PRAGUE MEMORIES
PROSE SERIES 70
GUERNICA
Toronto – Buffalo – Lancaster (U.K.)
2004
CONTENTS
Prague, New York
Prague Memories
PRAGUE, NEW YORK
On April 3, 1998, an ordinary blue Honda passing through the American customs at the Canadian border was stopped. The customs officer asked the driver to pull off to the right. The driver was a Canadian citizen, Martha Green. Her passenger, presumably a friend, was a Czech citizen, Alena Gazda. First, the customs officers thoroughly examined the car as if they were searching for something specific: drugs or guns? Then, Alena was asked to present her passport and was taken to an adjoining room for questioning. Martha was asked to sit and wait. No apologies were made. The men looked austere, their manner businesslike. Such procedure was familiar to Alena. She remembered the severity with which Czech citizens would be approached by men in uniform – police, customs officers – anyone with the authority to humiliate another human being.
A man in civilian clothes came in. He took her passport, studied the expiry date of her American visitor’s visa as well as her Canadian transit visa.
His cool, reserved, yet polite manner frightened her. The man was tall, handsome and aware of it, yet she felt there was something repulsive about him.
“So you are Alena Gazda?” “Yes.”
“When were you born?” “May 12, 1959.” “Where?”
“In Prague.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“Your husband’s name?” “Paul Gazda.”
“Your profession?” “Biochemist.”
“Oh, I see,” the man responded somewhat ironically, “that may be a useful profession in more ways than one.”
He chuckled, then checked himself and continued his matter-of-fact interrogation.
“Do you have children?”
“Yes, a girl, eight years old. Her name . . .”
“What was the purpose of your stay in the United States?”
That question put Alena on guard. She did not know what to say. Finally she answered:
“I came as a lady’s companion for a distant relative I had never met before.”
“Her name?”
“Clara Berg.
“My daughter is sick. She needs a sophisticated operation. A very expensive one. We contacted a specialist in the States and in Sweden. Both the operation and the convalescence are very costly.” She fell silent, regretting the outpouring of her emotions.
The man did not listen to her personal confession. He wanted facts.
“When did you leave Mrs. Berg?”
“I left on March 30th, at eleven, after serving her breakfast.”
“Was she alive then?”
Alena was shocked.
“What do you mean? Of course she was. She was her usual energetic self. She was doing her exercises at six o’clock as usual, had a big breakfast, was grumbling as usual.”
“And what happened then, Mrs. Gazda? For your information, Mrs. Berg was found dead by her janitor. The police are in the process of performing the autopsy to determine the exact cause and time of this lady’s death. Maybe you could help us to resolve this puzzle. So you claim that you did not know that she had died?”
Alena became pale. Her throat was dry, her heart racing.
“Jezis Maria, oh, God,” she said in Czech.
She could not imagine Clara dead. That woman seemed immortal, invincible, a tower of strength in spite of being eighty-one years old.
What day was it exactly and why were they questioning her in this dingy room? All of a sudden it seemed to her that she had lost the ability to express herself in English.
“I would like to speak to someone who speaks Czech,” she requested in a wooden voice, her face expressionless while she felt herself boiling inside. In the meantime, Martha Green was encouraged to continue her journey alone. Alena was allowed to take a bag with a few personal belongings. She was to be detained for at least a couple of days in Plattsburgh. Someone was to notify Czech Airlines and her husband in Prague of her delay without giving the reason for this state of affairs.
This is where I come in. My name is Miroslav Pešek. I have been in New York for only five months, working for the Czech consulate at a job with a rather vague job description. I am de facto l’homme à tout faire, but my main activity consists of serving as translator.
It was Thursday, the 3rd of April when my superior called me into his office.
“Mr. Pešek,” he said, “take our car and go immediately to the Plattsburgh-Canadian border. The officials there have stopped one of our citizens and they are interrogating her. She worked for an elderly woman who died suddenly, and some foul play is suspected, not to mention that she came here as a tourist but earned an income. The main worry is that she is suspected of murdering her employer. The whole affair stinks. Still, we want you to be as helpful to Mrs. Gazda as possible. She may be guilty but she may be innocent. The autopsy results are not yet available. The police are looking for Mrs. Berg’s will. The incriminating thing is that Mrs. Gazda is a biochemist, if you know what I mean.
“Still I don’t understand the motive for her crime, if there is any crime. Make reservations in the motel nearest to the border, for her and for yourself. We will have to notify the airlines and her husband about this. It’s a mess. Don’t forget to call us when the case is concluded; and may God help her.”
I drove as quickly as I could. It was about 9:00 pm when I arrived in Plattsburgh and I went straight to the motel where Mrs. Gazda was spending the night. At 8:30 in the morning after bad coffee and a big tasteless muffin, I was introduced to Mrs. Gazda. I was told to interview her in Czech and tape the interview, and then to translate it all into English. Her first words intimidated me. She said: “You are so young.” While it is true that I am only twenty-eight years old and don’t have a lot of life experience, this does not mean that I can’t understand the complexities of human nature.
Mrs. Gazda looked very tired and frail, with big green eyes and reddish hair tied into a braid, which gave her the look of a teenager. She was dressed very simply, and in her ears she had garnet earrings, the same as my sister used to wear. I was given a list of key questions to ask her and a man whose role was not explained to me sat in the background reading Reader’s Digest and occasionally checking to see if everything was all right. He provided the tape recorder and changed tapes when necessary. After a while I forgot about his unobtrusive but watchful presence.
Mrs. Gazda spoke from her heart, I could tell. She related the story as it really happened, I am sure. It was as if I hypnotized her. Maybe I got a bit over involved in my anxiety to prove her innocent and maybe I should not have asked about her past, but I was curious concerning the way other people felt about leaving Prague. I listened to her account with undivided attention, my second cup of coffee cold and bitter. This is what she said:
“I am not a well-traveled person, except for our trips to Bulgaria or Poland when we went to ski in Zakopane. We live on Vratislavova near Vyšehrad, which I think is the most romantic part of our beautiful city. You see, in Prague I feel a physical connection with every building. I think every cobblestone wants to tell me a story and I almost wish I could run barefoot to feel it. You can’t imagine how bewildered I was when I arrived in New York. Those high buildings made me dizzy. I always thought in Prague I could touch the stars; but in New York the sky is very distant and aloof. Sometimes I feel the roofs have dollar signs, that the dollar dictates, manipulates, mesmerizes everything and everybody. It certainly possessed me. Yes, I was possessed by money, which completely took over my life. Every Friday when Mrs. Berg paid me $350 I counted it over and over, then put it into my old box of Orion chocolates, caressed it, filed it in order according to denominations – ten, twenty, fifty – the bank notes lying there neatly folded like soldiers at attention. Yes, I counted every dollar many times, I don’t remember exactly, maybe I counted the money every day. I counted with the same bitter, furious passion with which I counted the days until my ordeal would be over. Sometimes when I counted, it seemed to me that I was short ten or twenty dollars and I was afraid that someone had stolen or misplaced it. I counted it again and again and I was sweating while doing so.
