Fresh Mint with Lemon Read online

  Vadim looked alternately at Patricia’s face and at the picture of the blade of grass. He saw how the blade in the painting trembled, shaken by the wind; in the end the blade snapped. Vadim looked at it, eyes agape: how could it snap if it was fragile but flexible? But so it was: it was dead.

  He turned to look at Patricia: an expression that was both offended and inaccessible was engraved on her face. What happened? he asked himself. What in God’s name has happened to us? Then, he remembered that he had woken up that morning with the image of the red turban of Ali Baba, who led the procession of his forty thieves with their white turbans, and that he had been looking forward so very much to seeing his Ali Baba, that he had answered the e-mail before he’d finished reading it … when he thought about all this, it seemed impossible that this woman would now throw him out using her professional obligations as an excuse. Why, just a while ago, just a tiny moment ago, she said love was the most important thing in the world … And not very long ago she had brushed her fingers over his cheek, he still felt them there …

  He looked at her. No, none of that had taken place. The only important thing in her life was the Dutchman from Maastricht. Painting. Paintings. I paint. I have painted. I will paint. I will always paint, and I will only paint. He felt a burst of self-pity. He had to leave. His father needed him. At work they needed him.

  TWO GODDESSES AND ONE PEAR

  “Come and have some tea, guys! We have fresh mint with lemon, for a change!” Radhika said, laughing. All she wore was a little orange towel and a much larger towel of the same color wrapped around her head: a turban. Automatically, Vadim imagined a pair of white lace panties hanging, sad, in the bathroom.

  A blue teapot sat proudly upright on the table; on several platters, fruit and cookies were laughing. Patricia thought: Oh! But this is my image of family happiness! A yellow pear presided over the rest of the fruit on the tray: it was trying to take up all the space, by forcing the blue and green figs to leave, so that it and it alone could be admired. Patricia saw all this, but her eyes were not happy.

  “Vadim, do you feel like a pear? Yesterday you sniffed at it, and today you can eat it,” Radhika said by way of invitation, and she winked at him so that he would notice the ambiguity of her words.

  “The last pear. This year there have only been six, but what pears!” Patricia said, unaware of her friend’s mischievousness.

  Vadim blushed. He stared at the tray of fruit and saw how the thick branches of a fig tree began to grow there, and also saw himself, whistling a tune and, in the evening, stretching himself out while looking forward to the following day, full of sweet inactivity. He took a fig.

  A fig, like in my daydream, Patricia thought. All that’s missing is the kitsch sunset. She said, “Radhika, this gentleman has left us the last pear of the year. Shall we divide it up?”

  “Pears can’t ever be divided up. They’re like apples. Imagine if Paris had given a third of the golden apple to each of the three goddesses who came to ask him to judge which one of them was the most beautiful. No, apples and pears are not for dividing up. Do you want it?”

  “Yes, but …”

  “Me too. So our Paris will have to choose which one of us has it.”

  Radhika looked at Vadim, challenging him; he blushed and with his half-closed, almond-shaped eyes, continued to focus on something in the fig.

  “Raisins and figs and honey and cheese,” Patricia started singing a local folk song, “panses i figues i mel i mató.” She thought of the haiku that Vadim had recited in her studio a moment ago, and her voice broke up. No, no need to exaggerate, it only cracked a tiny little bit. A blade of grass and a dragonfly … she said to herself. What has happened? Why haven’t they been able to … she asked herself.

  Vadim heard that broken blade of a voice and longed to hand her the golden pear of Paris’s judgement, adding a few figs in as an extra prize, and serving everything with the fresh mint and lemon that was in the teapot. But then he remembered … he remembered the white, transparent panties, which were supposed to be used for something completely different than being hung, sadly, in the bathroom. And he also thought about the Dutchman from Maastricht … he could almost see him right there in front of him: he was coming into the living room with a piece of yellow cheese under his arm; and the cheese was full of holes. Vadim saw all that, and stayed where he was, without moving.

