stale (nostalgia)

I have been in many rooms like this, some smaller, some bigger. One did not have a window, and I could not see the sound engineer, or other faces hovering in the darkness asking me to speak a little faster, or discussing a bit of grammar. Today the room is big and white. I stand in front of the microphone, focused on the hands and lips on the tv screen of some fumfering, methody old actor they cast. It was raining when they filmed, and between the sirens and the traffic the voices got lost. Today I must act twenty years older, muttering and stammering and smiling through the words for an hour or two. The director shows up, shouting "louder" and "faster" and "more emotion" like every single Russian director I have recorded for. 

I find it ironic, being cast to replace the voice of a man in his sixties. Maybe I am getting older? I ask myself in between takes, hearing my voice trying to rattle like his. Actually, it all sounds bizarre but maybe this is just to get the film into a festival. 

Dismissed, emerging from the basement with a fresh pile of rubles that I shove into my pocket, I find my way back to the main street. I know where I am. The old office is not far from here, an expensive sanctuary that outlived its purpose. There were fights with E's mother there, in that tiny room and the hallways, eventually the parking lot the day she tried to get me deported. People hung their heads from windows to see us waving hands wildly, the screaming in English so odd, indecipherable for them. The warnings from the landlord, and me taking claim of the space for myself. There were long rainy days where E filled the room with scribbles on pieces of paper as I worked. No, there is a place I would visit instead, and my feet have already brought me across Smolenskaya.  

The sidewalks are half empty. The opera house is the same, voices surfacing as people pass the open doors. I make my way around it, down the back alley. The convent is surrounded by a long wall, and the old entrance is closed. 

I enter, crossing myself.

The grounds are clean now, the construction almost finished. I miss the messy wooden boards that used to create a path through the mud, as great piles of white stone stood in the dust. The workers moved in a choreographed silence. Here is the tiny, ramshackle garden with odd groups of irises and tulips. The three graves, half-overgrown with grass and weeds. I can smell honeysuckle and roses. 

The door to the tiny chapel is locked. Next to the stairs, an old woman positions loaves on a table. There used to be a window in another building to buy tiny apple pastries and black bread. I approach her, asking for a cinnamon roll that E loves to eat, a few palmiers for me, and a jar of jam as long as I am here. I ask her how to enter the chapel and she points around the corner. 

The path leads me to the large building that was being rebuilt. I go in, past security guards and shining silver vats of holy water. The icons from the tiny chapel are all here now. I recognize them, oddly out of place on the bright white walls. Another room, and I buy three candles as I always did. They are huge now. The main room is bright. Old women are sweeping, wiping candle drippings from the floor. A scaffolding stands in the corner, three stories tall. The sweet smell of frankincense and smoke moves across my face. I stand in silence for some time, then approach the icon of the two angels. I light one of the candles, but it is too big for the holder. I wonder for a moment if I can wander the chapel looking for a better place for them, feeling foolish. A man approaches me, gestures to tip the candle upside down so the drips fill the holder. I do, holding it for a moment, and it stays. Nodding thanks, I light the next two. I think of the tiny old chapel, dark and smoky when I visited in winter, running out of the office in desperation. I came every day it seemed, and they grew to know my face. It was a great comfort then, just to be recognized, to be familiar. I lit candles and bought bread and stared at the icons until I felt strong enough to walk back outside, to get a little girl from school, to face the madwoman, to make money, to make dinner, to make anything I could.

I leave the place quickly, passing the security guard then opening the big door quietly. Birds are chirping like mad outside the front gate when I turn for one last look.

Pulling the palmier from my bag, it crunches wildly in my mouth. It is stale, very stale.

My stomach growls, empty in the afternoon sun. I force it down, then another more dry than the first. Disappointment sweeps over me. I think of every place that is gone now, in New York, in Bologna, here. I think of turning corners, expecting to see some time capsule, something that was preserved and how often it has been replaced by something cleaner, empty and false.