“One day I decided I would change the money into $100 bills but felt too intimidated to walk into the Chase Manhattan Bank which was close by. Finally I took my whole box, counted the contents, and took the elevator, but when I saw a tall and rather fat man enter the elevator with me, I panicked. What if he mugs me, what if something about me tells him that I am carrying almost 3000 dollars? So I stopped on the second floor, took the stairs up to the sixth floor, and quickly re-entered our apartment. Mrs. Berg, I mean Clara, was not home, thank God. It was not easy to call her Clara as she had asked me to. I always called her Mrs. Berg and it made her furious. I come from a family where good manners are important. We were trained to get up in the tram when an older person came in. Oh, God, why did I have to leave my beloved city? It is only when you are forced to leave somewhere or someone that you appreciate the place or person in a very special way. Yes, leaving Prague, my husband and my daughter, was like a small death. While I was in New York I was in a state of shock. But let me tell you about my life before New York, before Clara Berg.
“I told you, we lived on Vratislavova Street, where I was born, brought up and got married. 27 Vratislavova Street and I became as one. My parents were from the working intelligentsia (my mother a teacher, my father an engineer). We lived alongside the political events, but were not involved with them. When my father was asked to join the party if he wanted to keep his position, he did as he was told. My mother, who taught mathematics, was left in peace.
“There were four of us; I have an older brother who is a musician. He plays cello and practices at home. The neighbours knocked on our ceiling all the time, but they saluted us when they saw my brother playing in the orchestra of Smetanova Sin. We all loved weekends. Dad started building a country house near Jablonec and for years we went back and forth in our old Škoda, which was forever being repaired. I remember my father in his old clothes always fixing something. It was a common sight in Prague: people exchanging or buying precious parts for their old cars, or buying or perhaps stealing some building materials for their country cottages. I see them now, my father and his neighbours in their overalls drinking beer when they took a break from their work. The sight of men with all kinds of academic titles doing the work of plumbers and electricians inspires a feeling of nostalgia in me now.
“I did not know many heroes who would oppose the system and, quite frankly, I was surrounded by more opportunists than dissidents. To avoid party-line politics, people I knew did not go to the clandestine meetings, but to the nearest pub to talk to friends about their daily preoccupations. They enjoyed good music and went to the theatre. We had a life, we lived a full life even if it was not always a perfectly happy one. I miss the titillating, pleasant smell of mushrooms we picked in the country. I miss the fragrance of the apples and pears we found on the way to the cottage.
“I remember the cozy feeling of four pairs of slippers waiting for us in the entrance hall when we would come home. Slippers, the symbol of Czech domestic rule, the synonym for the lifestyle of every Czech family. This discipline concerning slippers was very helpful to me when I arrived in New York to work for Clara Berg. I felt very much at home when I saw a big sign on the door with an exclamation mark: ‘Take off your shoes, please!’ as if to say ‘Take off your shoes or else . . .’
“Let me tell you what my life was with Clara Berg. Well, it was very much doing everything she wanted or else . . . I wonder what would have happened if I had rebelled, if I had said no, opposed her, protested. You have to know that I am quite an esteemed scientist back home, contributing to prestigious journals, well-liked by my colleagues, my superiors or people who depended on me. I have a certain status there, a certain respect. My parents were well-liked too. In Prague I was known as the daughter of decent people who denounced no one, who minded their own business and, if it was not too risky, occasionally helped someone. I was respected as a scientist and as a person. I had good relations with my neighbours. We say hello, dobry den, to each other, and don’t pretend to look up at the ceiling to avoid eye contact when we find ourselves in the company of strangers in an elevator. I could always look into people’s eyes without shame and, I would add, even with pride. I belonged somewhere. I was someone, a wife, a mother, a Czech citizen, a citizen of Prague, the city where people become speechless when they see the beauty surrounding them.
“I came to New York in October. The building where Clara lives, or should I say lived, is located at 74th and Madison Avenue. A friend of Clara’s who was holding a carton board with my name on it came to pick me up at the airport. I was so afraid I might miss her that it spoiled my appetite on the plane. I was flying with Czech Airlines and I could see that some other Czechs were somewhat apprehensive about facing the unknown, and worried about the poor exchange of the Czech crown against the mighty American dollar. They were probably afraid that it would be too expensive for them to buy a good beer. I myself resisted the temptation to put a couple of cans of Pilsner in my purse. The tumult and commotion at the airport, the New York accent of Clara’s young friend, which I hardly understood, all this activity after a long trip gave me a terrible headache. There I was on a new continent, in New York of all places, in the very heart of this city, an elegant and rich neighbourhood. I entered the building where Clara lived, rang the bell downstairs for apartment forty, and heard a low, quite powerful, almost masculine voice: ‘Come in.’ At that moment all my European experience slipped into the irrelevant past.”
This outpouring monologue exhausted Mrs. Gazda, I could see that. She asked if she could retire because she had not slept the whole night. I didn’t blame her. I consulted the man in charge and he agreed to let her rest a little, provided I guarantee that she would not escape. “Escape? Why?” I asked naively. The man shrugged his shoulders and asked me to resume the interview in an hour. He went to eat a hamburger and fries at the nearest food stand of sorts. I followed him and ordered a hot dog. I was overwhelmed by the longing for a parky, a Czech hot dog. I felt that Mrs. Gazda might share the same feeling. I was sure of that, but reminded myself that I had to remain objective and not feel too much empathy with that woman. At the same time I became acutely aware of the importance of my mission.
What if I didn’t translate her words, the intention of her words, accurately enough? I became painfully aware of the power of words, the subtlety of words, the impact of words. One single word could heal you or kill you. After all, the verdict of guilt or innocence was a battle between death and life, was it not? It was a frightening responsibility. It would be enormously important to record everything and lose nothing in translation. When Mrs. Gazda appeared again I noticed that her eyelids were swollen and red. She looked as if she had been crying, but she sat down resignedly in front of me, and continued her story.