  From the depths of his sadness and self-pity, he heard Radhika’s nasal voice reading aloud histrionically from a thick book, an encyclopedia, maybe …

  “… Paris, Trojan hero, son of Priam and Hecuba. Abandoned on Mount Ida because of omens, he was brought up by shepherds. Chosen by Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite to decide who was the most beautiful of the three, he gave the famous apple of discord to Aphrodite, who promised him the most beautiful woman in the world, Helen, wife of Menelaus. Then he went to Sparta, and kidnapped Helen, thus starting the Trojan War. He fought with Menelaus, slew Achilles with an arrow, and was killed by Philoctetes …”

  Radhika raised her eyes from the book and winked at Vadim. “Well, now we know which goddess the young shepherd gave the apple to. But which of us shall receive the pear? Will you tell us, Paris from the city of the midnight sun?”

  Once again Vadim saw, in his mind’s eye, a pair of luxurious panties, made of fine, white lace, that hadn’t been purchased with the idea of hanging them up on the bathroom wall. And he felt Patricia’s fingers, which had burned his cheeks the other day.

  The eyes of the two women were fixed on his lips, although each was saying mischievous words to the other, in order to hide their excitement.

  “Any man worth anything would choose love, that is, Aphrodite, the way Paris did,” Vadim said, evasively.

  “There are many men who would prefer to do some good during their lifetime, to do their part for the happiness of mankind,” Radhika said, in an irritated, sententious tone. Again, she reminded him of his Marxist-Leninist teacher.

  “Yes, and there are also some who would prefer power, glory, or a military victory to love, but they are twisted people,” Vadim said, his voice mocking. “I’m talking about real men.”

  “I don’t believe you, you’re not right, and I won’t listen to you,” Radhika, said, but she went on listening.

  Vadim thought of Prince Myshkin, Dostoevsky’s idiot, who also had to choose: Nastasia Filipovna, or Aglaya? The prince was uncertain, he didn’t express his choice, although deep down one woman attracted him more than the other. He didn’t make a decision, he hurt both of them, he lost both of them and made both of them unhappy, as well as destroying other people. And himself above all, let’s not forget it!

  Vadim realized that he was explaining all this aloud. The two women were listening to him carefully. In silence.

  “Well, so give us the pear, we want it,” Patricia said, when the silence went on for a little too long, “Give it to Radhika, I don’t care.”

  “What don’t you care about?”

  “Give it to Radhika. Radhika is prettier. That’s obvious …”

  “There are different kinds of beauty. Once there was a cripple …”

  “So I’m a cripple,” Patricia said, laughing, with her mouth full of figs. Well, she didn’t exactly laugh, rather she tried to simulate a spontaneous laugh, but she did so fairly well and Vadim didn’t realize that it was just an attempt at being happy. He was too concerned about the slip he had just made, about his lack of tact.

  “Well, the truth is I’m not a very tactful person, that’s certain,” he said, blushing, “Once there was a cripple who was so wise, so extraordinarily wise that everyone thought he was handsome. They simply couldn’t see how ugly he was, to the extent that his more important attributes completely hid his deformity, attributes that turned the cripple into a man who was considered handsome.”

  Vadim felt that he was getting himself into a twist, and his face became redder and redder. But now he couldn’t go back. So he went on, “I can’t give the pear
to Radhika because you, Patricia, are not only beautiful,” his words were out of control and he was sweating; damn! he cried out mentally, in disgust, “but you are also an artist, a creator. And according to what Radhika has read, Aphrodite is not only the goddess of love, but also the deity of creative energy.”

  “Yeah, but who gets the pear?” Radhika said, mocking him; her voice barely concealed her growing boredom.

  “Both of you have a little of Aphrodite and a little of other goddesses. You, Patricia, are also Athena, the goddess of wisdom. And Radhika is also Athena, when she plays the role of the goddess of war. And also,” Vadim was perspiring freely, disgusted by his inarticulate speech, but the more he stumbled and the more he sweated, the more tempted he was to go on speaking, “Radhika, moreover, has something of the Indian goddesses, those who represent the essence of femininity, in its purest form,” he said, and the panties remained hanging in the bathroom; he saw them there, abandoned, useless, pathetic.

  They heard the engine of a car that was getting closer, and then the banging of a door.

