ESSAYS

Everything in the garden is drenched and dripping, as if each drop were saying green, green, green. The earth is black and easy to weed, the flagstone patio littered with a thick carpet of wet leaves and spent blossoms from the mock orange tree, though many still cling to the tree and their sweet scent hovers in the air. The sky is a spacious dove-grey train compartment whose windows of ethereal blue offer fleeting glimpses of sunny lands far away. Swirling breezes whip the crowns of hundred-foot eucalyptus trees into whisks. Sunlight comes and goes like a kid toying with the switch. It’s finally chilly enough for a sweater, here in these normally temperate Elysian hills of Los Angeles, and I take it as a welcome-home gift, since anything below sixty degrees — especially if accompanied by rain (or threat thereof) — is my kind of weather.

The house is a hurricane-grade mess — it looks like something out of One Hundred Years of Solitude, only worse. It reflects my interior exactly: I'm restless, scattered, haven't yet properly reconstituted after having been gone from my so-called normal life. For two years, but especially intensely during the grueling last six months, I took care of my mother as she died. In one of those stunning intersections of life events usually reserved for fiction, the news of her diagnosis preceded the announcement of my first book winning a prize by just two weeks. How could I feel the giddiness of success with a stone in my belly? Four weeks after her death, before I could catch up on sleep, much less grieve, I found myself on the road, teaching and giving readings. A Mattel version of my former self stood at those lecterns, while I sat shrouded at the bottom of an empty well. Every cell in my body longed for the golden zero of the surface.

I’ve heard that the soul takes a while to catch up after a sojourn. Mine is quite probably lost, given how circuitous and relentless my travel. It sank underground when they pulled the zipper over my mother’s face, and if it ever surfaced again and looked around, I had already high-tailed it. It’s probably still there at the bedside, staring into the breathless, yellowish, Van Gogh’s Potato Eaters face of my mother, with her mouth gaping in a kind of exhausted surrender, as if to say, Whew! Glad to put that load down finally.

Maybe my soul is still back there, looking up at the ceiling, trying to stitch the holes on the acoustic tiles into a connect-the-dots image of my mother, hovering iconic above the hospital bed, flying the way she always did in her dreams. With the same intensity that I begged for a letter in her own hand while she lived, I had stared at the ceiling after her last breath and longed for her to make the dots spell out something, anything. A note left on a counter, even: “Went out, leftovers in the fridge.” But she was never a good correspondent, and the one letter she did write me at college is now lost.

Trailing musical notes like crumbs through a dark forest, trying to coax my soul home, I slip in five Joni Mitchell CDs, arranged in chronological order, starting with the first. “It’s right in front of your nose,” teased my friend Greg in high school, as I stared hard at the album cover’s montage of watercolor painting and slices of photos intertwined like spilling cloth. I squinted and fooled with the focus of my eyes until suddenly the gulls on the cardboard sky arranged themselves into the title: Song to a Seagull. Now it’s so obvious, I can’t turn the letters back into gulls.

As the music spools out, each song feels like something I used to wear, a pair of jeans with just the right rip at the knee, a self I carelessly inhabited then shed. Trying to re-collect who I am, I knot the songs together into a line I drop out the window, hoping my soul will see it and climb back in.

Each lyric is a dance through a familiar house with my eyes shut, never bumping into the furniture because I’ve moved all of it into my head so I could let loose. Singing and dancing, I invoke my life through the household rituals of laundry and dishes. Rudderless, I spin about the rooms, reading bits of books abandoned on the floor, their edges fuzzy with dust, which sets off a fit of vacuuming, which leads to sweeping the patio and then to weeding, to cutting a zillion narcissus that popped up in the far back garden while I was gone and putting them around every room (so that the house is now downright swoony with their scent), having first cleaned out the old vases of their mucky water and slimy lilies (how decomposed is my mother’s body now?), then gathering up storm-fallen limes, cutting pink and red camellias to float on the dining room table, slicing open mail.

When I look up, letter in hand like a Vermeer, two squirrels are chasing each other all over the yard and up the splintery wooden ladder that leans against the mock orange tree, scampering across high-wire branches then sliding down trunks like firemen before exploding over the ground again. Come outside, the weather’s fine, they seem to say. One of them stops for a moment on a branch outside the window and meets my eye. With its tail-language it translates the message into its simplest elements, asking: ? Then answering itself with a resounding: ! Since Squirrel knows best, I allow myself to be coaxed outside again.