“The building where Clara lived was beautiful, I thought, like a small theatre: red carpet, an antique armchair, a little table with a lamp, and some fresh, rather than plastic, flowers. A few magazines and a New York Times were waiting in the lobby to be picked up by tenants. I was impressed that nobody had stolen them. Marble stairs led to each mysterious apartment. Clara’s apartment was not large. A living room was tastefully furnished with some good antiques: a couch, a table, and paintings of Clara on the wall, each from a different period in her life. One of them showed a nude beauty, her hair long and red. Clara’s friend had a key and she was the one who opened the apartment door. ‘Clara?’ she called while entering the small hall. A long silence followed. Finally Clara Berg appeared: a tall, well-built woman in a colorful gown, with heavy beads around her tired neck. She came up to me, embraced me warmly and with a somewhat theatrical gesture invited us both for herbal tea. Yes, she had a pleasing bedroom voice while I have a high-pitched one. Obviously an alto and a soprano can’t live harmoniously together when off-stage.
“That night I slept soundly, blissfully ignorant of my New York chapter to follow. My small room even had an even smaller window overlooking a fragment of the gray roof: a modern painting nobody understands but pretends to like. The sky was also gray, the colour of pollution and tension hanging over the city. Occasionally police sirens woke up the sleeping seniors.
“I had a map and specific instructions of where to shop for food, mostly natural products smelling of incense, honey and the chamomile tea my grandmother used to brew for me. In the morning after breakfast Clara would be picked up by a friend to go to her seniors aerobic class. Then she would have lunch somewhere, something light and non-fattening, of course. I had to run errands, buy some batteries, toilet paper, take letters to the post office. I had to clean the apartment before she returned and had to prepare a nice display of her favorite teacups, and make a cake because two of her friends were coming for tea. One of them was a gentleman caller.
“I like to walk along Madison Avenue, where every shop is a museum filled with aesthetic and inaccessible displays of luxury. A solo appearance of a black-and-white mini Givenchy dress, so lonely in a shop window, next door teacups with tiny blue dots. How long will they wait there before someone takes this cold porcelain into their warm hands? A bakery with oddly-shaped loaves, one with a symbolic olive, another with a cheerful raisin. I am very sensitive to smells. I find a small café, French style. I see the price of cappuccino: it would buy me an excellent meal in the pub on Vratislavova Street, at Three Kings. I have a little time for myself, a stolen moment because I work quickly and efficiently. I turn onto 70th Street to get a glance of The Fricks Museum. I want to inquire about the entrance fee but I am too embarrassed to do so. I see a flyer with information about opening hours, I see the entrance price, eight dollars. No, I can’t afford it; still, I can see some of the paintings and the furniture collection from a distance. Some people know how to live. I can’t resist going into the bookstore. So many books and so expensive. People are actually buying them. Amazing. Here I find a book on Prague. I wish I could buy it. I am trying to overcome the overwhelming temptation to take it with me. Steal it. Oh, God, what is happening to me?
“Since I bought plums on my own initiative, I make a plum cake, Czech-style, with a lot of fruits and a thin crust. I clean the so-called salon (Clara’s word) and follow all her instructions to the letter. I want her to keep me these nine months and be satisfied with my services; $350 a week for several months would almost pay for my daughter’s surgery. I put out four chairs: for Clara, her two friends and myself. I will not engage in conversation unless asked to do so, but it will be useful for me to listen to the refined English of her friends. Clara has friends who are interested in the theatre and art world and can afford the seventy-two dollar tickets. They speak so elegantly and eloquently, I often overhear them from the kitchen, but today she wants to introduce me as her distant relative. I put on my dark blue dress with the white collar and my elegant black shoes that I usually wear when we go to concerts in Rudolfino Hall. I try to organize everything smoothly so that I can serve the cake and tea and then sit down quietly and be introduced. ‘How do you do?’ I will say, or should I say, ‘How are you?’ Never mind. I hear someone entering the apartment. It is Clara and her friends. I was hoping to consult her about flowers but since she comes in with others I stand up in attention. ‘Oh, what a divine smell,’ says the elderly gentleman. He is dressed quite elegantly, but his shirt not very clean. I presume he lives alone, a widower or a divorcé, perhaps with no one to look after him. A lady friend speaks loudly about the matinée performance. ‘It was very cleverly done, wasn’t it? And quite funny too.’ I see the program in her hands: ‘Art by Yasmina Reza.’ I can’t help blurting out,
‘This play runs also in Prague.’
“Clara is taken aback by my daring behaviour. She sees the four chairs and red spots appear on her wrinkled neck.
‘Meet Alena, Alena from Prague,’ but she says it in such a dismissive way that the gentleman who probably wants to ask, ‘From Prague?’ remains silent. I serve tea and plum cake and then discreetly remove the fourth chair and with that gesture remove myself to the kitchen where I belong, a scientist in self-imposed exile. I feel like breaking all the splendid delicate china, but I don’t. I sit down at the small kitchen table, unable to swallow my favourite plum cake, drinking tea with no sugar, my eyes dry with humiliation and anger; stiff, rigid, unable to move until I hear: ‘Alena, could you please bring us another cup of tea?’ I put a kettle of water on to boil as I feel myself boiling inside. I see the blue sky through the small window tinged gray with smoke.
“In the evening she leaves me alone and I close my door quietly when I enter my territory. I don’t say my usual and polite, ‘Good night.’ I hear her doing something in the kitchen, maybe having another piece of my cake. She goes into her room and puts her TV on: I hear who killed whom, then she switches to some movie, and then the late shows, stupid, stupid shows. I am close to her bedroom, I hear some cries and whispers, the mumbling of this box which steals the possibility of intimate exchange and steals my sleep. I have to buy earplugs, but where? At the pharmacy? The hardware store? And where can I buy some peace?
“Finally I fall asleep, all dressed up in my blue dress. It is Friday. Clara usually pays me after breakfast. Today, too, she puts $350 in a used envelope. I prepare my little speech to confront her, but when she appears in the kitchen, her face covered in a special peach mask, she is terribly sweet and disarming. My anger becomes impotent. ‘How did you like my friends?’ she says cheerfully.
‘Very nice,’ I answer. ‘Alena, I would like you to wear slippers in the house, you know how precious my rug is to me, all right, darling?’ She kisses me on the cheek. The kiss of a rattlesnake. Then she continues to court me. My fury slowly subsides, dissipates; after all, at her age, she is entitled to some foibles. ‘Alena, I am taking you to the opera tonight, okay?’ ‘With pleasure, Mrs. Berg, I mean Clara, thank you.’ I am going to the opera! I am touched by her generosity.
