Valeria's Last Stand, page 10
The potter stopped what he was doing and looked up.
“No, no. Sometimes I need fire to remind me that I’m alive. You’ll see what I mean as you grow older. I want to feel alive, like I’ve got the world by the balls. I don’t feel that way much anymore. I feel something like that with Ibolya. But then, sometimes I feel like being on fire isn’t really all it’s cracked up to be. So what? You know? I’d rather sit in a sauna or thermal spring somewhere. Maybe just have a smoke. Maybe go swimming and feel my muscles stretching. Valeria is like that. It’s a tough choice at any age.”
The apprentice picked up a plate and looked at the seal underneath. He traced it with his finger. He smiled.
“So choose polygamy,” he joked. “You’ll just have to convince them both that it’s the ideal arrangement. Somehow I think you could. Valeria during the week and Ibolya on weekends.”
The potter smiled back.
“That would most likely kill me,” he said.
The potter felt that his apprentice was a good young man. He had become a good potter as well. He had finished the teapot and was now finishing his work on Zsofi Toth’s platter. The potter had let him back in the studio to work once he’d decided on how to make Valeria’s vases. What he had not mentioned to the apprentice, however, what the potter felt but couldn’t communicate to any of them, was that what he especially feared regarding his winter years was a gathering sense of isolation. More and more, the potter felt disconnected from his surroundings, and what he had discovered in being with both women was that either woman helped him feel less isolated. It was as much for that reason as any other that the potter couldn’t bear to choose between them.
The potter’s apprentice was in good spirits of late. He had been spending a lot of time with Zsofi, but there was nothing romantic going on between them, or so he’d told the potter. Still, a half hour after they had finished their conversation, Zsofi came to visit them. She had been doing a lot of that recently. She had been thrilled when the apprentice delivered her teapot and had begun popping into the workshop unannounced. When she did, she brought food along with her and hung around the shop tidying and making the men feel pleasant and hopeful. The potter liked her immensely. A handsome young girl. Healthy and smart. She joked with them and told ribald stories about the men in her mother’s life. One was a strange foreigner who hardly spoke the language and had boarded with them when she was younger. He was an engineer and her mother had fallen madly in love with him, had even gone so far as to slip a shot of brandy in Zsofi’s juice cup to make her fall asleep. Then she would stay up with this boarder and carry on.
“That’s what my mother calls it. ‘Carrying on.’”
It turned out that the boarder had a wife, an even fatter woman apparently. She started sending packages and indecent photographs of herself. When her mother discovered them while cleaning his room, she threw him out and cried for a week.
The potter enjoyed Zsofi’s stories. He joked with her in front of the apprentice that if he were a younger man he would propose and take her someplace nice.
“You’re sweet,” she said, and looked at the apprentice.
“Careful,” the apprentice remarked. “He’s not as sweet as he looks. The elderly grandfather routine is just a ruse. You’ll be stuffed and hanging on his wall in no time. He’s a real gigolo.”
That was the extent of the apprentice’s conversation whenever the topic of marriage arose. He didn’t allow himself to be drawn into conversations about that particular topic. He worked at the base of her platter with a wooden clay knife.
“Well, I’d like to get married one day ... and soon,” Zsofi said.
“Of course you would, my dear,” said the potter. “You have a lot to offer. Any man would be lucky to have you,”
“Why?” the apprentice chimed in. “I’ll never marry. Not me. Too many headaches. Too much nagging. I’ll stay a bachelor as long as I can.”
The potter thought he noticed a flash of anger on Zsofi’s face. She grew suddenly chilly. She stormed out for what the potter figured must have been the millionth time. Whenever the apprentice made comments like that, she took up their food—finished or not—said good-bye, and walked out the door. The potter had recognized this early on and learned to eat quickly. He didn’t mind it so much now. The apprentice, on the other hand, had never learned and was never finished. He would whine and complain, but it was useless. Her only response was the swish of her skirt and the slap of her flats as she walked out.
“You’re a very nice boy,” the potter said to him. “Not too bright though.”
The apprentice looked at him.
“Why does she always storm out? I’m just telling her how it is. She’s like my sister. I want her to know what men are really like.”
When the potter heard this, he thought of Valeria and felt guilty again. Notes and a message had been their only communication. He decided it really was time to see her. He couldn’t put it off any longer. He shouldn’t, really. It was nearing ten days since their encounter. He had to admit that he was behaving childishly.
“I’m going to visit Valeria,” he announced. “Put an end to all of this.”
The apprentice shook his head.
“Good luck to you.”
The potter rose from his spot and went to his living quarters. He showered quickly and dressed nicely, but not too nicely. He didn’t want to seem formal. In fact, he wore a blue cap because he thought it made him look casual. That’s what he wanted. A casual visit. The kind of visit a friend might make when calling on another friend. Nothing heavy. Just a casual visit to inform a person that he’s not romantically interested.
The potter left the apprentice to work on his platter and he bicycled down the hill, making sure to casually wave at Ibolya on his way to the Centrum. You see, he thought, just a casual bike ride through the city. It’s working already.
He reached Valeria’s cottage without incident. He knocked on her door.
