Chapter 43
The Puget Sound Book Company
101 South Main Street??Seattle, WA 98104
4/29/93
Dear Frida,
It’s a perfect spring day. Before work Stella and I bought cinnamon rolls at Grand Central Bakery across the street. Then we walked around to Torrefazione for coffee. We sat in the cobblestone square, and it was like being in a European village where you know everyone. Birkenstock Otis was playing hacky sack with a couple guys from the store, and the barista kept asking if we needed anything because he has the hots for Stella. A few tables over, David Ishii was reading the paper. He has a used bookshop near ours. Most of his stock is about baseball and fly-fishing. The sunlight felt like a warm bath, and even though it’s almost nine now, we have the front door propped open. I can smell creosote and soft salt air off the water even back here at the information desk.
I know what you mean about those Benetton ads. They hit me hard, especially the one with the man dying of AIDS. The first time I saw it, it made me think about how there are so many things in this world I can’t fix, and when I start thinking how it’s possible for CNN to never run out of misery to report on twenty-four hours a day, it feels like I’m made of thousands of live electrical currents. Is it gross to say I miss not knowing so much? I remember when life was half an hour of Walter Cronkite, then homework, Happy Days and Laverne & Shirley , and if you fell asleep on the couch you woke up to a test pattern with colored stripes on the screen, not more bad news. Do you think it’s possible for kids these days to feel as innocent as we used to feel?
I’ve never thought about buildings the way Kirby does, so I decided to test his ideas and walk to the store from Pike Place Market along the waterfront. Highway 99 roared above me, and out on the water the ferries trailed bubbling white wakes. It turns out almost every building I passed holds memories of Bumpa. Whenever we made trips into Seattle, we’d have fried clam strips at Ivar’s. He’d buy Franny and me paper cocktail umbrellas for our Barbies at Trident Imports, and we’d stop at Ye Olde Curiosity Shop and say hello to Sylvester, this dried-up mummy someone found in the Arizona desert. I was standing there looking at Sylvester, and all of a sudden Bumpa chuckled and said, “Golly, that geezer sure had a bum day.” I didn’t imagine the words in my head, Frida. Bumpa was there, and I realized he’ll always be there as long as the building is there. But what if it’s torn down? Obviously that memory is inside me, but would I ever hear that chuckle again without Ye Olde Curiosity Shop to jog it loose? It makes me think about Sven’s blind spots. What if every familiar place that disappears from your life leaves a shadow in your memory? Is there such a thing as memory blindness? How can the people in Sarajevo remember who they were if there’s nothing left to remind them?
I should probably explain all the goodies I’m sending along with the rest of the Ramona series. I hit the jackpot with a Yugoslavian cookbook at Half Price Books in the U District. Stella and I drive up there in her Karmann Ghia (much cooler than my Chevette) and cruise the shelves. We like Twice Sold Tales on Capitol Hill, too, because we can have coffee and crème br?lée afterward at B&O Espresso. I found a first edition of Moon Tiger the other day (I’m keeping that one for me). For your woman like Slavenka, I choose The Road Through Miyama . Leila Philip went to Japan to apprentice with a potter. She weaves a tapestry out of history, culture, and her own experiences, like harvesting rice.
I’m also sending The English Patient . The writing is so gorgeous I can’t stand it. Not Sven-liminal-gloaming gorgeous but gorgeous like perfect poetry that doesn’t make you scratch your head and feel two inches tall. That’s not why I picked it, though. I think it shows how many different ways there are to write about war. You just have to find yours. Actually, I know yours, but I’m not saying because you’ll say No Way, Fair Kate. Never mind. I am saying it. Your way is by writing about food. Trust me. Your descriptions of cooking for Lejla and her response when she tastes the bosanski lonac are so moving.
One more thing. Don’t EVER say you’re going to stop writing again. I forbid it! In fact, I demand that you write something about your experiences and send it to me with your next letter. An essay. A want ad. A to-do list. If you don’t, you’ll force me to make another mixtape starting with “Eye of the Tiger.”
Love from your friend who’s as old as you and still uncertain, too,
Kate
P.S. I’m okay with you ditching dashes, but I miss your marathon run-on sentences.