“Maybe she had something confidential to discuss with her friends. Why am I so touchy?
“Today I perform my duties with a special kind of diligence and dedication. I rub the bathtub until my fingers ache and get red from Ajax, but it does not matter. I will see the Metropolitan opera tonight! My friends in Prague would have to see it to believe it. Clara puts on an evening gown and a mink shawl. I wear my blue dress and a ruby brooch my mother gave me. We walk to the bus on 5th Avenue near Central Park. Clara gives me a few twentyfive cent coins. How thoughtful of her. ‘You will see them ask me for proof of age, some drivers don’t believe I am over sixty-five years old!’ She giggles. She has a special glow about her, like a diva before a performance. She walks so proudly and urges me to walk upright: ‘Don’t walk like an old woman.’ So I straighten myself up. She holds my hand. We are two schoolgirls on an outing.
“The Metropolitan Opera is impressive enough, but nothing like the National Theatre in Prague, which takes you right into a glamorous past. Beautiful frescoes, exquisite paintings on the ceiling, windows overlooking the Vltava River with lanterns and lights like rainbows, bathrooms with golden knobs impeccably clean. Something so regal, so festive about it all. When we enter the hall of the Metropolitan, a man refers us to the standing area with a scornful gesture. She bought tickets for fifteen dollars. This is unbelievable! Why? We stand for a while next to some young students. When the lights are off, Clara spots two seats in the second row with her opera glasses. She takes my hand into hers, my palm sweating from fear, and like a queen sits down in an empty seat. I sit next to her, terrified that someone will arrive late and we will have to leave. That would be so embarrassing, so humiliating. I am too old for such tricks, but obviously Clara is not. She falls asleep at the end of the first act. What if someone comes after intermission? When the last notes of the opera are over I applaud vigorously, and so does she. ‘Oh, Clara,’ exclaims a young man. ‘It is going to be a beautiful weekend. We are throwing a party. Will you come?’ ‘May I come with my friend from Prague?’ ‘Of course,’ replies the young man. She called me ‘My friend.’ I have forgotten that she needs someone to drive her, which is in my job description.
“Every day is mostly the same for me except for my day off, which is not necessarily on Sunday. My husband Pavel bought me a Quartz Montine watch. He got it for me when he was in Geneva for just a few days. It is a very special watch. It shows European time and North American. Now it is 2:00 pm in New York and I know it is 8:00 pm in Prague. I would so much like to call home to hear their voices, but I can’t. It is costly and also Clara doesn’t want me to contact my family by phone. I worry a lot as my daughter Veruska has a very delicate stomach. Is my husband careful enough when he prepares meals for her? ‘Alena,’ I hear Clara’s voice in the hall interrupting my reverie. ‘I would like you to take this parcel to Helena. It is her birthday. Here is the address. Leave it with the watchman downstairs. His name is Norman. And give him a dollar.’ So I am a messenger. I am glad to fulfill this mission. The weather is pleasant enough and I walk through Central Park watching ambitious joggers, a couple of cyclists, a few Japanese tourists.
“When I return from my errand, I sit on a bench for a few minutes thinking that after all my life here is not so terrible. I smell something, a strong stench. A decomposing squirrel? I notice a green garbage bag which moves. I see a human hand and the head of a sleeping bum jerking in his sleep. I run for my life without turning back. New York: a pirouette of autumn leaves.
“Like a butler, I am supposed to take messages:
‘Residence of Clara Berg,’ I answer. All kinds of people call Clara. I am actually amazed how many, young and old. She can be very charming with her sexy voice that knows it all . . . I live in her house, wash her linen, yet know so little about her. About her private life. Was she married? Did she have children? I know her body well though. Almost intimately. It scares me to be confronted with the image of what I may be like, the mirror of what I will be like. Every morning I help her take a shower or bath. She tends to become dizzy and is afraid of falling when getting out of the tub. I assist her in this intimate ritual. I hold a big towel to wrap her imposing body and for a second it seems to me that she would like me to hug her. She is so vulnerable with her naked body prepared to die. I register the deterioration of her femininity: her hairless armpits and tiny, gray bush of pubic hair. I notice her hanging arms, like tired branches after an ice storm. She appears to be ready to be put into a coffin and she wants me to join her. I am a nurse, a witness of time itself getting old.
“The letters between Prague and New York take a week, sometimes more. I write home twice a week; Pavel responds to each and every letter. His letters are short and to the point, mine describe my discoveries of New York. I talk very little about my work or Clara. He writes to me that she phoned him once to reassure him that I am ‘a good girl.’ How patronizing. She phoned him, why? I feel like a little girl indeed, whose principal signs a report of acceptable behaviour. Does she consider this to be a charitable act?
“Clara considers herself a liberal, she votes for the Democratic Party, gives twenty-five cents to every bum, and fights to preserve the environment. She claims that New York is suffering a water shortage and that she, Clara Berg, will solve the problem. I am ordered not to flush the toilet after I go to the bathroom. This can be done only after every three or four times one urinates. For the sake of a healthy environment she does the same. The smell of urine pervades the bathroom and the hall. The smell of old age.
“I like to go down to the mailbox, my only contact with the outside world, in the hope of getting letters from Pavel. I bring letters, invitations, junk mail for Clara. At times, she is the one to pick up all the letters, inspect them and eventually pass them to me. Today I notice that one of the letters is opened. I am tempted to do the same with her correspondence. I find one of the letters addressed to me under her cushion. I don’t get enough sleep. The television is on until three o’clock in the morning. I tiptoe to Clara’s room. She is asleep. I turn off the TV. She snores, her mouth wide open.
“It is not only television noise that causes my sleeplessness. It is also anxiety about Clara’s mood the next day. The coffee is either too strong or not hot enough, the softboiled egg is either too hard or too soft, but just as I am ready to rebel, her humanity and charm emerge at the most unexpected moment.
“It is Saturday and Clara feels well rested. I admire her zest for life. Today when cleaning her cupboard I came across a box of photos. How beautiful she was! In one of the pictures she is with a boy and girl. Her children? I know her husband, or one of her husbands was of Czech origin, and his father and my grandmother were cousins. That I know. This is our connection. Sometimes she talks about me as a distant relative, sometimes a friend or housekeeper.
“Today she decided to take me with her to a party. I have to drive her there. She gives me directions. We arrive at a very nice house, almost a mansion, in Forest Hills. ‘Hi, how are you?’ Casual hugs, absent-minded kisses, conventional embraces. A crowd of mostly women flashing their diamonds and a few elderly gentlemen mill around carrying glasses of wine, chewing nuts with their dentures. Clara has her own teeth and is well-dressed, wrapped in a violet shawl à la Isadora Duncan. The colour matches her eyes. I notice a grand piano in the corner. I have no idea who these people are but they seem to have known Clara for a long time. I listen to their conversation, a glass of wine in my hand. I have to drive Clara home, so no more wine for me.
