"Why are you working so hard?" she asks me one day, pointing to my laptop and a stack of books.
"You work hard, too," I say, pointing to her vacuum cleaner and duster.
She nods. She knows I am right. Then she takes out her necklace and shows it to me. There are four rings on her silver pendant. When I ask her what they mean, she says, smiling from ear to ear, "One ring for each child."
She is a mother of four. That's why she works so hard. She wants them to have a better life than the one she has had.
"How about your husband?" I ask. "Tu marido?"
"Marido. . puff," she says, as if she is talking about gunpowder.
I cannot figure out whether he has died or run away with someone else or never was. Oblivious to my confusion, Rosario smiles again and elbows me. "Children are a blessing," she says.
"I am happy for you."
She pats my shoulder with a touch so genuine and friendly, I drink two more cups of coffee with her, my heart racing.
"You are a good girl," she says to me.
"Some of me are," I say, thinking of my finger-women.
She finds that hilarious and laughs so hard she almost loses her balance. When she manages to get hold of herself, she says, "When you finish your book you don't need to send it to a publisher. There is an easier way."
"Really?" I ask, inching closer to her.
"Yup," she says, nodding. "Send it to Oprah. If she puts her stamp on your book you won't have to work so hard anymore."
"In America they stamp books?" I ask.
"Si, claro mujer!" She rolls her eyes as if to add, "You don't know how crazy these Americans can get."
I thank her for the advice. Then I go back to my novel and she goes back to her work, walking her slow gait, dragging her vacuum cleaner and rolling a bucket of detergents and soaps beside her. She disappears among the aisles of hardcover books. Puff!
In the summer I visit Istanbul for a short while. I am here to pick up a few bits and pieces from my old apartment, to see my friends and my mother, to do some book readings and signings in the city and to seal a contract with my Turkish publisher for The Saint of Incipient Insanities, which I have just finished. Then in ten days, I will return to the States.
However, life is a naughty child who sneaks up from behind us while we draw our plans, making funny faces at us.
On my first evening back in Istanbul friends invite me to have a drink in Yakup, a well-known tavern that journalists, painters and writers have long frequented. Jet-lagged and slightly grumpy, I nevertheless agree to meet them.
When I enter the place, the sound of laughter and chattering greets me, along with a thick cloud of smoke. Either there is a chimney inside the tavern or everyone is puffing on at least two Havana cigars at the same time. It is quite a change of scenery after my sterile life at Mount Holyoke.
I walk up to my friends' table, where I know everyone — except a young man with dark, wavy hair and a dimpled smile sitting at the end. He introduces himself as Eyup. It doesn't occur to me that it happens to be the name of the prophet Job, of whom I have said not just a few critical things in the past. Once again in my life, the angels are pointing their milky-white fingers at me, giggling among themselves. Again, I am failing to foresee the irony.
I watch him throughout the evening, cautiously at first, then with growing curiosity. The more I listen to him the more I am convinced that he is the embodiment of everything I have excluded and pushed away from my life. Pure patience, pure balance, pure rationality, pure calmness, pure harmony. He is a natural-born fisherman.
I don't even think I like him. I simply and swiftly fall head over heels in love with him. But I am determined not to let anyone at the table, especially him, see that. In order to hide my feelings, I swing to the other extreme, constantly challenging him and frowning at his every comment.
Hours later, as always happens in Istanbul when a group of women and men consume more than a carafe of wine and twice as much of raki, people start to talk about matters of the heart. Someone suggests that we take turns quoting the best maxims about love that we know.
One of my girlfriends volunteers to go first: "This one is from Shakespeare," she says with a touch of pride. "'Love all, trust a few.'"
The quote is well received. Everyone toasts.
"This one is from Albert Einstein," says someone else. "'Gravitation is not responsible for people falling in love.'"
We toast again.
His eyes sparkling, Eyup joins the game after a few rounds. "This one is from Mark Twain," he says. "'When you fish for love, bait with your heart, not your brain.'" Everyone applauds. I frown. But I join the toast all the same.
Ten minutes later everyone at the table is looking at me, waiting for me to utter my quote. By now I have drunk more than my usual, and my head is swirling. I put my glass on the table with a kind of borrowed confidence and a bit more forcefully than I intended. I wag my finger in the air and say:
"'Have you ever been in love? Horrible, isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means someone can get inside you and mess you up.' How stupid!"
For one stunned moment nobody says a word. A few people cough as if they have something stuck in their throats and some others force a polite smile, but no one toasts.
"This one is from Neil Gaiman," I say, by way of explanation.
Again silence.
"The Sandman. . Stardust. . The Graveyard Book. ." I add quickly. "You know, Neil Gaiman."
I lean back against the chair, take a deep breath and finish the quote: " 'You build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life.'. . How stupid!"
Everyone is looking at me with something akin to scorn on their faces. I have spoiled the fun and changed the mood from one of drunken merriment to somber seriousness. We can always go back to buoyant love quotes but it won't be the same. Everyone at the table seems slightly confused and annoyed — except one person who regards me with an infinitely warm smile and winks at me like we share a secret.
Madame Onion
In my dream, I am walking in an opulent, vast garden. There are all sorts of flowers, plants and birds around, but I know I am not here for them. I keep walking, with a cane in my hand, until I reach a humongous tree. Its trunk is made of crystal, and leafy silver branches spring from its sides like Christmas ornaments. There are squirrels nibbling walnuts inside every hole in the tree. One of the holes resembles a cavernous mouth.
"You look so beautiful," I say, pleasantly surprised. "I thought it was winter. How did you manage to keep all your leaves?"
"Winter is over now," says the Brain Tree. "You can leave me be."
"But I took an oath, remember? I said my body should shrivel up so that my brain could blossom. If I don't keep my promise, God will be angry."
"No, He won't," says the Brain Tree. "You don't know Him."
"Do you? Have you seen Him?" I ask. "What does He look like?"
But the tree ignores my questions and says, "Everything expires. So has your oath. Even I am about to perish in a little while."
As if in response to his last words, the winds pick up speed and pound with invisible fists on the Brain Tree. That is when I realize that its branches are made of the thinnest glass. In front of my eyes, they shatter into hundreds of minuscule pieces.