After much hemming and hawing and throat clearing, he admitted to being both waiter and cook. In fact, he owned the restaurant too. As soon as a customer gave an order, he ran out the kitchen door to scour the city for the necessary ingredients. The man really could make all the dishes offered on the menu, but it was more a question of what was available at the markets that day. Which usually meant next to nothing in that desperate city. So each night he had to return empty-handed and, as waiter, go through the charade of telling the customers such-and-such was “unavailable.” What else would they like?
I told Leland I’d always believed a good story is better than a good time, since you have the story to tell again and again but the good times tend to be forgotten. When I asked if the pork was good when it was finally served, he said terrific.
Thinking through what had happened that night and over the past days with him, waves of different emotion poured over me. But in the end, that story kept coming back. It seemed the moral was, Look, we don’t have escargots but we do have pork, so let’s make it the best goddamned pork ever cooked. I couldn’t decide whether the waiter’s refusal to admit to an empty kitchen was good or not. At first all that pretending looked sweet and optimistic, but there was also something pernicious about getting people’s hopes up, then, after making them wait hours, serving only pork. And not just one night, but every night. So there’s only pork. So what? If that’s all there is, then admit it and do magic with it. Make it the best pork ever eaten.
As far as Leland’s health was concerned, he lived in his own Rumania now but that shouldn’t stop us. In the morning I’d go down and tell him even if we only did have this and this, we’d do whatever we could to make it work. Simple as that. I’d invite him to come stay with me as long as he liked, or whenever he liked. Then we’d work with the materials at hand, whatever they were, from day to day. If AIDS developed, I’d try to help and comfort him as best I could. He was a remarkable, heroic man. It would be a privilege to be his friend and support.
I went to my desk and spent a long time making lists of things to do, questions to ask, people to call or see. I knew next to nothing about AIDS or HIV. How had he gotten it? Was he bisexual? Did he do drugs? Did it matter? There was only the disease now and however we could deal with it. Only the “pork.”
I woke early the next morning though I’d gone to bed very late. The moment I opened my eyes I was ready to get ripping. Take Minnie for her walk, prepare the bacon and eggs so the minute he walked through the door I could get him going, make more lists… How would I ask him to stay without making it sound like pity or the wrong kind of concern? What would I do if he said no? I didn’t want to think about that. Get books, get information on living with someone who has AIDS. But he didn’t have it yet! Don’t even think in that direction. There’s all kinds of things that can be done, looked into, tried out, before that actually happens. That was the absolutely worst way to think. Just the other day I’d read an article about a virologist who said he was convinced there was no genuine link between those who were HIV positive and those who had full-blown AIDS. Over coffee, in between articles, I found the piece holding my attention for a few minutes, but then I turned the page. Now it was the most important article in the world. Where had I read it? Who was the scientist?
I raced around the house trying to do everything at once, trying to figure out what I could realistically do and what was in the hands of the gods. The gods? God? No time to think about that, GOD, now. There’d be plenty of time later. As that thought crossed my mind, I half-raised a hand, as if asking for His patience and understanding.
I waited two nervous hours before beginning to worry. Where was he? Why hadn’t he come or at least called? Leave him alone. Let him do things his own way, on his own schedule. But maybe he thought he couldn’t face me after what he’d confessed last night. Too bad, Arlen, leave it alone. It’s his decision. I waited and talked to myself until I couldn’t stand it anymore. Then I hooked Minnie up again and hotfooted it down to the Gasthaus, hoping to meet him coming up. No such luck. When we got there, we stood outside a few minutes while I tried to decide what to do next. I finally got up the nerve to go in—and was told the gentleman had checked out earlier but left no message.
I went home and sat like a stone, most of the time blank, but now and then something inside me bellowed, “Do something! Get up and find him!” But putting myself in his place, I realized why he’d taken off. The shame, embarrassment, the doubt that any person can help in a calamity. Still, why hadn’t he said anything this morning before leaving? Had I been so unsympathetic last night? I carefully ran through what we’d talked about ten times but came up blank.
As the despair was peaking, the phone rang. He said, “I’m at the airport. I’m going back to Yugoslavia. Thank you for being so kind—”
I asked him, please, just let me talk a few minutes, but he didn’t want that. There was too much going on inside him. He asked for some time to think and said he’d be in touch.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I wanted to yell, “I think you’re wrong,” but there was nothing I could say except please call me. Please come back whenever you want because I’ll be waiting. Whenever you want.
I’m going to stop here, Rose. You understand.
I worked in the garden, walked the dog, kept the television tuned to CNN day and night. I don’t remember many details of those days except that whatever I did, I did as hard as I could, completely concentrated, so as not to think too much about the silent phone or the frightening reports from the battlefront in Yugoslavia. I knew he’d go straight there and was afraid this time he’d be killed. Or would try to be killed rather than die the ghastly slow death of AIDS.
I went to the children’s hospital every day and spent more time there than ever before. I remembered the woman on her knees in front of the hospital screaming that it wasn’t fair. One night I saw an igel crossing the road and immediately took it as a good sign. I wanted to call Leland and say only that—ten seconds in his ear: “I just saw an igel and I know it means something good.” Then in one of the few happy moments since he’d left, I realized I could call him—in London and leave messages on his answering machine. The idea was so exciting that I spent the better part of a morning in the garden on my knees, digging and thinking about exactly what I’d say if I got up the courage to call. I wondered how long his tape was and how many times I’d be able to leave messages before the thing was full.