Clara Mondschein's Melancholia Read online

  We both went to sleep long before my mother returned, but I awoke abruptly in the middle of the night as if I had heard a shrill scream, thinking that my mother was about to kill my father in his bed like in the poem she was working on. I didn’t know what to do, whether to keep very still and pretend I was still asleep, so that in the morning when I found my father’s dead body and no trace of my mother I could tell the police that I had heard nothing, or whether to rush into their room before it was too late. Instead I snuck quietly down the hall to their room. The door was slightly ajar, which was unusual because my parents have always slept with their door closed and I have always known not to disturb them, not even to knock.

  My mother was not there, and my father lay asleep in the middle of the bed, his arms and legs sprawled out recklessly as if he were resting in a meadow after a long hike in the mountains. It made me angry to see him there like that, as if he were happy to have some time to himself. I ended up standing watch at my dormer window until dawn when I finally saw her walking slowly down the street. Her lips were moving, but I couldn’t tell if she was singing or talking.

  That morning, as soon as I got outside into the hot sun, I decided that I was too sleep-deprived to go to class, but I couldn’t go back upstairs to bed, so I started walking. I thought I might go to the Prado to study Hieronymous Bosch’s Seven Deadly Sins more carefully since I had been thinking about composing some solo cello music, maybe something slightly atonal, based on it. I wanted to begin with gluttony. I started walking and found myself avoiding Lavapíes where the Barbieri was, even though I knew my mother couldn’t possibly be there, that she was still at home sitting in the living room with my father. But then I realized I didn’t really want to go to the Prado and be around all those people who had come from all over the world to look at paintings, so I went to the train station instead. I thought I could go to Toledo because my parents were always talking about how one of these days we were going to Toledo to see the synagogues, but I had the feeling that we were never going to make it. When I got to the station, I had just missed the train to Toledo and there wasn’t another one for two hours, so I found a small bar to wait in.

  “You’re not English, are you?” a very tall man wearing a wine-red beret, a red ascot, and a blue suit with a handkerchief in the breast pocket asked. He sounded Irish.

  “No.” I didn’t say I was American.

  “Good. I’m tired of speaking to the English. They’re so boring, always talking about their coin collections or the rain.” He lit a cigarette and then apologized for not offering me one.

  “I don’t smoke, but thank you,” I said and he raised his eyebrows as if not smoking were pure folly.

  In front of him on the bar was quite an array of drinks—a cup of café sólo like mine, a brandy snifter full almost to the brim with a thick, clear liquid that he later informed me was his beloved (that was the word he used) Cointreau, and a glass of beer. He drank from each one, starting on the left with the Cointreau, then taking a gulp of beer, then the coffee.

  “Aren’t you having a drink?” he asked.

  “It’s still early,” I said, looking at my watch. It was ten in the morning.

  “Suit yourself,” he replied and drank from each of his three drinks. “You’re not Canadian, are you? Mind you, I have nothing at all against Canadians, but I don’t feel up to them this morning.”

  “No, I’m not Canadian. I’m from the United States.”

  “Well, that’s not your fault, is it now?” He chuckled.

  “Have you been to the U.S.?” I asked, not having any idea what you’re supposed to say to a fellow foreigner in a bar in a train station.

  “I have, but I don’t care to discuss it. Now, if we are going to have a conversation, we should introduce ourselves—George Liddy of Limerick,” he said, holding out his hand.

  I shook his hand and said, “Deborah Gelb of New Jersey.”

  George Liddy found my self-introduction very amusing and when he finished laughing he said, “So, what do you think we should discuss?”

  I thought for a while. Everything that came to my mind seemed stupid—what he was doing in Madrid, what I was doing in Madrid, the Prado, where he was from.

  “We could talk about the dog races. Do you enjoy the races?” he asked before I could think of a good topic.

  “I’ve never been.”

  “Never been to a dog race? Not even in Alaska? I thought they had those wonderful dog sled races in America.”

  “They do, but I’ve never been to Alaska. It’s very far.”

  “Far from where?”

  “From where I live.”

  “I see. Well, I’ve never been to Alaska either. Alas.” That got him giggling and then the giggling turned into coughing, so he drank from his three drinks. “Excuse me. I’m being quite silly.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Well, there’s nothing wrong with being silly. Now, where were we? Ah yes, the dog races. Frankly, I don’t know the first thing about dog racing, so that probably wouldn’t be a good thing to talk about now, would it?”

  “Probably not,” I said. “I’m going to Toledo.”

  “Ah, Toledo. A beautiful spot. I once had a friend in Toledo. Do you have a friend in Toledo?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a pity. There’s nothing like a friend in Toledo.”

  “What happened to your friend?”

  “Which friend? I have had so many.” He sighed very noisily.

  “Your friend in Toledo.”

  “Ah yes, my friend in Toledo. He developed an obsession for St. Teresa of Ávila and moved there to be closer to her. I never forgave him for it although perhaps I should now. It has been a very long time. Maybe tomorrow I shall go to Ávila to make amends. Would you like to accompany me?”