It took a moment, but when Valeria opened it she was wearing rubber gloves and an old dress. Her hair was pulled back and up out of her face. A bun rested on the crown of her head. Silver wisps fell and she tucked those behind her ears. She shifted uncomfortably.
“Ten days!” The words shot out at him. “Who do you think you are? Ten days and one note. You’re taking your time on those vases.”
The potter nodded. He was taking his time on the vases, but he was doing a good job.
“Hello, my dear. It is something special. I’m making you something special. Only I couldn’t afford to clear my workshop out like I did with the ewer. I’m getting to it after-hours in the evening before bed.”
Valeria seemed satisfied with this answer. She looked at herself in the window.
“You should have told me you were coming,” she said. “I’m not dressed for company.”
“Ah, please. Don’t worry about that,” he replied. “It’s just a casual visit. You look lovely. In fact, I like your gloves.”
Valeria took them off and put them in her waist pocket.
“I was cleaning the bathtub. It was stained. It needed lye. The water is hard here. I wish the mayor would do something about that instead of this damned station. It’s all anybody talks about anymore. Never mind that the water tastes like metal and we all probably need tetanus shots. I wonder if the doctor’s been seeing a lot of cases of lockjaw. What do you think? Why not fix the wells?”
“I don’t know.” The potter shrugged. “Funny thing about the station, though. The mayor came by my workshop last week and asked me to make him something for it. Some people told him about the pitcher. I guess he thought I might be able to help decorate. You know, he’s a regular customer of mine now. He’s always picking up those figurines I make. It’s his wife. He says his wife has taken a liking to them and started a collection. He asked if I could make a larger one for the station.”
“Like a statue?” Valeria asked.
“Yes, yes. A statue. Can you believe that? I told him I would be delighted to try but that he should not expect very much. I’m not a sculptor.”
Valeria smiled at him. “You’re like our very own Michelangelo.”
“Hardly,” he laughed.
He was relieved. This easygoing approach seemed to be working. Exactly what he’d hoped for. Here they stood, two friends enjoying a casual visit. Enjoying each other’s company.
The pair shifted on her front porch. Things grew quiet.
“Still, ten days is a long time.” Valeria was reminding herself. He was so charming and easy that she almost forgot she was angry. “I’ve got the kettle on. Would you like a cup of tea?”
She had bewildered him.
“What? Tea? Well, yes, I suppose. Certainly. Tea would be nice.”
He followed her inside. They sat in the kitchen. She had moved the ewer there, and when the potter saw it he sighed.
“You should let me fix that.”
Valeria unlocked a cupboard and pulled out a pair of teacups.
“I like it the way it is,” she said.
“But it’s broken,” he said.
“What isn’t?”
The potter considered this. Her voice was firm. He decided there was no malicious intent behind it, but the air between them seemed to be growing heavier. He tried to maintain his light touch. He smiled at her.
“Valeria, I’ve come to apologize for how I behaved.”
Valeria tilted her head.
“You were right. I did take advantage of you. I’m terribly ashamed of myself. See, I got so worked up over making the ewer, and I was so proud of myself for doing it, and then your hair was loose, and all the craziness going on around us. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was careless.”
Valeria nodded and sipped from the glass. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that what we did may have been a mistake. I am saying that I should not have taken advantage of you. You were right. I’d like to make amends somehow, but I don’t know how. And then there is Ibolya, and I suppose I should have mentioned to you earlier that while we are not engaged or married, she and I have been friends—that is, romantically linked for a few months now. You see, it’s a small village and things appear unseemly. I wouldn’t want for you to be affected in any way.”
Valeria swallowed her tea. She looked like she was about to laugh.
“My, you are a silly man, aren’t you? I’m a sixty-eight-year-old woman. I have a brain. I knew what I was doing. I wanted to do it. I chose to do it. Are you trying to insult me?”
She stood up. The potter was aghast. He put his hands up in front of him and shook them.
“No, no. Not at all. I just thought—”
“You thought what?” Valeria’s voice had risen. “You thought you could come here and smile and be charming and worm your way out of my life and that I would nod and tell you everything is all right?”
The potter furrowed his brow.
“You’re a silly man if that’s what you thought.”
“I didn’t think anything.”
“Then you’re a thoughtless man.”
“I just thought that—”
“You thought you could save yourself from having to make a hard decision. That’s what you thought. But I’m not going to let you do that. I can decide to sleep with whomever I want.”
The potter was confused.
“What?” he said. “Who would you sleep with? Why would you want to do something like that?”
Valeria was walking out of the room. She went to the front door and opened it. She held it for him.
“Get out.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not understanding you.”
“Get out,” she answered.
The potter walked toward the door.
“Will you come by the shop to collect your vases?” he asked. “Or should I call you?”
“Leave,” she said. “Come back when you’ve grown up.”
She all but pushed him out the door. While he stood there protesting, she shut it in his face.
