Igor and I were left. I was grateful when Igor offered to see me home. He took the bag with the gifts, and I took his arm and leaned against him. I still felt weak.
The fog was as thick as cotton candy. The pain I had felt during the Uroš incident was giving way to the pleasure of Amsterdam and its childlike charm.
“Fog becomes Amsterdam, don’t you think?” Igor whispered.
“How come you’re whispering?”
“It’s the fog,” he said, flustered.
I looked at him. I found it touching he was flustered. The fog was exciting. Like a child’s fantasy about vanishing into thin air.Now you see me, now you don’t. It was tempting and scary at the same time. Like the invisibility hat in the Russian fairy tale.
“What is it?” he said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“What a child you are!”
“You’re the child! I bet you have no idea where you are.”
“Remind me.”
“In Macondo.”
“Why Macondo?”
“Remember how everyone suddenly stopped sleeping and totally lost their memories? So they had to paste labels on things to know what to call them and directions to know how to use them. And remember how Arcadio Buendía invented a memory machine?”
Everything around us seemed to stand still. There were no more sharp edges. Everything was soft—sounds, voices, lights. Everything was quiet, lying low, holding its breath. We practically had to feel our way through the fog. Everything was unreal.
“No, I don’t remember.”
“Remember who saved them?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Melquiades the Gypsy, who came back from the dead and brought them sugar water in little bottles.”
“Coca-Cola?”
I saw a man with dark, glittering, slightly slanting eyes staring out of the fog at me. His large lips were moist and swollen, his body taut as a string. He seemed to be trembling.
A picture seeming to emerge from a forgotten past flashed through my mind. I saw myself unbuttoning Igor’s coat warm with moisture and letting my head fall on his chest, then standing on tiptoe and chewing his upper lip until it bled, lifting it with my tongue, gliding the top of my tongue along the smooth enamel of his teeth…
“Good night,” I panted, and slipped into the entrance.
CHAPTER 1
“I’ll pick you up at the airport,” she said. “Don’t bother,” I said. “I’ll take a cab.” But when I stepped off the plane, I felt a twinge of disappointment: her face wasn’t there. A foreign country is a country where nobody meets you at the airport, I thought. I was surprised at my own sensitivity: it was so childish. I hadn’t had time to don my armor.
I had vowed to suppress all “émigré emotions.” I knew the standard list of complaints: Nobody asks how we are; they just go on about their own problems (Mario), “we” being the ones who had left the country, “they” being the ones who had stayed behind. “They” lived “there” we, “here.” They know best. They jump in the minute we open our mouths. They’ve got an opinion about everything. Why must they have an opinion about everything? (Darko). To hear them, they know Amsterdam better than we do, not that they’ve ever been here! (Ante). They’re always whining about how bad things are for them and trying to make me feel guilty for having left (Ana). Whenever I go back, I feel I’m attending my own funeral (Nevena). And I feel like a punching bag. I ache all over! (Boban). I used to play Santa Claus. I’d go loaded down withpresents. It made me feel good. Things are different now (Johanneke). I don’t know what it’s like. I haven’t gone back and have no desire to (Selim). I haven’t been, either. I’m afraid of the face-to-face thing (Meliha).
The door to Mother’s flat was ajar. I was moved by her thoughtfulness: she was on pins and needles, afraid of missing the doorbell or of having misplaced the key, needing to look for it and then run to the door, which she might have trouble opening: you never knew when it
The fog was as thick as cotton candy. The pain I had felt during the Uroš incident was giving way to the pleasure of Amsterdam and its childlike charm.
“Fog becomes Amsterdam, don’t you think?” Igor whispered.
“How come you’re whispering?”
“It’s the fog,” he said, flustered.
I looked at him. I found it touching he was flustered. The fog was exciting. Like a child’s fantasy about vanishing into thin air.Now you see me, now you don’t. It was tempting and scary at the same time. Like the invisibility hat in the Russian fairy tale.
“What is it?” he said. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“What a child you are!”
“You’re the child! I bet you have no idea where you are.”
“Remind me.”
“In Macondo.”
“Why Macondo?”
“Remember how everyone suddenly stopped sleeping and totally lost their memories? So they had to paste labels on things to know what to call them and directions to know how to use them. And remember how Arcadio Buendía invented a memory machine?”
Everything around us seemed to stand still. There were no more sharp edges. Everything was soft—sounds, voices, lights. Everything was quiet, lying low, holding its breath. We practically had to feel our way through the fog. Everything was unreal.
“No, I don’t remember.”
“Remember who saved them?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Melquiades the Gypsy, who came back from the dead and brought them sugar water in little bottles.”
“Coca-Cola?”
I saw a man with dark, glittering, slightly slanting eyes staring out of the fog at me. His large lips were moist and swollen, his body taut as a string. He seemed to be trembling.
A picture seeming to emerge from a forgotten past flashed through my mind. I saw myself unbuttoning Igor’s coat warm with moisture and letting my head fall on his chest, then standing on tiptoe and chewing his upper lip until it bled, lifting it with my tongue, gliding the top of my tongue along the smooth enamel of his teeth…
“Good night,” I panted, and slipped into the entrance.
CHAPTER 1
“I’ll pick you up at the airport,” she said. “Don’t bother,” I said. “I’ll take a cab.” But when I stepped off the plane, I felt a twinge of disappointment: her face wasn’t there. A foreign country is a country where nobody meets you at the airport, I thought. I was surprised at my own sensitivity: it was so childish. I hadn’t had time to don my armor.
I had vowed to suppress all “émigré emotions.” I knew the standard list of complaints: Nobody asks how we are; they just go on about their own problems (Mario), “we” being the ones who had left the country, “they” being the ones who had stayed behind. “They” lived “there” we, “here.” They know best. They jump in the minute we open our mouths. They’ve got an opinion about everything. Why must they have an opinion about everything? (Darko). To hear them, they know Amsterdam better than we do, not that they’ve ever been here! (Ante). They’re always whining about how bad things are for them and trying to make me feel guilty for having left (Ana). Whenever I go back, I feel I’m attending my own funeral (Nevena). And I feel like a punching bag. I ache all over! (Boban). I used to play Santa Claus. I’d go loaded down withpresents. It made me feel good. Things are different now (Johanneke). I don’t know what it’s like. I haven’t gone back and have no desire to (Selim). I haven’t been, either. I’m afraid of the face-to-face thing (Meliha).
The door to Mother’s flat was ajar. I was moved by her thoughtfulness: she was on pins and needles, afraid of missing the doorbell or of having misplaced the key, needing to look for it and then run to the door, which she might have trouble opening: you never knew when it
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