A symphony of trash bins rattled through the window, tailed by a quartet of coughs, shouts, grunts, and phlegms. It was the first day of a miraculous new world. My ecstasy from the previous night had settled now into a kind of humming frequency. It was as if I were floating, encased in a warm, golden orb. Inside me, I could feel a strange new energy pulsing through my cells the elixir of immortality. All within me—physical and spiritual, my very essence and all my humours—sang in perfect consensus, like a choir of baby angels. Everything was doused in creamy, dream-like slowness. And everything was him, and I felt him everywhere.

​

     For a time I lounged in bed, enjoying my delirium. It felt as though my body had accessed a new element. I seemed to be made of spun sugar, or whipped egg whites, or the first raindrops on a flower. Of course I was aroused, but what I felt stretched so beyond my senses that to touch myself would have been a blasphemy. Like a demon I ached yet felt purer than ever. It was as though someone, somehow, whilst I slept, dumped a truck of fertilizer into me. I imagined my fallopian tubes bursting with green grass and water lilies, until my orifices ruptured and an Austrian prairie bloomed from my body. I thought also that if he would’ve kissed me at that moment, surely I would’ve birthed a child—a Gandhi, or a Pope, or a Martin Luther, or something. I was overwhelmed with innocence and inspiration. Even the sun, which usually shied away in the morning, had filtered through an oak tree and, piercing the skylight, lit my face up like a fresco of the Virgin Mary.

     

     “Helen?!” I suddenly heard. “Helen?! Wake up! You have a presentation today!”

  

     I jumped out of bed. I played No Ordinary Love on blast. Then I went into the bathroom. After I washed my face and combed my hair into a bun, I went back in the bedroom, opened the dresser door, hugged it, in fact wrapped my leg around it, and kissed the mirror slowly. The last thing on my mind was my Perspective presentation. All perspective, in general, had entered the shadow of my new spiritual occupation. What, after all, was more worthy of effort than this creative, healing force of selfless devotion to another human being? I say selfless because—at least in the early stages of love—there is a superhuman drive that conquers all the ego’s devices. The spirit, fortified to a peak, absorbs the body and self, suspending you in a pink bubble of advanced consciousness.  Those who have truly been in love know this feeling all too well. Concepts reign here, images, dreams. Longing and yearning are impurities in the newly enamored. A simple contemplation is enough to fill them with strength. The mere vision of the cherished face is just as inspiring as a vision of Heaven. With these sparkling wise thoughts, I poured my melted legs into some black tights, a peach-colored skirt, a pair of boots. Then I went downstairs.

     

     The house we lived in then was all marble and parquet, and carried an air of makeshift Versailles. It was stuffed with glossy furniture, timid chandeliers, silk-shaded lamps, and all sorts of silver trinkets. Mornings, notably, had a special lustre owing to the butter-painted walls. In any case, it was a beautiful house, where one coiled up in velvet and forgot the world outside.

     

     My mother waited at the table. When I saw her, I smiled as though I was seeing her for the first time in my life. She wore an ivory cashmere sweater. Her pale hair was gathered in a bun. Her lips glimmered with pink and her smooth chocolate eyes gazed at me with love, a trace of fatigue, much understanding. Beside the cutlery, her wrists resembled selenite. She was slicing an avocado. She was breathtaking.

 

     "Finally," she said, raising her eyebrows in a gentle scolding. "You went to bed late, didn’t you?"

     I told her yes.

     "Did you have fun?"

     "Yes."

     "Good. Come, eat something."

     I noticed suddenly the glossy yolks, the salmon with cucumbers and butter, the asparagus, strawberries, apricot marmalade, oats with yogurt, and other charming colorful things, arranged like dollhouse food.

     "Thank you. You shouldn’t have gone through the trouble."

     "The trouble?" She laughed a surprised and sparkling laugh. "It’s just the ordinary lunch."

     "Yes, I know. But so much food.”

     "Have you forgotten you’ve got brothers?" I had, indeed, completely forgotten them.

     "Lucian! Felix! Get down here, my darlings! NOW!"

