Your Sad Eyes and Unforgettable Mouth by Edeet Ravel

small crash as my mother, on cue as always, flung open the front door. Her voice, followed by the scent of Ben Hur perfume, filled the house. She’d fought her way through another day, warded off the Cyclops, dropped by Hades.
    —mamaleh mamaleh where are you are you here—
    I slammed my bedroom door shut. Rosie was shocked. “What are you doing?” she asked.
    “Oh, all right.” I opened the door and let my mother in.
    —who who is this hello hello yes I know you—
    She stopped midway, swayed like a great ship, her face contracted, her bosom expanded. She’d noticed the books.
    “Hello, Mrs. Levitsky. These books are from my school, Eden. Maya says she’d like to go there next year—what do you think?”
    —what’s that Eden what—
    “Sorry, we should have asked you first.”
    “Don’t pay any attention to her, Rosie,” I moaned. “She’s always like this. It doesn’t mean anything. Mom, leave us alone, please. This is Hebrew—Hebrew, see?” I opened one of the books and, impersonating Reveen the Impossibilist, I swung it back and forth in front of her eyes. “See … Hebrew … thousands of years old … right to left…”
    —I know Hebrew I know Hebrew don’t show me avinu malkenu adon olam ha ha ha—
    “You know Hebrew?” I asked. I’d thought that Fanya had by now ransacked every last corner of her remorseless memory. Hebrew, I was fairly certain, had never come up.
    —the one the one with the father and the leg they sawed off—
    “Don’t!” Placing my hands on my mother’s shoulders, I steered her gently out of the room. I shut the door firmly after her and rolled my eyes. “My mother and her crazy stories.”
    “Poor thing. Was she in Auschwitz?”
    “Oh, who knows where she was! It’s all tangled up there in what she calls her brain.”
    “Never mind, don’t feel bad. I have to go help Mummy make supper, and after that I have a date with this guy, Freddy. But come over tomorrow morning, can you? Maybe you can stay all day, if your mother doesn’t mind. There’s a party in the evening.”
    “Party?”
    “Yes, Mummy and Daddy spoil me. We have a party every Saturday night, it’s fun. We dance, we play games…”
    “What sort of games?”
    “You know, charades, stuff like that.”
    “I won’t know anyone.”
    “Don’t worry about that. I’ll introduce you to all my friends. You’ll like Sheila—I mean, Dominique, that’s her new name—she’s smart like you. And Dvora, everyone likes her.”
    “Is Freddy your boyfriend?” I asked, bracing myself for the answer. And yet I wasn’t exactly jealous. What I already had—Rosie in my life—was a bounty for which I could only be grateful. But there was more to it: Rosie’s availability was a part of who she was, and yielding to it was a way of having her.
    “Not really … he wants to be. He wants to be the only person I date. Poor Freddy!”
    “He shouldn’t be so possessive, maybe,” I ventured.
    “I can tell we’re going to be best friends. Even though you’re ten times smarter than me.”
    “I’m not. I’m really not.”
    “Next time I’ll tell you more about myself. Will you tell me?” she asked generously.
    “I don’t have any secrets,” I replied, downcast.
    “You’re a riot.”
    “I didn’t mean it as a joke,” I said. “I really do wish I had some secrets, and you were the only one who knew them … I do have something nice I can show you, though. It’s not exactly a secret, but we keep it in a drawer.”
    Desperation had given me an idea, and with the idea came a sweet surge of anticipation. My mother had a treasured cashmeresweater with pearl buttons which she kept in the bottom drawer of her dresser. It was pale blue, though the usual terms—cloud blue, pastel blue—fail to capture the quality of its colour; it was the sort of colour that, in combination with the cashmere, the pearl buttons, and the simple cut, made you wonder how a piece of clothing could convey such pure