Rachel Cantor - Good on Paper

Yes, Romei said, after a pause that seemed to respect my silence. Dante is fearful, this is true. But he has a muse. Beatrice motivate him, she inspire him.

He was referring to my fax of that morning.

Beatrice cause Dante to change, he continued. Because of her, he choose change.

He changes his aesthetics, I said. First he writes about romantic anguish, then he writes poems of praise. Is that change? At the end of the book he decides to write not just lyric poems but narrative. What kind of change is that? Who cares?

Is still change, Romei said, and he sounded grumpy about it.

We were going to have to agree to disagree.

You’ve written a bare tale about your muse, I said. Would you tell me why?

Bear , meaning difficult ?

Meaning not hidden .

I tell you already, I hold no interest in poetics.

What are you interested in? This story is no gift to Esther.

You are wrong. This is the biggest gift I give my Esther. You will see. Send me when you can. Goodbye.

Wait! I have questions!

You were at Trixie’s! You heard me read! Why didn’t you tell me?

I think this is all. Goodbye!

Infuriating man!

•

Ahmad was in his studio; Andi was back early from Pammy’s. Pammy, it turned out, needed “alone time.”

You guys fight? I asked.

No. They’d disagreed about how to punish Tink. Andi said he should sit quietly and think about what he’d done; Pammy thought he needed a spanking. Andi said spanking was uncivilized . Which was when Pammy slammed the door and said she needed alone time.

Does Pammy’s mother know you left? I asked.

She gave me an apple.

You upset?

About what? she asked.

I was awakened the next morning by the telephone. Someone get that , I thought, then realized it was my cell, Brahms’s “Lullaby.” Andi had been at my ringer again.

Veronica! Benny said.

Veronica?

Betty? he asked.

Benny?

You don’t read comic books, do you?

I was supposed to call you, wasn’t I? What day is it?

Dear me, I woke you, didn’t I?

We made a plan: Benny would cook, I’d bring wine. I went back to sleep, half aware that dinner sounded rather like a date.

•

That afternoon, I lay on Andi’s bed and wrote a quick running translation of “Muse.” I shouldn’t have been surprised to see paronomasia sprinkled all over the couple’s tragic victory, like shots on a Cohn’s cone, but I was. Paranomasia: words that are unrelated but sound alike, placed in proximity for the fun or pleasing sound of it. Kissing cousins-in-law, couples that look good in public (or on paper) but aren’t, in fact, compatible. Not croce /crochet (false friends), but a place for the plaice or traditore-traduttore . The heart’s hurt , if you stretch it.

It made a certain sense. Esther’s loss is Romei’s gain: she deteriorates as he, inspired by his anti-muse, finds his Nobel/ignoble voice. By reminding us of the lack of “true” correspondence between words that appear connected, Romei underscores the lack of affinity between his lord and lady.

Or so I wrote in my Door Number Two notebook. Then I read over my notes — about the Song , the false friends, Romei’s poems — and found that it was good.

I was, and would for a short while remain, the world’s leading interpreter of Romei’s Vita Quasi-Nuova (or whatever he was going to call it). Should I expand my Translator’s Note into a definitive monograph? I should! I could see it now: Talks at sexy Italian conferences! A dissertation-cum-bestseller! Graduate students shouting me half-caffs at the Hungarian Pastry Shop!

Spirit aloft, I called Jeanette to finagle an invitation to watch the three Eves: The Lady Eve, All About Eve, Three Faces of Eve . I even put on lipstick and a low-cut blouse, so she’d think I’d made progress.

Where’re you going? Ahmad wanted to know, looking me up and down.

I winked — it was my scheduled night out: let him wonder! But he wasn’t playing.

It’s been days since you put Andi to bed, he stage-whispered. She’ll be so disappointed!

I looked at Andi sitting on the floor, absorbed in her crayons.

You’re nuts, I said.

Maybe I said it loudly. Her head jerked up; she looked anxiously at me, then Ahmad.

You look pretty, Mommy. Don’t you think she looks pretty?

It seemed very important to Andi that Ahmad think I look pretty. I raised my eyebrows, dared him to agree. When he didn’t, I walked over to my daughter and kissed her on the head.

Thank you for thinking I look pretty. I take after you.

•

Jeanette greeted me at the door, a cosmopolitan at the ready. She confided during intermission that she was going through The Change.

Fasten your seat belts, she said, it’s going to be a bumpy night!

Every so often we indulged Ahmad’s craving for things Russian. Sometimes this meant Brighton Beach, solyanka in the shadow of the Cyclone. More often it meant midtown and the Balalaika. Fish eggs didn’t agree with Andi, or so she said, so when Ahmad and I went out, Jeanette’s daughter Dotty babysat. Dotty was eighteen and postponing Harvard to volunteer for U2K, a Y2K-preparedness group; she’d go to college in January, she said, if there were any colleges left.

Andi had organized her school stuff to show Dotty, her Pretty Princess backpack leaning against a tower of textbooks, Tink, newly rehabilitated, standing guard on top.

Guess what! she said, taking Dotty’s hand as soon as she walked in the door. Ahmad’s going to buy me a bike! A pink one, with a basket for Tink!

Ahmad! I said.

Every kid should have a bike, he said. He was trying to do jovial, but Ahmad didn’t do jovial.

Every kid in Connecticut has a bike, Andi said. I’m going to be every kid in Connecticut!

Honey, I said, trying to control my voice, we’re not going to Connecticut.

Aw, Mom!

You’ll thank me later.

I doubt it. Is there apple picking in Manhattan?

I stared at her.

I didn’t think so, she said.

I shook my head and turned to Dotty.

How’s the Y2K business?

I brought a list of everything you’ll need, she said, digging in her backpack. Then she saw my expression. Poor dears! she said. You don’t think the apocalypse can happen! Even if our government cared for us, which it doesn’t, it could never untangle our dependence on computers. She read to us from a list: Canned food, and don’t forget a manual can opener. Twenty pounds of wheat per person, per month; a grain mill; ten pounds of soybeans. Food-grade plastic containers. We’re vulnerable, she said, but we don’t have to despair! There’s a great safe-house site on the Internet …, and she was digging again in her backpack.

We managed to slip out, eventually. Reservations, I said, though the Balalaika always had room for Ahmad.

Of course, Dotty said. We can talk about this later.

No dessert for Andi, Ahmad said from the door, unless she finishes her corn. And make sure she doesn’t get her cast wet when she brushes her teeth. She splashes.