“Nobody knows who I am and nobody cares. I want to remain anonymous and invisible, otherwise someone will come and ask me: ‘How do you like New York?’ or ‘It must have been terrible to live under the communist regime.’ ‘Were you in prison?’ And I will have to restrain myself from answering, ‘Lady, I am in prison now.’ I sit myself in the corner near the piano watching the show, the mingling of bodies, the exchange of words floating around. Questions are asked, nobody hears or listens to the answers. Around eleven o’clock I am getting bored and restless; voyeurism is a tiring occupation. I go to the toilet, flush two, three times, to my heart’s content.
“I approach the piano. I don’t know where I got the courage, what possessed me, but I opened it and began to play. Just like that. My brother and I often played together and I have a natural ability to improvise. When I was a student I played in the Café Vltava in the evening, mostly Fridays and Saturdays. I know Gershwin’s songs well. I let myself go. I imagine myself at the piano bar in Pierre’s Hotel, my fingers frivolous, light, gay, daring.
“‘Who is that woman?’ I hear someone ask. Soon I find myself surrounded by a small crowd of people singing the tune. Clara approaches me as well and joins the others. I feel my cheeks are flushed . . . I feel visible all of a sudden. As I improvise the guests are becoming more jovial. People applaud. Like a Cinderella I stop, my hands freeze. It is 11:45. Clara stands very near me and announces in a loud and proud voice, ‘It is Alena Gazda, my cousin from Prague.’
“On the way home she is contemplative and silent. Did I steal the show from her? Or does having a talented cousin raise her stock in the eyes of others? New York by night beams with light and when I hit Broadway I see thousands of insomniacs like myself milling around, some without purpose. The smell of garbage, the smell of pot, the smell of French fries mixed with human sweat, ladies’ luxurious perfumes, something like smog coming from the city’s outlets, hyper, yellow taxis everywhere, police sirens announcing something ominous, black and white limousines picking up women and men from a nightclub, bums sleeping on the pavement. Somebody laughs, somebody cries: this is New York by night.
“Today is Thursday. I am going to the pharmacy to pick up Clara’s medication. I hear a woman shouting at an unruly little fox terrier: ‘Chodz tu, do diabla.’ Come here, you devil. That’s a Slavic language all right. I stop and say in Czech, ‘Dobry den’ and she answers me ’Pani ze Slowacji?’ You are from Slovakia? ‘Nie, jestem Czeszka.’ No, I am Czech.
“Czechs and Poles understand each other. At least as far as the meaning of words. We introduce ourselves to each other: ‘Alena Gazda,’ and she politely answers,
‘Maria Wronska.’ I tell her I am walking towards the pharmacy; she decides to walk with me, the four dogs taking up the whole pavement. She seems to have understood right away that we are in the same ‘profession.’ She is a companion to the blind lady upstairs who went on a holiday with her friends, all of whom have dogs which they left in Maria’s care. She does not mind. She is happy, a divorcée with one adult and happily married son, no problems, no obligations, just scooping the dog shit. She is a teacher of blind children, well-recommended, indeed. Maria asks me when my day off is and I tell her that I don’t know until the last minute. She is surprised. She gives me her phone number and invites me to come in the evening for a drink, maybe to listen to music, see a movie, go for a walk. She takes me as far as the Czech Center on
80th Street and Madison and encourages me to make contact with them. She sometimes goes there to see a movie. “The prospect of being with someone I feel comfortable with puts me in a cheerful mood. Do I have to ask Clara if I can go out in the evening, even if it is two floors up?
“It was so nice to spend this evening with Maria. We talked about our lives like two strangers who meet on a train. Outside the sky was red. I saw the skyscrapers because she lives on the sixth floor. It really gave me a feeling of belonging to New York, proud that I found myself in the very heart of this ugly beautiful city.
“I am vacuuming the bedroom. All of a sudden I hear someone entering the house. Is Clara returning early or is it a burglar? I run into the kitchen and instinctively pick up a huge kitchen knife with my nervous hands. My heart is pounding. I see a woman of about forty-five, a little overweight, dressed like a hippie. ‘Mother,’ she shouts,
‘Clara?’ As there is no answer she goes into the bedroom and manages to open, I don’t know how, a little drawer Clara always keeps closed. She takes out money but when she is ready to leave, I come out and confront her by merely standing there.
“‘Who are you?’ asks the woman.
“‘I am a housekeeper, Alena from Prague.’ Courageously I venture to say, ‘You took some money, Mrs. Berg may think I stole it. Please leave her a message.’
“‘Okay,’ she says unexpectedly. I give her a piece of paper. She writes: ‘Darling mother, I borrowed 700 bucks. I am sure you don’t mind. Esther.’ She waves to me and leaves, saying ‘See you,’ whatever that means. After Clara’s daughter leaves (I hope it was her) I am wondering why I did not invite her for coffee, why I did not talk to her. It was all so strange and unexpected. I decide to go shopping for food, so that when Clara returns and finds the note I won’t be here.
“That evening Clara does not put the TV on. I hear her sobbing. I can’t sleep. To realize that another human being is suffering makes me very uncomfortable. It is true that Clara’s attitude, her behaviour, her demands, her unpredictable, capricious reactions, her pettiness, how she treats me and torments me does not exactly endear her to me, but she is crying now and it is on account of her daughter’s mysterious visit. I feel sympathetic towards her. I wonder what my daughter will be like when she grows up. I hope she will undergo this operation as soon as possible. I remind myself that I have my own problems, my own life, my own responsibilities. She made her bed, let her lie in it. Her life is not my life, not my problem. I fall asleep. In the morning everything is as if nothing had happened. Clara interviews me: she asks what I did yesterday and when I went out. I give her a blow-by-blow description of my activities: I shopped for food, went to the dry cleaner, picked up shoes from the shoemaker . . . ‘That’s fine,’ she says. She calls a locksmith to change her locks. She gives me a new set of keys.
