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talking to the trees

Most experiences cannot be discussed. No one wants to hear the ugly truth, and chances are you will be attacked for sharing it. To be able to speak freely means that you need a willing listener, otherwise you are just talking to the trees. Time and again I have come to understand that there is no difference between New York and Moscow, no difference between East and West. They are just cults of personality, built on violence and money and moral quicksand.

The life of an expat evolves from those early, awkward victories to one of assimilation or in cases like mine - eventually understanding that you have no country you can (or want to) call home. I am left with just these four walls and my family. This apartment is the only place I actually belong. This is the only place I do not need to soft-pedal my thoughts, where I do not need to apologize for what I have unearthed. The river of betrayal runs deep whether I look outside, or across the ocean. Willful ignorance, willful indifference…


I speak to her over the crackling phone line, her tiny voice choking in her throat with emotion. I will ask her again when I take her tomorrow, but I know what she is saying. 

She is scared there. 

But that is tomorrow. 

Today I fill the hours with the scattered details of Pasha (Easter), Passover, Spring. There are great loaves of sweet bread to slice into on Sunday morning, dotted with raisins and perfumed with cardamon. N's mother has made a cake for us. The top glistens in the late morning sunlight of her tiny kitchen. We sip black tea sweetened with honey. I take pictures of N and her. I am always fascinated by the way their faces look next to each other. The shocks of black hair, the eyes set wide apart, hands moving slowly in the bright air as they speak.

And then a box of matzoh makes its way into our bags as well. The pale, powdery crisps make me want more tea. I have not eaten matzoh in years.

The streets are choked with people. Lines extend in long curls from the churches, as people wait for bread to be blessed, as they stand in the flat sun in new coats.

We visit the neighborhood where my office used to be. I have not walked these cobblestones in more than five months. I feel nothing. No sentiment. No loss. No welling of emotion.

There is an art museum open now, after two years of construction. The same man sits on a bench outside, begging for change. His face a great drooping mass of red skin, he mutters the same speech to me that I heard every time I passed him.

Inside, Fellini's drawings, rare production stills and video loops of famous scenes play out across a series of rooms and corridors. The Saturday crowd travels randomly through the exhibit. We take our time. N knows everything about these films, these mythical Italian stars. We see them caught topless on the beach, holding babies, in quiet moments between shooting famous scenes. I want a hat like one of Fellini's. Maybe a straw one.

We go to the car wash, as N thinks being clean on Pasha is especially significant. The line goes all the way around the block. No, not today. Maybe early tomorrow morning.

On the way home, traffic comes to a complete stop. We are practically home and wait for minutes. There are sirens, flashing lights. It must be a car accident, another fender bender between fancy cars swerving and passing too quickly as they do here. The police always arrive, even for the smallest scratch to write up evidence forms, to make a record.

A great green trolley bus is next to us, laboring and wheezing in the right lane. N lets it pass in front of us. Then we see the black garbage bag on the ground, the long lines of blood running to the curb, the hair on the top of the head that is not covered. There is a crowd on the sidewalk. Silent. There are paramedics and an ambulance doing nothing. A white SUV stands closest, empty of passengers in the street.

We find our way inside. I balance the bread and the matzoh and groceries in my hands. It is quiet here for once. My blood rises into my ears. I can hear my heartbeat. My skin prickles. I ask myself if it was a child under that sheet of black plastic, the body was so small. Maybe an old woman. I want to know, selfishly. I think to find out, and then let the question fade. It matters, but it doesn't matter. The specifics mean nothing. Someone is dead under that bag. No one on the sidewalk is crying. Just grim faces that are already leaving in groups of two and three.

I go to the balcony in the bedroom and look down. The white SUV has a huge dent across the right front headlight. The bag and the body are still there.
N stands next to me.
"The police must have taken the driver away." She explains. "It was a murder."

On Sunday I collect E. We take a walk in the bright sun along an empty sidewalk, our shadows running far in front of us. We will go to a friend's apartment and decorate eggs. E will tell me that she has only eaten lunch, not breakfast, not dinner the day before. E will tell me she is tired. She will sit on my lap and squeeze my arms, resting her cheek against my chest. Her head is suddenly warm. Yes, she is running a temperature and we are going home, the eggs still wet, carefully wrapped in a paper towel. Purple, yellow, blue, decorated with hearts. A tiny crayon house with smoke curling from the chimney.

She cannot walk, even to go to the bathroom, so I carry her.

I hold her until she sleeps, checking her temperature, nesting her with stuffed animals in her bed. Her cheeks are red. She sleeps, her eyes half-open. I know she will be fine somehow, but I sit and watch her for a long time.


Annie said…
Oh, Marco....somehow you took all those disparate images and created a whole. For a while I didn't think you could pull it all together, and then it suddely WAS together, leaving me with anticipation, dread, unease. THEN, I think - this isn't a short story. This is life. Hardly fair for you to be writing about real life.

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