     Footsteps rustled upstairs. Then, turning to me, she said, "What’s with you, anyway? Don’t tell me you’re dieting again."

     The truth was that I stood to lose three kilos. I was lean, yet that pink, pubescent softness still clung to my face like a summer tomato. I told her no.

     "Thank God. So, are you ready?"

     "Ready for what?"

     "What do you mean, for what?" The same surprised, sparkling laugh. "For the presentation!"

     "Oh, yes," I said quickly, then too affected: "Yes! Of course, I’m ready!"

     "Helen, are you okay? You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?"

     "No."

     "You’re not okay, or you haven’t been drinking?"

     "I’m fine. I didn’t drink. Just a little tired." I wasn’t tired at all and could have skipped the Himalayas naked.

     "Perhaps you should’ve stayed home? "

     "I don’t know. I don’t think so."

     "I should’ve listened to your father."

​

     I shot her a fake, understanding smile. My mother was a gentle compliant woman, married to a tough and domineering man. Out of some intrinsic fear of conflict, she rarely disobeyed him and behaved as though he listened from the next room. She was, in every sense, the absolute wife. From the small, repetitive, domestic hells she had managed to make Heaven. She was a great celery juice maker, and when she wasn’t in the kitchen, she was with the ironing board. I don’t recall ever seeing my mother read, though she was quite fond of architecture magazines. Her private life was rich in style, sparkling kitchen appliances, and a ritualistic ‘soccer-mom’ hysteria. At forty-five, she weighed fifty-five kilos, wore white pants with billowy blouses, and radiated a certain ‘frightened virgin’ charm. She was impossibly elegant, and I think she was happy. Her idols were Ralph Lauren and God.

​

     "What are you doing with the fork?"

     "What?"

     "Why are you eating your oats with the fork?"

     "Why do you think?" I asked, scouring for an explanation.

     "I don’t know. I hope you’re not on drugs."

     "You don’t give me enough money for drugs."

     "You’re acting very strange."

​

     She was right. My celestial joy collided now with a horrible vigilance. For reasons you will surely deduce, the discovery of my new erotic state seemed fatal for the evolution of my happiness. I also felt that if I didn’t pull myself together, I would explode into one of those demented smiles, displayed by certain murderers on death row. That, or I would faint under the weight of my secret, with all that I knew, and felt, but could not say. Summoning the great, mysterious creativity of Aphrodite, I straightened my back, looked at her with pride and coldness, and, lowering my voice, replied:

​

     "I'm not acting strange at all. If you must know, I’m nervous. I’m nervous because I have a presentation which I’ve thoroughly prepared for. And it’s not because I’m scared that I’m nervous but because I’ve set myself the goal of no less than a perfect score."

 

     Her proud smile filled me with encouragement. I felt like a typhoon, surging with the force of my ethereal bliss—ready to hit. I also thought that if I didn’t somehow release the intensity within me, surely I’d implode. I spilled myself on top of her:

​

     "And later on, I have to meet with the Professor. Yes, I know—let me finish—and I agree with you anyway. But it’s all for my own good. It’s not like I enjoy any of it. Wasting night after night in a context that—by the way—seems inelegant to me. But everything I do, all this back and forth, I’m doing it for my future. But also for you. So you can be PROUD of me. I want to make you PROUD, Mother." I drew a quick breath. "So, I’m networking. It’s what they call it these days. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s this new business-culture claptrap, hi-im-dan-and-I-hold-the-wineglass-by-the-stem type nonsense. People from different fields meet in a bar and the first thing they ask is 'Who are you and what do you do?’”

     “How rude!”