While I am bent over, picking up fallen apples, my bare toes digging into the moist clay, Mrs. Loredo, my back-fence neighbor on this east-facing flank of Elysian hills, calls to me behind the lacy screen of bare bougainvillea. Obscured, veiled as we are from each other, she thinks at first I’m someone else and instructs that person to please give me the envelope she’s holding and waving lightly like a small flag at a parade. But when I come around the fig tree and say, “This is me, Mrs. Loredo,” she says, “Well, of course you are, I can see that now,” in that lovely lavendery way old ladies have of putting things. Her words are like the powder puff my mother used to dab at my face before taking my hand and leading me outside, my nostrils dusty with the scent of lilacs.

Mrs. Loredo has just gotten back from New York City, where her daughter, her pride and joy, has given a piano recital. She hands me the pink program, and in the bio notes I see that her daughter has been playing since age four. I convey my surprise and admiration. She points to the little dirt-colored wooden house between ours and says, “Yes, Mrs. Joos, who used to live right here, was her first teacher. She used to play for the Silent Films.” Her tone puts capitals on the last two words.

While ants crawl up my legs and I flick them off, shifting from foot to foot, I learn she used to be married to a Mr. Nevárez — her daughter still uses this surname — with whom she moved into this very house in 1947, before he died. Mr. Loredo, also a former professional piano player for the Studios (I often hear liquid notes spilling from their house, accompanied by her tremulous voice), is her second husband, but the house remains under her name. “When it’s your second marriage, you know, you tend to do things that way,” she says. No further explanation as to why she hasn’t put Mr. Loredo on the deed after forty-some years. I guess one can never be too sure.

She mentions her age again — eighty-five — which she does several times during our chats, and I always act surprised. I am in fact surprised, or I was surprised the first time I found out. As she speaks, her soft, overripe face is a kind of salve for my eyes, a cool unguent I apply when I yearn to have my own mother’s face before me, animated, telling me some story, the way Mrs. Loredo does. When she floats — because that’s what she seems to do, although she’s slightly out of breath whenever we meet — to the rusty wire fence between us, I have that comforting, languageless sense of my mother’s love, empty of our raging, all soft laughter, with the unfocused yet bright eyes of her last years.

Mrs. Loredo looks remarkable for eighty-five, and I always tell her so. She’s smart and articulate and a good listener, which means she’s able to bat the ball back, agile of mind, ever interested in partnering a conversation, possessed of beautiful manners. So few people know how to converse anymore. They come at you with statements like prods and then don’t even listen to what they elicit; they merely want to make some noise and move you out of the way. But with Mrs. Loredo — Amparo, which means refuge, she reminds me — when we finish, I feel I’ve accomplished something.

When we drift apart, after I’ve handed over a bag of my apples, I’m struck with how fragile this connection is, and how relatively short our time together will be, given her age (or, frankly, mine). As I move away, I feel as though I’ve just seen an apparition, the Old Woman from a fairy tale come to look in on me, bless me, provide me spiritual refuge. To see if I will offer her, in exchange, some of my apples, before she turns and disappears.

I amble back into my studio, pockets lumpy with apples, and plop down at my desk, gazing absently out the window. How long have I been gone? So long, the sycamore across the way dropped the last of its curled brown leaves in my absence. But now the wind, as if in consolation, blows a flock of titmice onto its branches and their restless bodies and pointy crests flutter against the sky like brown leaves returned — the film rewound to the part I had missed.

But I know the return is a myth. Nothing ever returns; everything just keeps pulling endlessly forward until you’re returned — to the compost heap. Personally, I like this idea: being returned to the garden we created. Isn’t that what Rumi meant when he said, “We hold on to times like this, then, since this is how it’s going to be”? Suddenly something startles the birds and they burst at once from the tree like letters forsaking the gravity of the page. As if to say, Begin again.

Dear Ethicist:
          As you know, my husband and I are rebuilding our relationship with our 16-year-old daughter Hadley, who has been grounded for lying, cheating and stealing. We did take your earlier advice to stop eavesdropping on her phone calls, and it has eased tensions around here. Thanks for the suggestion.
          Hadley's therapist has encouraged her to be honest in return. So she confided to us that her friends Susannah Barstow and Patsy Rafferty were engaged in a grand deception, each telling their parents they spent the weekend at the other's, but instead drove to Door County to party at the Barstows' summer home, unsupervised. Then she swore us to secrecy.
          Now we don't want to betray Hadley's hard-won trust, but we worry about high school sophomores driving hundreds of miles from home with Jim Beam and Jack Daniels as their only chaperones, especially since Hadley will soon be clamoring to join them. Whose trust is more important? Hadley's or the Barstows'?

