By Mona Sylviana
After he said, “Come in,” I slowly—too slowly, probably—took off my shoes to enter the room. He didn’t move, just lifted his head from the book he was reading. Before he put down the book, he inserted a matchstick which he took from the tin can ashtray at his side. I stood in the doorway and scanned the contents of his room: a mattress on a green carpet pushed up against the wall against which he was leaning; a bucket, shoes, cassettes, an empty bottle of mineral water, a plate, plastic waste basket, a knapsack—all of them scattered about the floor, which looked like it had rarely if ever been touched by a mop. Here and there were dried coffee splatters, footprints, hair. Where was I to sit? There were only a couple of hand-widths of carpet still free—and they were competing with a pile of clothes and several stacks of books. Were I to sit in the center of the carpet, where would he go?
“May I use the bathroom?”
Not an interesting beginning.
“Sure, it’s over there. I’ll make some coffee, okay?”
Thank God he wasn’t going to follow me into the bathroom.
“Fine.”
He rose. I went in the direction he’d indicated with a nod of his head. What was I to do? It wasn’t I who should decide where we should sit.
A used shampoo packet floated on the water that filled the bath tank. I couldn’t find the right sentence to begin. Should I start with, “What are you doing”? No, that wouldn’t do. It was obvious that he had been reading. “The library was busy today” or “Some new books came in”? Hmm, both focused on myself; he might think I was a person who only thought about herself—like most everyone else. And so? Two flushes with water from the bathing dipper was, I thought, enough to signal that I hadn’t gone to the bathroom for no reason. Oh dear: is that an undershirt as a bathmat?
He was again seated as he had been before, but now there were two glasses of coffee in the middle of the carpet. Did that mean I was supposed to sit on the mattress beside him? I had no choice—and I liked that! Hmm, for such a simple matter—sitting—I was like a computer infected by a virus and running without its operating system. To sit up straight, stretch out, lean back, cross my legs—which?
“Did you bring the book?”
He went straight to the point. I sucked in my breath too loudly. Small furrows appeared on his forehead. Actually, it was a relief. I didn’t have to search for a topic of conversation. I could give him what he had asked for and then go home. But there was a glass of coffee and I wanted to stay a little longer. If he didn’t want me there, then earlier he could have stood up and put out his hand. Had he done that, I couldn’t have refused to open my bag, take out the book, give it to him, then turn to go. Instead, he had told me to come in. He had also offered me something to drink—and not just something to drink: he had offered to make coffee. Didn’t that mean he had no objection to my presence?
“I brought just this one.”
“That’s okay. That’s all I needed.”
“How long do you want to borrow it?”
“Can’t be too long, huh?”
“Not that you can’t. I’m afraid of getting found out.”
“Oh really?”
“Not actually too likely. There’s rarely a call for it.”
“A day?”
I nodded.
The tips of his nicotine-stained fingers opened the book, then flicked through the pages, working their way from the front—the contents page, probably—through the main text, and then the back. The index? I didn’t know what he was looking for. More to the point, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. He looked lost in his exercise. For a few moments, I became a stack of Holy Bibles, always there on the shelf but rarely touched. But then, as a person of faith or, at the very least, not yet admitting otherwise, I thought it would be unusual for a person to borrow a bible from the library.
The glass I held was warm, with coffee powder sticking to its rim. The window pane was foggy. The flats I could see across the empty lot outside looked vacant or deserted. Two pigeons pecked on a clothes rack. A cat whisked by. In the window pane I could see, though just a reflection, a curl of hair from his forehead falling on his brow. He had thick hair—very different from my own thin, reddish hair. My hand holding the glass looked frail. I realized I’m really not very attractive. Worse yet, I was too late in realizing that I’m not a good conversationalist.
But how long had it been since I really talked with anyone? By seven in the morning, I’d have straightened my desk, collected the books for San to reshelf, and turned on the computer. Between that time and lunch break, the only things I said were of a formulaic nature. If a person asked where a book was located, I answered the question. Once, maybe twice, I might have to tell a person to be more careful if I happened to see a book that appeared soiled or whose pages were folded. At lunch time, if I happened to eat with San and Geo, I listened to what they had to say. Oh, every once in a while I might say something, but usually just to agree with what they were saying. Every day they had something to talk about. San might talk about the uncle who was staying with him, every day until his uncle left. They were never at a loss for things to talk about. Occasionally, probably so that I would not feel left out, they’d ask me something. But after I’d mumbled a few sentences, they’d pick up where they’d left off with their own stories—as if I had experienced nothing they had not already experienced before.
“Where are you going?”
He’d noticed me starting to move.
“Home.”
“Home? You haven’t drunk your coffee.”
He was right. All I’d been doing was holding the glass. I took three sips.
“Is it too sweet?”
I moved my head but wasn’t sure whether it was a nod, a shake, or a sign of incomprehension. I’m sure I looked nervous. I wanted to stay but was afraid that he would discover—something perfectly obvious—that I was boring to be with.
“Going straight home?”