A parable surfaces in my thoughts, something about how you know you are getting older when your memories are more important than your plans for the future. Forcing anger aside, the thought of that tiny messy garden remains. If it will be there next time, I have no idea. Soaking the palmier in my mouth until it is soft enough to gulp down, the city absorbs me. It is time to cross a bridge and take E from school. Time to make dinner and sit with N telling stories, leaning back on chairs with the sun low in the sky.

impossible

The sun does not seem real in Moscow. I can't believe it comes up so early. The green grass and the trees bursting with leaves overnight are all fake. There are tiny oceans of tulips bobbing in the breeze that I know were not there yesterday. They were planted in the middle of the night.

Sparrows are chirping, dancing around rain puddles. I push E on the swings for a long time. She seems taller than she was a week ago, her face longer, her hand larger in mine. She did not write any stories when I was away, but made a lot of drawings of girls sitting in restaurants.

I know we were in Rome, then Florence, then orange green Bologna and a day half-rainy, half-sunny in Venice. I remember the people staring out of windows, or waiting on quiet corners. I remember waitresses, and busy kitchens glimpsed from the street. There were acres of statues and museums that we ignored, concentrating on espresso cups, fixated on bitter apertifs and cold glasses of wine.

I emptied my pockets of lucky pennies, throwing them in every fountain we passed. 

I know there was a flight, and my ears got plugged up. I know we came back in the middle of the night and curled up in bed and I took E the next day. 

The rest is impossible. 

la prima pagina (the first page)

Twelve years since I sat in a loose chair on a piazza, staring off at the rooftops. I was finishing my novel. It seemed easy, after lunches of bresaolo and long walks.

Our bellies are full. N turns to me sometimes, a quiet smile plastered across her face. She has never been here before. 

Squash blossoms, artichokes and a sun that spreads sideways into rooms are the language of Rome. I wander the ghetto, taking pictures of old men as they become silhouettes. We take a walk long after midnight, me still drunk on Arneis and wild boar. The city breathes us in, holds us for a moment then lets us go. 

In Florence, there is a cold wind and a deep blue sky. I call E, making jokes, wishing her sweet dreams. She asks me what presents I have bought for her. I miss her terribly.

Before I left, I gave her my last red notebook. I wrote a message to her on the first page, telling her to fill it with stories I could read when I got back in a few days. Her chin slumped, tears splashing on the empty paper.
"I'll be ok, Pop." She said, nodding once.

I am starting my new book in Italy.
I told her I had to come to write it, just the first page.
"I understand." She whispered, squeezing my hand.

fireworks (five minutes later)

We tumble into the apartment, groceries dangling from my arms. E is kicking off her sneakers, the remainder of an ice cream dripping on the floor.

I hear a massive sound, like a giant clapping his hands. E's face jumps. It is still daylight outside.

"Fireworks?" She asks me.

I shrug my shoulders. I put the groceries away.

One more sound. 

I see a flock of black birds thrash through the sky outside the kitchen windows. I go to the balcony in the bedroom. Looking down onto the sidewalk, I see a handful of men with pistols out. There are three men on the ground, face-down. Their hands are behind their backs. 

E tiptoes to me, stopping in the doorway. 

"Is the fireworks over?" She asks.

I wave my hand at her to stop. 

"Go play in the living room, ok?" I ask her.

Five minutes earlier, we were walking right there. She was running ahead of me a little, something we do when we are so close to home, past the last driveway where the cars gun their engines and run red lights. I am suddenly cold. 

Taking a step back, I watch a big black SUV pull up. Two of the men jump in. The three men on the ground all have dark hair, jeans, sneakers. One does not move at all. 

There are no police cars, no walkie talkies, no flashing of badges. People drift past them, not stopping just making their way home like we were. One of the men with a pistol now shoved in the back of his pants is looking up at the apartment building. I duck inside.

E asks me to take a picture of her combing her hair.

I listen for sirens, for an ambulance. Nothing.

I make dinner.

I step out on the balcony as the light is fading. The three men are still on the sidewalk, face down. There is a collection of new men now, some on cel phones, their cars parked half in the busy street, doors hanging open.

If we were just five minutes later, I think to myself.

I go back inside.
E needs to take a bath.

In the morning, there is nothing there. No blood stains, no crime scene tape, no chalk outline. Just some tulips that have been freshly planted on the lawn.