Sincerely,

Puzzled Parent

 

Dear Ethicist:
          My 16-year-old daughter Hadley says that the junior high school kids have round-robin make-out sessions. Boys go from girl to girl, engage in a bit of heavy petting, penetrating bodily orifices with their fingers, before progressing to the next girl. They don't stop to wash their hands. Now, I realize that we have a birth control dispensary at the high school, but there is nothing comparable at the junior high. While these hi-jinks won't get anyone pregnant, there’s always the possibility of unwanted bacterial and viral transmission. Who should alert these children to the finer points of hygiene? Should I call their parents? Drop herpes leaflets at the playground? Contact the school nurse?

Sincerely,

Germ-Conscious Mom

 

Dear Ethicist:
          My 16-year-old daughter Hadley is in a morning Algebra class with her best friend Susannah Barstow. Hadley says that since Susannah got her driver's license she has taken to skipping Algebra in favor of driving to her boyfriend Leo Tenenbaum's house for some private time before school starts.
          (Do you think 16-year-olds should have their own cars?)
          Is it my duty to tell Susannah's parents about her morning escapades or is it 'heresay'?

Unsure of my obligation,

Sophomore Mom
          PS. I should mention that despite her morning lapses, Susannah is getting better grades than Hadley in Algebra. Leo Tenenbaum happens to be an Algebra tutor. Do you think I should ask him to tutor Hadley? If you don't want to answer in your column, you can always email a reply to Sisyphus@yahoo.com.

 

Dear Ethicist:
          My daughter Hadley's boyfriend Sam Bridger's brother Mark has totaled several cars since he got his license. This morning, Hadley said that the Bridgers will not give Mark a fourth car, so he secretly bought a motorcycle and parked it a few blocks from home. Because our state has no helmet requirement I am concerned for his safety. I also suspect he's driving without the insurance mandated by law. In this instance, who is the proper authority — the Bridgers, the police or the Department of Motor Vehicles?
          I really hope you’re getting my letters. If you don't want to email me at Sisyphus@yahoo.com, you can always call my cellphone at (555) 555-5555. Thanks.

Sincerely,

Concerned Mom

 

Dear Ethicist:
          Hello, it's me again. How do you feel about snooping and reading a child's email. Is it a violation of the right to privacy or a parent's prerogative?
          About a half hour ago I sat down to check my email — really hoping I'd heard from you — and saw that my 16-year-old daughter Hadley had left some instant messages on the screen. I admit that I read each conversation, most of which consisted of "Hey Dude!" and "Wassup?" Then I read a message from someone named "Pimp-a-licious457". He said, "Yo, I just finished copying an assignment from this kid in 5th period African Studies. Word for word. Do you think Mrs. Benson will notice?"
          We have explained the consequences of plagiarism to Hadley before, and I'm glad to know she didn't congratulate Pimp-a-licious457 on his crime. It may be that Pimp-a-licious457 does not realize that plagiarism is a serious offense. The school handbook says it means immediate failure of the class. Should I email Pimp-a-licious457 myself and mention the handbook? That would show Hadley that I was reading her instant messages. While IM's and email do not have the same legal protections as postal mail, I am queasy about admitting this.
          Again, I know you get lots of mail, and can't respond to every letter. But I desperately need your help.

Most sincerely,

Troubled Mother
          P. S. Should I worry about Hadley palling around with someone named Pimp-a-licious?

 

Dear Ethicist:
          I thought of you yesterday when the toaster-oven caught on fire. I was certain you'd know what to do, whether to unplug it or just douse it with water. I really rely on your advice. Did you know that you can't warm up tortilla shells in the toaster oven? Let me tell you, they explode just like kindling!
          But today, I am writing again about our daughter Hadley. My husband and I have always been sorry that she isn't involved in extra-curricular activities. I, myself, was a member of the pep squad in high school and my husband was president of student council.
          Then, recently, Hadley began staying after school for club meetings. Of course, we were thrilled. But last night, on my way home from buying a new toaster-oven, I found a lime green flyer in the car for the E-Town Shoplifting Club. Hadley was listed as vice-president and her friend Susannah Barstow is secretary!
          Now we are worried about her so-called club meetings. If we confront her with the flyer, will we discourage her from participating in any clubs at all? Or should we simply let nature take its course? Some child-rearing experts say that natural consequences are the best discipline. Getting arrested, handcuffed and fingerprinted would be impressive consequences. But if that happens, are we technically guilty of aiding and abetting a crime?

