Vincent Zawada
While waiting for her radiation therapy session at the Tollere Leman clinic, my mother scrutinizes every patient in the waiting room and says, in a barely lowered voice, wig, wig, not sure, not a wig, not a wig … Maman, Maman, not so loud, I say, everybody can hear you. What are you saying? my mother asks. You’re muttering under your breath and I can’t understand you. — Have you turned your ear on? — What? — Where’s your hearing aid? Why don’t you have it on? — Because I have to take it off during the radiation. — Put it on while we’re waiting, Maman. It’s no use, my mother says. The man sitting next to her gives me a sympathetic smile. He’s holding a Prince of Wales beret in his hands, and his pale complexion is in keeping with his outdated, English-style suit. In any case, says my mother, digging around in her purse, I don’t even have it with me. She goes back to people-watching and hardly lowers her voice when she says, that one there, she won’t last a month. Notice, I’m not the oldest person here, that’s reassuring … Maman, please, I say, here, look, there’s a fun quiz in Le Figaro. — All right, if it makes you happy. — What vegetable previously unknown in France did Queen Catherine de’ Medici introduce to the court: artichoke, broccoli, or tomato? Artichoke, my mother says. — Artichoke, right, good. What was Greta Garbo’s first job when she was fourteen: barber’s assistant, lighting double for Shirley Temple in Little Miss Marker, or herring-scaler at the fish market in Stockholm, her native city? Herring-scaler in Stockholm, my mother says. — No, barber’s assistant. Oh, right, says my mother, how stupid of me, since when do herring have scales! If I may be so bold, madam, they’ve had them a very long time, says the man sitting next to her. I notice his tie, gray with pink polka dots, as he explains, herring have always had scales. Really? says my mother. No, no, herring don’t have scales, they’re like sardines. Sardines have always had scales as well, the man says. Sardines have scales, news to me, says my mother. Did you know that, Vincent? Like anchovies and sprats, the man adds. In any case, I deduce from this conversation that you don’t keep kosher! He laughs and includes me in his attempt at familiarity. In spite of his yellowing teeth and his sparse, graying hair, he has a certain style. I nod my head amiably. Fortunately, my mother says, fortunately I don’t keep kosher. As if it’s not enough that I don’t have any appetite anymore anyway. Who’s your doctor? the man asks, loosening the knot in his polka-dot tie a little and arranging his body for conversation. Doctor Chemla, my mother says. Philip Chemla, the best, there’s nobody better, he’s been keeping me going for six years, says the man. And me for eight, says my mother, proud of having been kept going longer. Lung too? the man asks. Liver, my mother answers, first breast and then liver. The man nods like someone who knows the song. But I’m atypical, you see, my mother goes on, I don’t do anything the same as everybody else, every time Chemla sees me, he says, Paulette — he calls me Paulette, I’m his pet patient — he says, you’re completely atypical, translation: you should have croaked a long time ago. My mother laughs heartily, and so does the man. As for me, I wonder whether a return to the quiz isn’t well overdue. He’s really a wonderful doctor, my mother goes on — by now she’s beyond all control — and I find him personally very attractive too. The first time I saw him I said, are you married, Doctor? Do you have children? No children, he said. I said, you want me to show you how it’s done? I press her hand, dry and withered from her medications, and I say, Maman, listen. What? says my mother, it’s true, he was delighted, he laughed his head off, I’ve rarely seen an oncologist laugh like that. The man nods approvingly and says, he’s a true gentleman, Chemla is, a real mensch. One day, I’ll never forget it, he said these words to me, he said, when someone steps into my office, he honors me. Do you know he’s not even forty? My mother couldn’t possibly care less about any of that. She pursues her own line, as if she hasn’t heard a thing the man said. Last Friday, she goes on, speaking louder and louder, I told him, Doctor Ayoun — he’s my cardiologist — is a much better physician than you are. That’ll be the day, says Chemla. Oh, but he is, I say, he complimented me right away on my new hat, but you, Doctor, you haven’t even noticed it. I feel I must move. I get up and say, Maman, I’m going to ask the receptionist how much longer you have to wait. My mother turns to her new friend and says, he’s going to smoke, my son’s going outside to smoke a cigarette, that’s what that means. Tell him he’s slowly killing himself, and him only forty-three. Ah well, that way we’ll die together, Maman, I say. Look on the bright side. Very funny, says my mother. The gentleman in the polka-dot tie pinches his nostrils and inhales like a man preparing to deliver a decisive communication. I cut him short to explain that I’m not going out for a smoke, even though a nicotine fix would do me a world of good, I’m just going to talk to the receptionist. When I return, I inform my mother that her radiation will start in ten minutes and that Doctor Chemla has not yet come into the office. Ah, that’s just like Chemla, he and his watch don’t get along, he can’t imagine that we might have a subsidiary existence outside this office, says the man, happy to let the sound of his voice be heard again and hoping to hold the floor. But my mother returns to the attack at once and declares, I’m on the best of terms with the receptionist, she always puts me at the top of the list, I call her Virginie. My mother lowers her voice somewhat and adds, she adores me, I say to her, be a sweetheart and give me the first appointment, my dear Virginie. She’s delighted by that, that personal touch. Vincent, my love, shouldn’t we bring her some chocolates next time? Why not, I say. — What? You’re muttering under your breath. I say, it’s a good idea. We should have been able to get rid of Roseline’s
