Chapter 51
Frida Rodriguez ... En Route
September 10, 1993
Paris, France
Fair Kate,
Such great news about Bumpa! I want to hear all about the new nursing home. Give me one of your signature Fair Kate descriptions.
So get this. When Lejla found out Kirby was reading Judy Blume, she invited him to join the Ramona Club. He asked if I was okay with it, and I told him if he doesn’t mind the odd conversation about dealing with cramps in different cultures, it’s a free world – sort of – join the party. But seriously, I’m glad she asked him, and not just because I like having him around. You should have seen him the first time he came. He showed up with a big straw tote like gnarled old Frenchwomen carry around the markets. He didn’t say a word, just walked up to my hot plate, took a deep copper pot with a long handle out of the bag, and brought a little water to boil. He lowered the temp and poured in some coffee grounds. Then he added more water, showed Branka how to stir it quickly, and raised the heat until foam rose. It was like watching a mad scientist in his lab as he turned the heat down and up, letting the foam settle and rise again and then again.
I was so focused on what he was doing it took me a minute to notice his hands were trembling. Then I looked at his face. He was biting his lip he was concentrating so hard. He was nervous, Fair Kate. Kirby who always seems so at ease in the world! The spoon clattered against the demitasse cups when he scooped foam into them. I could tell by the way he was watching the Ramonas, he wanted everything to be perfect. Not to impress them or anything like that, but to make them happy. I started to get nervous for him like I did when Merjema was trying the bosanski lonac I made. Why were they so quiet? He set out a dish of sugar cubes and a plate of sweets. It was a Bosnian treat called rahat lokum. When Branka saw it, she squealed and shoved a piece in her mouth, and Lejla looked at him and said, “I think you are like Frida. You like to see me cry over food. Thank you, Kirby. You are a good man.”
He turned ten shades of red and mumbled something about how Apple Cheeks at the Yugoslavian embassy made the rahat lokum in trade for borrowing his car so she could take a day trip to the Loire Valley. Then he got busy serving that brain-jangling coffee. It was magical the way the coffee coaxed memories into the room. Merjema told us how her grandma would open her kitchen window so the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted outside and the neighbors knew it was time to come over and gossip. And when Lejla was little her dad dunked sugar cubes in his coffee and snuck them to her when her mom wasn’t looking. Kirby finally relaxed and described how on Lunar New Year his mom makes coffee the traditional Vietnamese way in little individual drip pots with sweet condensed milk.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the effort he went to for the Ramonas – a few days later I took him to Le Mouffetard to thank him. The owners make their own brioches, and Kirby loves their hot apple tart with a café crème. To! Die! For! We talked more about Lunar New Year and the snacks his mom makes, like bánh chu’ng and pickled spring onions, and I realized for all the hours we’ve spent eating and gabbing, we’ve never talked about why his mom moved to America. Apparently we needed wine for that story, so we hopped over to Lisette’s place.
I don’t know much about Vietnamese history other than what I read in Martha’s book. Kirby told me the country split in two in the 1950s. His mom’s family lived in a village outside Hanoi, and the Communists burned down their house because they were Catholic landowners. They fled to the south. That’s where she met his dad who was doing anthropology work for the University of Washington. Kirby said learning about what happened to his mom’s house is what first got him interested in architecture and how physical spaces shape and hold our identities. He figured it could be a way to understand her better. When he told me that I thought – Lejla is right. He is a good man. I’m really lucky to have him in my life, Fair Kate.
By now we were starting in on our second carafe. All of a sudden I wanted to tell him about my writing. Of course he knows I write, but I don’t really talk to him about it. Not the way we talk about everything else. I’m not sure why. But now I wanted to, so I explained some of my essays and how I’ve been thinking about food and books the way he thinks about architecture. He asked if he could read something, and I was tipsy enough to give him the photocopies I made for safekeeping. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but when I woke up – why do I care so much about what he’s going to think?
Insecurely yours,
Frida
P.S. I forgot to tell you that after my last fiasco with Niko I decided to cut all ties, but piano-playing Bobbie has turned out to be a godsend. She actually got the letter I sent and called me when she came to Paris. Not only did she take three books back for us, she’s going to try and get Merjema’s university transcripts. She also said she’d check in on Irena. Irena gets messages to Lejla when she can but it’s not enough. It’s like their friendship is a nutrient – water or sun – and without it I can see Lejla physically wilting even though she tries so hard to stay positive. Bobbie said she’d do her best to get an update out to us once a week.