Sincerely,

Hadley’s mom

 

Dear Ethicist:
          It's been a long time since I heard from you, and things have gone from bad to worse. If it's too much trouble to write, you can just call. My home number patches through to my cell phone. I do need to talk.
          For example, there's the digital camera we gave our daughter Hadley for her birthday. Much to our delight, she started carrying it everywhere. But now we have a problem. The pictures she downloads to our computer take up too much memory. So my husband decided to delete some.
          Much to his horror, he found dozens of troubling photographs of teenagers at a youth group retreat chugging alcohol, downing Jell-o shots, and even some close-ups of naked body parts. I believe that I recognize a few of the teenage boys attached to these naked body parts, including Sam Bridger, Hadley's boyfriend. Some of them are 16 years old, but most are 17 and older. This is my dilemma: Should I email these photos to their parents, so they know what is going on at the youth group retreats? Or will I be violating child pornography laws?

Thanks so much,

Blushing Mother

 

Dear Ethicist:
          I was just wondering, are you on vacation? Or sabbatical? I imagine it's depressing to constantly read about people's problems. I'd like a vacation myself.
          And speaking of depressing, I do try to stay out of my daughter Hadley's bedroom, because of the mess. Like most teenagers, she hasn't quite figured out how to use a hanger.
          More than that, I'm getting nervous. She posted a No Trespassing sign on her door, and seems to be getting more text messages than before. Her cell phone bill lists calls from Rock Island, Peoria and Buford, Texas. Last night, the dog started barking at 3 a.m. and then I heard the door slam. Plus, Hadley's putting more miles on my car than the two mile drive to school can explain.
          Now, like many families, we've had our share of colds and flu. Even so, I'm surprised at the number of Sudafed boxes showing up in the wastebaskets. Is it possible for Hadley to run a meth lab out of her bedroom? Would there be a telltale odor if she was cooking methamphetamine? Or would her collection of Body Shop incense and candles disguise it?
          Obviously we don't need a warrant to enter Hadley's room. But should she be present if we do search her belongings?
          I'm home right now, if you'd like to call. I eagerly await your reply.

Five to a section: first 093 black, then 163 heather charcoal, then 132 midnight navy, then 301 heather denim, then on to br8 clear sky — damn it, no clear sky! Never mind, next section: 847 coral blush, then aj3 coral strip, then g61 peach cream — no, wait, then bv6 coral heart bead, then g61 peach cream. Keep the lines straight, move quickly, make sure they are in order.

I was nearly finished organizing the panty table, with just three more to go before the Signature Cotton section was completely organized. Then I could move on to organizing the Body by Victoria Full Coverage Shaping Bras. The manager had zoned me in the Body by Victoria rooms that day. These were the most intimate rooms of the store, situated all the way in the back right-hand corner, next to the changing rooms. Customers would congregate here and either sift through the cotton panty tables or stare blankly at the most popular bras on display. They would linger in the sitting room, with its red wallpaper. They would sit on the gold-clawfoot chairs. They were awaiting the keys to the changing rooms.

It was 11 a.m. on a Tuesday morning, a slow time for the store, and I was 'in the zone.' I sectioned and categorized the last line of panties and moved on to the mountainous pile of multi-colored cotton on the next table. Five to a section: first 093 black, then 163 heather charcoal... I automatically went into the motions, almost hypnotized by the new age soundtrack: indistinguishable sounds oozing out of the speakers.

When I was halfway through organizing the table, a mother and daughter walked into the room. Look up, smile. "Hello ladies, how are we doing today?" I smiled sweetly and finished sectioning the aj3 coral strip panties.

They were doing 'fine,' as was appropriate, and they slowly approached the Body by Victoria Seamless Shaping Demi bra. I held off on approaching them: first, I swiftly completed the table, and straightened my black jacket and smoothed my hair. Then I made my move.

"What are we looking for today, ladies? I see that you've noticed our Body by Victoria Seamless Shaping Demi bra. Is this what you're looking for?" They smiled. It was the vacant, polite smile that people use when trying to process information.

After another look at the bras, the mother said "Actually, we're here for my daughter." Of course you are. Smile at the daughter, make her feel comfortable. The young girl wore an oversized hoodie with 'Salinas High School' written across her chest. She kept her hands in her pockets and her head down. She looked about 14. "We need to get her a bra," The mother continued. I smiled again at the daughter, knowing all too well that my second smile would not comfort her in the slightest.

Because it was time for business.

Which meant that she would just have to suffer through the Victoria's Secret rigmarole.

I automatically switched into over-polite-fun-energetic-sales-associate mode as I turned slightly toward the daughter while continuing to direct most of my dialogue towards the mother — the credit card bearer. "Well, my name's Mollie and I can help you with anything you need. Let's first measure you to get you started with one of our drawers from the Bra Wardrobing Center." I pulled the light pink measuring tape off my shoulders, where it hung like a whip of humiliation. Just as I had suspected they would, the daughter's innocent eyes widened at the word 'measure.'