     “Indeed. I honestly think they watch too many American shows. It’s all quite funny. Balkan version of Suits. Can you imagine that?” She shook her head in puzzled amusement. “Plus, it’s not like I have much to say. But neither do they. Good for connections, though. In five years, I could go into Politics. Architecture is my field, but it’s smart to have a political platform, especially in Romania. Plus, you always say I have the gift of persuasion. Perhaps I don’t want to spend my whole life at construction sites. Perhaps I could do more. ”

     She looked at me with sweet, infinite curiosity and trust. I went on:

     “If you really want to know, I’ve sort of set my mind on becoming a Culture secretary by the time I’m thirty-five. To really change something, you know? Fund the Opera, develop the Ballet, introduce ‘Etiquette’ in pre-schools! And—and ‘Tea Time’! I mean, as you know, all societal change begins with cultural reform. And you’d be my second-in-command! Oh, we could do so many beautiful things! And all this vision needs to be thought out, and planned ahead, every step, every move! And if you add to all this that I’m a diligent, hard-working student, that I refuse—out of pride—to score anything less than an eight, then I hope you understand my absorption, and if I seem a bit strange, well, it’s just because I’ve got a lot to think about.”

     I gasped for air. My mother was transfixed with emotion. Behind me, I heard spasms of laughter.

     

     "Long live Madam Secretary!" More laughing.

     "Enough. Sit down. Well done, my dear. But don’t overdo it, darling. And you haven’t eaten anything. Are you feeling alright? Do you want some strawberries with toast?"

     "And what will be your first assignment, Madam Secretary?"

     My mother eyed him sternly.

     "Mum, she's drooling over some diplomat and feeds you these pathetic lie—"

     "Stuff it, lame brain."

     "You’re the lame one, Helen! I see you smiling like a moron, aaalll the time! Did you know, Mum, that she smokes in the bathroom ‘til two in the morning?!"

     "I don’t believe it," Mother gasped.

     "I told you that I’ve caught the workers smoking. And you", I turned to Felix, "one more slimy word—"

     "Don’t worry, Helen. The way you lie, I think you’ll end up in the White House."

     "Felix!" said Mother.

     "Fine."

 

     At this point, a foreword of my brothers is required, who have now entered the stage. Between me and them, there are five and six years respectively, I being the oldest, Lucian the youngest. I was the creative in the family. They were the resourceful ones. I am an independent thinker, driven by my own interests and efforts. Their efforts were directed at annoying me. By age fourteen, they were the golden children of the schoolyard, exuding ease, optimism, self-sufficiency, and charm. Felix, with a guiltless smile and articulated slyness, could wrap teachers all around his finger. Lucian was a charmer and brilliant at Maths. Meanwhile, in high school, I battled a depression that threatened to exterminate me. And yet, every leap in practicality came at the expense of something else. For in terms of creativity, they had just as much as a dead slab of chicken, drenched in mayonnaise and crammed into the fridge. Indeed, the dark, malignant powers of imagination had acquitted them completely. But this handicap was eventually corrected. In ten years time, they would become millionaires in New York and put their money into my imagination.

 

     “What have I told you, countless times? ”

     “That celery is good for the kidneys? ”

     “Felix, darling, if only your test scores matched your sense of humor. To stand united, I’ve said! Defend one another! It’s like you’re enemies, sometimes!”

     “You don’t even talk to your sister,” said Lucian. Lucian had a natural vocation for such calm, denunciative remarks. Unlike me and Felix, he brimmed with clarity, rectitude, and an authoritative bluntness. And often, when he spoke, you heard the echoes of an oracle.

     “Of course I talk to her! It’s just a matter of distance. We live in different countries, we have different lives. My life is just as hard for her to understand, as hers is for me. Doesn’t mean we don’t talk. I just called her. On Christmas!”

     “Everybody talks on Christmas,” said Lucian.

     “Why do you always change the subject like that? Hmm? I was talking about you, not me. Helen, what’s wrong, darling, why aren’t you eating anything?”

     Then Felix asked: “Did you speak to Dad?”

