Bottled Goods Page 5

  On Sunday, few sounds break the shroud of silence between us: the typewriter burning letters and numbers in black ink on a sheet of paper, and the rustling of a book ruffled by my husband. But these notes are too weak to slash this covering open, they only puncture holes in it, just enough to allow me to breathe. Sometimes, I’m not typing my exercises at all, I just keep striking the keys so that Liviu won’t raise his eyes and ask, “So, we’re not doing anything today, either? You never do anything but write, anyway.”

  These are the times when I think of what we were before Mihai’s defection. Of who Liviu was—a man I would never, ever have thought of leaving.

  “So, have you finished your book?”

  Yes, I have, but I’m having so much trouble placing it. It seems I can’t do anything without the right connections and I am notorious for all the wrong ones. Not even the smaller presses will consider my manuscript. Fortunately, I have a plan that involves the Head School Inspector of our county.

  However, I tell none of the above to my mother. I say, “I need to make a few minor adjustments before it is finished.”

  I don’t enjoy lying to her, but she has such a bad habit of using all the rejections I have ever received like a hot poker glowing white, twisting it in my open wounds.

  “I never asked you this, but when you were in trouble, did you call your aunt?”

  Yes, I did, and I even paid her a visit. She invited me to her place, and there were no nuns, no fortune tellers, no other friends of hers. She told me, toying with her bracelets, spinning them around her tiny wrists as if looking for the angle in the ellipse that catches the most light, “Matei got wind at work about a colleague of his, Victor, paying you regular visits. He told this man that you are his cousin and that he is particularly fond of you. I expect this is the last you will ever see of him.”

  My grin was so wide that my cheeks were aching.

  “Matei asked me if I knew, and I told him I did. He said I should have told him. I’m sorry,” she said. “I can be such an old bat sometimes. I’m sorry.”

  I try to blame her for the way she behaved, but I can’t. I can’t blame a bitch for growling and barking and biting anyone who comes near her fresh litter of puppies. There are things in us, older than conscience, or the acquiescence of God, instincts we can’t control, no matter how hard we try to pull their reins. But I often ask myself, if Aunt Theresa is protecting her pups, then who is my mother safeguarding?

  For Sale

  Alina and Corina, the inspector’s secretary, exchange strained smiles again. Alina avoids looking at her; she doesn’t want to make the woman feel under pressure. It’s not her fault that the inspector takes his time and that she has been waiting for almost two hours. Corina has already delivered. In exchange for Jacobs coffee and Dominican cocoa she set this appointment, made it possible for Alina to sit in the inspector’s antechamber, heart thumping, praying for her last chance not to be wasted.

  Alina would stare into the manuscript in her lap, but her eyes are foggy from looking at its first page, the paper curled and damp under her sweaty palms.

  The grandfather clock in the antechamber strikes three.

  * * *

  The inspector hasn’t lifted his gaze once in the ten minutes Alina has been in his office. His pen scratches a piece of blotted paper.

  “Comrade Mungiu? Did you come here to stare while I make my notes?”

  “No, comrade Inspector.”

  The inspector has a black spot on his lower lip, where his cigarette usually hangs. The tips of his fingers are as yellow as the cover of the file he is reading.

  “Comrade Mungiu, I am a very busy man. My secretary keeps squeezing people in, though I have to finish these assessments by Monday. But since you’re already here, by all means, speak!”

  Alina places the manuscript on the inspector’s packed desk.

  “Comrade Inspector . . . Last year I began writing a math exercises book, with comrades Rodica Ionescu and Vasilica Popa, from Bucharest. In May, when I telephoned with comrade Ionescu, she told me that they no longer needed my collaboration and—”

  “Get to the point.”

  “I already had a lot of exercises, comrade Inspector, and they are very good. I’ve managed to place about a dozen with math journals throughout the—”

  “Comrade Mungiu, you are wasting my time. Congratulations for placing your exercises successfully.”