"If you could put your arms out straight like this, I'll go ahead and see what size you are." I illustrated the pose with my own arms. The daughter looked up to her mother for approval before she reluctantly put her arms out to the sides.

I'm sorry, kid.

I quickly brought the tape around the young girl's bust, noting the inches, and brought it down under them, noting the second measurement. Add two to the first, and then subtract the second number from the first. "Okay, you're a 34 C. Is that what you've been wearing?"

She shook her head no, and half-whispered: "I thought I was a B."

Shocked, the mother exclaimed, "She's a C? She's bigger than me now!"

I nodded; the training videos had stated that somewhere between 70 and 85 percent of women wore the wrong size bra.

"Perhaps you need to be measured as well," I suggested. "You know, they say that you need to be measured every six months to be sure of your size." I started to open the drawers to the seamless shaping demi. "Let's get your daughter set up first and then we'll get you measured." I picked out a 367 buff 34 C and led the mother and daughter to the dressing rooms. I knocked on one of the doors, knowing full well that no one would be in the room: force of habit.

"Okay, here is the seamless shaping demi..." I reached behind myself for the 34 C wardrobing-drawer: "And here is a drawer full of the most popular styles in your size. For instance, here is one from the Very Sexy collection, a seamless push up bra." I held up the 990 warm nude bra to illustrate. I explained the differences between the remaining bras in the drawer and left the daughter to deliberate over each.

I turned towards the mother. "All right, now that she's sorted out, let's get you measured."

"Oh, no." She took a step back. "I know what size I am, really. I don't need to be measured." The older women usually put up a defense when it came to resizing. However, I knew exactly what to say in rebuttal.

"Let's just measure you anyway: you might be pleasantly surprised." I pulled out my antipathetic pink tape again. "And then you can get a drawer as well to start trying on the perfect style for your size."

She rolled her eyes and reluctantly stuck her arms out. Defeat.

Add two, subtract the second number from the first. "Okay, you're a 36 C." Her mouth dropped open. I bent down to get her wardrobing drawer. "Here is your box with all the most popular styles, as I have explained to your daughter." I ushered her into the changing room next to her daughter.

I went back to sorting the tables. Five in a section: g61 peach cream. As I sectioned each color and size, I would look up from time to time at the advertisement of Tyra Banks. She smiled down at me, wearing the w52 fresh yellow full coverage bra with the matching cotton panties. "It's my favorite bra" was in quotations next to her white, winking smile. Mine too. I felt the underwire of my own Body by Victoria bra. I was hot under my suit jacket and my white tailored shirt. Sweat was starting to accumulate between the wire of my bra and the skin under my breasts. Even so, the bra was comfortable against my skin: it was form fitting. A good bra to work in. I wondered if Tyra sweated in her Body by Victoria bra when she worked. Probably not. She always looks flawless.

Tyra looked down at me while I sectioned panty tables, as my very own Victoria's Secret Guardian Angel. I could imagine her saying "Good job, Mollie. Get them into our bras. Get them comfortable." She would wink and toss her model hair. "Tell them their true size. Tell them what they need." Tyra would be proud of me: not every sales associate could smoothly transition customers into the fitting rooms like I could. It is all in the smile, the words, and the insistence. They say you should...

Who are they anyway? Well, whoever they are, they must be important. They must be incredibly smart to know exactly how often women need to get measured, how to devise a formula for measuring, and how to give instructions on arranging panty tables. They are scientists.

Everything is calculated, everything is measured. Victoria's Secret has become the number one player in the lingerie market because they 'know' the science. Every women fits into a bra size between 32 AA and 40 DD. Never mind the women who might be smaller or much larger, those women won't find anything here to fit them. Millions of women shop at Victoria's Secret; they do not need those other women. A $40 bra sold to millions of women means that they do not have to cater to all women in order to increase their profit margin. Besides, these other women can buy panties, robes, or products from the beauty side of the store — that way, the exclusion is not total. At least these others have their Heavenly Angels scented perfume and Five for $25 Pink Collection Panties — no one goes home empty handed.

