Rachel Cantor - Good on Paper

I can’t reach.

You owe me, he said, and ambled to the far bookcase. He didn’t need to stand on a sleek Italian chair to reach the top shelf.

You’re not going to believe this, he said, after searching the pages.

I’m sure I won’t.

Benny was right: Romei knew exactly how to freak me out, he’d put his hands on just the poem to do the job: a nightgown girl , an awesome flyer , unafraid of begonias and telegrams.

Another flying girl. Unafraid of urgent messages from afar, of truth delivered by extraordinary means. The awesome flying girl, in her nightgown/red dress.

I went to the kitchen to fix us more tea. My hands shook as I picked up my teacup.

We can take a break, Benny said. Continue another day. I could fall asleep any minute.

I need to know. Please don’t go.

I might be afraid of the telegram, I thought, but I would read it. I hadn’t known this about myself, or maybe I’d changed. I would hear what Romei had to say — all of it.

I picked up where I left off. In the audience, Romei listens to his stepdaughter as she reads about a woman’s attempt to seek forgiveness through writing: she’ll explain through her story how things were so the person she wronged will understand.

Rather a self-serving reduction of “Confessions,” don’t you think? I asked softly, though he was right: I’d written it for Ahmad, so he could understand about T., and, understanding, forgive the way I’d treated him then. And he had.

Benny didn’t open his eyes, just raised that eyebrow again.

The story gives Romei an idea. He will also seek forgiveness through writing: he will explain how things were, so Shira can understand. Illumination comes in the form of a haiku, something to the effect of, The poem’s the thing wherein he’ll catch the conscience of the queen . Except that poetry alone won’t do the job: it’s too static — he needs the dynamism of narrative, which alone promises new life, or so he’s been told.

That’s not haiku, Benny murmured, opening his eyes, looking over my shoulder. Too many syllables. Five-seven-five, it should be.

The vowels elide in Italian, I said, glad to return to something I knew. You count syllables in Italian by counting the consonant clusters.

You’re so smart, Benny said.

No biggie, I said, proud of myself. Oops! Though actually, he’s reversed the order: seven-five-seven. Hourglass shape.

Time’s wingéd chariot, Benny said, sitting straight again. Time ticking by.

Jesus, I said. Do you think so?

Benny shrugged and smiled.

Are we supposed to believe he came up with this idea almost ten years ago, to get me to translate a piece about Esther? To use his writing to awaken my conscience? That it was my work that gave him this idea?

He didn’t know you were a translator yet. I don’t know.

He called me queen. That’s weird.

Maybe he was talking about Esther, Benny said. She’s the queen who charms the king to save her people. A benign Salomé. You know, the Book of Esther and the Song of Songs are the only books of the Bible in which the figure of God doesn’t appear.

So Shira and Esther have something else in common, I said, trying to be sardonic.

The Book of Esther is like a fairy tale, Benny said. You’d like it.

I continued translating. At the end of the reading, Shira stands to the side, scanning the crowd. Romei suspects she does this to mask awkwardness.

He approaches her. (He didn’t, you know. I’m sure he didn’t, I said. Wouldn’t I have remembered? Benny shrugged. He wasn’t famous then, he said, no photos on book jackets, no appearances on Letterman. You remember something, I said. He did talk to me, didn’t he? I recollect, yes, that he did.)

You are knowing Rome very well, Romei says in English.

She looks at him, with only half her attention.

You are tourist there? he says, knowing this will make her talk.

As a matter of fact, I used to live there, she says. I don’t think you could call me a tourist.

You will visit again soon, I think.

I doubt it. Rome belongs to my past, I may never return.

But is the land of Botticelli, Michelangelo … In your story …

My story is just a story. If you’ll excuse me …, I say, and turn away.

You mention Dante, perhaps you are scholar of Dante?

He hoped flattery would keep my attention. It did.

At one point. I was a graduate student in Italian Studies. I translated Vita Nuova , maybe you’ve heard of it?

Here in the city?

Yes, I say, and excuse myself, to congratulate Paula the tired language poet.

Was I this much of a jerk? I asked.

I wasn’t listening.

You were probably hitting on dainty Barbara Baskin!

Barb had composed poems for the audience on the café’s drinks refrigerator, using plastic magnetic letters. It was a performance piece, an improvisation where the words’ color and arrangement were as important as their sense. Most were about patriarchy. Patriarchy and menstruation. The longer poems depleted her letter collection, which gave her performances a certain frisson : how would she end with so few letters, what would she write! Most ended, perforce, with the unvoweled howl of the oppressed: rzf glflnx!

I don’t remember Miss Baskin, Benny said.

Redhead. She looked like a bird, all torso, no legs.

Maybe I remember her.

You wanted to photograph her improvised refrigerator poems for Gilgul . She accused you of trying to petrify her with your objectifying gaze, she called you Medusa.

Maybe I remember her.

Benny was embarrassed, no longer half asleep.

I’ve changed, you know.

I know.

You believe this, right?

Sure, I said.

I don’t believe you believe.

What do you want me to say?

Remember that conversation we had at my house, when I explained about my, uh, patterns with women?

You compulsively revisit a primal scene by trying to destroy fragile girls, but they kick your ass and have the last laugh. You can’t get off the bus, you’ll always be attracted to this type.

I might have put it more gently.

You aren’t contemplating a future with you.

My point is you’re not like them. I don’t want a fragile girl, I want you.

I’m glad for you, but I’m not sure what you’re saying.

I’ve gotten off the bus, Shira. Being with you is different.

Hmm, I said.

You don’t believe me.

Sounds like magic.

When I described my shit to you that night, something happened. You didn’t judge me, you just listened . I didn’t have to defend myself, which meant I heard myself. When Marie asked me to choose between you, I chose you, remember? It sounds New Agey, but in telling you who I was, in saying no to her, I created the possibility of change.

Jesus, Benny! You didn’t just say no! You humiliated her and she wrecked your store!

I didn’t say I was a saint. But this won’t happen with you.

I thought about that time in Benny’s kitchen when he’d been a centimeter away from crushing me like a bug. I wasn’t convinced. I wanted to be.

You said that to change your pattern you’d have to forgive your father.

That’s the weird part.

It’s all weird.

The more I turn away from the pattern, the less hold anger has on me. It’s the opposite of what I thought.

You thought you’d have to forgive him first, then you could get on with your life.

Something like that. But it’s more dialectical. I haven’t quite figured it out yet.

Are we talking about Esther again? I asked.

No, Benny said. Believe it or not, we’re talking about me.

Sorry.

Why don’t you continue?