  The inspector rises from his seat, stretching his hand to shake Alina’s. It’s the first time they look into each other’s eyes, and he makes that searching, disbelieving face all people do when confronted with her mismatched eyes. Alina pushes the manuscript in front of his nose. Alina Mungiu. Math Exercise Book for I–IV Grade, says the title.

  “The book. It’s done. I’ve written my own book. Please. You’re my last chance.”

  When Alina was in elementary school, children had to coat their handbooks in transparent covers and stick labels with their names on top of them. Alina always placed her label above the authors’ names. Sometimes, during class, she looked at the first page and admired the names. She still knows them all by heart: Serdean, Romanian, second grade; Constantinescu, History, fourth grade; Almas and Fotescu, Grammar, third grade; and so on.

  The inspector pushes the manuscript away from him.

  “Comrade Mungiu, you’re wasting my time.”

  “Please.” Her voice quivers like a strung arrow. “I called all the possible presses, and Ursu Press told me that, if you approve of the manuscript, they’ll print a small edition. Please. Just read it, it’s not much—”

  The inspector pushes the manuscript away with two fingers. The first page is slipping slowly from the top.

  Alina almost gave up when Rodica told her she was no longer interested in their collaboration, but then her mother bought her the typewriter, a few days after her birthday.

  Since then, she’s been scribbling ideas in the breaks or even during class at school, typing until late at night, looking at unfinished exercises while stirring the contents of one pot or another.

  “Comrade Inspector . . . Please . . . It’s very good, I assure you. If you could just take a look at it, I promise.”

  The inspector lifts the receiver. “Corina? Please tell my next appointment to come in.”

  “Comrade Inspector! The press. They said—”

  “Maybe the press doesn’t know who you are. I do.”

  The inspector pushes the manuscript toward Alina with the tips of his fingers, afraid to soil himself. The manuscript falls on the floor, scattering.

  “Comrade Mungiu! There is no need for hysterics, for throwing papers on the floor!”

  When the inspector wrinkles his nose, like he does now, his black spot dilates, threatening to spill and smear her, too.

  Alina bends and gathers the scattered pages. They are worth less than toilet paper.

  On her way home, Alina stops by the local newspaper and scribbles an announcement. “Used typewriter for sale.”

  Reel

  3. How It Ends

  The Secret Service man, her Victor, places a finger under Alina’s chin, lifting her head. She looks full into the headlights of his eyes. The smile that illuminates them comes from his whip-wielding, foot-stomping, flesh-tearing depths.

  “So? What would you prefer, my dear comrade Mungiu?”

  Alina’s hands dangle on the side of her body like the hands of a hanged woman. “I do hope you’ll pay me a visit next Tuesday. I’ll be expecting you eagerly for our weekly chat. Do you prefer a certain kind of cake?”

  The Secret Service man chuckles and opens the door. “We’ll see.”

  Alina moves to follow him, to pull him back, to tell him she’d give him anything he wants. From the threshold, she notices that all her fellow teachers are grouped in front of the door. She’s rooted.

  In the hallway, the bustle of pupils running on polished concrete fades as the two men walk toward the exit. Children scurry back into their classroom
s, even though the break has just begun.

  The other teachers slip by her into the break room. They sip their cold coffees in silence, their faces like cassettes with their tape pulled out, unwinding every bit of conversation they had with her in the past few years.

  Thursday morning, Miss Puiu bars her entrance to the break room. She tells Alina, “We thought you might enjoy your coffee more in your own classroom.”

  Alina receives a steaming cup she can’t grab by the handle, wrapping her hand around the container. The heat makes her fingers jittery, and she drops the cup. Coffee splashes on Alina’s shoes, her pantyhose, her coat. Alina kicks the shards, steps into her classroom. Sharp fragments lie in the hallway all day long like a poisonous snake nobody wants to touch.

  2. That Endless Middle

  The other man from the Secret Services, the bald one with his red nose and puffy hands, keeps asking questions: sharp, unyielding like so many knives chopping through her flesh.

  “So you’re insinuating that pupil Săpunaru is a liar? That the daughter of the Chief of Police is a fabricator?”

