Alina Bronsky - Broken Glass Park

“No, you,” she says, genuinely upset. I jump up from my chair, stumble over a cord, ripping it out of the socket, and reach for the phone in Maria’s hand.

There’s only one person who would let the phone ring that long.

“Hello there, speedy,” says Felix. “Explain math to me. I don’t understand it at all.”

“Email me your homework,” I say. “I’ll have a look.”

“By the way, I wrote a poem for you,” Felix says, as if the homework is my problem, not his. “Because you’re so cultured. Listen.” He clears his throat theatrically and reads with gravitas:

Let’s sit together in the kitchen

Where sweet is the smell of kerosene white

Let’s open the bento box of sushi

And an entire flask of gin

And then we’ll pack the big suitcases

So full they’ll almost burst

Strap on our wings and lift off

Heading for distant southern atolls.

“Is it better than the last one? You shouldn’t laugh when I’m reading a poem to you. That’s not fair. I’m still learning. You’re going to put me off writing. I’ll be poetically impotent. . Alexandra!”

I’m bending over because I’m laughing so hard my stomach hurts. I wipe tears from my eyes.

“Where did you find that?” I ask.

“I wrote it for you. Just now. No, actually, last night.”

“Stop talking shit. It’s a parody of Osip Mandelstam.”

“What-stam?”

“Where did you find it?”

“Online,” says Felix, defeated. “Some poetry site. You jerk.”

“Hang on,” I say, “I’ll grab the book.”

“Unbelievable,” Felix grumbles while I squat in front of the bookshelf where my mother’s books of poetry are shelved. “I mean, I probably should have figured you would have read that Shakespeare sonnet. But this? Something totally obscure? How could I expect you to know that?”

“Pure coincidence, my hero,” I say flipping through a thin book. “But that is a pretty well-known poem. I guess I must have been listening when she read it to me all those times. Ah, here it is:

Let’s sit together in the kitchen

Where sweet is the smell of kerosene white.

“Obviously from here on it’s different — instead of sushi there’s a sharp knife, a loaf of bread, ropes and baskets. . ”

“How exciting,” says Felix.

“And about getting away. They want to go to the train station. They’re probably scared of getting arrested — this was written in 1931.”

“Hey, speaking of getting away,” says Felix quickly, as soon as he’s listened to my full explanation, “you know why I’m calling? Volker wants to know if you’ll go to Tenerife with us during summer vacation.”

“What did you say?” I ask, because I’m still reading the book. “Tenerife?”

“Yeah, Tenerife. It’s an island. In the Canaries. Surrounded by the ocean. We’re going there. Come with us.”

“Who suggested it?” I say suspiciously. “Did Volker really say I should go along?”

“Of course.”

“Did he tell you to ask me?”

“Well, okay, it was my idea. But he liked the idea. He said he’d like to have somebody there to keep me out of his hair. So he wouldn’t have to deal with my permanent bad mood. He said he’d pay somebody a good hourly wage to do it, just to save his vacation.”

“Is that how he put it?” I ask. “Really?”

“What’s with all the stupid questions? Of course he wants you to come. He likes you a lot. It would be two weeks. If you came along it would make it almost bearable.”

“Wow, what a charming way to put it,” I say absentmindedly.

I picture myself lying on the beach between Felix and Volker. How I casually put my foot near Volker’s and stick the bottle of sun-cream in the sand as a protective barrier against Felix. I can hear the crash of the waves and the cry of the seagulls. And I hear the tune from the Bacardi ad.

“Why are you laughing?” asks Felix.

“It’s nothing,” I say. “I’ll think it over, okay?”

“Just don’t think about it for too long or else Volker will be gone.”

“And so will you.”

“No. If you don’t go, I’m not going either.”

«Don’t start, Felix,» I say, looking at the clock. I still have to fill out the applications for my advanced placement courses.

“By the way,” says Felix. “We haven’t practiced in a while.”

“What do you mean practice?” I say. “I’m sure by now you are a regular Pieter Brueghel.”

“Who?” says Felix. “Why are you always trying to piss me off?”

“I’m not trying to piss you off,” I say. “I just meant that by now you are a master. Let’s talk tomorrow, okay?”

“Tomorrow?” he says. The disappointment in his voice barely registers. “You always say that. And then you never have time.”

“Jesus, I do have things to do,” I say.

Felix is silent. Hurt.

“Hey,” I say, “no crying, my dear. A little tan will do you good.”

“I just burn,” Felix says.

“Then I’ll put cream on you.”

“I’d rather be the one creaming on you.”

“You’re annoying, Felix. Listen, I have a job. I can’t go away.”

“A job?” says Felix. “Why didn’t you say that right away? Can’t you just ditch it for a while?”

“I should have told you right off the bat. I just forgot.”

“How stupid do you think I am?”

“What happens if you have breathing problems on Tenerife?”

“Why don’t you. . ”

“Why don’t you just tell me what happens.”

Felix suddenly loses interest in the conversation.

“Okay, I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” he says.

“Felix, I hate it when you don’t answer me.”

“Why do you ask anyway? Are you worried about me?”

“What a question,” I say. “What do you want to hear? Yes! Yes! Yes! I am so worried about you.”

“The deal is,” he says with annoyance in his voice, “we always have to stay near a hospital. I have no idea if there are cities on Tenerife, but there must be hospitals, because otherwise Volker would never suggest going there. It’s that simple. He’ll bring medicine and a copy of my medical records and instructions from our hospital on what to do in the case of an emergency. Normally any old hospital can handle it. And we can always reach my doctor by phone in case they can’t figure out what to do. What else do you want to know?”

“Thanks for putting my mind at ease,” I say. “But now tell me the truth.”

“Did I mention that I can’t stand you?” says Felix. “Seriously cannot stand you?”

“Yep,” I say. “Lots of times.”

He slams down the phone. Probably on the table so I can hear it. Only afterwards does he hang up.

I go down to the third floor to pick up Alissa from her friend Katja’s place.

The walls are thin in the Emerald. By the time I get down to the fifth floor, I can hear Alissa’s voice. It’s high and piercing, loud and happy. A future soprano, as my mother always used to say back when Alissa was really little and would screech for her bottle. “Sounds more like something on an ultrasonic wavelength,” I would answer. “Like a dolphin. Bores into your head.”

I sound completely different. My voice is lower and scratchier. “Because I smoked when I was pregnant with you,” my mother used to say.

“I won’t smoke if I ever get pregnant.”

“I guess you’re smarter than me.”

“Which is exactly why I won’t get pregnant.”

“That’s what I used to say. Until I had you. Then I realized it was a joy worth repeating.”

“And you smoked your way through it.”

“I’m really sorry about that, sweetie. I would do it differently now. You could have gotten kidney damage from it.”