Chapter 42
Frida Rodriguez ... En Route
April 14, 1993
Paris, France
Fair Kate,
I get what you’re saying about darkness. I’m scared of it too. You’re right. It’s everywhere. I’m sick of round-the-clock satellite news. And did you ever see those devastating Benetton ads? I hate having such a tender heart. There’s this look that crosses Lejla’s face – wondering if her family and very best friend in the whole world are still alive. But somehow she moves forward. If she can do it we can too. You won’t want to hear this, but if you can’t let your lives with Sven and Bumpa come together, you’re going to have a hard time moving forward with the rest of your life.
When I told the translation company what I’m doing, they helped me extend my visa, and they let me work from the hotel so I can watch Branka while Lejla runs around the city. After she’s done she comes over and we go through the responses I’ve been getting from universities. Then I read Ramona to Branka. She’s absorbing English like a sponge. She adores Ramona Quimby. Sometimes an image pops into my head. The one from Hairy Harry of Branka standing in the bombed market. I think – Go Ramona go! Push that ugliness out of her head. Give her new memories so twenty years from now when she thinks about being six she remembers naughty Ramona hiding behind the garbage cans with Ribsy. Or at least she has options to choose from.
Please send the rest of the Ramona books and another book like Slavenka. What a difference from Martha. Her presence is such an important part of the stories she’s telling. I’m trying to figure out how she does it without making it about her. Is this the line you were talking about? “I ended up writing a book because, in spite of everything, I still believe in the power of words.” I wish I could keep believing that but it’s hard when I think about the library burning.
Sometimes it feels like it didn’t happen at all, but then other times, like when I hear a siren or a loud crash, I flinch. And I keep having dreams that I’m in the bathtub trying to scrub smoke out of my hair. I was only there for two weeks, and it changed my life, but Confession Fair Kate: I’m not sure I should write anymore. We know now I’m not a War Journo Dame and it’s not like I’m doing anything interesting like Slavenka. I write letters to college newspapers to get the word out about the books we need and otherwise try to make things better for Lejla. Like the other day I went to the Yugoslavian embassy and asked the receptionist what I can make for a friend who’s homesick. She said bosanski lonac is one of the country’s traditional dishes. There are different ways to make it depending on the region and even the family but the base ingredients are usually the same. Big chunks of meat with cabbage, peppers, potatoes, tomatoes, carrots, onions, and garlic. I got fresh parsley and whole black peppercorns from a regular market but I had to hike all over the city to track down a seasoning called Vegeta.
Branka and I cooked all day. I let her pick out a sunny yellow cloth at Le Bon Marché and we draped it over my desk. I invited Kirby, and he brought a baguette and Beaujolais. When Lejla arrived she froze in the doorway. Her nostrils flared. When she saw the Vegeta beside the stew simmering on my hot plate – her expression softened for the first time since I’ve seen her in Paris. Branka danced from foot to foot she was so excited. Lejla dipped a spoon into the pot and took a bite. She chewed the meat. I thought about how I feel when I eat chiles rellenos. That’s how I wanted her to feel. I was ridiculously nervous. I was sure I blew it somehow and she was trying to figure out how to be polite.
Her eyes grew wet and she said, “You must think something is wrong with me, I cry every time you give me food.” The more I get to know Lejla, the more I understand how much her raccoon eyeliner is a disguise like your friend Stella’s grunge chick look. Whenever she comes over she brings a thoughtful gift. Last night’s was an old-fashioned teacup she turned into a little pot for African violets, and you know what – it made me happy. And even if it was Old Sven’s artificially constructed happiness, who cares? It felt good.
While we ate Kirby asked Lejla about the library and they sounded like professors, analyzing how extreme changes in a city’s physical environment cause extreme changes in a community. Kirby says architecture is directly related to a sense of identity. It’s not just that the library’s design recognized Bosnia’s Muslim population. It’s also about the building being there over time. People walk past it and it anchors their sense of place and their feelings of security about who they are in that place. He explained how buildings are a way for people to communicate across generations, and I felt like he really understood what happened – not just intellectually but emotionally – when he said destroying a building like the library destroys messages across time.
Branka conked out, and I nodded off, but Kirby and Lejla talked until three a.m. Remember when you wrote about dinner with Coleslaw Meatloaf? That’s how I felt while they were talking. Minus the Neil Diamond. They’re so sure of what they’re supposed to do in the world. What if I’m one of those people who never figures that out?
Love from your friend who’s way too old to still be this uncertain about life,
Frida
P.S. Did you notice there are only six dashes in this whole letter? I’m working hard on getting them out of my repertoire.
P.S. Deux. You might have to send another Smurf dress because Branka won’t take it off. She even sleeps in it. I had to bribe her with pain au chocolat the other day so I could wash it.