You mean to see things go from one culture to another?
No, to watch the loot of war buried, the stolen treasure put back where it belongs, in the underground. I laughed loudly. The underground!
The basement! The janitor’s wife laughed with me. History is coming to the basement, she laughed. Okay, now you can go, she said, and chuckled, and then she remembered my historical words again, and hysterically she laughed.
As I walked out of her apartment and past the sombre cement walls of the basement, I heard the janitor’s wife’s locks and bolts closing the door on the last movement of The Rite of Spring, and I hummed the symphony’s tune, graceful as Snow White.
DURING MY SHOWER, I collected the small pieces of soap that were stranded on my tub’s edges and lathered myself. I am fascinated by the flow of water. It never ceases to amaze me, how all is swept away, how everything converges in the same stream, along the same trajectory. And what really fascinates me is the bits of soap foam floating down the drain, swirling and disappearing. Little things like this make me think. I start to assess my existence based on these observations.
Soon I was clean and dressed. I even did the dishes — against the roaches’ will, depriving them of a wealth of crumbs. A rare feeling of accomplishment, of self-esteem descended upon me. I assured myself that a good, clean, hardworking man such as me could not possibly be left out to burn on that last day or be subjected to the rule of cockroaches in the world to come.
A good day indeed! I proclaimed to the seagulls gliding like falling maple leaves outside my window. Now all I need is to get myself a package of cigarettes and a good cup of morning coffee. I remembered how on that day not so long ago, just before I walked to the park and looked for the tree with a rope in my hand, I had a good cup of coffee. I enjoyed that cup the most. Of course, you might think I enjoyed it because it was my last and I made the effort to enjoy it, savour it slowly, wrap my palms around it, brood over it a little, and pay more attention to it. But no, you are wrong; it really was a good cup of coffee. When I had finished my coffee and decided on a tree, I tried to throw my rope over the branch. But I found the task impossible and I realized I lacked some basic cowboy skills. Then I tried to climb the tree, but it was a cold day and my exposed fingers became so frozen that I could not keep from slipping. I changed trees, found a lower branch. I mean, everything was pathetic.
The plan did not work — the branch broke. I tried. I failed.
II
A FEW DAYS PASSED, and then it was time again to climb the stairs of the public health clinic and sit in my interrogation chair.
This time, the therapist was interested in my mother.
My mother, I said, has kinky hair.
What else? she asked.
A long face and pointy teeth.
What does she do?
Well, I said, when she was not dangling clothing by the arms or the ankles off the balcony she would stir her wooden spoon around a tin pot, in a counter-clockwise motion, and if she was not busy doing that, she was chasing after us with curses and promises that she would dig our graves.
Can you elaborate? the therapist asked.
Can you be more specific? I asked in return.
Yes. Did you like her? Was she nice to you?
Yes, I said, she was wonderful, even when I was hanging on to her apron begging her not to leave us, even when I was hiding behind the dresser, watching her jeer in my father’s face, betting with my sister which of her eyes would get the first punch (I always bet on the left side), even when I was chasing a few flying dollar bills as she screamed, What am I supposed to buy with this? I am leaving you, Joseph. You feed the kids. Let your mother come and cook for them if you do not like my food, let her cook for you and your dumb, square-headed, filthy, retard kids. Or better yet, let the midget jockey of your losing horse come and feed them.
I told you not to mention the horses in front of the kids, Manduza, I continued, mimicking my father this time. I told you, my father huffed as I was losing my bet, watching my mother’s kinky hair flying like the hair of a pony on the run.
So, do you love your mother? the therapist asked, pasting on her usual compassionate face.
Yes, I do, I said, thinking that if I told her anything more, I wouldn’t leave this place for two hours. The shrinks are all big on mothers in this land.
The therapist nodded, leaned her chin on her fingers, cracked a spooky smile, and asked, Can you tell me about a happy incident with your mother?
Well, I cannot think of any now, professor. Excuse me. Maybe I should call you doctor?
Genevieve. Genevieve is fine.
Genevieve, I said. Well, if you give me some time for a long walk, maybe in the park across the street, among the trees, I will light a cigarillo somewhere around the war-hero statue, and consult with the pigeons and the begging squirrels. I might be inspired and be able to get back to you next time with wonderful stories.
Was your mother nourishing? Genevieve asked.
With food, you mean?
Well, okay, food. Let’s talk about food.
I like food, I said. Though I worry about food shortages lately.
Did you have enough food in your youth? For now I am interested in your past.
Yes.
A lot of food? she asked.
Yes.
Hmmm. No shortage of food?
No.
You were always skinny like that?
Yes, yes, always.
Listen, she said and leaned my way, I am here to help you. You have to trust me. I am here because you need help. You have to tell me more about your childhood. Who did you play with? Did you have a dog? Did you climb trees?
Yes, I said. I climbed everything, trees, stairs, into windows and cars, whatever it took to. .
To what?
To get things.
Like what things?
Like silverware, wallets, lipstick, whatever would sell, you know. I winked at Genevieve, but I must have aimed a little to the left because my wink bounced off a cheap reproduction of a Matisse painting of a vase and flowers.
You stole things.
Well yes, I did, I guess. But what kid does not steal?
Do you steal now?
I looked around, left my chair, opened the door, peered outside the room, waited for an African family with a feverish crying baby to pass down the corridor and shake hands with a pediatrician, and then I returned to my seat and said: Yes, sometimes. I said this in a low voice.
That’s okay, Genevieve said. She cracked yet another big smile. That’s okay. This is all confidential.
Confidential, I repeated.
She nodded, and reached out to take my hand, and squeezed. You can, and should, tell me anything and everything. I am here to help.
I held on to her fingers, and as our hands began to get warm, she pulled hers away slowly, fixed her glasses, straightened her skirt, shifted her legs, and sighed with what I hoped was triumph and relief. For no apparent reason, this made me curious about her past, her childhood of snow and yellow schoolbuses, quiet green grass and Christmas lights, her Catholic school that forbade flames, cigarettes, and orgasms. Had she waited for the bus like those girls I saw walking in short plaid skirts in forty-degree-below temperatures? Had she giggled when she saw cute boys? Had she, like my sister, played with herself under her bedclothes, had she bitten her lower lip as she ejaculated rivers of sweaty men?
But really, how naive and innocent this woman is, I thought. If she only knew what I am capable of.
AFTER MY THERAPY SESSION, I passed by the Artista Café and looked for the professor. He was just getting out of the bathroom, shaking his wet hands. I pulled a few napkins from a container on the counter and went over to him. There is never any paper to dry the hands, I said, and that blower is worse than a dying desert wind. I smiled in his face. He took the paper and dried his hands, not grateful but proud. Vingt-cinq sous, mon professeur, I said, and laughed and extended my hand towards him.