  An oniony smell from her own sticky armpits drifts toward Alina. “No, no, no. It’s just that she misinterpreted the situation. It didn’t happen as you think, as she thinks it did. She saw. She—”

  “I believe that a cross-interrogation with the other witnesses is necessary. What do you think?” says the bald man, glancing at Victor, who’s leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed.

  Victor shrugs. Since their arrival, he’s been as silent as a piece of furniture. He just glares at Alina, occasionally touching her under the table with the tip of his shoe.

  “No, no!” says Alina. “Not the children, not an interrogation, not at their age! Don’t you realize, they’ll have nightmares for weeks!”

  “Nightmares?” asks the bald man. “Why would they have nightmares? Would they have anything to hide? I say, we interrogate them here, or at Headquarters next week. Of course, I could leave this entire affair to my esteemed colleague.”

  Victor pushes the sole of his rubber shoe into Alina’s shin. She wants to pull her leg away, but the chair allows her to move only so much. She has no escape; she has to endure.

  “I prefer not to find myself alone with comrade Mungiu any longer,” says Victor. “There have been some complaints regarding my treatment of her.”

  “No, no,” she says. “It’s all a misunderstanding. Someone misunderstood.”

  The bald Secret Service man slams the file in front of him shut. “We have to go. We’ll agree on the further proceedings in the car, esteemed colleague.”

  The men rise to their feet, and so does Alina, in spite of the sharp pain in her calf where Victor’s shoe nested. The bald man walks ahead, Victor lags behind. He stops on the threshold, waiting for her to catch up.

  1. The Auspicious Beginning

  This Tuesday, Alina’s Secret Service man, Victor, doesn’t arrive. She waits for him until five, then gets out and buys whipped-cream-and-strawberry diplomat cake to celebrate. It’s delicious, and Alina has a sweet tooth today, so she even eats Liviu’s portion. She hides the smudged paper trail deep within the garbage can.

  On Wednesday, Alina is sipping her tea in the teachers’ break room when someone knocks on the door. Miss Puiu moves aside to let in two men with felt hats and long, dark coats. One of them is Victor. The other one is a bald man with a red nose. Poor soul they’re after, thinks Alina.

  “Comrade Mungiu?” says the bald man.

  Alina looks around. She sees raised eyebrows, wide eyes, puckered mouths: the expression of so many alterations in her colleagues’ perception of her. The break room will never be the same again.

  Alina wonders if this is about her husband. The teachers step out of the room. The bald man spreads his yellow file, as thick as a layered cake, on the table. He has to push aside dirty cups, half-filled with coffee. Victor seats himself and leans back in his chair. His body posture is relaxed—he seems to be at home anywhere she is.

  The bald man asks, “Comrade Mungiu, did you witness pupil Atanasiu bringing contraband items to school last year?”

  Alina stares into her nearly empty cup. The coffee grounds have arranged themselves in a pattern like angel wings, but dark. If she had been as skilled in reading the signs as her aunt, perhaps she would have been able to divine her fall.

  The Pinch—Take Two

  Tonight, Liviu pinches her buttocks again, when she stoops to gather the plates. He grabs her flesh between his fingers, twists, and pulls, clenching his jaws.

  Tonight, Alina slaps him. Liviu jumps up from his seat.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Don’t you touch me again!” she screams.

  He grabs her wrist. She jerks away, takes one of the plates from the table, and smashes it on the floor. Liviu jumps again, this time to avoid the angry shards coming for his shins.

  “Are you crazy? Those were a wedding gift!”

  “I’m so tired of this! Of you, of this, of you!”

  She grabs the second plate and flings it at the wall, like a Frisbee. Liviu cowers and covers his face.

  “Stop it!”

  “You stop it! Stop complaining and getting drunk but most of all, stop fucking pinching me!” she screeches. “I want out!”

  * * *

  Now Alina’s crying, face in her palms, blood dripping from the back of her hand. Liviu tiptoes between the shards and touches her shoulder.

  He says, “I want our life back, too.”

