Chapter 40
Frida Rodriguez ... En Route Again!
March 19, 1993
Paris, France
Fair Kate,
Sorry it took so long to write back. I hit the ground running as soon as I got here, and when I picked up your letter again last night, I couldn’t believe how much time had passed.
Hopefully Sven’s had a greedy bite on his novel by now, but if he hasn’t, you might be right. No one is meant to be the next Updike because even if this Brave New World wasn’t obsessed with reading books like Generation X , no one is meant to be the next anyone else. Like me. I’m not meant to be the next Dolores or Carmen – how does enlightenment look on me?
About that game of War with Bumpa. You guys used to spend hours playing cards together so when you think about it, it’s not like you’re “us again” – you are “us again” – just in a different smelly setting.
Backtracking! Right before I left L.A. I fessed up to Sarajevo. I wasn’t planning to but Mom made a going-away dinner – chiles rellenos naturally – and my sisters came over. I’m telling everyone about this incredible tagine I had on the Left Bank and Mom’s interrogating me about the ingredients because she’s never met a recipe she doesn’t want to try. Right in the middle of explaining the pickled lemons I broke open like a cracked dam. Not about the snipers at the library – I didn’t want to completely freak them out – but a lot of it because I realized I wanted them to know why I had to go back to Paris.
Dad got very, very quiet. It was impossible to tell what Carmen and Dolores were thinking, which was unsettling because usually when they think it – they say it! Then Mom said, “Oh Frida, this is why I worry about you. You have such a tender heart.” Can you believe it? Echoes of Bobbie. Things got strained – not a typical Rodriguez dinner table free-for-all and I was sure they were upset with me – not to mention disappointed – what a cruddy way to leave but when I got back to Paris and unpacked I found a package hidden in my suitcase. A cassette of Les Misérables – Dad and I went four times when it came to the Schubert – and a Ziploc of Mom’s homemade tortillas.
My first night back I fired up my hot plate and warmed up those gorgeous corn crêpes smeared with creamy French butter and listened to “I Dreamed a Dream” until the sun came up. “Then I was young and unafraid and dreams were made and used and wasted.” Isn’t that a hard truth! And the tortillas. Some food tastes exactly like home. It got me thinking about Sarajevo and how if people there can’t have the food they grew up with do they feel homeless even though they’re still living in their homes?
It feels strange to be here. Mostly because it doesn’t feel strange. The hotel gave me my old room back, and Kirby helped me arrange it like it was before I left except nicer because Lejla bought postcards of Degas’ Cambodian dancers and stuck them on the wall. Yesterday he took me to Barthélemy for a goat cheese that tasted like burnt toast and it was nice to be back in our old rhythm, debating every little thing that crossed our minds. Then when we were walking back to the hotel, he offered to help with – get ready for it, Fair Kate – Branka!
Irena’s sister – Branka’s mom in case you forgot – won’t leave Sarajevo because obviously surgeons are needed now more than ever, and their grandma refuses to leave. They wanted Branka out of the country, and Irena didn’t want to leave their grandma alone plus who would manage the project once books started coming in? So Branka came with Lejla to Paris. They’re staying with some people who help refugees but Lejla doesn’t like leaving Branka with strangers while she works. Now Branka is curled up in my bed while I type this letter to you! She can sleep through mortars so of course she can sleep through typing. How sad is that?
Love,
Frida
P.S. I keep forgetting to ask. What’s a stripped mass market?
P.S. Deux. Confession: Remember when I told you about my haircut? The only reason à bout de souffle is my favorite French New Wave movie is because it’s the only one I’ve seen that didn’t put me to sleep. Have you ever watched one? There’s a reason for the phrase “watching paint dry.” Confession Deux: I loved Ghost . Confession Trois while I’m at it: When I described my Julie Christie sweater in my first letter to the bookstore I was really thinking about Andie MacDowell’s long cable knit sweater in St. Elmo’s Fire , but I wanted whoever opened it to think I was worldly.
P.S. Trois. Guess what came in the mail today right before I sealed this envelope? A big fat Xerox of listings of all the university newspapers in America. From my sisters! How’s that for a vote of confidence? I’ve written a standard pitch to explain Lejla and Irena’s project, and then I tailor each letter to the university I’m sending it to. “Since Berkeley has such a long history of student activism, I think there will be interest in…” Or “Given Carleton College’s apartheid boycotts and successful divestment from South Africa…” Researching each school and making sure each pitch sounds personal is taking up all my spare time – but I promise my next reply won’t take so long.