temper once again and pulls back violently. ‘Okay, if this is how you want it. I thought we would make up, but there’s no talking to you.’ He prepares to make his dramatic and definite departure. But then he remembers something and comes back, grabs the bunch of flowers he has left in a precarious balancing position on the nightstand, stuffs them inside his briefcase and takes off. I can’t help but think of the crushed yellow chrysanthemums thrust into his dark leather bag, the light and the air cut off without notice. They must crave the nutrients and the water of the soil and their wide-ranging roots.
The other maternity ward patients steal a few glances at my bed. They reserve a special kind of pity for me. I wonder if I was distributed to this section of the hospital out of some calculated cruelty. Some of the women in the ward receive their newborns every few hours. As they nurse, streams of giggles rise from their beds and get stuck on the ceiling. The cast iron radiators are blasting heat in the room making the general feeling of contentment whole. It must be the happiest place in Bucharest, I tell myself, as I turn my face to the wall.
Later in the afternoon, the doctor comes in for a routine visit. He is middle-aged, with a soft, washed out face. His gestures are almost cushioned as he approaches his patients. He whispers, caresses, puts the women at ease. And all of this, in an impersonal manner that does not compromise his professional mission. He approaches my bed gently, takes my temperature and whispers in my ear: ‘If they come back, don’t tell them anything. They can’t prove it. You’re safe. Just keep what happened to yourself. It says you had a miscarriage in your file.’ He pulls back and joins my gaze in complicity, then he arranges a stranded wisp of hair away from my face, and announces, louder this time: ‘You seem to be doing well. We’ve managed to stop the hemorrhage and you just need a couple of days for the tissue to recover. You’ll be out in no time, sweetheart.’ And he heads for the door quietly.
Liliana walks in behind the doctor, just as he collects his files and prepares to sign off. She stops in the doorway and I gasp at the sight. Her left eye is surrounded by a purple bruise, blooming onto her cheek, her brown hair hangs tenuously in thin oily strips, and her sweater seems to have been torn at the edges. It is as if all vibrancy was drained from her face and she was left somehow gravely altered, unrecognizable. As she approaches the bed, her intense sullen stare frightens me.
‘Irina, did you say anything to Andrei?’ Liliana whispers. ‘Irina, I saw him. They kept me at the police station all night, and I saw him shaking hands with them. Was he already here?’ A wave of bitter realization sweeps over me. So it is true. Finally, I shake my head, ‘I didn’t say anything.’ Liliana releases a sigh and lets her weight fall on the bed and I shift over, making space for her under the covers. If only I could give her more than the warmth of hospital bedspreads. ‘I brought you a few things from home,’ Liliana says as if from afar. She opens her backpack and takes out a nightgown, a toothbrush, a green tube of toothpaste, a bar of soap, a French novel, and the three Jaffa oranges. And Liliana places the objects on the bed, neatly, taking her time, pouring all her remaining affection into these ordinary movements, looking perhaps for a lost sense of permanence.
The crushing pain moves to my head, then slides down to my chest, and finally settles in my abdomen. I take an inventory of my limbs. I can muster a vague sensation of wholeness, in spite of the overwhelming impression that I have been broken down into small pieces and put back together with glue. I remember my mother’s porcelain ballet dancer, dropped in a moment of distraction, her elegant body turned into shards spread out on the floor of the living room.