     She nodded. “He was just checking in when I called. Which reminds me”— she bit a red pepper—“maybe this will cheer you up a bit—”

 

     With immense effort, I simulated interest. I was still enveloped in my altered state of consciousness, and the words melted under my hearing like marshmallows in the sun. As she spoke, Mother spread some butter on toast. The sound of the scraping took me back to childhood, to Christmas mornings with lemon tart and cold milk, and a crying fit over some wardrobe scandal, then shopping at Saks. Although it wasn’t noon yet, the sun shone brightly through the curtains, covering the room in a fuzzy peach veil. Three bands of light hovered on the satin table. The edges of dishes sparkled like fireflies. My mother’s words—soothing, indecipherable—floated in the air like a Moroccan song. In fact, everything hung in a kind of limbo of Innocence. It radiated cleanliness, light, infinity, warmth. I had the feeling that I was in some sort of womb. Or perhaps a coma dreamscape. I felt dizzy, hot, bored. More than anything, I wanted to puke.

     Mother finished speaking.

 

     “So when are we leaving?” asked Felix.

     My stomach dropped in my ankles. The plurality of the subject beside that particular predicate is a sentence that no Lover ever wants to hear. Plus, his tone carried a hint of permanence.

     “Well, nothing’s certain yet.”

     “Whaaat?” I moaned.

     “It’s going well for him in New York, you know. Very well, actually. And we thought, why not go back after all? What’s keeping us here? And perhaps your words have finally caught up to me,” she said while eyeing me. “It’s like I’m starting to see all of the unhappiness.” She sliced a cucumber with uninhibited annoyance. I felt like dying. She continued: “Yesterday, I was at the market. I got some soy milk for you, some Burrata, cherry tomatoes—what else?—ah, the tortellini and Chablis—and there was this tiny old lady behind me—a frail, elderly woman, right?—and she was—she was watching me with such hatred, that I nearly abandoned everything and left! ”

     “What do you mean? ”

     “Well, naturally, she was staring at my shopping cart! Poor thing bought some store-brand, weird, canned stuff. I think she wanted to shame me or something! I mean, good God! He’s the one who gave us all these things! Why should I feel guilty for his blessings?! Anyway, it was horrible! I felt awful! Not to mention that, at first, I even thought about doing her shopping——it was the least I could do——but she was so damned spiteful that I’m sure she would’ve taken it as some blatant offense!” She shook her head. “One of those people, you know? Proud in destitution. Rare breed. Rare breed.”

     “I don’t understand. ” I said. “Did you…like her, or despise her? ”

     After a thoughtful pause, she added: “Look, I know I often disagree with you, but perhaps you understand the world better than I do. You’re so wise, Helen. In my mind, I still imagine the country I grew up in. Sure, even then it wasn’t Portofino, but—how do I say it—people were different—kinder. And consider the times! Perhaps some people really are nicer in oppression. Freedom ruins them, lets them be themselves. ” 

     “I think she was just hungry, really. ” 

     “Anyway, as I was saying, nothing’s keeping us here. We’ll sell the house in a few months. With that money, we’ll open a café. I’ve always wanted a café. Can you imagine, a café in SoHo? You can even decorate it yourself, darling.”

 

     I already had three arguments to counter this madness, and listening with fake exasperated jolliness, I contemplated which one to begin with. There was no room for rebellion. Opposition would sow only persistence. I had to give the madness its appropriate weight, consider it matter-of-factly, analyze it scrupulously, and finally, after exposing all its weaknesses, crush it in its cradle.

​

     I said, "It sounds like you've considered this for some time."

     "Not long, but—"

     "You’re not leaving the country ‘cause some poor old lady shamed you for your wealth."

     "Of course not!" She slammed her napkin on the table. "And I said it's not settled. I've only spoken to your father."

     "I think it's a brilliant idea," said Felix.

     "Well, look at that! Already a supporter!"

     "There are also good high-schools in New York," added Lucian.

     "Absolutely! Hunter, Stuyvesant! And you, my little Einstein, will do maaaarvelous there! A prodigy, they’ll say!”

     They had beat me to it. I had planned to launch my strategy with the academic argument.

     "Bone head," I said to Felix, "you know what this means for you, right?"

     "Helen..." Mother started.

     "They'll bash your head in with those lockers. If Lucian isn’t around? To protect you? Seriously, you can kiss those pretty little teeth goodbye."

     "Not until you kiss your pretty little love goodbye." He flashed a wicked grin.