“Clara strains her ankle. We go to the doctor and she is confined to the house, and so am I. I remember the words of Madame from Genet’s play: ‘You treat me like an invalid. You are always ready to coddle me as if I were dying. Thank God I have got my wits about me. I am ready for a fight.’ It was supposed to be my day off, and I was supposed to go with Maria and meet another friend, but I have no courage to say: ‘It is my day off, Madam.’ Now that she is helpless we are joined by circumstance: a symbiosis. We are invited to Claire’s country house not far from New York. It is Claire’s 89th birthday and I suppose that is something to celebrate. I don’t know anyone who would live to such an age, back home. There are times, it seems to me, that the whole of Manhattan is populated by people over eighty, their living rooms crowded with pictures from the past. Their cupboards are filled with prescription drugs and dozens of bottles of vitamins, their conversation is mainly concentrated on their bowel movements and the exchange of advice on how to regulate this cycle. They are forever preoccupied with health food and names of doctors who will accomplish miracles, not only with their bodies but also with their minds. They talk about their symptoms when they meet and they call each other daily, cheerfully sharing the sad news of someone’s funeral, they leave messages describing their visit to the dentist, dermatologist, urologist or palm reader. ‘You know, Clara, I think Henry should get a new pair of dentures. Have you noticed how they move when he eats? I am sometimes afraid they will fall out. It is his gums. But maybe it is not worth it. He is so frail and old, really old. He will die soon.’ Going to a palm reader particularly amazes me. What is she telling them! ‘You will die peacefully in front of the TV watching Oprah?’
“Yes, I find it amazing how they believe in their future. I wish I were as confident about the future of my daughter.
“Why do they keep rebuilding, refurnishing their apartments? ‘Oh, I think we need to buy another lampshade,’ says Clara. We go shopping, looking for one. Clara’s friends buy expensive clothes to camouflage the imperfections of their bodies and search for cosmetics to cover the wrinkles on their faces, no longer their own as they have had one, two, three facelifts. I think Clara has had a facelift too. Her smile changes into a grimace, her grimace into a crooked smile. I find these wax figures fascinating, with their self-absorption as full and complete as their children’s lack of concern or interest. Esther, Clara’s daughter, has not come back or telephoned. Once I took a message from her son. ‘Tell my mother her son phoned.’ His voice seemed sad.
“Clara has a remarkable ability to recuperate. It is probably because she exercises regularly and encourages me to do the same. She wakes up at six o’clock to exercise with me. It is for my sake, but in reality she likes a companion or witness to her fitness. My schedule is full, the tasks so numerous, sometimes as absurd as cleaning silver over and over again. At times I forget about my family and the reason I am here, which is very prosaic: to earn money for my daughter’s operation. I find myself worrying less and less about the situation at home. I learn that after all nobody is irreplaceable. I am preoccupied with my own day-to-day survival, more than with my longing for Prague. Another day, another dollar. Distance dismisses the bonds of the past, loosens connections with loved ones. Priorities in feeling and suffering become different.
“New York, the appealing monster, embraces tourists, foreigners, refugees, legal and illegal immigrants, transients, rapists, burglars and other strangers. New York seduces and repulses them, inspires the best and worst in people, is hospitable, stingy, ruthless, indifferent. It gives the illusion of caring while it depletes your energy and empties your purse. It elates you during the theatre performance and depresses you when the curtain goes down because you paid seventy-five dollars for a ticket. It lures you and exploits you. New York is a black widow.
“I have butterflies in my stomach anticipating Clara’s outburst of displeasure. Like stage fright. I am not even capable of accepting her occasional kindness at face value. I begin to suspect that in the moment of her spontaneous generosity, and such moments do exist, she has some vested interest. In fact, I get suspicious when she is pleasant to me. I have lost weight and the capacity to enjoy my New York adventure. When Maria, my Polish friend, calls and invites me to her place on my day off, I accept gladly. With her I enter an entirely different universe, only two flights up to an atmosphere of harmony, in spite of Mrs. Wolf ’s handicap.
She has just returned from a holiday, the two dogs are happily reunited with their mistresses. Tristan and Isolda, the two dogs belonging to Mrs. Wolf, are equally happy. Tristan is getting old, lazy and blind. He accompanied and guided Mrs. Wolf when she began to lose her eyesight; now he is a victim of the same affliction. He is very close to Mrs. Wolf, almost her shadow. She wears dark glasses and stretches her hand out as if to embrace me. Her handshake is firm, warm, solid.
“‘Maria was telling me about you. I am so glad you could come on your day off.’
“‘It is a pleasure, Mrs. Wolf. Besides, I can’t say I am otherwise engaged.’
“‘But there are so many things to do in New York.’ “‘Yes, I know, but they are expensive and I am anxious to save as much money as possible. I am not here as a tourist or to entertain myself.’
“‘Yes, I know about your situation from Maria. Would you like something to drink? I have some very nice raspberry liqueur from France.’
“‘Thank you.’
“The three of us sit down on a comfortable couch with the dogs leaning against our legs. It is drizzling outside and gloomy in the apartment, so Maria decides to light a couple of candles. The social chat begins to focus on my life with Clara. Mrs. Wolf knows Clara, as they have been living in the same building for a long time.
“‘In New York, you are lucky if you get a nice and reasonably priced apartment. If you are old and can’t move . . .’ says Mrs. Wolf.
“‘Clara was married three times and all her partners were as eccentric and temperamental as she was, except perhaps for her third husband. Her daughter is from her first marriage, her son from the second. Both of them, however, got attached to her third husband, their stepfather, who adopted them; and when it came to a divorce, they were old enough to choose whom to live with, and they chose him. Clara felt terribly hurt but, at the same time, relieved. She was too involved with her own needs to do anything about it. She did not take advantage of her visiting rights either. Her daughter became a drug addict, although she could have had a brilliant career as a singer; her son, a successful businessman, has AIDS. In the meantime, their stepfather, who had adopted them, died of cancer. So you see, my dear Alena, this is not a pretty situation for an ailing woman her age.’
“‘But she is very fit,’ I protest.
“‘Good for her,’ said Mrs. Wolf. ‘Let us talk about more cheerful things.’
“The three of us have lunch together and I am impressed by the way Mrs. Wolf handles her fork and spoon and how elegantly she eats in spite of her blindness. I watch Maria discreetly cutting Mrs. Wolf ’s meat, and the caring manner in which she does it.
“I am jealous of their harmonious relationship, but after a few sips of liqueur I become, for the first time, relaxed and happy. I slowly begin to reconnect with people and life around me, rather than watching the colour of the New York sky from my window. I am determined to ignore the ugliness of Clara’s family situation. I am not here to get involved in anything. I am here to fulfill my duties and count my days and dollars which will open the doors of freedom to me.
“After the liqueur and the nice conversation, I feel like dancing a can-can.