‘The patient is awake,’ a shrill voice announces with urgency. I can feel the weight of several bodies approaching the bed, shifting the air in the room, their heat emanating suspicion. I keep my eyes closed, limiting myself to sensing with the surface of my skin. And then a cold hand grabs my arm violently. I open my eyes and look at the nurse in disbelief. She is the reflection of sterile perfection, her impeccably white uniform, starched, and glowing in the night. I realize I am surrounded by strangers. Next to the glacial unnerving nurses, heavy-set, hairy men with eyes ablaze close upon me. They are bending over my bed, their faces distorted by disgust. Their pupils are dilated, their mouths open and panting, their chins covered with moles and razor scars. I can see up their noses, the stubble long like a forest, and the dried mucus clinging onto it. ‘Who did this to you, bitch?’ the man with bushy eyebrows barks at me. His eye sockets are sunken deep and hollow. He is looming uncomfortably close to my face and I can feel the stench of second-rate cigarettes discharging from his throat. I have long lost my voice and I do not even try to speak. A second nurse, the spitting image of the first, joins in the shouting, ‘Stupid city girls. Nothing but old rags. You can wipe the floor with them.’ And then the slap comes, hard and heavy, as if the man who is in charge of it, compressed his entire bodily weight into this one swift motion. It sinks into my face and I have the unsettling feeling that it has left a cavity where my right cheek used to be. He grunts, ‘This is nothing. You’ll see what you’ll get for this. You’ll rot in jail.’ My head is spinning with the blow. ‘We won’t treat you unless you confess,’ the second nurse echoes the man. There is a flash of color, then the noise goes off, and a blinding throb takes over, as I drift out of consciousness.
When I awake again, Andrei is seated by my bedside, handling my hand as if it were a foreign object. He looks slightly startled, draws closer, and leaves an uneasy kiss on my cheek like an anonymous gift on a random doorstep. The oddness of the gesture gives me enough energy to lift my head from the pillow. I try to stand up, but fall back on the bed, surprised at how little strength I have left in my veins. Andrei rushes to rearrange the pillow under my head, then makes a gesture as if to say that I should remain motionless. ‘Irina, I was terrified when I saw you in this state,’ he says, carefully selecting his phrases. ‘Irina, did you have an abortion?’ He waits, examining my expression. Silence. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? I would have taken you there. Where did you go?’ My lips part, as if preparing for a confession, but nothing comes out. I inhale and try again. I whisper his name, then stop midsentence, and fall back upon my guarded silence.
The night before comes back to me in flashes. The frozen humidity of the basement. My teeth chattering. The cold bleeding into my fear until the two become indistinguishable. Stretched on a shabby couch, still half dressed in the pathetic animal-patterned pajama blouse, my legs spread wide open, feet tucked in woolen socks, nails buried inside the skin of my palms. The midwife is heating up the catheter in a boiling pan. Her warped old woman body, bent over the makeshift stove, is swimming in clouds and clouds of vapor. She looks like a creature descended from the pages of a fairy tale. She might turn around and cook me instead. Rich spider webs cover the bedraggled furniture, heavy pine bookshelves crowded against one another as if they are reverting to their place in the forest; in a corner, iron hospital bed frames, and old upholstered chairs piled all the way to the ceiling. A broken hobbyhorse, with red and black marks painted by an amateur hand, has long stopped rocking under the weight of children. There are crates of books everywhere, bent by the dampness, their pages twisted into a sickly yellow shade. I am a discarded wooden doll, blending into the background. My joints swarming with woodworms. The crawling sensation all over my body makes my heart thud inside my chest. I sink into the couch, focusing on the texture of the fabric pressing onto my naked back. When the catheter is inserted inside of me, I feel my body splitting in half as my entrails seem to twitch and shift and quiver under the pressure. I listen to the woman’s instructions, but all I can hear is a distant buzz in my ears.
‘You can tell me, Irina,’ Andrei’s voice echoes from beyond the fog. ‘Where did you go for the abortion?’ he insists.
‘Who are you?’ I ask as I tilt my head back on the pillow in disgust and close my eyes once again. I’d like him to vanish like a shooting star, and then I will take a brush and erase the footsteps he left in my life, sweeping over the good and the bad with the same resolution.
‘What do you mean who am I? Is this a joke?’ I can feel his frustration boiling in between words and I can picture him behind my eyelids, as his cheeks turn crimson, his forehead twists into multiple folds, his mouth splits open and remains hanging in a warped shape. I know the lines of his face by heart, under the tips of my fingers, and on the nerve ends of my tongue. I could draw him with my eyes closed. He breathes heavily when he is upset and I can hear the soles of his shoes tapping the floor restlessly, click clack, click clack. The rapping is rhythmical and gives texture to all the past silences between us, now drained into one big silence the size of a hospital room. ‘Irina, you are being unreasonable. I am here to help you. You have to trust me.’ His voice is faltering now, as if his own words are turned upside down to reveal the rotten layers at the bottom.