I had guessed as much: he actually wanted me to leave. If he had wanted me to stay, he surely would have said something else. I was expecting too much. What was I hoping for? I didn’t know. I just felt that there should be something more. We had known each other a long time—or at least I had known him. But was that true? I only knew his name from his membership card. He probably knew mine from the name tag I wore on my chest. The rest of the time it was nods or an exchange of smiles.
“Yes.”
“That’s a nice dress.”
Well, yes, after having spent an hour or more in front of the mirror the night before and after having sprayed it with air freshener to dissipate the smell of moth balls. Hanging, ready for wear in my closet, were no more than the few blouses and pants I regularly wore to work, all of which I’d bought five or maybe even ten years before. Actually, I had three other dresses stored away but since their last wear I had lost weight and now they hung on me like gunnysacks. Why was he noticing what I wore?
“Oh, really?”
Stupid! Couldn’t I have said something else?
“But because of it, I almost fell down coming here.”
“How’d that happen?”
“Maybe you’ve forgotten you live in the mountains.”
“Is that an insult or a compliment? Your laugh makes me suspicious! You know, rich people these days are looking for homes in the mountains. Besides, being unemployed, it’s fitting I live in the mountains. Alone.”
“Maybe. But, actually, what are you looking for in that book? You should pay me extra for lending it to you.”
“Why’s that?”
“What do you mean, why? Geo was suspicious; I mean I’m not usually like that. There I was, ready to go home, but then pretending I had to straighten up the reference room. If Jorge weren’t blind, he probably would have looked at me just like Geo did.”
“Sorry to cause a problem …”
“Really? Or are you just saying that?”
“I don’t know. This was all I needed, in fact.”
He opened the book to the page that he had earlier been reading and showed it to me.
“What is the meaning of ‘circulum ad nauseam’?”
“Show me.”
“Did I say it wrong?”
“No, I just want to reposition myself.”
And then what? I don’t know. I certainly wouldn’t mind spending a few hours there, listening to him speak. Truly listening to him. Not as in all our other meetings, where our conversation of short comments sounded like the steady whack of a twirling fan in a warehouse. Besides, I don’t think I’m all that stupid. He didn’t have to notice or comment on what I was wearing. We could talk about other things. He seemed to have the patience to listen as I learned to speak. Hmm … Was I hoping too much that he might be different? Maybe not. He had wanted to hear what I was saying, even though I may have stuttered and mumbled.
“This book looks so new.”
“No one borrows it.”
“But it’s a good book.”
“But not as popular as science texts, it seems.”
“Really? Do people really borrow such books?”
“Yes, they do.”
“Why?”
“For homework. Or for papers.”
“Really?”
“That’s been my experience.”
“And this wouldn’t make an interesting paper?”
“A novel that size? And Eco, besides?”
“What about Eco?”
“He’s a professor of semiotics.”
“So?”
“So if he writes a novel, then it’s probably just for fun. Besides, you can see the film instead.”
“But a novel and a film are different.”
“Of course, but it’s easier to sit, press ‘play’ and watch Sean Connery as William; more fun to nibble on something as you listen to a discussion of whether Jesus ever laughed or not.”
“You’ve seen the film?”
“Yes.”
“And read the book?”
“Long before that.”
The man seemed to have gotten something in his eye. I just noticed it. If the tips of his lips weren’t so odd, I could probably forget his face in just a few days’ time. Besides his constant smile, I couldn’t detect anything unique or special about him. Every day, dozens of people appear before me. Maybe that’s why I find it difficult to remember people’s names or faces. Or maybe it’s because I just don’t pay attention. Indeed, I’m not a very good observer. Once, when I was eating with Geo and San, there wasn’t a single word I could remember them saying—even as they were speaking. Now, it was a bit like that too. I was wracking my brain trying to think of what I should say and what I should do now.
“Do you have to go home now?”
“Why do you ask?”
“If you could wait fifteen minutes, I could finish my notes on this section. That way, you wouldn’t have to be afraid that Geo would know the book was borrowed.”
Which would mean I’d have no reason to come to his place again.
“In fact, I do have to get home.”
Was that all? Maybe I should have said, why don’t you force me to stay.
“Do you want to? I was afraid you’d say no. Having you here, in this room, is like a dream. Come on, just one hour … I’ll clean the heads on my tape deck and we can listen to some music. Oh, and I’ll get us something to eat, too. There’s a vendor right outside who makes some really good fried stuff—tofu, spring rolls, tempeh, cassava. How about it? Are my enticements convincing?”
“Hmm, they’re okay. But if you’re going to buy fried food don’t forget the chili peppers.”
“You’re on!”
Yes, or something like that.
“Okay. Do you want me to walk you outside?”
“No, that’s okay.”
His eyes followed my hand as I tied the laces of my shoes. And I could still feel his eyes on my waist as I turned to go. Was that a sign of hope? Just as when he’d said “Thanks, ma’am,” I had hoped that he didn’t care or had forgotten—though that would be too much to expect—the twenty years’ difference in our ages.
Translated by John H. McGlynn