  “There is no going back, but we can’t live like this, either.” She uncovers her face, glares at him. When Liviu looks like he does now, his eyes a wet blue from all the tears he is holding back, his hair ruffled like the fur of a dog who has just gotten into a fight, Alina can’t imagine that she ever thought of deserting him.

  “No, we can’t live like this,” he says, and Alina wonders if he sometimes thinks of leaving her, too.

  She wants to get up and embrace him so hard until the possibility of them ever parting is squeezed out of their beings, until their skins melt into each other, the love-life equivalent of a bomb with cold fusion. But his hand on her shoulder pins her down and she cowers in herself, her core turning into something tiny and evil. She wants to confess her small betrayals, her thoughts of abandoning him, like a sinner asking for absolution, when Liviu says, “I’ve been thinking of something lately. But it might be dangerous.”

  Alina wipes a thread of snot with the sleeve of her dress and pushes his hand aside. She vanishes into the living room, and just as Liviu asks, “What’s wrong?” she returns with the radio.

  She places it on the kitchen counter and turns the volume up as loud as possible. It’s an old folk song about migratory herding and missing home. Alina leans close to Liviu’s ear.

  “I didn’t have the chance to tell you, but Aunt Theresa gave me an idea the last time I saw her. It’s been on my mind ever since. And now that you’re mentioning it, we might be actually thinking about the same thing.”

  A Comprehensive but Not Exhaustive List of Reasons for Asking for an Italian Visa

  1. “We’re trying to escape from this godforsaken country.”

  Though the truest of them all, nay, the only reason we want a visa, I doubt it would be a very good idea to tell this to the bureaucrats at the Italian embassy. Of course, we could play the pity card, but I’m not sure it would work. Plus, I’m sure that the Romanian Secret Services have ears there, too, and we wouldn’t want them to hear that we’re trying to defect.

  “No, no, no, this just won’t do,” says Liviu, leaning toward me.

  I ruffle his short blond hair, and he smiles. The radio is turned up so loud that I’m sure my neighbors from the ground floor can hear the wary commentator praise the peasants of Flăcărica for their production of grapes this year, covering the smooth bubbling of the tripe soup on the stove. As I tell him about my idea, my nose is in my husband’s ear. He smells of vervain soap and old books. I kiss the ti
p of his lobe and he chuckles.

  We first wanted to go to Germany—as we both speak the language—but because it’s so close to France and my brother-in-law Mihai, I doubt that Border Control will allow us to leave the country, even if we obtain the visas. Using a geography manual for fifth graders, we decided on Italy.

  In our fantasies, whispered in a low voice when we think nobody might be listening, Liviu’s face has new dimensions, conjured by the Italian sun. There’s a playful gleam starting in the corner of his eyes, wrinkled by the crooked smiles that remind me of the boy I met at Constanţa. It’s with this boy that I drink an espresso so oily and stiff that I’m afraid to stir it with my teaspoon, for fear that it might blow us up with the flavor. It’s this boy’s hand I hold as I stroll down a hallway in the Uffizi, and as I cross the Roman Forum. Which leads me to the next idea.

  2. “We’re going on a vacation. We’d like to visit Rome, and Ravenna, and Venice, and Milan, and Florence. Especially Florence.”

  This could work. Who wouldn’t like to vacation in Italy? The essence of lives lived long ago seeping through stones like the sweat of palms that laid them one on top of the other. The bodies those hands belonged to, eons ago turned to an amorphous mass of ash, prettier than what we’d become once the breath has gone from our shells of flesh. Another reason to want to live the dolce vita in the present.

  Liviu nibbles at a pink fudge cookie. “Traveling to the West for pleasure, with a brother who’s a defector?” He shakes his head. “We need something else. Something more serious.”

  “Like what?”

  I get up from my seat and stir the tripe soup. It’s almost ready. I head to the fridge to pick out two eggs and sour cream, for the finishing touches. As I walk across the kitchen, I lean my ear toward Liviu’s lips, to hear what he has to say.

  “Something scientific. Something designed to flatter the Party and the Regime. They might let us go, if they think we’re working for the fame and glory of the Motherland.”