Chapter 18
The Puget Sound Book Company
101 South Main Street??Seattle, WA 98104
5/12/92
Dear Frida,
I hope you’ve heard from Niko by now. I’ve been reading his articles in Current . Confession: I don’t understand the difference between Bosnians, Bosnian Serbians, Serbians, and Serbian nationalists. It’s hard to get a handle on this war. It’s not like when we invaded Iraq. It was pretty black and white, and that’s all anyone was talking about at the store. Even though Sarajevo is on NPR, people don’t seem to get riled up in the same way. I asked Sven if maybe it’s because it’s so confusing to figure out who’s who, but he says it’s because the average person doesn’t care if it isn’t on the cover of People or doesn’t involve them. That second part especially seems true since when I heard about the riots in L.A., my first thought was your family and if they’re safe. That made it feel more real to me. I mean it’s horrific no matter what, but knowing you made me pay attention even more.
I’ve been thinking about how you and I can’t imagine having families anytime soon. Mom and Dad were high school sweethearts and got married right after she graduated. They’re still in love-love like your parents, and people talk about what a great couple they are. You’d think I would have been desperate for my college boyfriend to propose so I could have that, too. He was a nice guy, and he’ll for sure make a great dad. But I felt restless when I was with him. I’ve never told anyone that before.
As for Sven looking like a Viking, this is going to sound totally sappy, but there’s an essence of the era of fountain pens about him. He has blond curls that make me think of the pictures of Keats and Shelley hanging in the poetry section, minus the pale porcelain skin. If there’s anything Nordic about him, it’s how healthy he looks. When you combine that with his massive tenacious intelligence, I think it makes it hard for people to understand how sick he is. We start talking when we get home from work and don’t stop until dawn and sometimes not even until we have to go back to the store in the afternoon. I fell asleep at the info desk twice this week. When we’re deep in a conversation, I look down and see our fists clenched. I think it’s because we’re holding on so tightly to each other’s words.
He’s not like me. He knows exactly what he wants to write, and you’re never going to believe it. His novel is about how even if you’re a good person, life will still disappoint you, and the constant struggle to keep on being a good person once you realize this. That’s the exact same thing Anita and Balzac write about. It’s so interesting to talk to him about everything I’m reading. The other night, I read him the MFK essay, about secret eating where she puts tangerines on the radiator, and he doesn’t think it’s about secret foods at all. He thinks she’s writing about how people construct happiness. It’s just a tangerine, but MFK gave meaning to the hot crackle of the shell and the cold rush of pulp so it would bring her pleasure. Sven says this is what people do to protect themselves from life’s constant disappointments. Like how I tend my windowsill garden or read breezy writers like Laurie Colwin. Or my nightly tea ritual. He loves that. I guess maybe it’s true. When I’m down, thinking about how my novel didn’t get published and things like that, it does make me feel better to steep tea in the little white pot Mom gave me when I moved into this apartment. I just didn’t realize it was a ritual or that I was constructing happiness until we talked about it.
Love,
Kate
P.S. I found a Three’s Company trading card in the copy of Anne Tyler’s A Slipping-Down Life I bought next door. How strange incongruous is that? I love finding weird things in used books, too.