“I leave Mrs. Wolf with a promise to return. Maria takes me by subway to Greenwich Village. It is Saturday afternoon. The convulsion of the train, the squeaking noise, is a New York lullaby for people going to work, returning from work. I look around me but I feel that people are avoiding eye contact. I see a colorful panorama of reluctant travelers from all over the world who have come here to improve their lot. They sit with their eyes halfclosed, yet on guard, the women clutching their purses, the young men watchful, ready to face any attack. All of us are moving to the rhythm of the subway train: a noisy, ruthless monster.
“Once in Greenwich Village I try to relax. Maria and I walk like two teenagers at an amusement park. People mill around. Two gay men kiss each other on the mouth; a man plays drums; not far from him a young man, who I assume comes from Russia, plays Bach.
“A crowd of tourists in curious shirts gather around him, and drop coins into his hat. Moved by the humble manner of the artist, I throw in twenty-five cents. We walk into various bookstores, arts and crafts shops full of enticing useless things. I am busy observing the street scene.
“Suddenly it begins to rain and we take shelter in an Italian restaurant. Maria invites me for pizza. I listen to people chatter, these nasal, North American sounds, and inhale the titillating smells of Italian cooking. I appreciate Maria’s gesture, she exemplifies the generosity of Polish people, but I contribute my share of the bill. I am surprised at how frivolous I feel and that I don’t mind spending fifteen American dollars!
“I suppose there is always a price to pay for feeling good. When I arrive home (isn’t it strange that I use this word?) I search for the entrance key but can’t find it. Luckily, I have a set of keys to Clara’s apartment, otherwise I would die.
“I wait for someone to come and open the door so that I can enter with them. I see someone opening the front door, but just as I try to sneak in with them, they close the door in my face. I don’t blame them; they don’t know me. I could be a thief.
“I don’t dare ring Clara’s bell because if I do she will know I lost the key. So I wait and walk the street outside my building; but it is getting late and I see no one. It begins to drizzle again. Maria has gone to see her other Polish friend, and I don’t want to bother Mrs. Wolf, but I ring her apartment anyway. There is no answer. She is probably watching TV, and would probably not respond to any call without previous warning. I don’t know anyone in the city; I become acutely aware of my predicament, my aloneness, my lack of a support system. I wish Maria were here now. Maybe Clara is home; but I know that on
Saturday she always has dates.
“It is 11:30. I will have to ring Clara’s bell after all. Just as I am ready to do so, I see Clara appearing in the hall.
“‘Oh, it’s you. Can you open the door, I don’t feel like searching my purse now.’ I pretend to look for the key, and say, ‘I am sorry, I can’t find it.’
“‘You lost it, you lost my key,’ she screams. ‘You are an irresponsible, frivolous person. How can I trust you!’ She hits me hard on the arm. ‘I treat you like a family member, I pay you well. I have to tolerate your presence day and night, your always depressed and depressing face, and you lose my key! Someone may have found it, and will come here to rob my apartment!’
“She is getting terribly excited. She probably had an unpleasant evening, her friends disappointed her, or she does not feel well and does not want to admit it. I put my hand over my arm to protect myself. I am afraid she might hit me again. I feel the blood draining out of my face, my legs paralyzed with pain, humiliation, fear and frustration that I can’t strike back at the old woman. It is against my principles, my education. I cover my face with both hands, and I see Clara’s face becoming redder and redder, almost purple. She goes rigid, and I notice urine flowing down her legs, leaving a small puddle on the entrance carpet. She freezes with shame, embarrassment and anger, I take her purse and look for the key. I open the heavy door, take her by the arm and push her gently towards the elevator, press the fourth floor, and open the apartment door. She runs into the bathroom. She takes a shower but does not call me. I stand behind the door, shaken by this incident, feeling a mixture of outrage and pity. I go into my room, shaking all over, tears streaming down my cheeks. The image of Clara urinating repels and frightens me. I know that she will take revenge because I was a witness to her loss of control.
“The next day Clara stays in bed and speaks on the phone to anyone willing to listen. She writes me a couple of notes and leaves them on the kitchen table: ‘Oil, oatmeal, Maalox (pharmacy), brown sugar.’
“I do the shopping and in the evening I call Maria. I suggest we see each other in a little Chinese restaurant on Third Avenue. We order wonton soup and I relate to her what happened.
“Maria calls her friend Cathy, who has her evenings free; another nurse’s aide takes over Cathy’s Alzheimer’s patient. Maria hopes that Cathy can recommend me to her employer. Cathy will come and join us to discuss the matter further. I become a bit anxious. Yes, Clara is unbearable, capricious, almost sadistic, but who knows what it will be like with the other woman. What I can’t admit to myself is the strange sense of loyalty I feel towards Clara, because of her being so utterly herself with me, acting out all her feelings, not pretending, not censoring anything. Cathy joins us. A young, radiant woman of thirty-five, very attractive, with a good figure, and dressed like a native New Yorker: expensive jeans with a casual but chic T-shirt. She says, ‘Hello.’ We speak Slav Esperanto, a mixture of Czech and Polish.
“‘It is unbelievable how she behaves,’ she says with the tone of a union member. ‘Housekeepers of the world – especially professionals from post-communist countries, Ph.D.s in chemistry, psychology – unite.’ I like her sense of humour. She asks me, ‘How much does she pay you?’ as if to evaluate whether my suffering and humiliation are at least well remunerated.
“‘$350 a week.’
“‘What a bitch, that’s nothing, I get a hundred bucks a day.’
“‘Yes,’ I defend myself instead of being militant, ‘but the nature of our tasks is different. After all, Clara does not have Alzheimer’s.’
“‘Yes, but she is crazy! Leave her. The average rate is $450 a week. She is taking advantage of you. She’s exploiting you. I will speak to Mrs. Rubin’s grandson; maybe he can hire you. Come on, girls. Let’s go and have a drink at the Marriott. I’m inviting you. Mrs. Rubin let me use her car. I will take you for a drive. Let’s go for a drive to forget about everything! Let’s conquer New York before it conquers us,’ she says dramatically. She is full of life and optimism, so bubbly, so sure of herself. She tells me that she goes to school at night to improve her English pronunciation. She graduated from the Warsaw Drama School and gestures like an actress. As far as I am concerned she has perfect diction when she switches to English to impress me. Almost no trace of a foreign accent. She dreams of auditioning for a role in an off-Broadway show, or for any kind of role, even for a commercial, anything, anything that will fill her purse and flatter her pride, her professional integrity, her human dignity, her feminine vanity.
“‘Look, Alena, you have to be strong here, you have to be assertive, otherwise people will not respect you, you understand?’