 

     Mother began objecting. Felix, despite his impressive charisma, was the kind of person who held a grudge against the world. I suspect this stemmed from his anemic childhood, though he owned a brilliant face. With thick, blonde hair and delicate features supported by incisive bones, he looked like an American heir. Moreover—and more importantly—what Felix possessed was an intense sense of people, a kind of x-ray vision of every human subterranean desire, as if what had been subtracted anatomically had been paid back in perception. He was truly a reader of people, a twister of people. And in that moment it was as clear as day that my frail, fourteen-year-old brother could see straight through my disfigured cheeks, swollen now like melons, that I was hopelessly in love and wasn’t keen on going anywhere.

 

     "And I don’t get you anymore," said Mother. "I thought you’d be over the moon. You’re always giving us speeches about how unhappy you are here."

     That was true. For reasons that will soon transpire, I had built an entire persona as an adversary of Romania. Suddenly abandoning this stance would have been a foolish move. I might as well have shone a spotlight on myself. No, the situation demanded an oblique approach. I had to give the impression of an ice-cool analysis, and keep the tsunami of tears swelling inside me as a last and precious resource.

    "You’re right," I said. "I am unhappy here. But I’ve only started getting used to it."

    "To being unhappy?" Mother laughed. "Good Lord, you’re such a dramatist!”

     "To everything. And, well, if you say it’s not decided, I don’t see why you’re so worked up."

     "When are we leaving, mummy?"

     "Cut it out, you’re being a pest." Then she said to me, "First of all, the reason I had this conversation with your father is you. You’ve plagued us with criticism—one would almost think we’ve failed you as parents!—that we took you from your precious New York, brought you here, exported your childhood—no, wait, murdered your childhood!"

     Precisely. And now they wanted to murder me, too.

     "You did the best you could," I said.

     "You did very well," said Lucian.

     "Is that what you think?"

     "Take it easy, Helen. You judge them way too harshly. Look around you for a change."

      "Ok, Turing. Why don’t you go play with some broken radio or something? Mum, don’t get me wrong, I’m not opposed—"

     "You’re not exactly hopping either!"

     "But seriously, Helen" said Felix. "You know there’s politics in the States too. What’s her name, Lucian, the one with the Mexican stew name?"

     "Condoleezza Rice." 

     Mother sighed.

     "Right, Condoleezza. Wait, mummy, I won’t say anything bad. But what I don’t understand— I mean, honestly, if you have these aspirations— which are, frankly, impressive— but why not aim higher? You’re an American citizen, right? Why be a Secretary in Romania, when you could— I don’t know— Lucian, pass me the bread— I mean, in the States, you just have way more opportunities. Wouldn’t you agree? "

 

     At the same time, he stuffed his mouth with food, licked his fingers, then, once finished, punctured me with a long, important gaze. His eyes sparkled with satisfaction. He was waiting for an equally sharp reply. Mom and Lucian had fallen in this trap, for they were waiting too.

 

     "You’re right." He flinched. "Oh, you didn’t expect that? You weren’t hoping that I’d launch into some duel with you, were you? Would imply I had some”—I smiled at him evilly—"hidden agenda." Silence. "Naturally, when you deal solely in tricks, you start suspecting everyone. But it would be silly of me to dispute American prospects. And if we choose to go back, then so be it. I’m not exactly thrilled because I finally have a social life. You have no idea how these years have been for me. You were very young, you adjusted in no time. But it was awfully hard on me, and after all this time, I finally feel some belated, some populated sense of home. I have my routines, my places, even a group of friends, and—"

     "The bumpkins with an MBA?”, said Felix.

     "Y-y-yesss! But not all of them are like that!"

     "Go on."

     "It’s a bigger crowd! There are cool people too, especially the girls, and—"

     "Wasn’t it only a month ago that you had nothing to say to them?

     "Liar! I didn’t say that, because it’s not true!"

     "Unbelievable! Lucian, did she, or didn’t she say it?!"

     "Leave me out of it.”

     "You were on the sofa. There! You’d told them about some British chick—"

     "Virginia Woolf!"