Victoria's Secret is "Best at Bras!" — as they proudly proclaim every month on their new launch bra. It is the only company to insist that their clientele be measured at every visit, so they can have the best fit, and therefore the best bra shopping experience. Never mind the embarrassment of a complete stranger categorizing your breasts into inches. Never mind someone assuring you that you do not know your accurate size. Forget the fact that these bras are $40 a pop. Forget the fact that the matching panty set is only twenty-five additional dollars. These products are quality products. They are worth the embarrassment and the money. After all, you aren't a scientist. You do not know the 'secret' formula that Tyra Banks and her obedient band of sales associates know. Women do not refute Victoria's apocryphal secret. They submit to the measurements because that tiny plastic band of numbers is what holds the truth about their bodies.

I replace the tape back around my neck, straighten my suit jacket, and go on to the next disorganized cotton panty table. Remember, five to a section: first 093 black, then 163 heather charcoal, then 132 midnight navy, then 301 heather denim, then...

It's another predictable day in a country boasting "thirteen months of sunshine." The wind swirls off the Sudanese plain and drifts up an 8,000-foot escarpment. By my calculations, I've completed a third of my Peace Corps assignment as a ninth grade high school English teacher in Asmara, Ethiopia. 18 months to go and counting.

I list the words, then define them on the blackboard, somehow managing to avoid the hole in the floor; the students like it when I slip and fall into it. I review the new vocabulary with a wooden pointer: "sideshow, ring toss, cotton candy, roller coaster, and carnival." There isn't room to describe "Ferris wheel," so I squeeze in the words at the bottom.

I call on the students alphabetically to read the selection. It helps me remember their names. Today I hope to complete A through C. Abdul begins reading, then after a paragraph, I call on Aferworki. The students in 9F sit three to a desk, three to a book in an airless room with a whooshing overhead fan and three dangling window shutters.

By the time I reach Berhane, we've hit the Ferris wheel. I stop and draw a circle on the board. I make little dashes for seats and add stick figures with round faces and curly hair. I step back like Picasso and decide my masterpiece looks like a fuzzy alarm clock with whiskers. I tell the class the wheel goes round and round and people ride on it.

"Why do they do that?" Menghistu asks.

"Because it's fun." I point to the highest spot on my hairy circle. "On a clear day, you ... uh, you can see forever from up there." Thank you, Barbara Streisand!

"Sir?" This from Zerai who sits in the back and likes to heckle me. "Can we read about the camel?"

The Ship of the Desert is the seventh story listed in the table of contents, and I tell Zerai we'll get there soon. Some students shift in their seats, their plastic sandals make scratching sounds on the tile floor. Others chat with neighbors or sit quietly with expressionless faces.

"Yes, Yamane?"

"In the desert, water is more precious than gold."

"The camel," says Tesfai, "can walk miles without water," and I think this is a really good thing but not today. My lesson plan is written. We're almost to the sideshow, about to buy some cotton candy, and then take a short quiz. Yet given the noise level in the classroom, I know it's not going to happen. I capitulate. We read about the camel.

The students take turns. Their reading is fluid and pronunciation clear. They ace the vocabulary. Ditto the comprehension questions.

In days to come, we read about supermarket shopping, ceramics in Dresden and trick or treating in Ohio. I ask them questions. They blow the answers. They ask for the camel story. Again. Thoughts ping-pong in my head:

I hate the camel story.

But the students need to connect with their own experience.

They also need to broaden their knowledge of the world.

But they need to feel successful.

And so I compromise. Each day we read a new story, then return to the camel.

They love it.

I suffer.

* * *

The day of my teaching evaluation arrives. The Principal and Vice Principal occupy two benches at the front of the classroom, displacing six students to the back of the room where they lean against the windowsills and wave outside to their classmates engaged in a soccer match.

I'm wearing a white, short-sleeved shirt and narrow tie. Sweat drizzles from under my arms and down my sides.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Zerai?"

"Can we read about...?"

"No, not today. We have a special lesson for Ato Tadesse and Ato Yohannes." I study my notes on the six wives of Henry VIII. Jeez, even the British can't sort them out.

"Today," I begin, "we won't be reading about space stations, foreign cuisine or supersonic travel." My evaluators nod and smile, perhaps at the mention of our very mod curriculum. I look out over the class, and then lower my head like Anne Boleyn before her executioner. I've had it. I know it. My students know it.

I flip quickly through the pages to chapter seven, take a deep breath and let it out. "Okay, let's read about the camel."

"Redeemed and thus liberated."
—Carlo Ginzburg, The Cheese and the Worms

It would appear that in the previous interrogation you contradicted yourself in regard to the provenance of the angels. Therefore clarify this circumstance and your belief.
 
Back to that again, are we? Once more: earth and air and water and fire were mixed together, and out of that bulk a mass was formed, the way cheese forms in milk. Worms appeared in the mass, and those worms, once blessed by God with will, intellect and memory, were the angels.
 