  “We have visitors,” Radhika announced.

  Vadim saw that she was pleased to be free of the tedium of the rather tense scene, which had clearly irritated her. It went on and on, like a piece of chewing gum, without going anywhere, he thought.

  “That must be the Dutchman from Maastricht, Pat.” Radhika laughed. “He’ll have red cheeks, white teeth, and blue eyes.”

  “And he’ll give us a piece of cheese, and we’ll have it for supper. The cheese, naturally, not the man. Or maybe the man too. Will you stay?” Patricia asked Vadim. “Probably not, right?” she added with an ironic smirk.

  This time, Vadim didn’t realize that her sarcastic smirk was a mask she used to hide her disappointment, sadness, and the bad taste in her mouth.

  Vadim wasn’t listening, he was irritated, in a bad mood. He felt Patricia’s eyes on his face.

  “I’m leaving, I’ve bothered you long enough. And you, Patricia, have work to do,” he added, and got up quickly when he saw her smirk, which he interpreted as simply ironic.

  The Dutchman was a dark-featured, good-looking man. He had eyes that were like slits, which made him look as if he was trying to suppress a laugh or about to tell a very funny joke.

  On his way out, Vadim said hello to the Dutchman. And he felt that the atmosphere was now fresher, and almost more luminous than before. After saying hello, the newcomer began looking at one of paintings of white petunias, while whistling an aria from Verdi’s Aïda. Vadim didn’t have time to see if he was carrying a piece of gouda cheese under his arm.

  Through the open window, he could still hear the nasal voice of Radhika, who was saying to her friend in a taunting voice, “He’s a nice man, but for us … hmmm … too candid.”

  The other voice, darker, answered back, “Candid! What a euphemism! He’s a fool.”

  The laughter of the two women bubbled out of the window and soon flooded the whole countryside. Vadim floated in its waves, which threatened to drown him, like Noah in his ark on the waters of the Flood.

  * * *

  Slowly, dragging your legs, you move down the dusty path, making your way through the semi-shadows. From the window, you can still hear Radhika’s nasal laugh, still accompanied by the trembling of the other laughing voice. This laughter, at first timid, and then more and more spontaneous, belongs to the voice that is so dear to you. And the broken blade of grass that you heard in her voice earlier, is that still there? you ask yourself. Yes, it is, you search for it, and the force of your desire ensures that you end up finding it.

  The laughing feminine duo accompanies you through the twilight. You go into your boardinghouse and you still have the impression that you can hear those two women roaring with laughter, and you can make out two open mouths and four rows of white teeth. Hahahahahahaha! shout the walls around you while two heads with separated lips sway back and forth … hahaha … You switch on the computer to stop hearing the laughter of these women, which is making your room shake.

  There is a new e-mail that you have been waiting days for, from Petersburg. “Come back as soon as you can!” your friend Boris writes. Work, your father … he says. You decide immediately: the day after tomorrow, in Barcelona, you will catch the bus that will take you northward. You have to go home. You can’t afford to lose your job. And your father … there, in the basement, in that nightmare world where, among dozens of cobwebs, your father dreams of Zlatovlaska … Your father, a reluctant drunk. Your father. A drunk. You shiver. And compassion fills your eyes with tears. You don’t know it yet, no, there’s no way that you can know, that when you get back you will not go and see your father …Your pain becomes unbearable, and you try to think about something else.

  Tomorrow! Tomorrow is yours!

  Tomorrow you will go to the house with the garden of cypresses to say goodbye. Just to see that sunflower hair again! To hear, one more time, the broken blade of grass in Patricia’s voice, to feel for the last time, her palm against your cheek!

  * * *

  Click-click-click. The pedal of the sewing machine moves in waves. Sergei’s eyelids are getting heavy. The last purse, for today. It is starting to get light. It must be nine o’clock. His wife is breathing regularly on the mattress. Sergei gets up quickly. He takes advantage of his wife’s deep sleep to help himself to a little glass of vodka. But then he stops himself and sits back down in front of the sewing machine. Click-click-click. Little by little. He hopes they won’t hear him. All he has to do is pay his debt and he’ll be free. He’ll go to Prague. He wants to solve the puzzle. The mystery of the child with the stone in his hand. What happened that day? Did the tank run him over? What should he, Sergei, have done? Jump on top of the driver? That’s enough!