“She means well, but I feel she is treating me like a child and her advice makes me aware of my vulnerability, my insecurity, my ambivalence towards Clara. And I can’t help but think of those few times when Clara was charming to me. I feel that perhaps a honeymoon period will follow. And I ask myself: ‘Be assertive with Clara? Mission impossible.’
“Cathy continues her chatter: ‘I have another audition tomorrow, if they tell me that I have an accent I will tell them I don’t have an accent, you do.’ And she laughs wholeheartedly at her own joke. Her laughter is contagious and she drives like a madwoman. The lights magnify the grandeur of this city, so many cars, like black sharks, zoom by no passersby in sight. Cathy giggles, Maria makes sober comments about life in self-imposed exile. We are going somewhere, nowhere, the moon is full, the sky pink and crimson. We are aliens, serving this town, conquering it, feeling almost free in this empire of plenty.
“Clara’s silent treatment lasts for two days. The tension of this non-communication is less unbearable to me than it was at first.
“I overhear Clara’s conversations.
“‘I have confirmed reservations for Woody Allen at the Hotel Carlyle. Would you like to come with me? Yes, on Monday at eight o’clock.’
“I gather she calls all her friends about this extra ticket and conclude that she can’t find anyone to join her. That very evening she breaks the silent treatment and says:
‘I have an extra reservation for Woody Allen’s show. I would like you to join me.’ She does not invite me, she orders me to come with her and does not expect me to refuse. After all, I am at her disposal. I love Woody Allen’s movies and I would not say no; I want to see this amusing man up close. Something to write home about. That is an idiomatic phrase I’ve just learned.
“‘Don’t put your schoolgirl’s dress on,’ says Clara. She gives me a green cotton dress. I look like Indira Gandhi’s bodyguard in it, but I don’t protest because here I don’t care what I look like. In Prague I might meet a neighbour, bump into a colleague who might compliment me. In New York you could put a garbage bag on and nobody would notice. “The Hotel Carlyle is very close to our apartment. It is a cozy, elegant, small hotel with European chic and a very personal ambience so rare among the skyscrapers and huge hotels, which remind me of our laboratory. A French maître d’hôtel takes us ceremoniously to our seats, a small table for four. A young couple from France, real admirers of New York and Woody Allen, carry on a friendly conversation with Clara, who speaks French well enough. I don’t quite understand the fascination of French people for New York. Is it their snobbery, or the ugly-beautiful aspects of this city? Are they impressed by its wealth? Its pockets of unbelievable poverty, smell and filth? The striking contrasts between svelte, elegant women and obese, ugly ones? The businessmen who rush to work in their Hermès ties? Or the balding ex-hippies and flower children? Do they like the huge portions of everything: croissants, hamburgers, pretzels, all tasting like chewing gum? Or the white bread sandwiches that look and taste like a sponge? What is it that turns the French tourists on? They can’t even flirt here, because if they did they might be accused of sexual harassment.
“The show begins. We are quite close to Woody, who plays the clarinet. The music is pleasing to the ear: New Orleans jazz. Woody is in a casual but elegant shirt, his skin is white, he is a city boy all right. He obviously loves New York. He can have a meal at midnight here. He concentrates on his playing, appears polite and shy. People stare at him, they are here for him, and I am here for him, watching him with admiration, aware of his celebrity, conscious of his talent as he himself is.
“During the days to come I try to be as detached as possible. Almost like a robot, I perform my duties. I am a disappointed, bitter nurse. Alert, suspicious. I begin to spy on Clara. I listen to her telephone conversations. ‘Yes, of course, my darling . . . ’ What a hypocrite she is. An actor of the best kind.
“Finally, at last, I am able to say it, to spell it out: I hate her. I stand in front of the mirror with her beads, bracelets, all ready for some kind of satanic ritual. I stand in front of the mirror and say it as loud as I can: ‘I will get even with you!’ I go to her room and find under her cushion an opened letter addressed to me.
“‘Dear Mrs. Gazda, Further to your request and the doctor’s diagnosis we are willing to operate on your daughter . . . We are willing to assume the costs of the operation . . . You will have to assume the traveling expenses and post-operative care . . . Looking forward to your reply . . .’
“The letter is from the Shriners Hospital in Montreal.
“I feel faint. God, how could she hide this letter from me, to keep me as a slave here, I suppose. I have to leave, I have to leave immediately. I will take the bus to Montreal, or maybe Martha Green is in New York and will take me there. She comes often to attend to her sick father.
“I call her father and find Martha there. Yes, she can take me with her on the third of April. She will pick me up tomorrow at seven. It all seems so simple. I begin to pack my things. I have accumulated quite a bit of clothing that Clara has given me.
“When Clara comes back at night I pretend to sleep. I get up at 5:00 and am preparing my exit. I hear Clara’s steps. She is coming to see me. Why? I left the letter under the cushion, took only the address of the hospital. I must leave.
“‘You are an early-bird today, aren’t you? Would you like me to make a cup of tea, now that you are up?’
“I prepare her tea. My hands are trembling.
“‘What is the matter? You don’t seem very happy.’
“‘I have my reasons. There is one reason in particular. I found a letter addressed to me from the Shriners Hospital, under your cushion.’
“‘Oh, did you?’
“‘You don’t care, do you? I have been slaving for you, attending to your needs, accepting your moods, tolerating your craziness!’
“Clara sits down in her chair. I face her now. She begins to fidget nervously.
“‘You are the most unfeeling person I have ever met, the most selfish, the most narcissistic. No wonder your own daughter steals from you to buy drugs. No wonder your son has no use for you. I am leaving. It is my day off, Madam.’
“Clara sits there motionless and speechless. I take my things. I slam the door behind me. I don’t turn around. The silence without a goodbye is oppressive. Clara is still mute. What can she say? Nothing.
“The curtain goes down.”
“When Martha arrives I am calm and collected. Until I arrive in Plattsburgh.”
On April 6th, the man who spoke to me a couple of days ago enters the room. He turns to me and Miroslav Pešek. “You are free to go, Mrs. Gazda. It was determined that Clara Berg had a heart attack. She died a natural death.”
When I take a bus to Montreal, Miroslav embraces me. He is astonished to see me cry, and so am I. As the bus begins to move and I hear the song “New York, New York,” I am overwhelmed with guilt, remorse, a strange sense of loss, a bizarre feeling of tenderness for Clara, whom I did not know, whom I did not see. Now, I know that words can kill. I am a criminal, but no one knows this except for me. The Canadian customs officer wishes me a good trip