vanillekipferl before now, my mother says, I haven’t even opened the box. She doesn’t know how to make them, you think you’re eating sand. Poor Roseline, these days she quivers like a bunch of keys. You know, she’s a different woman since her daughter disappeared in the tsunami, one of the twenty-five bodies that have never been recovered, and Roseline believes she’s still alive. Sometimes that irritates me, I feel like telling her, sure, right, she’s being raised by chimpanzees that have given her amnesia. I say, don’t be mean, Maman. — I’m not mean, but sometimes you have to be fatalistic, everybody knows the world’s a vale of tears. Vale of tears, one of your father’s expressions, you remember? I answer, yes, I remember. The man in the polka-dot tie seems to be lost in some rather somber thoughts. He’s bending forward, and I notice a crutch lying beside his chair. It occurs to me that he’s suffering in some part of his body, and I tell myself that other people in this waiting room on the basement floor of the Tollere Leman clinic must also be suffering in secret. You know, says my mother abruptly, leaning toward the man with an amazingly serious look on her face, my husband was obsessed with Israel. The man straightens up and smoothes the creases in his pinstripe suit. Jews are obsessed with Israel, but not me, my mother goes on. Me, I’m not at all obsessed with Israel, but my husband was. I’m having trouble following my mother along this tangent. Unless she’s trying to correct the misimpression caused by the scaleless fish. Yes, that’s it, maybe she wants to make it clear that her whole family is Jewish, including her, despite her ignorance of some fundamental dietary laws. Are you obsessed by Israel too? my mother asks. Naturally, the man replies. I approve of his concision. If I had my way, I could discourse at some length on the profundity of that reply of his. My mother, however, has a different apprehension of things. When I met my husband, she says, he had nothing at all, his family ran a notions shop on Rue Réaumur, a tiny place, a real dump. By the end of his life, he was a wholesaler, he owned three warehouses and an apartment building. And all that, he wanted to leave all that to Israel. — Maman, what’s got into you? What’s this tale you’re telling? It’s the truth, my mother says, without even taking the trouble to turn in my direction, we were a very close, very happy family, the only black spot was Israel. One day I told him the Jews didn’t need a country and he almost hit me. Another time, he threw Vincent out of the house because he wanted to take a trip down the Nile. The man prepares to make a remark, but he’s not fast enough. By the time he opens his pallid lips, my mother has already segued into Chemla wants to give me a new treatment, I can’t take Xynophren anymore, my hands are falling into shreds, as you see. He wants me to have another round of chemo, a chemo drip this time, which is going to make me lose all my hair. Maman, that’s not certain, I say, Chemla said one chance out of two. One chance out of two means two chances out of two, my mother says, sweeping aside my statement with a gesture, but I don’t want to die like they did in Auschwitz, I don’t want to face my end with a shaved skull. If I have this treatment, it’s good-bye to my hair. And at my age, I don’t have enough time for it to grow back. And it’s good-bye to my hats, too. My mother shakes her head and mimes distress. She’s been holding herself bolt upright while talking nonstop, stretching her neck out like a pious young girl at prayer. I don’t delude myself, you know, she says. I’m here in this dreadful room, chatting with you, but only as a favor to my sons and Doctor Philip Chemla. I’m his pet patient, he enjoys taking care of me. Just between us, these radiation treatments are useless, they do no good whatsoever. They’re supposed to make me see as well as I used to, and every day my eyes are worse. Don’t say that, Maman, I say, the doctor explained that the treatment wouldn’t produce immediate results. What are you saying? my mother asks, you’re muttering under your breath. The results aren’t instantaneous, I repeat. Not instantaneous means not guaranteed, my mother says. The truth is that Chemla’s not certain about anything. He’s groping around. I’m his guinea pig, fine, someone has to do it. I’m a fatalist. When my husband was on his deathbed, he asked me whether I was still an enemy of Israel, the homeland of the Jewish people. I answered, but no, of course not. What do you say to a man who’s not going to be around much longer? You tell him what he wants to hear. It’s strange to cling to such idiotic values. In your final hour, when everything’s about to disappear. A homeland, who needs a homeland? After a while, even life is an idiotic value. Even life, don’t you think? my mother says with a sigh. The man reflects. He could make a reply, because my mother seems to have suspended her babbling, and on a curiously meditative note. But at that instant a nurse calls for Monsieur Ehrenfried. The man grabs his crutch, his Prince of Wales beret, and a Loden overcoat that’s lying on the chair next to him. Still seated, he leans toward my mother and murmurs, life, maybe, but not Israel. Then he braces himself on his crutch and laboriously gets to his feet. Duty calls, he says, bowing, I’m Jean Ehrenfried. It was a pleasure. You can tell that every movement is quite difficult for him, but he continues to show a smiling face. The hat you’re wearing today, he says, is that the one that elicited compliments from your cardiologist? My mother touches her hat to verify her answer. No, no, she says, this one’s the lynx. The one I wore to Doctor Ayoun’s office is a kind of Borsalino with a black velvet rose. The man says, my compliments on the one you’re wearing today, it brought a touch of class to this waiting room. It’s my little lynx toque, says my mother flirtatiously. I’ve had it for forty years, does it still look good on me? It looks perfect, says Jean Ehrenfried, saluting her with a whirl of his beret. We watch him walk away and disappear behind the door to the radiotherapy room. My mother thrusts her bruised hands into her purse. She pulls out a compact and a lipstick and says, he’s got a bad limp, the poor man, I wonder if he hasn’t fallen in love with me.