  Was that how it was? In hindsight, he thinks so. He can’t think about anything else. That’s enough! Enough!

  His wife wakes up. She comes over to him, half asleep. She puts her hand on his head. Then she drags herself, with her worn-out slippers, over to her chair. She picks up the knitting needles, the ball of wool is on her lap. Sergei watches her. His eyes are starting to close.

  He is daydreaming. He looks at the trembling flame of the oil lamp and imagines a summer storm. Zigzagging lightning flashes, the thunder; little Vadim hides under his blanket, he’s afraid.

  What is the sun? Sometimes he looks, through a gap in the window, but that hurts his eyes. The light, the seasons … he imagines them from his eternal land of shadows. In the trembling of the flame of the oil lamp, he sees a bright summer’s day. And when he drinks, Zlatovlaska visits him.

  The flame of the oil lamp trembles. Sergei hears a series of gentle, metallic taps. Tick-tick-tick-tick. His wife is knitting. Making socks, perhaps, for him. Can she see what she’s doing? He beckons her to sit closer to the oil lamp, and to himself. She does so, happily. How can he forget about her so often? In the end, she’ll be like a piece of furniture. Now he takes hold of her elbow. It makes him feel strange: her elbow is so fragile! He feels moved. His wife smiles, surprised. And he realizes that the fabric of her blouse, which he can now feel between his fingers, this fabric is the same as the kind she was wearing then. A long time ago, when they started to go out together. When they were students. It is the same blouse! When she was a girl, she often wore it. Yes, she often wore this pink blouse with white flowers!

  In the distance he hears footsteps, someone is walking with effort through the mud. The snow must have melted. They’re still a long way off, those footsteps. He must turn off the oil lamp. But first, another sip of vodka! From the bottle. There is no time to go and get a glass. Three, four sips. One more. And the last one. Good. Now Zlatovlaska will surely come and see him!

  … AND THE DRAGONFLY RESTS

  The following morning … the sneakers, the backpack, and there you are, walking beneath the implacable sun. How much time will pass before you see them again? A dark mood comes over you: maybe half a year, maybe a year, maybe more. B
ut, as you go on walking, your disillusion gradually vanishes. The choir of singing crickets makes you optimistic. The next time, when you come back, then you really will dedicate yourself to the monograph you planned to write about her. Today you will whisper this into her ear in the stillness of her studio. And after having told her … afterward … in your head an orchestra booms, playing Beethoven’s Dadadadaaaa! Dadadadaaaa! because … because after, you will embrace her, yes, today, yes! In your mind’s eye you can see her hair, teeth, lips … But also Radhika, wrapped in a little orange towel that barely covers anything, that Indian goddess with a body like a stretching leopard. You will embrace one of them and out of the corner of your eye you will watch the other as she takes off her white lace panties and hangs them, together with the towel, in the bathroom, so that your trembling fingers will meet no obstacles when they decide to discover everything that a short time ago was timidly hidden beneath the orange towel … God! You wipe your hand across your forehead.

  On the path, before you can see the white house, you sit under a tree. You want to rest for a while, rest quietly in the shade and admire the vineyards bathed in the apricot-colored light … You still feel the palm of Patricia’s hand on your cheek. It is for you that she has changed, it is for you that she has stopped living imprisoned in the armor-plating and mask of a successful painter. What more can she offer you?

  What more can she still give you? you say to yourself with a smile of well-being and you stretch yourself under an olive tree, resting your head on your backpack. Patricia. She gave you your journey, your path. The path that leads nowhere, like the tracks through the fields, like the trails made by woodcutters, that, when you least expect it, vanish into the trees. And, suddenly, you know you will never write the book. Why? You don’t want to make a career for yourself, you don’t long for success. You don’t want what happened to your grandfather to happen to you. Only tall trees are cut down, the short ones, which don’t have much wood, are not useful. You don’t want what happened to your father to happen to you. You want to dream. Nothing else. Isn’t that enough?