‘I think you should go,’ I whisper half-heartedly. I know that I am both drawn to him and repulsed by him at the same time and I don’t trust my own restraint for too long. Alert to the hesitation in my voice, he tries again, now curling over the bed and looking for my lips, but I clasp my hands over my face and lock them in a permanent answer.
Andrei loses his temper once again and pulls back violently. ‘Okay, if this is how you want it. I thought we would make up, but there’s no talking to you.’ He prepares to make his dramatic and definite departure. But then he remembers something and comes back, grabs the bunch of flowers he has left in a precarious balancing position on the nightstand, stuffs them inside his briefcase and takes off. I can’t help but think of the crushed yellow chrysanthemums thrust into his dark leather bag, the light and the air cut off without notice. They must crave the nutrients and the water of the soil and their wide-ranging roots.
The other maternity ward patients steal a few glances at my bed. They reserve a special kind of pity for me. I wonder if I was distributed to this section of the hospital out of some calculated cruelty. Some of the women in the ward receive their newborns every few hours. As they nurse, streams of giggles rise from their beds and get stuck on the ceiling. The cast iron radiators are blasting heat in the room making the general feeling of contentment whole. It must be the happiest place in Bucharest, I tell myself, as I turn my face to the wall.
Later in the afternoon, the doctor comes in for a routine visit. He is middle-aged, with a soft, washed out face. His gestures are almost cushioned as he approaches his patients. He whispers, caresses, puts the women at ease. And all of this, in an impersonal manner that does not compromise his professional mission. He approaches my bed gently, takes my temperature and whispers in my ear: ‘If they come back, don’t tell them anything. They can’t prove it. You’re safe. Just keep what happened to yourself. It says you had a miscarriage in your file.’ He pulls back and joins my gaze in complicity, then he arranges a stranded wisp of hair away from my face, and announces, louder this time: ‘You seem to be doing well. We’ve managed to stop the hemorrhage and you just need a couple of days for the tissue to recover. You’ll be out in no time, sweetheart.’ And he heads for the door quietly.
Liliana walks in behind the doctor, just as he collects his files and prepares to sign off. She stops in the doorway and I gasp at the sight. Her left eye is surrounded by a purple bruise, blooming onto her cheek, her brown hair hangs tenuously in thin oily strips, and her sweater seems to have been torn at the edges. It is as if all vibrancy was drained from her face and she was left somehow gravely altered, unrecognizable. As she approaches the bed, her intense sullen stare frightens me.
‘Irina, did you say anything to Andrei?’ Liliana whispers. ‘Irina, I saw him. They kept me at the police station all night, and I saw him shaking hands with them. Was he already here?’ A wave of bitter realization sweeps over me. So it is true. Finally, I shake my head, ‘I didn’t say anything.’ Liliana releases a sigh and lets her weight fall on the bed and I shift over, making space for her under the covers. If only I could give her more than the warmth of hospital bedspreads. ‘I brought you a few things from home,’ Liliana says as if from afar. She opens her backpack and takes out a nightgown, a toothbrush, a green tube of toothpaste, a bar of soap, a French novel, and the three Jaffa oranges. And Liliana places the objects on the bed, neatly, taking her time, pouring all her remaining affection into these ordinary movements, looking perhaps for a lost sense of permanence.
Alexandra Magearu is a writer, literary scholar and visual artist. Born and raised in Romania, she now lives in Cleveland (Ohio, USA) where she teaches in the English Department at Case Western Reserve University. Her writing has been published in The Comparatist, Tint Journal, World Literature Today, Women’s Studies, and two philosophy book collections, Ecosophical Aesthetics and Phenomenology of the Broken Body.
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