Book Two
Eleven
The chimney sweep’s bicycle was manufactured in 1902. It was the premier model of its era, dubbed the Rabbit because of its swiftness and high, wide handlebars. It was among the first bicycles in the world to feature a gearshift and vulcanized rubber tires half a meter in diameter. It was also an unlucky contraption that brought nothing but despair to its owners. All of the bicycles from that era, the chimney sweep’s included, were manufactured in a Croatian factory north of Dalmatia and west of Split, in a seaside village named Trogir.
The bicycles were made at the request of Franz Ferdinand, Austro-Hungarian emperor and avid cyclist. In fact, the unlucky 1902 model was his favorite and he owned six of them. He decreed that the bicycles he distributed around the empire to mail carriers in the postal service. He reasoned correctly that they were cheaper and more efficient than horses.
One Rabbit was stolen from its owner—a prefect judge’s Serbian retainer named Gabriel Csusco. Ruffians on the Vlasnyet Bridge, on the outskirts of Belgrade, bludgeoned the unfortunate retainer over the head and threw him in the river late one winter. These men—young anarchists, mostly, though one documented homosexual was among them—were later apprehended for the crime after one of them, in the middle of the day, apparently forgetful as to how he had acquired the bicycle, used it so that he wouldn’t be late paying a fine at the courthouse. The policemen standing outside the courthouse said later that they were astounded by several facts: first, that a documented anarchist would pay a fine at all, and second, that he tried to park his bicycle in the prefect judge’s retainer’s space with the livery still intact.
The band of anarchists and the homosexual were captured, and the bicycle was held as evidence. That would have been the end of its story except that a corrupt policeman sold it to a mail carrier whose own bicycle had been lost in a card game and who needed a replacement before his superiors discovered it. The mail carrier was a German immigrant named Von Kleist. He was a self-indulgent man, overweight and asthmatic, and since the switch from horses to bicycles, delivering the mail had become a life-threatening chore. In a stroke of brilliance he devised a system of delivering the mail that worked out well for everyone along his route: he left all the mail he was given at either the church or the tavern. Nobody ever complained. Attendance at both increased. All parties concerned were happy. People picked up their post when they felt like it.
Von Kleist died in his mistress’s bed the next spring with a bag of mail resting at their feet. The distraught woman reported it to the police and for months afterward citizens were coming to her cottage looking for letters or packages from abroad. When the post had finally all been collected and the woman was left in peace, she breathed a sigh of relief and immediately took up with a married brick maker. Due to a bureaucratic mishap, the empire never came to collect Von Kleist’s belongings, and the bicycle was left unclaimed, on its side, in front of the woman’s cottage. Then the First World War erupted and Von Kleist’s mistress’s home was set ablaze by a band of roving Slovenians. The bicycle was buried in shingles from the unlucky woman’s collapsed roof.
Long after the war the bicycle was discovered by a group of Gypsy children who took it back to their father, a tinker of some renown. He fixed the old bicycle, but before his children could learn to ride it, the Second World War erupted and the entire family was taken away by German soldiers who confiscated the bicycle and presented it to the children of a well-connected family in Budapest.
Suffice it to say, the children in that well-connected family all drowned in the Danube when a retreating German army shot holes in the family’s pontoon to slow down the British who were arriving via river patrol. Afterward, the distraught parents offered the bicycle to a chimney sweep, who, when tearfully told of its history, remarked: “Well, I’m looking for something durable. If it can survive all that, it was surely built to last.”
Quite a few years later, an accident in an asbestos factory rendered the chimney sweep blind. He passed the bicycle on to his young apprentice.
For five years the young apprentice and the chimney sweep crisscrossed the land traveling from village to village. For three weeks during the holidays, the young apprentice visited his mother. He had been a severe child. Over the years, his severity developed into a full-blown melancholia. He was bilious to the point of belligerence. When the chimney sweep went blind and soon after died, he left the adolescent his small cottage and all his belongings. The young man collected his mother and moved her there. He visited her more often after that, but by the time he was thirty, his ennui was full-blown and he set fire to the house, sold the land, and put his mother in a rest home.
“Funny,” she said one morning at the rest home when he had come to pay her an infrequent visit. She was looking out the window as they breakfasted together on toast and jam. “You were always so short. It’s really marvelous that you became a chimney sweep. Don’t you agree?”
The chimney sweep cursed and threw the butter dish at her. Knowing him like she did, the old woman had only portioned out a few tablespoons. The rest of the butter was safe in the icebox.
“I meant it as a compliment. You have a profession. Little Tibi’s mother is heartbroken over him. He’s in jail, you know.”
“Little Tibi is irrelevant, Mother,” the chimney sweep said as he put out his cigarette in the jam.
“Oh! That’s not true. He was such a nice boy. He brought his mother flowers all the time. He even sends her paper flowers from jail. He’s thoughtful like that.”
“Mother, Tibi, his flowers, you and me, we are completely irrelevant in the grand design of things. Irrelevant, even to the lives of our fellow men. If I die cleaning a chimney tomorrow, a Chinaman in Peking won’t make the slightest shudder. Not even a fart for me having lived.”
The chimney sweep’s mother clucked at him, and then her eyes grew wide.
“You’ve seen a Chinaman?” she said. “What was he like? Did you clean his chimney?”
