Friday, December 25, 2009

Three mages and three bottles of whiskey

I've been a good girl. I am a good girl... and i'm happy like child... i'm going to be a mommy. My boyfriend is so excited, mom doesn't know, his folks neither, none of our friends yet, but i feel so in love, like we're the primordial couple, we're really really blessed.
Tonight i'll call her... my mom i mean... i'll give her a riddle. I'll play with her mind a bit. I'll help her if needed and then i'll wait to hear her happy cry on the phone - YESS... mom you will be a granny. It's probably the best news i'll ever bring to her. And then i'll tell her about our marriage, me and Sacha that will take place in spring, and that we are just in front of her place.
That's the way to do it.
Yes.. i'll call her from the car. This way i'll send my torpedo to her heart and i'll see the impact on her face... just at the right time. Perfect. Wait... i already see red butterflies around my dreams.
You see, my mom raised me alone, she was always so serious, and every time i delivered her some news, good or bad, she was just giving me the cold look: "There are more important things in this life, Lulu". Maybe they were... but no more.
This time, i'll crack her defense out. There's no way she will resist me tonight. And there are no other things more important this time... it's life itself. My news, my smile and my army of butterflies can open any heart.
She doesn't leave far from here.
Then we'll drink champagne or... whatever Sacha is bringing - i'm hoping for champagne... it should be... he's in charge with the presents tonight, he'd better not screw up.
Over the drinks i'll tell her the details, about the doctor and the baby room and all and later, i'll send Sacha away, to do the dishes (he's a sweetheart) just to have a little talk with mom. We two have a bit of a history together on some subjects. It's funny how once you become a mom, you're just like your mom... and... there should be no more secrets... no more ... parent attitude. It's the final triumph of a child, right?
She never said who my father is...
I'm not even sure if i missed him. It would be nice to know... right?
At this moment... i think, i'm entitled to know, not for me... for .. the baby.. you understand?
Uh... am i becoming .. my mom? Pff... what a strange feeling.
I already know, her face, her reaction, we had this conversation for countless times, about dad i mean. She will have to give me at least... no... wait... i have a better idea.
Thank you butterflies.
This time i'll ask for her diary and for the photo albums. I'll wait for that moment of silence when all is said.. after a glass of wine, or champagne, or.. whatever Sacha is brining... and i'll say... what i've always wanted to say in fact. Ah.. pretty butterfly.. will my child speak to me like that too? Uh... pretty pretty wings...

- Mom, uh.. how can i put this? i couldn't be more grateful on the life I've had so far... you raised me so... SO good, i learned to be happy and to love people and life... you did ... an amazing job. I want to be able to understand more, to know more of you, to get some of your strength. Pretty pretty wings... She'll turn a bit colder and say:
-There's nothing good to learn from my past, Lulu. And not to mention, my diary is just a notebook filled with crap. Nothing useful at all.
- So give it to me! Please! Please mama, if i ever made you happy, just give it to me. It's just symbolic anyway.
- Ok, you suborn little weasel. And as she will be giving it to me, she'll say "You made me the happiest mom in the world"