     "And they asked you if she was in Grey’s Anatomy!"

     "Fine! They’re simple girls, yes! But—"

     "Stupid, you mean."

     "A friendship isn’t limited to literature! We're girls! We talk about—about all sorts of things!—about women's issues!—and—and Osho!—and we have fun, go out, laugh!—honestly, Felix, sometimes simple people understand you better! Sophistication, as Epictetus said, often breeds—"

     "You're boring."

     "It breeds selfishness! Besides, what’s the point of having friends identical to you? Who’s to say anything new?! They didn’t have my opportunities. Their lives were harder, isolated, more… utilitarian!"

     "How charitable you’ve become, sister. I wonder what has caused it."

     "I, for one, lack their pragmatism! Plus, I learn a lot from them — yes, of course! — on politics, for instance — the, uh — its, uh— its backstage! —its intrigues— yes! — the feminine side of politics!"

     "We all know the feminine side of politics…"

     "You know absolutely nothing! They’re not those types of girls!"

     "What’s the feminine side of politics?"

     "Manual labour, mummy." Lucian shot him a warning look, then Felix added, grinning like some toxic lizard: "You think those coffees pour themselves?"

     "Alright," Mother intervened, "I understand, darling, but at the same time you do realise that a decision like this shouldn’t be based on some girls?"

     "What decision? " I insisted. “I thought it was all speculative.”

     "Only ‘til your father signs the contract. ”

     "This family dreams only in contracts. Contracts-contracts-contracts. I hate them."

     "And there’s every chance that he will, because it’s Vlad we’re talking about. They’ve known each other since high school."

     "Vlad married to Matilda?" asked Lucian.

     "He’s no longer married to Matilda."

     "Why?" I asked. "Did he kill her?"

     "Divorced."

    "Same thing. How much did the scoundrel take?" Silence. "He took five million, at least.”

     "Ten," said Mother.

     "Ten million and an American citizenship? Now, that’s a career!”

     "It’s not our place to judge."

     "Yes, why judge a business partner? More fun to judge the Catholics."                    

     "The thing is," she continued, ignoring my comment in her deeply personal way, "Vlad is doing great in Connecticut. Wants to expand. Now, perhaps it's true that he wouldn’t have gotten here without Matilda, but it’s not like we eat at the same table. He’s just a partner. His personal life, if you ask me, concerns only him. The issue is this: if they start building together, your father won’t be around much.”

     “None of us are crying,” I said.

     “Yes, but why split up the family? Not to mention that the decision to come to Romania was—honestly—an economic one. We caught the right moment. And didn’t it go well? I’d say it went well. Now it could be even better."

     "With your lust for money, Mother, you could at least have been a Jew.”

     "God brings abundance, my dear. And if you hate money, it’s just because you have enough of it to afford your little ideology.”

      "She doesn’t hate the money, mummy. She hates its phi-lo-so-phy. The fruits she enjoys just fine.”

     "Why are you still talking?" I said.

     "Helen, you’re wearing three Romanian wages." And he shrugged with a look of disgust.

     "Mum," I said, "as usual, we spoke a ton without really saying anything. When do we know for sure?"

     "About the contract?"

     "Oh no, no, no—not about the contract, Mother. About the excavation of Troy!"

     "Whatever is the matter with you?! You seem quite delirious! Tomorrow your father sees Vlad. He’s expecting him at the cabin Upstate. Do you remember the little cabin upstate? Oh, how small you were, my little babies. Oh God, what I wouldn’t give, what I wouldn’t give..."

     I looked at her exasperated, insane. She continued:

     "Alright! Alright! I don’t know what you want me to say! We’ll know more tomorrow. On Saturday he said they were meeting with some Serb—potential partner. If they reach a settlement, in two weeks they’ll be seeing the lawyer."

     "I’m sorry, is it just me, or did you just describe the makings of a fraud?"

     Her huge eyes sparkled with offense.

     "Fine, never mind, let’s assume they sign the contract and Dad goes into business with a traitor and the Albanian mafia..."

     "Helen!"