As if out of cheese, then.
 
So to speak.
 
Are we talking the whole celestial hierarchy here, or—
 
No. Archangels, and angels properly speaking.
 
Whence then the others? The principalities and powers?
 
As if out of butter.
 
The virtues, dominions and thrones?
 
Out of yogurt.
 
The cherubim? The seraphim?
 
Whipped cream and meringue, respectively.
 
I will have you know that meringue is not a dairy product.
 
Is that my problem?
 
Not your biggest one.
 
Which is?
 
That the Holy Roman Office of the Inquisition has charged you with twisting maliciously, with affirming diabolically, with contriving wickedly, with persevering obdurately, with causing to resurface and asserting as true the ancient philosopher's censured opinion that there was an eternal chaos from which originated everything of this world, and with resurrecting the Manichean doctrine of the dual generation of good and evil, thereby putting at risk the entire Counter-Reformation program as such.
 
All on account of the meringue?
 
Hardly. You—
 
Because I'd be willing to reconsider as far as the meringue goes.
 
You know perfectly well that meringue is but the beginning, and may I remind you that should said charges be judged true, you would be obliged to abjure your heresies publicly, to fulfill various unpleasant salutary penances, and to spend the rest of your life in prison wearing nothing but a habitello. Does that sound like a laughing matter to you?
 
The habitello sounds a little funny.
 
It is, a little.
 
Right. Next question?
 
Have you any knowledge of the future?
 
A tiny bit. Minimal. More sort of a presentiment than anything else.
 
Namely?
 
That it ends badly.
 
Badly is hardly the word.
 
Really?
 
I’m so very sorry.
 
Me too.
 
I cannot, however, allow my sorrow to change things.
 
Of course not.
 
I have a job to perform.
 
Yes, yes of course.
 
Don’t think this is easy for me.
 
I would never think such a thing.
 
Because—
 
It’s okay. I understand. Go ahead, ask the next question.
 
Right. Sorry, I just... Okay. Who are your accomplices? Your disciples? Your hangers-on?
 
You’re kidding.
 
No, really.
 
Um. Counting Melchiorre Gerbas?
 
Melchiore the Moron?
 
The very same.
 
Poor bastard. No, we’ll deal with him later. Right now we're more interested in movers, shakers, folks that could be dangerous if your ideas took hold.
 
In that case, none that I know of. Pretty much everyone here in the greater Friuli area thinks I'm kind of a ding dong, religion-wise.
 
And yet there's no way a simple miller such as yourself could have come up with all these ideas.
 
There were the books.
 
Right, the books. Let's see, Boccaccio, Mandeville, the Bible, Il Fioretto... Nope, no dice, still too many loose ends. Names and addresses of everybody you've ever spoken with, if you'd be so kind.
 
You know I can't tell you.
 
And you know what happens if you don't.
 
Torture?
 
Bull's-eye.
 
I... Damn. Sorry, no can do.
 
Fine. Take that!
 
Ow! Never!
 
And that!
 
Ow! Never!
 
And that!
 
Ow! Francesco Montareale!
 
Okay, I think that about does it for now.
 
What's that supposed to mean?
 
That you will indeed be condemned as a heretic and heresiarch, and will be obliged to recite your abjuration, candle in hand, at the entrance to the cathedral; that during your two years here in this dark dank prison you will pray often, fast on Fridays, and seem most truly repentant; that in a letter to Fra Evangelista Paleo you will recant, beg forgiveness and mercy, and promise never again to fall into error; that you will gain a hearing, and at said hearing will weep and plead and prostrate yourself; that you will then be released, and resume to a certain extent your place in the community; and that at some later point you will start spreading your filthy lies yet again, will again be arrested and tried, will be condemned as a recidivist, and at the age of sixty-seven, on the direct order of Pope Clement VII, will be led to and burned at the stake.
 
Really?
 
That's what it says here.
 
Let's have a look.
 
See?
 
Wow. Well, if that’s what it says...
 
Yes.
 
Hold on. According to this, I don't get tortured until my second trial, fifteen years from now.
 
We've tried to follow the spirit of the thing rather than the letter.
 
But you're getting the essentials?
 
Each and every one.
 
Good. Good good good.
 
So.
 
You're saying this is it?
 
Pretty much. See you in 1599?
 
Okay. No, wait, hold on, don't, don't go just yet.
 
Yes?
 
And afterwards?
 
Afterwards when?
 
Once I'm gone for good.
 
Yes?
 
Does anything come of it?
 
You mean does anything come of your ideas and suffering and ignominious, horrifying death?
 