It's going to be a tiresome evening. Reading that will probably feel so... old and strange. The green flamingos on the cover, the pink pages, the handwriting... I managed to read some of it when i was 13... i had the feeling i grew up so much that day, but i couldn't find any clues... She had details and phone numbers there.. i know that much. I have 9 months to find the truth and deliver myself a father for me along with my child.
From those numbers, addresses, names, i will get to her old friends, and .. oh wait... here ... all those notes... it must be... wait .. i gotta call... pretty pretty wings...
- Hello, excuse me ... i'm looking for Doctor Loom, my name is Lala Scotch, and i would...
- Ah... finally, an old voice said, the whiskey girl.
- ...
I meet the old lady. She invites me in the library room, and examines me with small round black eyes from underneath her glasses, while she tries to crack open a bottle of scotch. She's handling me the bottle... i help her open it up and pass back the heavy thing.
- I don't drink, i say, I'm with my car...
- You will darling, you will...
- You're very kind but...
- This bottle has been waiting for you in that corner for... oh dear... too many of years. You'll drink with me if you want me to tell you a damn thing or, if not, I'll have a glass, or two, or three.. or how many it will take and you'll be on your way the same way you got here.
I sit and hold my glass on the table for her to pour. She's pouring way too much.
- Don't worry, you'll want to finish that. She sits down, under a yellow lamp, takes a big sip, holds it a bit, and as she breaths out the strong reaction, she's looking around her study room, lets her head on the back of her armchair and gives room for her eyes to grab a watery shine. I take a sip on my own and wait.
- I've delivered a lot of babies, says the doctor. I performed abortions too. It was my job and i did it well. It was a cold and snowy day, close to Christmas, this couple...
- My mom ?
- listen, i'm sorry if i can not hold up for you here for a friendly talk. The end of this story, is for you to write, now.. just hear me, please, for i have been waiting a long while to say all this and it's not that easy... I'm an old woman now.
- ... please
- they were not so young, i mean, around 30. He had blond hair, looked more like an office guy, she was dark, red lips, had few piercings and a small tattoo on the naked shoulder. With a weak voice he tried to explain to me that they were there to set up an appointment for an abortion. She picked up from there, very serious, mature, detached. None of them wanted the baby, it was sort of an accident and i was supposed to inform them on how things will go and all. She asked some questions, i asked them if they were sure as i was doing this every time. She was more than determined he was a bit embarrassed, quiet and... guilty. She asked if she could do it in the same day. I had the time but i felt like they need more time on this and the best i could do was to set them up for the next day.
Pouring the second glass of scotch, takes her time... breathes with sound, and continues. Later that day, i've met another couple. It was the very mirrored image of the first two. He was an artist, strange dark haircut, piercings and tattoos, she was blond and delicate, elegant. They were holding hands and smiling, so happy and in love, warm and beautiful. She was scared, shy and blushed, he was protective, and smiling. They made the test, she was with child, and they wanted to keep the baby. Excellent news, i said. They were visiting to have some analysis, a check up, a friend of her recommended me as her doctor.. etc. It was a very nice meeting, and to celebrate he brought a bottle of whiskey - as he said to me at that time, he was hoping for a boy.
- ha, tough luck... uh.. excuse me, please go on.
- I refused initially, i said i don't drink, as actually i wasn't drinking at the time and he insisted.
- Keep the bottle until the baby gets born, he said. I took it, thinking that I have friends who would have loved to drink that bottle way earlier than nine months past. The results of the analysis were to be ready the next evening. I would see them than.
Another big sip of her whiskey, and the old lady continued, with her eyes fixing a point on the floor, her voice going lower, more inside her.

The next day, i was waiting for the couple with the abortion. The buzz rings, i open and the happy father from the other day, the whiskey guy, my tattooed artist comes inside and asks if we can have a small conversation.
- So you want a girl now, my dear? i asked, have you changed your mind? want the bottle back?
- Oh, i had a lot of that lately, doctor, but not now. You see... things are... complicated. I'm in love...
- Um... oh good, i said, anyway... you got the wrong doctor, i don't fix matters of the heart.The buzz rings again and i tell him i have an appointment to attend to. He jumps and gets me with my back to the wall, sticking his face in front of me. In a single breath he explains to me that he loves another girl, that the girl from yesterday would have the child anyway because she's just willing to become a mother, even a single mother in fact. She loves him from hi-school and... well... he tried to go along and accept all that... to see about his life and let her have the child too... but.. well.. he just can't... he can not live his life ignoring his child that someone else wants of him. His life was about to change and he was not willing to, not to mention he had not much choice.The buzz ringed again.
- I push him back and said. Not my problem... what do you want me to do?
- Think of that child, doctor. Those analyses could come out problematic and the issue will be over. She can find out that she needs to try again, later, when true love would bless her and the child. This baby is not too well. He's sick... just like you're sick when you're in love with someone that doesn't want you. If that goes away in time for you and me... when you're born with it... it does not. My life, her life, and the one of the kid are about to get fucked up... all for the sake of a maternal feeling and a conjuncture of some too lonely parents. You're the magic man, doctor, the fairy and i'll let you decide the fate now. I've done my dance. If you need me... i'll be in that bottle of whiskey. He made few steps back, fixing me with a deep look. He turned around and opened the door to leave, only to face the other couple. They have exchanged a long look before he moved away... never to appear again.

