On one of her visits to me, she gave me a red sweater, a red skirt, and a round clay tile for baking bread. She took a picture of me wearing the red sweater and the skirt. I think the last thing she gave me was those little white seals with perforated backs. They’re filled with charcoal, which is supposed to absorb odors. You put them in your refrigerator. I guess she thought that because I live alone, my refrigerator would be neglected and smell bad, or maybe she just thought that anyone might need this.
When did she leave the tartar sauce? You wouldn’t think a person could become attached to something like a jar of tartar sauce. But I guess you can—I didn’t want to throw it out, because she had left it. Throwing it out would mean that the days had passed, time had moved on and left her behind. Just as it was hard for me to see the new month begin, the month of July, because she would never experience that new month. Then the month of August came, and he was gone by then, too.
Well, the little seals are useful to me, at least they were seven years ago. I did put them in my refrigerator, though at the back of a shelf, where I wouldn’t have to look at their cheerful little faces and black eyes every time I opened the door. I even took them with me when I moved.
I doubt if they absorb anything anymore, after all this time. But they don’t take up much room, and there isn’t much in there anyway. I like having them, because they remind me of her. If I bend down and move things around, I can see them lying back there under the light that shines through some dried spilled things on the shelf above. There are two of them. They have black smiles painted on their faces. Or at least a line painted on their faces that looks like a smile.
Really, the only present I ever wanted, after I grew up, was something for work, like a reference book. Or something old.
Now there’s a lot of noise coming from the café car—people laughing. They sell alcohol there. I’ve never bought a drink on a train—I like to drink, but not here. Our brother used to have a drink on the train sometimes, on his way home from seeing our mother. He told me that once. This year he’s in Acapulco—he likes Mexico.
We have a couple of hours to go, still. It’s dark out. I’m glad it was light when we passed the farms. Maybe there’s a big family in the café car, or a group traveling to a conference. I see that all the time. Or to a sporting event. Well, that doesn’t actually make much sense, not today. Now someone’s coming this way, staring at me. She’s smiling a little—but she looks embarrassed. Now what? She’s lurching. Oh, a party. It’s a party—in the café car, she tells me. Everyone’s invited.
Learning Medieval History
Are the Saracens the Ottomans?
No, the Saracens are the Moors.
The Ottomans are the Turks.
My School Friend
story from Flaubert
Last Sunday I went to the Botanical Gardens. There, in the Trianon Park, is where that strange Englishman Calvert used to live. He grew roses and shipped them to England. He had a collection of rare dahlias. He also had a daughter who used to fool around with an old schoolmate of mine named Barbelet. Because of her, Barbelet killed himself. He was seventeen. He shot himself with a pistol. I walked across a sandy stretch of ground in the high wind, and I saw Calvert’s house, where the daughter used to live. Where is she now? They’ve put up a greenhouse near it, with palm trees, and a lecture hall where gardeners can learn about budding, grafting, pruning, and training—everything they need to know to maintain a fruit tree! Who thinks about Barbelet anymore—so in love with that English girl? Who remembers my passionate friend?
The Piano Lesson
I am with my friend Christine. I have not seen her for a long time, perhaps seventeen years. We talk about music and we agree that when we meet again she will give me a piano lesson. In preparation for the lesson, she says, I must select, and then study, one Baroque piece, one Classical, one Romantic, and one Modern. I am impressed by her seriousness and by the difficulty of the assignment. I am ready to do it. We will have the lesson in one year, she says. She will come to my house. But then, later, she tells me she’s not sure she will be returning to this country. Maybe, instead, we will have the lesson in Italy. Or if not Italy, then, of course, Casablanca.
dream
The Schoolchildren in the Large Building
I live in a very large building, the size of a warehouse or an opera house. I am there alone. Now some schoolchildren arrive. I see their quick little legs coming through the front door and I ask, in some fear, “Who is it, who is it?” They don’t answer. The class is very large—all boys, with two teachers. They pour into the painting studio at the back of the building. The ceiling of this studio is two or even three stories high. On one wall is a mural of dark-complexioned faces. The schoolboys crowd in front of the painting, fascinated, pointing and talking. On the opposite wall is another mural, of green and blue flowers. Only a handful of boys are looking at this one.
The class would like to spend the night here because they do not have funds for a hotel. Wouldn’t their hometown raise the money for this field trip? I ask one of the teachers. No, he says sadly, with a smile, they wouldn’t because of the fact that he, the teacher, is homosexual. After saying this, he turns and gently puts his arms around the other teacher.
Later, I am in the same building with the schoolchildren, but it is no longer my home, or I am not familiar with it. I ask a boy where the bathrooms are, and he shows me one—it’s a nice bathroom, with old fixtures and paneled in wood. As I sit on the toilet, the room rises—because it is also an elevator. I wonder briefly, as I flush, how the plumbing works in that case, and then assume it has been figured out.
dream
The Sentence and the Young Man
A sentence lies exposed to public view, in an open trash can. It is the ungrammatical sentence “Who sing!?!” We are watching it from where we stand concealed in a shadowed archway. We see a young man walk past the trash can several times, eyeing the sentence curiously. We will stay where we are, for fear that, at any moment, he will reach in quickly and fix it.
dream
Molly, Female Cat: History/Findings
Description: spayed female, calico
History:
Found in early spring at roadside curled up against snowbank
Age at time of adoption: approx. 3 yrs
Likely abandoned by previous owners
Confined to bathroom during first week
Would not eat for one week in new home, but played actively in confined space
Skin/coat: Inflamed/irritated around neck
Parasites: flea dirt found
Allowed to run free outdoors after adoption
Keeps owners company in vegetable garden
Nose/Throat: no visible lesions
Eating well, dry food
Hunts small birds, but was not able to retain grip on large blue jay
Broken tooth: upper right canine
Dental disease grade: 2–3 out of 5
Two other cats in house and they all run around in large house
Will not play with other cats
Eyes: no visible lesions
Lungs: within normal limits
Will not play with owners in presence of other cats, but will play with owners in bathroom
Lymph nodes: normal
Heart: within normal limits
Affectionate with owners, purrs and closes eyes when petted
Hangs limp in owners’ arms when picked up
Urogenital system: within normal limits
Urinates inappropriately at home on floor in 2–3 places per day
Getting worse over time, larger puddles of urine
Ears: no visible lesions
Moderate fascial skin restriction over lumbar back, significant over sacrum
Cries when petted just above tail
Sometimes cries before or after urinating
Sometimes cries after nap
Abdomen: no palpable lesions
Nervous system: within normal limits
Weight: 8.75 lbs
Ideal weight: 8.75 lbs
Does not use litter box—defecates on floor in vicinity of litter box
May have fleas
Pain score: 3 out of 10 (over sacrum)
Tolerates exam by vet, nervous but no overt hostility
Pulse: 180
Overall body condition score: 3 out of 5
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