Yes.
 
Depends on what you mean by 'anything.'
 
Look, I'm begging you here, if—
 
Okay. I mean, I'm not supposed to, but, well, okay. Yes, something comes of it. After it's done, after you're gone, there will be a rumor, third-hand at best, that a peasant here in the Friuli has been heard saying that when the body dies, the soul dies too.
 
That's it? One lousy theosophical descendent?
 
Sorry.
 
Well. What’s his name?
 
Marco, or Marcato. The record won't be clear.
 
And what becomes of him?
 
Nothing, as far as we know.
 
No massive uprising, no revolution...
 
Nope.
 
How depressing.
 
Yes. But there's something else as well. This book itself.
 
What about it?
 
Well... Posterity. Those who come later will want to know certain things, and this book will tell them, and without you there would be no book.
 
Things like what?
 
Like the manner in which one might use discrepancies attributable neither to suggestive questioning nor to torture between my questions and your replies to expose the filter that you interposed unconsciously between yourself and the texts you've read, said filter presupposing an oral culture composed partly of autonomous but obscure peasant mythologies that might well serve as evidence of a millenarian cosmological tradition, said mythologies having later been grafted onto a complex of ideas ranging from a naturalism that tended toward the scientific to utopian aspirations of social reform.
 
Interesting.
 
Very. Also, and I'm sure you'll agree this is a good thing, it will hypothesize meaningfully in regard to reciprocal influences between the dominant classes on one hand and the subordinate classes on the other, and will use your very case, lacking in macro-historical significance such as it is, and representative by virtue of that lack, to demonstrate the extent to which one might exercise one's conditional liberty within the not altogether inflexible cage formed of the latent possibilities of a peasant culture otherwise known only through fragmentary, distorted documents from the very archives of those who sought to repress said culture.
 
Um.
 
I know, I know.
 
Will anyone read this book?
 
Mostly historians and their students.
 
Not promising.
 
No, but there will be others. A few others. A handful.
 
Enough?
 
For what?
 
Fair question. Although...
 
What?
 
I was just thinking. Maybe there's some way around all this.
 
A way to beat the book?
 
Exactly.
 
None that I know of. You could always try, of course. But bear in mind what you'd be risking.
 
Marco, or Marcato.
 
And the existence of the text itself.
 
Damn.
 
Yup.
 
So.
 
So.
 
I guess you'd better be off, then.
 
I guess so.
 
Take care.
 
You too.
 
Write when you can.
 
I will if you will.
 
You know I will.
 
And you know I will.
 
Okay then.
 
Okay.
 

[This piece was originally published in the UK by Chapman Magazine.]

The gates opened and the bull came out, sweating and angry. He caught sight of the matador and charged. The matador had a reputation for his graceful movements with the red muleta and for the tight pants of his traje de luces, or bullfighting suit, which sparkled in the hot sun. But since he carried a sharp sword that was used only for killing, he still seemed a true man. Twice the matador let the bull charge through the muleta unharmed, giving the spectators time to cheer and read the advertisements embroidered on his jacket. During the third charge the matador raised his sword and stabbed the bull. So the bull raised his horns and stabbed the matador. Then the matador took out his gun and shot the bull. Then the bull took out his gun and shot the matador.

Afterwards when we were drunk in the bar, we discussed the fight. We said it had been a good fight, and the waiters who had seen it agreed it had been a good fight, and the bull agreed it had been a good fight. The beer did not say anything. We just drank it.

Paris was best to see the races. Times were hard in those days, but if we saved and did not spend money on luxuries such as clothing and food we could still afford to go to the track. Sometimes the races did not turn out so well, but usually the bull would come in first, and then we would have money enough to drink, and think about the war, and be sad.

In Africa we would go hunting, and we would shoot the elephants. Sometimes we were too drunk, and too sad to shoot the elephants, so we would tell them about the war. This would kill them faster. One night a leopard snuck into the camp. I remember because that leopard ate one of my arms. The whole of my left was devoured, and the beast had gotten halfway through the other before the bull shot it and we were again safe.

After that I had trouble writing. It is difficult to write and be honest if one cannot even sharpen a pencil without tasting graphite. When I did attempt to write, the pencils would clatter to the floor and echo like landmines, which reminded me of the war. The memories would make me sweat and beads of perspiration formed upon my nose that I was unable to wipe off except by pushing my face into my remaining armpit. I cursed myself for being stupid and weak and for complaining. With persistence, despite the great difficulty, I used my tongue to type up a novel based upon my experiences entitled, Hello to the Leopard and Farewell to the Arms.