  “I’m supposed to go to my Spanish class. As a matter of fact, I should be there right now.”

  “Well, there is such a marked difference between what one is supposed to do and what one actually does, don’t you think?” He turned to look at me straight in the eyes. Up until that time he had been focusing upward towards the ceiling.

  “What are you supposed to be doing right now?” I asked to avoid the subject of Ávila even though part of me was tempted to go with him. Still, I hadn’t quite made up my mind.

  “Me?” He laughed. “I’m not supposed to be doing anything except drinking here in this bar. That’s the beauty of it, don’t you think?”

  “Well, then we could go to Ávila today. I can see Toledo some other time.” I suddenly felt as if there was nothing I wanted more than to accompany him to Ávila to help him make up with his friend.

  “Oh no, we couldn’t go today. That would be ludicrous.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you can’t take a place like Ávila so lightly. You can’t just hop on a train as if you were taking the Metro to the Corte Inglés or some other such horrible place. You have to be prepared for Ávila. The last time I was there I stayed for six weeks. You have to be prepared to stay on for the long haul. Why don’t you have a drink with me instead?”

  I looked at my watch. The train for Toledo was leaving in ten minutes.

  “Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who doesn’t drink before noon.”

  “No, I was just thinking about my train. I was going to Toledo.”

  “Well, suit yourself,” he said and turned to the last of his three drinks.

  “I guess I could always go to Toledo another time,” I said.

  “Well, if you’re going to be so wistful about it, you’d better get going.”

  “I wasn’t being wistful.” I have always hated that word. It makes me think of pretty, stupid girls looking at flowers. “I’ll have a beer. So why d
id you get so angry at your friend for moving to Ávila?” I ventured.

  “Ah, that is a very long and complicated story, but I suppose if we are going to Ávila together, I will have to tell you.”

  “Then we are going?”

  “Didn’t I say I was going tomorrow?”

  “Yes, but then I thought you’d changed your mind.”

  “What would have given you such a ludicrous idea as that now? I am a man of principle. I thought you had recognized me as such.”

  “I’m sorry, I just sensed you were reluctant.”

  “I am reluctant, but that doesn’t mean that I will not go to Ávila. It really is time to go, and I never would have realized it if I hadn’t met you and you hadn’t been on your way to Toledo, where I once had a friend.” His breathing was heavy as if he had just finished reciting a poem in one breath. “You know, although I love this bar dearly, I feel we should be moving on. I have learned over the years not to overstay my welcome.” And before I could protest, he had settled our bill with the waiter and was heading for the door. He was not someone who could stand up and walk out of a bar without being noticed. His height alone made him conspicuous, and when this unlikely figure in a red beret with long Abraham Lincoln legs moved overly carefully across the room, all the patrons watched. They were waiting to see if he would fall, but he didn’t. “I don’t know what they’re all looking at,” he said when we were outside in the station. “They probably were wondering what an old sod like me was doing with a young woman like you. Now isn’t that perfectly ludicrous?” I guess I thought it was a little weird at first, the way we kind of hooked up with each other, but George Liddy has a way of making you feel comfortable even in the most uncomfortable situations.

  We made our way through the crowds of Atocha Station, or actually, I followed him, keeping his red beret always in sight. He did remarkably well given that he had had many more drinks than I had, and I was already feeling somewhat unsteady from my one beer on an empty stomach.

  As soon as we got outside, I wished we were back inside again. Whatever glimmer of coolness had been lingering in the morning had now completely disappeared and I had to really concentrate to keep myself from lying down on the street right there and going to sleep. My new companion, despite the fact that he was wearing a full suit and a wool beret, seemed to be enjoying the outdoors. His walk became almost jaunty, and he started humming a Celtic-sounding melody.

  Somehow I found myself walking into the Barbieri with my new friend. I tried to tell him that I didn’t really want to go in, that I would prefer another place, the Barberillo where you can play chess, for example. I even asked him if he wanted to play chess.

  “At a time like this?” he responded, completely baffled by my suggestion.

  “I thought it would be nice.”

  “Actually I find chess unbearably tedious. My father used to torture me with it on Sundays after church while we were waiting for our dinner.”

  So we sat down at a nice table along the window. “I find this place terribly charming, don’t you? You know it used to be where the communists gathered. I’ve always greatly admired communists in fascist countries, but, alas, both fascism and communism are dead now.”

  “Actually, my father was a communist,” I blurted out without thinking. I’m not really a fan of telling lies, even to make the conversation more lively.

  “Then he must be a very good person. I myself had neither the dedication nor the selflessness to join the Party, so I certainly admired those who did and can’t quite get used to a world without them, although I’m not sure why. The Party never did take to people like me. But then, not very many people do, though that is changing now, too. It’s quite difficult to keep up with it all, don’t you think?”

  The waiter came and my new friend ordered a café sólo and Cointreau. No beer this time. For me he ordered a pint of Guinness.