     "Sorry, Serbian."

     "Shame on you."

     "Let’s move on. But how do we do this? If we decide to go, how long is the fuss going to take?"

     "Oh, I don’t know. I mean, I don’t see why it should take long. The packing is more of a hassle, but I’ll call Lilia—"

     "And the house?"

     "What about the house? Lucian, isn’t Filip’s father in real estate? " Lucian nodded. "See? But that could take up to a year."

     "You still haven’t answered me."

     "I really don’t see why you’re so bothered! I don’t know! Three months!"

     "Three months???!!!"

     "Yes! Perhaps less! For Heaven’s sake, what’s with you today?! I thought you wanted to escape this hellhole!”

​

     I realized then that the decision was made. That Mum missed Dad, and this small but deeply private prerequisite had paved the way for considering the move. That in finally considering it, it had struck her that America indeed had better schools and a more sophisticated social scene. That all their money was better spent there anyway. That those brownstone enclaves were a gorgeous place to raise a family, with their tangerine light, and urban buzz, and children running in their Catholic uniforms. Such organised prosperity, so candidly American, smelling of jasmine trees and luxurious lipstick. Not to speak of Bloomingdales, or the home floor at Macy’s, or Bed, Bath & Beyond after a Sunday at The Public Library. And all those things I had incessantly advocated, for six long soul-sucking years.

​

     “I think you’re making a mistake,” I said.

     Felix began laughing, rubbing his palms together.

     Mother looked at me, bewildered. “But you always say—”

     “I know what I say!”

     Searching for an explanation for what I always said, a meadow of ideas bloomed inside my mind. I plucked the most bombastic ones in a luxurious bouquet and, with calm firmness, delivered my speech:

     “In the mind, everything is beautiful. It’s only when you seriously consider something, it’s only when it almost happens, I mean when you weigh it in the real world—don’t look at me like that, listen to me for a moment—when you weigh it in the real world, with all that it entails, consequences…efforts…choices—”

     “God, you’re full of—”

     “Felix! ”

     I continued: “Then you can judge it at its true value! What I mean! —Listen to me!” I pounded on the table until they were silent. “What I mean is that it’s very easy to imagine that New York is going to save you. That you’re happily running about… eating lox bagels….and pepperoni pizza… without getting fat, or cold, or…”

     At this moment, a gigantic idea infiltrated me, so insidious that it took all my strength not to burst out laughing.

     “By the way, an interesting thing, can you imagine being cold? Look — just a second, be patient, you’ll understand what I mean right away. Imagine, for example — I don’t know — a mountain landscape in Alaska. Are you imagining it? Okay. Fill it with everything that’s beautiful. With sparkling white, and freckled deer, and a diamond sky, and — and a pine forest. A little more! Please. Add some Belgian chocolate too. What does it matter where you got it?! Add it! Okay. And now, here you are with the chocolate in your hand. A fresh coolness blows onto your cheek. Perhaps you hear a stream somewhere, otherwise, formidable silence. You’re dressed in a Moncler ski suit. Then a flock of birds encircle you, and baby deer skip across the snow, and a fat, velvety cow nudges you to pet it. Just a bit longer! You'll see where I end up! Imagine the cow! Okay. You might think, during this time, that you’d feel some spiritual awakening, or at the very least a sensory catharsis! Did you ever think of the cold? No one does. And yet, if at this very moment, you were teleported to the place under conditions identical to your imagination, I assure you that the following things would ensue. One, you would die of the cold, quite literally. Two, after five minutes, all your fantasy would crumble and you would want to take shelter. Warmth and comfort would be more precious to you than any spiritual mumbo-jumbo. And three, you would encounter so many logistical aspects — mud, no signal, language problems, wet socks and, very likely, a sheer cruel boredom — that your entire utopia of the place would instantly shatter! You would immediately be flooded with regrets. And, very possibly, would miss home…”

​

     Like moths in front of an eternal flame, all of them had frozen. Savoring the thrills of triumph, I took advantage of the moment to deliver the last blow:

     “Some things have a greater meaning in the mind. Romania, for better or worse, is our home now. It is our language. It’s true I’ve suffered here, but I’ve also gotten used to it. And there are also good things, after all. The food is cleaner, healthier. And the people, the people are—are authentic! Yes! Or do you prefer the American who laughs in the morning like a psycho— Hiiii, how is your day?! — the day hasn’t even started yet and already he wants explanations! At least here you know what to expect! People are real! Poor? Yes. Miserable? Yes. Shabby, sinister, and sneaky? Yes, yes, and yes! But real, still!”

