Papa looks lost in thought and waves me off. He doesn’t ask me what I need the car for, but he is clearly relieved to be done talking about Zoya, so he points to some keys hanging by the door. “Fine. Take your mom’s.”
MASHA
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CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I arrive back in Riverwest right as the sun is setting, and park the car by Rose’s house for the night. I turn the corner and head into Riverwest’s very-popular tiki bar, Foundation, which is also on Bremen Street. Then I order a drink. Sure, I told myself I’d come out to look for Anna’s roommates. But the truth is, I’m not sure I have any right to look for her, nor do I feel at all equipped to find her. I’m not saying I give up, but maybe I am giving up for the night. And don’t I deserve a break? It’s not like any of this is my fault, and my dad is barely trying to find Anna. I feel totally overwhelmed doing so much heavy lifting. And what I used to do when I felt overwhelmed was drink.
I guess I haven’t changed that much after all.
I chose Foundation because Liam suggested it, but also because it’s my favorite bar on the planet. I used to go to here every other day. The bartender has an actual barbell mustache, waxed on both ends. There isn’t a single TV, and the tables all have little candles on them. It’s like another planet. No, it’s like it exists outside of time. In Foundation, it could be 1985 or 2020. As soon as I get swallowed up by the smoke and the blowfish lamps and Jim Croce singing about New York, I even start to feel a little better.
Sipping on a Mai Tai with a fun straw, I study every face that walks in the door. But no one looks familiar. I don’t recognize even one person; not anyone I used to associate with, or the tattooed hipsters Anna was living with. Maybe it’s harder to get a fake ID now than when I was her age. Whatever the case may be, it’s a bust. I am sitting between a girl with pink hair reading a book and a middle-aged man with a motorcycle helmet, waiting to close my tab, when I see what the girl is reading: Skinny Legs and All by Tom Robbins. This is so Milwaukee that I can’t help but comment.
“‘The new American Dream is to achieve wealth and recognition without having the burden of intelligence, talent, sacrifice, or the human values that are universal,’” I tell her. “Doesn’t that just totally explain reality shows?”
She looks up, confused. “Huh?”
I point at the book. “It’s a line from the book you’re reading,” I explain.
A nervous smile replaces the confusion on her face. “Oh, sorry!” she says. “I don’t think I got to that part yet.”
I try again. “‘The purpose of art is to provide what life does not,’” I say.
“Ah! I love that one,” she says. “I think I highlighted it.”
“I did too. It sounds deep, but now that I’m thinking about it, I’m not sure that it’s true,” I say. “Shouldn’t art provide exactly what life provides, but in a different way? Like that book for example. That’s life too, but presented in an orderly fashion, a story within a story, pages bound by paper and glue.” I explain the word Maya, Sanskrit for the mistaken belief that a symbol is the same as the reality it represents.
The girl’s eyes go wide with either surprise or discomfort, it’s hard to tell. Maybe I’m talking nonsense; I don’t know, I have had some powerful drinks. Then she merely shrugs, and sips her beer—something dark and frothy—and puts it back down. “I don’t know. Like, I think art—or at least books—do provide something life doesn’t. Like, I don’t know, closure, or something?” She smiles without looking in my direction. “There’s a beginning, and there’s an end, and you know when both of them happen. In life, you don’t remember the beginning, and you usually don’t know when the end is coming. And you definitely don’t get closure, about pretty much anything,” she says. Then, she turns to face me, and I see her cheeks are pink.
I nod, surprised. “I guess you have a point.”
Blushing more, she adds, “Also, I love how he makes the inanimate objects characters who talk. It’s so cute.” She smiles again, then turns back to the book. I leave her alone this time, because who am I to bother someone who is so deep in a book they can read it at a bar? I’m just glad people still read at all. On her birthday, I used to buy Anna copies of my favorite books—History of Love, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, One Hundred Years of Solitude—but I couldn’t get her to read a single one after she read Harry Potter in sixth grade so eventually I gave up and sent her art books instead.
I pay my tab with the cash my dad threw in my bag, and walk to Bremen to give it another shot. There isn’t a show happening, so it’s fairly quiet compared to my previous visit. I sit at the bar and ask the bartender for a drink. It looks like the guy who was working with Rose previously, but I can’t be sure. There are so many bespectacled boys in tight pants around here they are starting to blend into each other. It must be though, because he tilts his head in recognition, as if wondering where he knows me from.
“Are you Anna’s sister?” he asks.
I nearly choke on my vodka soda. “How did you know that?”
He crosses his arms over his chest and smiles proudly. “I’m good with faces.” He reaches across the bar and offers me his hand. “Jared.”
“Masha,” I say back.
Jared shakes his head in amusement, still smiling. “You two look so alike,” he marvels. “But also… not at all alike.”
Broad statement as it is, I understand what he means. At first the two of us look like we could be twins, until you start to look at our faces more closely. By the end of which you’re not sure if we are related at all. “How did you know my sister?”
“She used to come here every day and use the computer,” he says, pointing to the aging desktop in the corner by a side entrance. “I’m not nosy or anything, but I think she was looking for art fellowships or something like that.”
“Really?” I ask.
Jared seems excited to have my attention. He perks up a little. “Yeah. I definitely saw her filling out forms with university names on top. I don’t remember which, but it looked fancy.”
“Did she ever come in with a tall guy named Tristan?”
He shrugs. “Not sure his name was Tristan, but he was definitely tall.” He stops to think it over. “I couldn’t tell if they were together or if he got friend-zoned. You’d think I’d be an expert.”
He is certainly right about that. He seems like he’s been friend-zoned a lot in his life. I can hardly believe my luck, after so much resistance for information, and I decide to take advantage of his chattiness. “Have you seen much of her lately?” I ask.
Jared shakes his head. “No. It’s been a few weeks now. She got some bad news or something on the computer, then she left and never came back.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I mean, I felt kinda bad for her. She looked really sad, and she doesn’t seem like the overdramatic type. I tried to give her a hug but she just kinda ran out of here.” His expression changes instantly from jovial to concerned. “Wait. Is she okay?” he asks.
I swallow the rest of my drink in one gulp and place it down on the bar with a shaky hand. “I don’t know.” Placing a five-dollar bill on the table, I stand to leave. “I’m guessing you don’t have her number?”
“I don’t think she had a phone. I let her use our phone a couple times,” Jared shrugs. Then, mulling it over, he adds, “Let’s just say if she did, I would have asked for her digits. Your sister is a hottie, sorry.”
I try not to cringe. I know my sister is pretty, but it is unnerving to hear it phrased like that and I can see why Anna didn’t give him her number; he does not have the best understanding of social cues. He is also clean-shaven, nervous, and dewy-eyed, like a newborn deer. Not her type at all. “What about her roommates? Did you ever see them?”