I was a bit dizzy as i got inside my room with the dark hair girl for the abortion. She didn't wanted to be asleep during the procedure. Her shy friend went outside for a smoke. As she got on the table, undressed and holding her purse, my mind was trying to focus, cursing the previous guy for the whole thing. The girl from my table grabs me, takes a heavy package from her purse, places it in my hand, looks me in the eye, and says:
- I want to keep this baby. Please... that looser will never know. I'll disappear. This is just to set the poor guy free. I want this baby...
Now... the old lady, stares at the empty glass in front of her and a long, long silence was pushing my heart up my throat.
- In that heavy package was a bottle of whiskey.


- Baby ?
- Sacha?
- I couldn't find champagne. Your mom drinks whiskey... right?
- Ah.. damn... i just had this... could you ask those butterflies to stop whistling, please? Uh.. and do you want this child ?
- you're pregnant?
- fuck! Merry Christmas Sacha.


bughimamborag said...

N-as vrea sa par un fel de Sile Odiosu, dar... de ce scrii in engleza ? Pe langa ca apar mici greseli pe care un vorbitor nativ nu le-ar face, oricat de bine stii o limba straina, nu are aceeasi spontaneitate si maleabilitate ca limba ta, nu ii stapanesti toate nuantele. Sigur ca au existat scriitori (Cioran, Nabokov etc.) care au ajuns celebri scriind intr-o limba straina - dar ei traiau in mediul limbii respective, o vorbeau/auzeau zilnic. Deci alternativa ar fi sa te expatriezi si tu intr-o tara anglofona si sa te reapuci de scris abia dupa ce te imbibi cativa ani de engleza, cand ajungi sa gandesti in ea. Si am impresia ca tu pierzi mai mult decat altii schimband limba pentru ca tu aveai pe vremuri, in epoca GO, un stil inconfundabil de a scrie, de a te juca cu cuvintele, foarte creativ, cu umor, cu un farmec care a contribuit simtitor la succesul (si regretul dupa) Game Over. Nimic din asta nu regasesc aici, in textele astea in engleza. Cred ca destule editoriale/review-uri/JMC si ce mai scriai tu pe acolo erau mai reusite literar decat incercarile tale literare de aici.

Si mai e o chestie aici in povestirea asta, care tine nu de limba ci de cultura: dupa numele personajelor, pare sa se petreaca intr-un mediu anglofon, dar pe la ei ma indoiesc ca exista obiceiul asta al nostru de a merge la medic cu sticla de whiskey, pachetul de Kent si alte asemenea "atentii".

Dar cele doua dileme morale mi s-au parut interesante ca food for thought, ma intreb ce as fi facut in locul doctoritei... In cazul cu bruneta si corporatistul poate ca intram in joc, din moment ce (legal) mama decide daca pastreaza sarcina si scenariul gandit de tipa era in beneficiul tuturor celor trei, avand delicatetea sa il scape pe tip de o grija. Desi, in caz ca el platea, nu era chiar moral/legal sa iei bani pt un serviciu pe care nu-l efectuezi... In cazul cu blonda si artistul sigur nu intram in joc, ideea artistului fiind f. dubioasa etic si legal (cum ziceam, dupa lege mama are dreptul sa decida, probabil fiindca e in joc corpul ei) si pe deasupra riscanta, cred ca nici chiar un medic pe care nu il prea jena constinta n-ar fi riscat doar pt o sticla de whiskey, ci eventual pt o suma cu 3 zerouri. Asa ca ii ziceam aluia "Don't be a pussy ! Grow a pair, go talk to her !" (dar nu chiar in aceste cuvinte, ca totusi ala era clientul). Dar din povestire parea sa reiasa (sau am inteles eu gresit?) ca doctorita a acceptat ambele propuneri, ca naratoarea e copilul primului cuplu, singurul care s-a nascut. Ceea ce cam ciudat din partea doctoritei, pt ca situatia reala a celor doua cupluri e identica: mama vrea copilul, tatal nu - si atunci de ce decide ea ca unul sa se nasca si unul nu ? Doar daca a contat cine a adus sticlele de whiskey...

bughimamborag said...

*Erata: constiinta