Mister opens the door and I jump in without a word.
“Are you going to the orphans?” he says. He sounds just like Magda. The right words, but every word a touch off, crippled.
“Yes,” I say, and Mister says, “Let me take you.”
Grandmoms is secretly in love with Mister. And she hates Missis in the guts. We watched this one movie Zorba the Greek and Grandmoms said, “I hope Missis dies like that old whore so we can rob her house, vases and jewels and even her nightgown, still warm with her heat. I hope the peasants catch her with the hide buyer, naked on his furs, and, like in the movie, slice her throat side to side for the infidelity.” Then there will be no more Missis, and it will be all Mister. White skin and blue eyes. Soft hair. Mister looks just like the gentleman in the movie, the writer. Older of course, but more handsome, because of his age. Because of his white suits and smooth hats. Because of his eyes.
I put my hand on his as he shifts gears. “Dear girl,” he goes, and adds something about how cold my hand is, but I’m not listening.
“This is a nice car, Mister.” His hand is warm and I can feel his knuckles moving and his muscles.
“How is your sister?” Mister asks me. He knows all about her. He’s been pouring money into the orphanage, dumping money with a shovel. Out of pure kindness, I think, though Grandmoms once told me it had to do with taxes and things along those lines. “That poor girl,” he says.
“She’s not so poor, now, is she?” I say. I mean you bought them new cribs, new curtains. You bought them a microwave! But I don’t say this of course. I just keep my hand on his and I’m glad the hills are hills and the road snakes the way it snakes, so the stick would shift as much as it shifts. So his knuckles would move.
“Do you know that she pisses her bed?” I say, just to say something. “She’s sixteen.”
“You’re twins, right?”
“No one can tell. I wonder if she even knows it. Her face is all like that and mine is all …” I look at my face in the mirror. Jesus! I hide to the side and search my pockets for a tissue.
“Here,” Mister says, and passes me his kerchief.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I wipe off the mascara and he says, “It’s only a little bit.”
My face is flaming and I almost say, Stop the car, please let me go. But he takes out a cigarette and lights it with the car lighter, then returns the lighter in its slot. Davidoff. And the lighter is so shiny, I tussle for air.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and Mister says, “It’s okay. Of course you’ll get emotional when you speak of your sister.”
Then we arrive and he reaches over to open the door. He smells like pinecones.
“The door sticks,” he says, and pushes it open.
“Thanks.” While he ashes the cigarette out his window, I palm the lighter and hide it in my pocket. “Can I keep the kerchief?” I say, and he says, “Keep it. And say hi to your Granny.” And out of nowhere there is this big smile on his face.
•
Today I quiz her over old lessons. We sit in the corner and she is restless as always, rocking back and forth in her chair, eyes out the window. “Magda, when was Bulgaria founded?” “Six eighty-one,” she says. She smacks her lips, the swollen tongue rolls. Spit trickles. I tell her, “Two thousand and seven is when Bulgaria ends; Grandmoms said that. Once we join the EU, Bulgaria ends. Do you know what the EU is?” “EU, EU,” she repeats, and I say, “Stop saying it. It makes you sound inarticulate.” “EU.” She laughs. “Come here.” I wipe the spit off her chin and then I’m, like, Oh, crap, Magda, this is Mister’s kerchief. You ruined Mister’s kerchief.
We do some dictation. She’s biting her tongue and writing, diligently, and around us children are running and playing so I tell them to turn that TV down. All these children are normal, though they are orphans. But Magda is here because there is no other place she could be. Not close to our village, anyway.
Mother left both of us here. Back then the building was a mess and they didn’t have TVs and curtains. It was wolves on the streets, so Mother was scared we would get snatched and she brought us here to safety. Grandmoms says that and tears up and I always think, Grandmoms you have got to be shitting me. And now I watch Magda chew on her tongue and write tiny letters and I think to myself, What if that teacher had beaten me? We were the same then, two years old. Would Magda come to see me, teach me things? Nice room, cinnamon, soft pillows. Just today they were eating sandwiches with ham and cheese when I walked in. And when Mister made that big donation, Magda sat in his lap and he petted her hair and brushed her cheeks. In a parallel world, it might not be so bad.
We are done writing and Magda looks up. She giggles and motions me closer and when she talks she spits on my face.
“I got something alive in my belly,” she says.
•
I am told our father’s name is Hristo. I don’t blame him for running away at all. I should probably blame him, but I don’t — it’s nature, really — spread the seed and run, move on for more seed spreading. But a mother betraying her own? Blood betraying blood? Now, that’s low. So all my hate goes toward Mother and there just isn’t any left for anyone else. At least Pops never calls. He never says, How is my beautiful girl? To which I always respond, Chewing her own tongue. And the saddest thing is Mother doesn’t even understand what I’m saying. She’s never seen Magda — not after she left her, anyway. So if she calls she keeps me on the phone for a minute, I’ve timed it. “How’s life treating you?” she says exactly in those words. Life treating you … A stupider question was never asked. Life doesn’t treat you. People do.
And then the phone is off to Grandmoms. Five minutes. Done. And after that, Grandmoms searches for an old article to wrap whatever my mother asked for.
But it can’t be just any old article. Grandmoms never throws a newspaper away. And she reads old newspapers. Mostly the stuff Grandpa wrote. She reads them in the yard over and over again. Calls me sometimes and says, “Listen to this: The General Secretary spent ten minutes tying up red balloons for the Day of the Child. See how nicely your grandpa put it?” I guess Grandpa could put it nicely. But why does she have to keep those papers everywhere, always?
When I first told Mister my father worked in England, Mister asked me what city and I said, “Why, of course London.” Like I was offended by him asking, like my Pops wouldn’t be working just anyplace. I told him my Pops was a construction supervisor and had supervised the building of that big Ferris wheel, the one on the Thames. Mister’s eyes nearly flew out. “Why, your Pops is really someone,” he said, and then I was, like, offended again: “You think?”
Mister said I should write Pops a letter. I said, “That’s okay, Mister. Pops must have other children now, his own missis.” “And that doesn’t make you sad?” Mister said, and I said, “No, it’s all good.” But on the inside I was, like, You think?
I think about my Pops sometimes. And I can’t get that stupid wheel out of my head, now that I lied about it. I see Pops by the wheel with his new kids and his new missis. It’s always dark and the wheel is always lit and spinning. The Thames smells like watermelon. My sister is with me, naturally, and we are hiding by a stand where they sell ham and cheese. Pops picks one kid up on his shoulder and lifts the other, like a demijohn of rakia, and carries them both to a basket on the wheel. His missis laughs, authentic, long-necked, pearl-eared. Dura-bura, Pops says in English, meaning, Now we’re going to have some good times. And then my sister turns to me and says, “God damn it, Maria, why does it have to be like this? This is your daydream. Make it better.” And when she says it, suddenly we are transported to the wheel, a hundred meters above the ground, and we walk across its metal frame, unscrewing one bulb after the other. There is no danger of falling. Gravity does not exist. Only the gravity between us. And the bulbs keep glowing even after we put them in our pockets and our pockets are full with one million stolen, glowing bulbs, burning fireflies so strong, they take us upon their wings. Then we fly, my sister and I, illuminated, hand in hand above the Thames. “Now, that’s a dream,” she says.