     “How funny!” Mother shouted. “Just the other day they were all dumb animals!

     “And toothless to boot!” added Felix.

     I had underestimated them. But still had sufficient inspiration in the tank to withstand their ambush. I roared wildly:

     “BETTER TOOTHLESS THAN HEARTLESS!”

     “Brutes! Scoundrels! Fart-stinking gypsies! ”

     “That’s right!” I shouted back. “That’s right, indeed! AND EVEN GYPSIES ARE MORE HONEST THAN A WALL STREET MAN!”

     “Dear girl, are you on drugs?! If you’re on drugs, say it now!”

     “She’s in love! ” yelled Felix. “Look into her eyes, mummy! She’s done for!!!”

     "I am NOT in love! Look, let’s ask the family genius! MIIIISTER TUUURING!!! Don’t you think this move is a bit rash?!"

     "Helen”, Lucian said calmly, “sometimes the best—"

     "Stop!" I said, raising a palm. "If you’ve started like that, you can put a sock in it. "

     "Helen?” Mother said. “Is that so, darling? Are you in love? If you are, why don’t you tell mummy?"

     "I. AM. NOT. IN. LOVE! But... but..."

​

     A claw had gripped my throat. I felt very full and very warm, and a little dizzy from the mix of sensations boiling in my blood. Partly, I still felt the excitement I’d experienced upon waking. This violent bliss was more palpable now, when I had to stifle it at all costs. On the other hand, it was clear that I’d overestimated my persuasive powers, while undermining my mother’s resolve. As this resolve was utterly foreign to the buoyancy in which she dealt with my troubles. My social segregation, the abuses in school, even a diagnosed depression, had mattered little more to her than the whims of some malcontent misfit. In the end, her own whims convinced her. This awareness, combined with the hot pink fuzz bubbling inside me, made me feel as though I might burst. I felt that if I moved an inch, tears would gush from me like a tropical waterfall. This scenario only fueled my rage. My brother I hated. For a moment I thought of hiding my derangement beneath a well-deserved and past due punch. All I had to do was throw the salmon at him, and the stage would be set for all kinds of liberating violence. A scene like that could have diverted the attention, even justified my now purple face. Still, considering he was a vicious bastard, I could expect a nasty fight that would involve my mother calling on the holy powers to separate us. This would then lead to her gentle, beautiful, condemning tears, and a final round of a demonic screaming match. On the other hand I felt—in that soft peach fuzzy daylight—that I couldn’t defile the first day of the new world with such filth. I had no choice but to squeeze the jewels of sorrow, and then I remembered some proverb on a bookmark and—rising—I spoke tearful, full of tragedy:

     “BUT A PLANT OFTEN MOVED WILL NEVER GROW ROOTS!”

​

     I shoved Lucian, who had come to comfort me. His clever nostrils probed the air, and his kind eyes, sparkling with Christ-like patience, covered me in sympathy. Everything about Lucian was so dignified, and calm, and good that it set my teeth on edge.

     “Dear girl,” Mother chuckled with a tint of concern. “I really think you mixed up your career. We should’ve taken you to Drama lessons!”

     “Me too!” I said.

     “And what about you?” she laughed.

     “I think I mixed up my career!” Then I rushed through the hallway where I tugged my coat on crazily, right before a splendid door-slam, but not before shouting:

     “I THINK I WANTED TO DO SOMETHING ELSE!”

     Three days later, I nearly fainted from shock when, trembling with a familiar suspicion, I opened a text that read:

 

                                              The Odyssean galley docks in Macondo!