  After he had taken a few sips of each of his drinks and lit a cigarette, I asked him about his friend in Ávila. He promised to tell me about him when we were actually in Ávila, so I had to leave it at that. Instead, he went on and on about his mother’s great aunt, who played tennis until the day she died at the age of eighty-something and about his favorite hotel in Istanbul and many other things, which I have since forgotten.

  And then in walked my mother with a young woman who looked like she was in her mid-twenties. She wore a tight, sleeveless black shirt and her arms were delicately muscular. You could tell her arms were the part of her body she was most proud of. I didn’t know what to do, whether to look down and hope my mother didn’t notice me or whether to wave, but before I had time to make a decision, she and the woman had glided up to our table.

  “Hi,” she said as if I were a friend, not her daughter.

  “Hi.” I looked down. She introduced herself as Clara and her friend as Marisol, so I simply said I was Deborah. I had the feeling that’s what my mother wanted. But my friend stuck to tradition. “I am George Liddy of Limerick,” he said and shook their hands graciously.

  Then my mother ordered a Jack Daniels, which George Liddy said was a horrible American concoction. I don’t remember what Marisol drank, but George Liddy ordered me another pint of Guinness. They talked for a while the way I guess fellow foreigners are supposed to talk—about what they were doing in Spain, about where they were from. George Liddy told my mother that he had been spending his summers in Madrid for over thirty years. “The Spaniards have a much healthier attitude about the drink than we Irish do. They don’t waste their time with guilt,” he said.

  I stopped paying attention to the conversation when my mother was hogging it. She and George Liddy were going on about poetry, but I didn’t feel like talking about poetry. Marisol just sat there really straight with her legs crossed, smoking, listening really carefully but not making any attempts to join the conversation. At first I thought it was because she didn’t understand English, but then I realized it was just that she was watching my mother so carefully as if she were trying to memorize her gestures and expressions so she could copy them later. I didn’t really like her. It annoyed me the way her eyes so intensely focused on my mother.

  At some point after my second Guinness, I just got up and walked out without saying anything. I guess I thought someone would come after me, but no one did, and once I was outside I couldn’t go right back inside, so I took a walk. I walked up to the top of the Calle de Lavapíes and back down to the plaza and back up again and back down maybe ten times and then I went back to the Barbieri, but they weren’t there anymore. I guess now that I look back on it, it was my fault for walking out like that, but they could have left a message with the bartender. I asked him, but he said they hadn’t said a thing, so I started walking home.

  The Cabaret and the Opera

  Since Tommy has come down with pneumonia, the doctors told me I shouldn’t be visiting him—a person of my age runs a high risk of dying from pneumonia. Tommy’s doctor was typically blunt about it, but I told him I wasn’t that old and would take my chances, like I do every day on the stairs. I’ve been drinking a lot of fresh orange juice and even taking vitamins, protecting myself from Tommy’s illness. It seems to be working. This is the strongest I’ve felt since Karl died.

  “Are you sure you want me to continue the story?” was the first thing I asked Tommy today.

  “I was afraid you weren’t going to come. The doctors told me it wouldn’t be good for you.”

  “Well, doctors aren’t always right. I know. I lived with one for over fifty years. But maybe you’re too tired for the story. Maybe you would prefer listening to music—Bach is always good when you’re sick.”

  “No, your story is the only thing that keeps me from falling asleep, which is my biggest fear these days.”

  “Tommy?”

  “Yes?”

 
“I hope you won’t think I’m meddling, but I couldn’t sleep last night thinking of your parents not knowing anything about this. It sounds silly, but they did bring you into the world. I could call them for you if you don’t want to speak to them.”

  “Then they would want to visit.”

  “I could be here when they visit.”

  “Mrs. Mondschein, I don’t want you to think I’m a cruel, horrible person, but not telling them is my only revenge. In the middle of the night, when I’ve worked myself into a terrible state of anxiety because of the pain and fear or because I’ve slept the whole day away, I just imagine my parents watching television on my birthday long after my death, wondering if they should, after all these years, pick up the phone and call me.”

  “Sometimes it is very difficult for parents to understand their children,” I said.

  “I didn’t want them to understand—just a little kindness would have been enough. When I was thirteen, I begged them to take me to the opera for my birthday. You know what they did instead? They sent me to my room. I spent my thirteenth birthday in my room, crying and hungry. The next day they acted like it had never happened. When I was fourteen, my father took all my books out to the backyard and burned them. Then they painted my room white and put up pictures of ducks. My mother took down everything I had had up—Oscar Wilde, Orson Welles, a reproduction of a Münch lithograph, the one with the young girl facing the sea. She threw everything out and put up ducks.”

  “Isn’t it time to forgive them?” I asked.

  “They don’t deserve it. Their suffering will never make up for what they have done. They won’t even feel the guilt. They don’t even know what they did wrong. After all, they didn’t create a faggot. I created him all by myself, to spite them for no reason at all except that I was born evil. They’ve taken to God. Once a year my mother sends me a pamphlet. Homosexuality in God’s World or Armageddon Is on Its Way.” There were beads of perspiration forming in the little crevice between Tommy’s upper lip and his nose, and he was out of breath.